At the Fest Grounds

Rain’s back on early in the day. I forewent Doom Yoga and hotel breakfast in favor of sleeping an extra hour. Time will tell on that choice. My head is swimming in last-day logistics; how I’m getting back to the hotel tonight, how and when I’m getting to Frankfurt Airport tomorrow, on and on. So yes, wet and scatterbrained. One or the other would be enough on its own. Poncho may yet make an appearance.

A few people have asked how my mother is doing. First, thank you for reading. I feel like I’ve transposed the haphazardly way this trip ended up being undertaken onto a kind of overarching mania of the experience, but one way or the other, it’s still restorative. She’s recovering from having her knee replaced on Wednesday, is walking, had started physical therapy. These things are months in the healing, but she’s strong and inspiring.

Though it shows little sign of it at the moment, the rain is supposed to stop this afternoon. We’ll see. I was sitting before the start of the show in the smoking tent; the wafting of joint smoke inexplicably cut with tobacco as is the method. Not my thing. I barely had the batteries in the camera when Volker took the stage and it was time to roll, so take that, last-day blues. Good thing my new Freak Valley hoodie is warm.

Sorry in advance for the typos.

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Splinter

Thank you to Splinter for being the day’s reminder that everything’s okay when the music starts. The Netherlands based classic-heavy four-piece fronted by Douwe Truijens had the Hammond, the boogie, enough sleaze in some of their lyrics to feel like a #metoo waiting to happen (looking at you, “Soviet Schoolgirl,” et al), but there’s no denying the life in their performance. Rain pouring down on the early crowd, Truijens was nonetheless on fire strutting and dancing around the stage with moves drawn from an arena-ready playbook, plus shorty-shorts for the last song because when you’re doing a thing, you go for it. They were tight in addition to putting on a show, and “Every Circus Needs a Clown” from last year’s Role Models (review here) was a highlight in presentation and from-speaker force to go with the conceptual foundation of what they do. That is to say, they’re a band with a plan. And that’s not a negative at all. The songs are catchy and uptempo, fun if you can get on board with euphemism, and it’s over-the-top in just the way it’s supposed to be. Echoing the energetic start of yesterday, pushing it further, Splinter made a field on a cold, rainy afternoon feel like a sweaty nightclub, and for that, one can only be grateful.

Gravy Jones

Uh oh, I think I might dig this band. Another full-size Hammond on stage, cult-ish, classic-ish riffy vibe. I recall digging the Norwegian four-piece’s 2018 debut, Funeral Pyre (review here), for the quirk it brought to genre tropes, but the apparently-don’t-do-this-all-the-time outfit were more cohesive on stage, solid in groove, hinting or maybe more with that organ toward retroist dark-boogie, and on point in the interplay of the keys and guitar. The bluesy but not caricature vocals specifically reminded me of Buffalo, but if Gravy Jones only want you for your body, they’re almost certainly nefarious in that intent. At least some of what they played was taken from an impending follow-up to Funeral Pyre, as was announced from the stage, and wherever/whenever, I take that as good news in terms of such a thing existing at all. Because I just might end up a fan of this band. You know how that happens? Hear a thing. “Oh that’s cool.” Six years pass. You see them. “Oh shit that’s cool.” It was kind of like that watching them close out with “Mountains of Madness.” If you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go see if they’ve got anything going at the merch.

Deathchant

My prevailing impression of L.A.’s Deathchant holds firm from seeing them last August at SonicBlast in Portugal (review here), and to save you the time following that link, I’ll just say it’s thar they kick ass. Two guitars that can lean into Thin Lizzy harmonies or thrash out at will, doomly in the title-track of Thrones, which they released last Fall, but gnarly and ripping at any speed, it’s like they play both the Heavy and the Metal sides of heavy metal, but they’re not doing some bullshit disaffected-white-dude aggro thing either. They get on stage, hit it, and groove with tonal presence regardless of a given part’s intensity, drawing from metal and rock on the way, charged and precise, but not so clear in sound as to lose their edge. Perhaps they’re subject to the perils of the band in-between, when it comes to style: too metal for some rockers, too rock for some metallers, but shit, I like bands who don’t fit (also bands who do; in no way does it have to be one or the other, remember), and they played a yet-untitled shouty new song and decided on the spot to call it “Freak Valley.” It ruled and I hope they keep the name. They should probably also have six or seven live records out by now, by rights. I’ll hope to see them again at Desertfest New York later this year.

Mouth

It didn’t take Mouth long to reroute the momentum from Deathchant’s raw Motõrheaded thrust to suit their proggier psychedelic purposes, and the sun came out for them, which can only be called appropriate. I did some liner notes recently for their Vortex Redux semi-reissue LP, and well, I’ll tell you truly, they’re not a band I ever really expected to see live. I mean, it’s a universe of infinite possibility, right? So a thing always could happen, but that doesn’t mean it will. And they were so much fun. Into the music, not trying to convince you that being on stage and playing their songs isn’t the most fun thing in the world. A positive vibe, energy front to back. There was one point where guitarist/vocalist Christian Koller went on his back on the stage while playing a solo and all I could think about was how much of John Dwyer’s dried-up spit from last night must be on there, but beyond that, not a worry in the world while watching them, and their affinities for ’60s psych, ’70s prog and multiple eras of heavy rock came through with poise and passion alike. The keyboard and snare jabs in “Into the Lines” and the slew of builds throughout were exciting and well crafted, and they put everything they had into the show. They weren’t a surprise for me, but it’s kind of a relief sometimes when you see a band you’ve followed for a while and they validate the reasons you liked them in the first place. Mouth did that and improved the weather. That’s a high point in any day.

Black River Delta

Swedish mellow heavy blues rock. Oldschool in ideology, modern in tone. It always takes me a second to stop listening for the stoner to show up when Freak Valley breaks out the bluesier stuff, but Black River Delta did well in the dinnertime slot. And immediately upon thinking of it as that, I realized I was starving. No goulash, but a vegan curry — no I’m not vegan, but probably should be, not the least because it would allow me to subsist exclusively on a variety of homeground nut butters — was the thing. Green beans, carrots, broccoli, onions and peppers of course, but most crucially there were four — yes, I counted, it was four — bites of cauliflower. Cauliflower! For upwards of six minutes while Black River Delta nestled into one comfortable flow after another, I found paradise. By the time another 15 minutes had passed, they’d be finished with their sharply composed and executed fare, delivered smoothly and suited to the style bringing together contemporary and classic as so many here have, but in their own way. And soon after that, the rain would start again, but since it was between bands and Black River Delta were so classy anyhow, I won’t hold it against them. It poured for a minute there, though.

Godsleep

And stopped doing so about 35 seconds after I ran away from the photo pit to get away from the deluge coming down from the roof overhang in front of the stage while Greece’s Godsleep were getting going. I was curious what series of circumstances brought a Rutgers football t-shirt into vocalist Amie Makris’ life — I got a MFA from Rutgers Newark, and my wife did her Ph.D. in New Brunswick; you don’t see a lot of Newjerseynalia in other countries [edit: I asked her later at the merch area and she said she got it from her sister] — but the shirt didn’t last much longer than the rain, and Godsleep’s material had so much push and sweep that the thought was in and out of my head like some kind of asshole who just flies in for the festival and then is gone. They slowed down a bit for the delightfully ’90s-reminiscent “Saturday,” which was a highlight of last Spring’s all-over-the-place-and-only-more-rad-for-it Lies to Survive (review here), but as that record will demonstrate, there’s no lack of variety in what they do regardless of tempo. Not being exclusively sad, slow and miserable, there are aspects of Godsleep’s aesthetic I can relate to more than others, but almost any in-genre boundary pushing is good news as far as I’m concerned, “Permanent Vacation” sort of bridges worlds between explosion-happens-now and more methodical whathaveyou. I found that their harsher moments were complement rather than contrast to the odd bit of desert riffing and sundry other lessons in kicking ass on display. Split LP with Ruff Majik post-haste, please. Both with some screaming, while I’m making requests. Dizzying but undizzied, intermittently furious, deceptively intricate, and rad. They finished by bringing it all back around to the riffs and were better than the veggie curry. Yup. That’s the review.

Speck

Mellow molten instrumentalism from Vienna trio Speck, whose expanses soothed with considerably more cosmic warmth than is offered by, say, actual space. It was my first time seeing the band, whose second album, Eine Gute Reise, came out last Fall, and it took them a while to get going, sure enough, but more, it took me a couple minutes to warm up to it, but all of a sudden I looked up and they were killing it. They’d continue to do so even as a torrential, bucket-style downpour took hold, adding another layer of soak to the already saturated everything and causing a scramble for shelter for some and a very pointed not-scramble from others, which I can respect. Rockpalast has a small tent set up outside the production truck backstage with a tv showing the livestream feed, right next to Lulu’s Garden, and I took advantage of that to wait out the deluge. It didn’t last — it couldn’t or it’d be Freak Lake Festival — but it was harder even than the rain before, and if you were caught in it, you know that’s saying something. I eventually made my way further back to sit someplace drier, but listened as Speck brought their set-long build to its payoff, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the livestream mics picked up the sound of the rain pounding down. If so, all the more reason they should make it into a live record. People mud-moshing like a hippie version of whatever Woodstock that was.

Amyl and the Sniffers

Thrills and such from brash, hard-hitting Aussie punk rockers Amyl and the Sniffers. When they were announced as a headliner, it kind of had me scratching my head, but obviously seeing them you get it in a different way. Their frontwoman, Amyl, came out in an overcoat and stripped it off to reveal her undies while singing a line I interpreted as “I like power,” so yes, if that’s what it was, then clearly. Not gonna take away from the statement or the volume that coincided, but on my coolest day I was never cool enough to be a punker, and today’s certainly not my coolest day. Still, can’t really argue with the ass kicking meted out, and after a certain point, loud groove is loud groove. They shouted out countrymen outfit C.O.F.F.I.N., who played the other day, which was nice, en route to the next onslaught. Rain stopped and started, as it has for most of the day.

I just kind of hung around and let both the noise and the water falling from the sky — because this planet is incredible and to our present knowledge completely unique in the universe in being able to support life and water is why and we treat it like shit; by the way I’m getting on a plane tomorrow morning, so I’m not indemnifying myself, rest assured; if you’re alive to read this you’re complicit there — wash over me while making the rounds saying a few quick goodbyes/hope-to-see-you-next-years. The harsh reality of needing to head to the airport early tomorrow has set in, so better to take care of that earlier than to feel bad about it later. There are a lot of very nice people here, and they are kind to me, and talk to me. I don’t have the kind of brain that always translates being happy to see someone into a smile on my face, but even if you just said hi this weekend, please know it was appreciated. I guess I’m saying goodnight there, too. Guess I got sidetracked talking about Amyl and the Sniffers. Okay.

Kadavar

The one and only. Because as many imitators as they’ve spawned, Kadavar on a level of their own. I knew to expect good things from their still-relatively-recent four-piece incarnation from seeing them play last summer at the aforementioned SonicBlast (review here), and god damn, they’re about as headliner as you get when they take the stage at something like this. They’ve been recording — for what, I don’t know, but I’ve got my hopes — rather than the old tour-tour-tour thing, while it was killer to hear Lupus Lindemann up on stage speak to the crowd in his (and most of their, I assume) native language. He, Tiger, Dragon and Jascha Kreft — last I checked, the ‘new guy’ hadn’t chosen a spirit animal — took the stage to defy the supposition that rock and roll has no more heroes, and while they’re a professional band putting on a show for an audience, on doing so, they throw down like no one else in this thing. “Doomsday Machine” into “Come Back Life” at the start? Come on. I hung around for a few songs, which was a choice facilitated by either the rain mostly stopping or my new Freak Valley hoodie just being soaked enough that I didn’t notice, then made my way out with more than a tinge of sadness at it being over, but secure in the knowledge I’ll see Kadavar again this summer, barring disaster, and as I arrived at the hotel after hailing a cab like the New York metro, throw-your-arm-out-just-at-the-right-time-to-catch-the-driver, it occurred to me to put on the Rockpalast stream. So I got to watch “I Fly Among the Stars” and so on that way. Scrolling back told me I missed “Black Sun” and the clap-along to “Die Baby Die” while in transit, which is a little sad, but I’m grateful for what I got.

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The same applies to the festival as a whole. I’m grateful for everything I saw and heard — whether it was in accord with my everyday listening habits or not — over the last three days, grateful to Jens for having me over, for Falk watching out for me in the photo pit, to Alex, Marcus, Jamie, and Basti for the rides, and to you for reading any of it if you did. As she often is concerning a wide variety of subjects, The Patient Mrs. was right to give me the push out the door I needed. Such as I’m a duck, I’m a lucky one.

If I have time, I’ll do kind of an epilogue tomorrow, if not, probably Friday, which is probably what I’d prefer to allow for a little actual-processing/distance. We’ll see. Either way, thank you again. More pics after the jump.

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