Freak Valley Festival 2023 – Day 3

Sat. – 12:34PM – Same tent as yesterday

Feeling moderately asskicked when I woke up, I headed to the hotel breakfast quickly to grab coffee. They had scrambled eggs and I didn’t have any, which was the wrong choice. My stomach was a little iffy. So maybe pounding seven espressos out of the machine wasn’t a hot idea either. I’d call these rookie mistakes, but I’m no rookie. Just a dumbass who can’t handle basic nourishment when left to his own devices.

Some light nausea and a not-nap later, it was back to the festival grounds for me. Today is supposed to be hotter than yesterday, so I’ll keep to my routine of refilling the water bottle at least once per band. I am a firm believer in the power of hydration, which is good because I think that’s what’s going to get me through the day. You can’t always count on stumbling into a yoga class at just the right time, sadly.

Before I go up to take pics of the start of the 10-act final day here, I would like to reiterate my thanks to Freak Valley for having me back. The vibe here is intimate and friendly and there are still however many thousand people, so that’s saying something. I am honored to be here, to have been here, to have met people and made friends here and seen and heard things I never knew I would. If you told me 15 years ago that I’d be living this life, even on intermittent weekends spread throughout the year, I’d probably have been like, “Wow that sounds exhausting, sure hope I don’t blow out a knee or some shit,” but underneath I’d be flabbergasted. I remain so, loving it.

My phone autocorrected “living” at the end of that last sentence. I’m leaving it as is. Some mistakes are on purpose.

Thank you again. Here we go. Day three of three:

Reverend Beat-Man

Before the show actually started, the good Reverend was to be found one-man parading around the merch/food area with a mini amp and bullhorn, hand-delivering scummer blues as he went. I didn’t even have the battery in my camera yet, so the above pic is from my phone. I don’t know what car battery he was huffing before going onstage, but I’d gladly take a hit off it. Dude was full-on, exclusively, there on his own doing weirdo blower blues, put his clergy collar on during his purposefully laughably long intro. Distorted vocals, some looped cello for good measure, a real performance piece, complete with sleaze, “Jesus Christ Twist,” boogie like he was born to do it, merch sold on the honor system, and a fest-day’s worth of shenanigans packed into a set that had the early crowd shouting for one more song when it was over. A hoot in the grand tradition of hoots.

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Ritual King

Proper English heavy rock. You can hear aspects of original-era desert riffing, some Truckfighters as well in that rolling bass, but Ritual King’s 2020 self-titled debut (review here), issued through Ripple, had more progressive stretches too and that came through a bit in the shuffle jam amidst all the roll and richness of fuzz, the bass holding down the groove while the guitar trips out ever so slightly. It was almost like you could hear them growing as they played, and their first record was already a call to the converted. I’ll not go around making predictions, but they were tight, seemed to be just the right amount of not-sober to represent the UK ahead of Orange Goblin later, and made it clear that the next generation of heavy knows from whence it comes and is ready to make its own statement in the genre. That’s the hope, anyhow. They could break up tomorrow, you never know. If that happened, I’d be glad to have seen them today. Second record later this year. Don’t tell anybody. It’s a secret.

—

Food: With about 10 minutes before Gaupa went on, I very quickly inhaled the meat out of a sans-rice goulash, leaving most of the sauce, veggies, etc. Burned tongue for the effort. My self-imposed dietary restrictions at this point are laughable — I brought three (small, plastic) jars of almond butter with me, left the one I wanted to bring at the hotel, hence the improv. What my feelings on this matter tell me is I’m channeling other shit into disordered eating because it’s a way to exert control over some aspect of my life. Take care of your brain, kids.

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Gaupa

Burner. If I hadn’t seen them in December in their native Sweden, I’d likely be blown away both by the band’s performance and the response from the crowd, but while I knew what to expect, Gaupa still set a high standard on the stage. Hair flying all over the place, and vocalist Emma Näslund’s sort of hard-hippie dance moves putting emphasis on the band’s psychedelic side even as the actual tones are doomly thick and their riffs are high-class Euro stoner. They’re on their way, and the only question is how far they’ll push it. And they’re young, which is crucial. Last year’s Myriad (review here) featured heavily and it was immediately apparent that those assembled were familiar. They were an early pull for the crowd — all of a sudden, the grass was packed — and their delivery more than justified that.

—

Tabernacle

All the way over from San Francisco, Tabernacle are a conceptual four-piece who make a point of only playing original arrangements of traditional English folk songs. And I guess on paper that kind of says covers, but that’s not quite the end of it. Technically, they’re songs that have been around and performed by many people — it’s fucking folk music; it’s for and of the folk — but the way they interpret the root material is their own, pairing ancient melodies with heavy warmth, languid, fluid nod. I guess the difference between Tabernacle and what I would generally think of as covers is the possibility of progressing in terms of sound. Their approach is open to growing, and between lead vocalist/synthesist Caira Paravel, bechapeaued guitarist/vocalist Walker Phillips, who are solo filk players as well, bassist Camilla Saufley (ex-Golden Void, The Assemble Head in Sunburst Sound, and a Freak Valley veteran) and drummer Adam Weaver (The Asteroid No. 4), they clearly have the range and reach to make that happen if they choose. They don’t have much out, just a few songs streaming, and so I think people didn’t know them that well — writing the announcement that they were playing here was how I learned about them too — but for a band writing around established foundations, they wanted nothing for originality. I’d listen to a record of this, happily.

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Hypnos 69

Hard for me to say enough how much I was looking forward to Hypnos 69. Not something I ever dreamed could happen, even before the band broke up like a decade ago. They’re a band whose music I’ve listened to for 20 years — and that by no means makes me groundfloor, so please don’t think I’m saying it does — and when I was first learning about underground rock, my initial immersion in different styles and bands from all over, they taught me so much about what heavy music could do, about what ‘progressive’ meant in terms of influence and presence, about atmosphere and about how music can seem to chase itself in circles forever and have fun doing it. I was nervous before they went on. What if they didn’t live up to the expectation in my head? What if they were jerks on stage? What if what if what if a piano fell out of the sky on my head two minutes before they went on? They were better than I could have hoped. I guess the phrase “bucket list band” applies, but really it was just something I’d reconciled myself to missing and never being able to see. I’ve lived with those records for so long, to hear and at them brought to life in front of me — along with new material, no less — felt like a landmark. I am so grateful. Thank you Hypnos 69, thank you Freak Valley. And please, if you’re seeing these words and you’ve never heard this band, I implore you to listen. Start with 2010’s Legacy (review here), and work back through 2006’s The Eclectic Measure (discussed here), 2004’s The Intrigue of Perception (discussed here) and 2002’s Timeline Traveller (rules but hasn’t closed a week yet; keeping it in my back pocket; it’s on their Bandcamp with all the rest). At least check it out if you haven’t. Please.

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The Obsessed

Dudes sounded great. More than 40 years on, The Obsessed came across with new life and brought the doom of the Chesapeake to this little alcove in Netphen with fervency and groove alike. Founding guitarist/vocalist Scott “Wino” Weinrich and drummer Brian Costantino have been playing together for about a decade straight at this point, and with Chris Angleberger on bass and Jason Taylor on guitar/backing vocals — last I saw them was 2019 in Boston with Reid Raley still on bass and just Wino on guitar; the more standard configuration as a trio through their history — they sounded more than ready to follow-up 2017’s Sacred (review here) and were locked in all the way with a trademark groove that has helped forge trad doom. There was a short rant between songs about biometric scans and money on bracelets and freedoms being taken away, but that’s who Wino is and is nothing new, even if the discourse around and promulgation of conspiracy theories has changed in the last 10 years. In any case, the songs sounded like I can only imagine riding a motorcycle feels, and that’s the idea when it comes to The Obsessed, so I’m calling it a win outright. New record later this year on Ripple, from which they aired “It’s Not Okay,” which was shouted out to “all these fucking keyboard warriors” typing all their words and something about showing up at their house with a baseball bat on a Sunday and having them run away. Fair enough.

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The Great Machine

Somehow they played fast even when they were playing slow, but either way, Israeli trio The Great Machine ran circles around the stage, and out in front for a bit too, and were a sight to behold as they made sure to get their cardio in while playing. Good fun, great energy, and their new album, Funrider (review here), while aptly named, is just a whiff of what they do live in terms of forward charge. But in addition to running around stage, the sound was also right on, roll and shove and even the odd quiet moment playing off each other with killer stoner roll and density that they made move almost as much as they did while playing. And even more, their set happened to coincide with the first break in the heat of this very, very sunny day, so all the conditions seemed to apply for them to kick ass, which they did with marked thoroughness. They’ve been here before, in 2017 (I looked it up; I know a good place for that kind of thing), and I have a hard time imagining they wouldn’t be invited back again. Rarely in my experience is heavy rock so much fun and still has so much to offer musically. They brought out a guest screamer toward the end of the set and continued to lap the vast majority of everything as they pummeled riff after riff. Hypnos 69 were the band I knew I was waiting for. The Great Machine were the band I didn’t know I was waiting for.

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Hällas

This wasn’t my first time encountering Swedish cosmic strutters Hällas — who rock proto-metallic ’70s space riffs and their capes with equal aplomb; not being sarcastic — but it was the melodies that got me this time. Such a smooth, classy style, between the up-to-three vocalists and the organ and guitars, giving them a sense of out-thereness in alignment with their stage presence. I don’t mind telling you I am beat. Truly. But the sun is on its way down as we head toward 21:30, and I’m happy to let “Star Rider” take me into the home stretch of Freak Valley 2023. Much like hope The Great Machine were more than just somebody’s ecercise video, so too were Hällas more than the sum of their stage costumes. I guess in terms of sound they’re vintage, but it’s retrofuturism if anything, and they’re masters of it at this point and reliable in that regard. And even if I was dragging ass — no yoga today, sadly, though I’ve done some stretching throughout and basic sustenance helped — they most certainly were not and they had people singing along, dancing, spontaneous clapping along, the whole thing. I found a not-quiet but also not-crowded spot to sit and watch, trying to soak in as much as I can of this festival because I know it’s going to be over soon. What a party it’s been. No wonder tickets sell out in like a day every year.

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Orange Goblin

On a planet marked by its paucity of guarantees, you can know in your heart that when Orange Goblin show up, it’s to destroy. Their second album, Time Travelling Blues (discussed here), was released in 1998 on Rise Above Records, which makes its 25th anniversary the occasion for playing it in full for the first time ever here, at Freak Valley, but I ask you in a spirit of friendship, would they really need an excuse? From fucking “Blue Snow” through the fucking title-track — god damn, that groove, and that ending — and fucking “Nuclear Guru,” that’s one of the best fucking sabbath rock records ever made to not actually be by Black Sabbath. The set was a celebration that felt like it applied to the whole weekend, and Orange Goblin absolutely hit that mark. Chris Turner on drums propulsive or swinging or both, Joe Hoare on guitar with blues shred, Harry Armstrong — the only member of the band now who wasn’t in it a quarter-century ago — with a stark reminder that ‘heavy’ lives in the bottom end, and Ben Ward jumping up and down and running point like the frontman he is, like a walking advertisement for his own sobriety and healthy living. Full of life. The night isn’t over yet, but this was a special set in more than just the songs being played. A highlight? Shit. These guys — and in no small part, this record — have inspired a generation and counting of English heavy. It is, and they are, a classic. And being here, with the trees lit up in back and the hey-hey-heys from the crowd almost as loud as the band itself, the band throwing in “Red Tide Rising” as a bonus track at the end. I hope I never forget it. Thank you.

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Slift

Do we need to talk about Ummon? That record (review here) carried entire legions of weirdos through the pandemic, and I felt like I was overdue for seeing Slift live. Not in a the-moment-has-passed way, because it hasn’t, but just in that way I’m perpetually late to any and all parties. They brought the drums down front and set up in a line, had a video protection behind, and you could feel the bass in your chest on that side of the stage even when they were warming up, speaking from personal experience. They lit the galaxy on fire. They blew up the fucking Death Star. Slayer meet Hawkwind. Didn’t know space thrash was a thing? It was tonight for sure, but that’s really just the launch point for the Andromeda-bound FTL groove that Slift emit. People were saying their goodnights, me too, but after a long and busy few days since I took off from Newark an entire dimension ago, I was only too happy to be disintegrated by the pulsations of their cosmic noise. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe it’s ending. I can’t believe how ineffective my earplugs were in the face of their dizzying assault. I could go on, easily, about them ripping holes in space-time, or I could start using treknobabble, which might be fun, but I’m not sure that would capture the overwhelming physical presence of Slift at Freak Valley. I can’t remember the last time I so badly wanted a band to not be a fluke. They’ve got nearly impossible expectations to meet. But, that tension, you can feel in your blood. This band might be the real deal, and I know I’m not the first to say so. At least some of what they played was new, so that bodes well. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I’m hopeful. Do you know how good that feels?

—

Thank you again for reading. Thank you Freak Valley. Thank you Jens, Alex, Marcus, Felli, Roman, Juan, Pete Holland. I met friggin’ Komet Lulu! I was so nervous and awkward; totally embarrassed myself. Everybody who approached me to introduce themselves and say some words about this site or what I do. People are so impossibly kind. Friends I met last year and saw again. Sister Rainbow! I don’t think I knew how badly I needed this, but I bet The Patient Mrs. knew, and thanks to her most of all. Thank you, Wendy. I love you.

I wrote too much today. I took too many pictures. I guess some part of me was trying to cram in as much as I could while I could. No regrets. For mostly my own future reference, here’s the running order of the entire festival. I saw all of it.

More pics after the jump. You know the deal. Cheers from Freak Valley 2023, and all the love in the universe. I fly home tomorrow.

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Freak Valley Festival 2023 – Day 2

Fri. – 1PM – A Different Shade Tent

Got back to the hotel in Siegen last night around two, I think. The question was whether to shower before collapsing into bed. I did, and it was the right call. The smell of cigarette smoke, sweat, and humanity was powerful motivation. And when I did conk out, I slept harder than I have in some time. Maybe about a year?

It’s hot today and soon to start. Bit of breeze in the shade is a big yes. In the interest of honesty I tell you I’m beat and a little nervous for what the day might bring, but ready for it. Took all the allergy medicine, have sunglasses, my silly hat, earplugs. Water. So much water. Gonna go grab some more now, in fact. All the water.

Sorry for the typos today as well, but thanks for reading if you are/do. Here’s the day:

Orsak:Oslo

The Norwegian/Swedish instrumental four-piece remind me of last year’s fest, which had a whole bunch of meditative psych/post-heavy with which they would fit well. Their new album, In Irons (discussed here), came out in April on Vinter Records, and they harnessed that fluidity live, or maybe that’s the other way around, I’d have to see them a few more times to properly judge. But the bit of krautrock they worked in was met with some dancing from the crowd, and while I think many of those in the audience today are definitely feeling the edge of the late finish last night — I know I am — Orsak:Oslo were a way of easing into a day that’s even longer and has more to see. For sure a different vibe than Tuskar, who were first yesterday, but their flow and comparatively mellow but still lucid psych seemed to hypnotize just right. I was glad to see them again after seeing them briefly in Norway in 2019 (review here), and their set was a stirring reminder to get my ass in gear on reviewing that record. Message received. Obviously they didn’t have the biggest crowd of the day, playing at 1:30 some 10 hours before the headliner, but there were people out front, more by the end, and they were dancing.

—

Earth Ship

I was very curious to see Earth Ship, because as regards projects from the Berlin-based Jan Oberg and Sabine Oberg — the others are Grin and the pandemic-born Slowshine — Earth Ship are kind of the middle ground. They rock more than Grin, whose sludge is pointedly aggro, and they’re more grounded than the psych-tinged Slowshine, and not only do I appreciate how their bands are organized — I like a bit of this goes here, this goes here, this goes here — but Earth Ship’s riffs are a hook of their own. And they’re more even more rock live than on record, though Jan’s vocals are still largely barks, but watching them for the first time, it’s easy to see they’re having fun and love what they do. They weren’t thrashing around or anything, but there was passion behind their delivery and stage energy, and it was infectious. Inviting, in a way. “You dig this. We do too. Let’s get loud.” Unfortunately this utopian vision doesn’t apply to everyone everywhere all the time, because it’s a big planet, but I’m glad to have had a sampling of what they do and hope it’s not the last time our paths cross, in whatever incarnation.

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Kamchatka

Heavy blues promised, heavy blues delivered. Nothing there to argue with even if you wanted to. In the heat of the afternoon, Sweden’s Kamchatka brought a little bit of a breeze that, in combination with the sprinklers strewn about the festival grounds being frequented by adults and children alike, was some measure of relief. No doubt the wind was conjured by the air being pushed through the amps and the swing of drummer Tobias Strandvik, who was comfortable in the pocket as the trio — completed by guitarist Thomas “Juneor” Andersson and bassist Per Wiberg (yes, the same one who’s played with Opeth, Candlemass, Spiritual Beggars, on and on, mostly on keys; he’s also got a few solo releases; must like music or something) were classically dynamic, varied of tempo and mood, and they had a couple sleek jams worked in with the bouts of uptempo shove, mellow groove, all that stuff, definitely heavy ’70s informed but modern in their presentation. I wandered a bit, trying not to be just in one place all day — the quest for shade is part of that, to be sure — but my own restlessness was duly counteracted by the solid, unpretentious grooves coming from the stage, and as one will on such an occasion, I found myself feeling like I need to listen to this band more. A lesson learned, maybe.

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Steak

So somewhere in the long-long ago, I saw a band in London called Crystal Head who blew me away and left me wondering what the hell the deal was that they weren’t huge. Seeing that band’s former guitarist/vocalist, Tom Cameron, joining his ex-and-again bandmate Dean Deal (drums), as part of an upgraded five-piece Steak lineup, again on guitar and adding his vocals to those of frontman Chris “Kippa” Haley — they even covered that band’s likewise memorable “Perfect Weirdo” before playing a new song called “2×2” — was a thrill. Haley sharing vocal duties is a shift in the dynamic, but in line with 2022’s righteous Acute Mania (review here) — if you heard the record you might say their realizing their potential to such a degree was “a long time coming” — they’re a deeper band for being able to bring their arrangements to life with another player on board. I haven’t been to a show in London in half a decade, but I hope Steak are playing the next one I hit. I was prepared for a more mature act by seeing them in 2019 at Desertfest New York (review here), but between the lineup, the record and the performance, they’ve truly put it all together. Change is the nature of the universe. Sometimes it even works out.

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Pontiak

Well, that’s my new working definition of underrated. Based in Virginia, the brotherly trio Pontiak were the perfect blend for the moment. They were heavy enough to follow Steak so that there wasn’t a loss of aural push on the day, but with each of member of the Carney family with a mic, yeah. Just, yeah. I’ve written about them intermittently over the years, never really with any depth, and I’m sorry that it’s only now I understand the error in that neglect. The noisier, punkier, more aggro impulse is still there in the guitar, but the atmosphere is so reconciled to it, so right in being what it is, that the melodies seemed that much richer for the underlying tension. Sitting at stage right, I turned my head and saw a small pocket of maybe four dudes being led in a yoga class and hell fucking yes I joined (asked first). Happy to report that yoga and Pontiak went together extremely well, and the stretch and the focus on calm movement, purposeful movement, that slowdown was incredible. Doing cat-cows while the band locked in a half-time nod that reminded me of the time they toured with Sleep. Planks and down-dogs and pigeon and all that. I said yesterday that I could feel myself being too tight. I’m not sure my back will thank me this evening for the cobras, but screw it, sometimes the riffs are right and the thing is happening and you need to go with it. I have absolutely no regrets. I hope it happens again tomorrow. And if Pontiak wanted to do a hang out and do a second show, that’d be rad too.

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Seedy Jeezus

Would be an odd way to start a conversation, but if you asked me how many times in my life I was going to see Melbourne, Australia’s Seedy Jeezus, my honest answer would’ve been zero to one. Thus I consider watching them play a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and with their The Hollow Earth live 2LP (discussed here) fresh in mind — they played the title-track, and no, that wasn’t all — I tried my best to soak in every minute of their heavy psych-blues jams and the scorching guitar work of Lex Waterreus, who put his soul into every note in a way that was palpable, but that didn’t lose the audience along the way. I’d say he was all heart if he wasn’t also so clearly technique. They were Hendrixian even before they threw in the cover of “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” that also appears on that live record, but certainly that would seal the deal in that regard. The last time they were here, in 2015, they put out a live album after. If they did ‘Live at Freak Valley Again’ they’d be well within their rights. Actually, maybe they should just record all their shows. Worked for the Dead. Easy, organic flow, jammy but headed somewhere, joy to follow. They’re not a band I ever thought I would experience live. And I met Lex and drummer Mark Sibson — the band is very much completed by Paul Crick on bass — and they seem like nice sorts. Lex teared up thanking the crowd — he also shouted out the much-missed Stoned Jesus, who would be here but for war — and then the whole band proceeded to tear into another ace jam of the kind you get to witness, well, let’s just say not very often. Having now done so once, that’s a record I’d be happy to break.

—

King Buffalo

What a charmed fucking existence I lead. King Buffalo are the first band this weekend whose set I was so wrapped up in that I forgot to write. Sometimes you just leave time. It hasn’t been that long since I last encountered the Rochester, New York, three-piece, less than a year — though as history has shown, that’s long enough for one or two landmark LPs from them — but they were a pleasure as always. Dan Reynolds, man. Taking that bassline in “Silverfish” for walks both literal and figurative. They’ve been on tour for somewhere around three weeks now, have somewhere around a week to go, and are duly sharp onstage. I could go on and on about their pandemic trilogy of LPs, regale you with hyperbole and superlatives about the depth of their sound, the emotional undercurrent to their melodies, the sheer growth they’ve undergone in the last nine years, but I’ve said it all before. And being me, I’ll probably say it all again. I could have put in the review links, but fuck it. Watching them, it wasn’t time for that. It was time to be in that moment. That particular almost gone right very now. Dudes in the crowd throwing love hearts at each other. It was a beautiful moment to be alive. I can take out my phone and finish the god damned sentence later. I don’t know about you, but I would have had a much harder time the last three years of my life without this band. And I don’t think they’ve yet done their best work. I hope they never do. Would be a shame to think of them not chasing that thing. Not gonna take away from anyone else on this bill or the decades of work Earthless and the Melvins have put in, but this was my headliner set for the night. And it wasn’t even dark.

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Earthless

I was in front of the stage at the time, but I have to think that wherever you were on the festival grounds, you knew Earthless as about to go on when Isaiah Mitchell started warming up on guitar. Little shred here, little shred there. Mario Rubalcaba back there thump thump, Mike Eginton rumble rumble. And that’s Earthless. You take shred shred, thump thump, rumble rumble, make sure everyone is unrealistically talented, and you let it become epic as it inevitably will. Serve hot, like scorching. The most-of-the-time instrumental trio came to Freak Valley to play their latest album, Night Parade of One Hundred Demons (review here), in its entirety. That album came out in January and in following 2018’s Black Heaven (review here), found the band reclaiming their longform sans-vocal approach after the last record’s partial foray into more traditional rock songwriting. Of course they ripped it up, they’re frickin’ Earthless. Gradual start, bit of a raga wakeup at the beginning of the record, then all of a sudden except not really sudden it’s been happening the whole time you just didn’t realize it because see “unrealistically talented” above, and they were fully immersed. And so was the crowd. It was after 10PM but still just barely nighttime — Earthless at sundown; I dare you to ask for more — and I guess I didn’t realize it at the time, but it turns out that whole record was meant to be played live. And that’s something they can actually do because the parts are plotted. They’re songwriting, just on their own level, which incidentally is how they do everything. The world is in no small part because of Earthless not at all short on instrumental heavy psych rock — more bands seem to form every time they play, and they play a fair amount; someone tell Bandcamp they’re gonna need more servers — but still, one Earthless. They were entrancing.

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Melvins

I would never dare call myself a Melvins fan, especially in the presence of so many who obviously are, but it’s common knowledge they destroy live and their current incarnation absolutely slayed. I don’t know if I’m going to go dig into the probably 15 or so records they’ve done in the last decade-plus to catch up, but I definitely don’t regret watching them cover “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” and they played a tune or two I recognized from the days when they and Big Business were a thing — fortunately Dale Crover didn’t seem to have much trouble doing the work of two drummers — and that song from Stoner Witch or whichever of those Atlantic-era records it was. Imagine a major label signing a band like this now. Ha. But these Melvins have been at it — hard — for the last 40 years and they’re still punk rock no matter how thick their riffs are. Goes without saying this was my first time seeing them with Steven Shane McDonald and he was a perfect fit. That’s the guy to keep up with Crover and King Buzzo, as much as anyone could hope to do so. He was a blast, they were a blast, and they came out to “Take on Me” by A-ha, which in the world of weird coincidences, I’ve run into three times in the last month. Great song, doesn’t matter. The important thing is the Melvins let Freak Valley know why they are who they are and sat on top of this bill because it would’ve been silly for another band to try to follow them. King Buzzo echoing into the finally-night sky. Total blowout.

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Okay that’s enough. Day three tomorrow. Thanks for reading. More pics after the jump. Good night.

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Freak Valley Festival 2023 – Day 1

Thu. – Before the Show – Shade tent

It’s good to be here. I rode in with Besvärjelsen, as my late flight ended up coinciding with their also landing at Frankfurt. It was nice to meet them. Did a bit of stretching in the parking lot of their hotel and a couple of them joined in. Warrior one, two, stretching the back. Maybe next year I’ll convince Jens, who runs Freak Valley, to let me host doom-yoga. Not gonna count on it.

Stopped off at the hotel to take a shower that I knew I needed but didn’t realize how much until the water hit me. Flight was oof. Not much sleep, delayed takeoff, shake-shake-wobble-wobble turbulence, the whole bit. I decided before we were actually over the ocean that if the plane went down I was tired enough that I’d be at least conceptually alright with it. Started watching the third Hobbit movie at one point. Watched them kill the dragon and left it at that. At the hotel, showered, changed clothes, brushed teeth, drank some water, headed back out.

It was supposed to rain today, still might I guess, but there’s an awful lot of blue sky and sunshine for that. I’m under a tent by the side of the stage anyhow, so whatever, but it wasn’t my plan to be in this spot all night. The cigarette smell would get me after a while, but, outdoors, so that’s it for that. The crowd once again is a dope mix. Oldschool heads, newschool heads, kids, a whole mess of volunteers. First band is on soon and the vibe is already on standby waiting for them to start.

And now I’m reading that Pat Robertson died. Well, this is a special occasion. Shall we make a day of it?

Sorry in advance for the typos:

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Tuskar

Heavy start to the proceedings with UK duo Tuskar, who were not at all held back in terms of heft for not having another two or three dudes in the band. Some shades of Black Cobra in the faster parts as there almost inevitably would be, but they weren’t shy about the sludgier aspects of their sound either, and thus they were able to change up when they needed to, sounding all the more explosive coming out of a midtempo groove locked into a High on Fireish thrashy shove. But thick in tone they were and intermittently aggressive, more so than anyone else playing today, despite the proggy/post-metal explorations happening in the material and the Conan-born barking vocals. If you’re not Om, atmosphere can be hard to come by as a duo, but they laid it on with ferocity, and while some were no doubt surprised at what took place after they dug in, the early crowd showed up. The band said from the stage they didn’t have merch because of Brexit, told people to go online. I popped half a Xanax while I was at the hotel. The nod is doing better by my head right now than the intense parts, but put them together as they are and it’s killer all the way. Would be devastating at The Black Heart.

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Astroqueen

It started to rain a couple songs into their set, slow at first then picking up. It was supposed to, but it was still a bit of a surprise when it actually happened. Surrounding sky was still at least partially blue — and I wouldn’t call it smoke-free, necessarily, but at least it’s not Canadian wildfires like at home — and Astroqueen were classic-heavy-rockin’ hard enough that I’m not sure they ever noticed. I saw them in December, but their reunion is still pretty fresh. There was some issue with the kick drum and then that was sorted and riffs were had. I’m pretty sure they called 2001’s Into Submission “their last album,” which is hilarious. Most of the crowd just stayed in the rain, but I headed for shelter in tone to hear “Soulburner” riffed out like a direct forebear to Truckfighters, with “Superhuman God” following after, and I stayed until the cigarette smoke got abrasive. For what it’s worth, there was an actual toddler in the tent, and he seemed fine. I’m ready to bet on another Astroqueen record though. You heard it here, probably not actually first.

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Besvärjelsen

There are arguments to be made for each of the acts playing today, but for me personally, Besvärjelsen were the one I was most looking forward to seeing. They’re a band with some pretty stark differences in personality — and here I’ll note that Johan Rockner, who generally handles bass, was absent and they had a fill-in — but across the stage from guitarist Staffan Stensland Vinrot to guitarist Andreas Baier with drummer Erik Bäckwall behind, they each seemed to bring something individual to the expression of the whole in a way that was unexpected but welcome. Eclectic, they were. The vocals of Lea Amling Alazam are a definite focal point and uniting factor, and around those, the band drew pieces of different styles under the heavy umbrella — Baier’s history in more extreme metal also makes more sense seeing him on stage — from doom and psych to heavy post-rock and so on, never quite only one thing at one time. They had a pit going out front for a minute or two there — three bands in, the people are ready to throw down, apparently — but went into “Clouds” from last year’s Atlas (review here) and so put the crowd exactly where they wanted them at least twice. Was psyched already to hear to what they did next in the studio. That is only more the case now, and I feel like I have a better sense of who they are as a group as well. Total win. And they were also awesome, and finished with the massive riff of “I skuggan av ditt mörker” from 2018’s Vallmo (review here), so, bonus.

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Komodor

They were putting on a show in a way no one else here yet has been, stage costumes, ’70s strut and all, but nothing about France’s Komodor seemed phony or cheeky in an ironic sense – definitely otherwise cheeky – and they had and used three guitarists on stage, at least one of whom played her last year with Djinn? Might’ve been someone else. In any case, they ripped it up and were energetic, catchy, young, well-mustachioed, and able to pivot in terms of their arrangements with two guitarists, their drummer and their bassist also handling vocals. They drew a good crowd though, and held most of it for the duration. I kind of like it that the conventional wisdom is vintage-style rock is “done.” Makes me want to make buttons that say “Boogie Lives” or some such nonsense. I’ll confess that as they played I started to feel the length of the day, which really began when I went to the airport yesterday, never mind landing this morning, but there was fun to be had and I had it watching Komodor. Hey man, I love boogie, and I hear it’s making a comeback!

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El Perro

For a dude who spends as much of his day thinking and talking about riffs as I do, I’m not actually a huge guitar guy. I never learned to play, don’t know gear or theory or scales. But I know damn well that I could watch Parker Griggs play guitar for an entire evening and go to bed afterward feeling like night was well spent. This is a new lineup of El Perro, Griggs, Dorian from Blues Pills, Mucho Drums on… wait for it… Drums. Percussionist and bassist also seemingly picked out for the purpose of this tour and maybe more. The band that put out Hair of El Perro last year blew up, so here’s a new one, and the curated sensibility is palpable. It’s Griggs’ band and he’s pretty clearly chosen specifically people he wants to play with. Radio Moscow might also have been that, but the dynamic is different here, as well as the music, emphasis on funk over blues filtered through heavy rhythms bolstered by percussion. Demon Fuzz, anyone? You ever hear that Mandrill record? Doesn’t matter. Chaos is part of it, always with Griggs. Shit might blow up, amps or otherwise, but the guy has a genuine vision of the music he wants to make and he’s a virtuoso on guitar. It had been a long time. It was a pleasure to see him play again, and I’m glad the wah didn’t catch fire.

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Total side note: there are two dudes here in robes. Like, bathrobes. Two! Maybe even three! And at least one of them has a backpatch! They’ve got clothes on underneath, otherwise security might have something to say about it, but when was the last time you went anywhere, let alone a show, and found at least two guys Lebowskiing it up? And they’re not even here together, so far as I can tell. This is a pretty special fest.

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Urlaub in Polen

Whatever else they may be, Urlaub in Polen is the reason I know that “urlaub” is the German word for vacation. The long-running krautrock duo, who are actually from Germany, they apparently just vacation in Poland, were about as stark a left turn from El Perro as one might make and still be at the same festival, synth and organ and guitar and drums sounding like a much fuller band. Thinking back to how this day started, Tuskar used the duo configuration to emphasize rawness. Urlaub in Polen — the day’s only other two-piece — were on a different trip. Repetitive rhythms, explorations of melody and heavy impact, quirk galore and groove to match. I’ll admit that my prior experience with the band is limited to having checked them out before coming here, but they’re heavier live than anything I managed to stream, and people were still dancing. Not moshing. Actual dance, to a kind of mostly-organic techno rock. It was cool and a reminder that sometimes Freak Valley throws in a shift in vibe and it works of course because it just does. Cool shit. And I swear it’s not a slight against them that I’m falling asleep sitting up. I’m just very, very tired.

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Clutch

Ripper of a start to the set with “Impetus” into “Subtle Hustle,” “Earth Rocker” — hard to believe that record came out a decade ago — and “Firebirds” back to back to back to back. Then the new stuff, “Sunrise on Slaughter Beach,” “We Strive for Excellence.” Not arguing. They didn’t even let the intro song about money that they always play finish before they hit it, and that’s probably fair enough because it was already pushing past their 11:35 start. “Burning Beard.” Fast. “The Regulator.” Groove. I was standing in back by then and kind of teared up feeling grateful for being here. I am so incredibly fortunate. “Ghoul Wrangler.” No, it’s not my first time around the block with Clutch. But to be here, in this place, with these people. As beat tired as I’ve been all day, this has been an incredible start that I expect will be momentum leading into tomorrow and Saturday. Not everyone gets to do what I do. I’m not trying to take over this post and talk about feelings or some shit — we’re here for riffs, damnit! — but I am lucky to be here right now, tonight. “Boss Metal Zone.” It went on like that, Clutch tearing it up, me feeling feelings; a coda on the evening. Maybe it never stops. Maybe that’s the story. Maybe some part of me lives here. “Nosferatu Madre.” Extra groove. I wonder if they’ll put this set out. “D.C. Sound Attack.” I was in the room when Neil Fallon laid down the vocals on this hook. “The Mob Goes Wild.” Indeed. “Electric Worry,” “Noble Savage,” “The Face,” fucking “Spacegrass.” Best set ever.

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Thanks for reading. More tomorrow, and more pics after the jump.

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5PM – Before the flight – Newark

One of the restaurants down the way is playing Beck, and, sitting here on my laptop at the too-small charging table, I’d feel like the very epitome of cool if this was 1997. Alas, it is not. Hasn’t been for some time, in fact.

Still, we press on. I guess I beat the plane to the gate, which is fair enough since the flight doesn’t leave for another two and a half hours. The Patient Mrs., while en route, posited that she considers my clenched-brain anxious, gotta-get-to-the-airport, hurrying-up-so-I-can-hurry-up-and-wait pre-flight methodology a way in which I am able to make the transition from being here to being there, which in this case is Freak Valley 2023. That’s as good a reason as anything I can come up with while I do this every time if I can, why I book later flights so I can sit longer. It is not out of any great love for airport ambiance.

The sky is gray and yellowish, and today the smoke from Quebecois wildfires blocked out the sun for a while thickly enough that the air actually felt colder in the breeze. Living through that, it’s hard to internalize just how fucked it truly is, or we are, as a species. It smells like smoke outside. My eyes stung walking into the grocery store this morning so I wouldn’t leave The Patient Mrs. and The Pecan without yogurt. Someone on the security line or wherever the hell I was a bit ago commented that being outside for 20 minutes was the equivalent of smoking six cigarettes. I’ve never been a smoker as regards tobacco, but maybe if I was I wouldn’t be the kind of person who feels compelled to show up at the airport three hours early.

When the plane shows up — which the flight tracker thing says it will do 20-odd minutes late because of the apocalypse unfolding (again) in real-time outside the window — it will carry my lethargic ass to Frankfurt, Germany, where Alexander Fuchs, who is the kind of competent individual one such as myself who is the opposite truly appreciates knowing, will meet me with a car to go to Siegen. I’m staying in Hotel Bürger — hotel of the people! hotel of the bourgeoisie! — for the duration of the fest, and that’s a little further out and I won’t get to stay up late and chat with Rolf from Stickman and Désirée from Lay Bare and meet them again for breakfast in the morning, and that was great last year but I’m fairly certain that my addled brain can make still new memories, apparently it could last year, so while I’m nervous doing something new (always), I rest easier knowing I’m in the best hands possible with Alex. Alex won’t fuck up. I would never say the same about myself.

Getting into Germany, getting to the hotel, going to the fest — it’s not really tight. Not in any way that makes a remote difference or makes it less feasible, but there are known and unknown variables between here and there, and all the more with the end of the world happening outside. At the bank — after the grocery store; keep up — the woman said they were canceling flights out of Newark. Maybe those were to Montreal?

In any case, I don’t have, say, an entire day to wait around in front of the Freak Valley stage for stuff to start, so yeah, I’m a little on edge about it. Always when flying anyway, always when traveling, always at shows. Generally when staying home, too. My body goes fight-or-flight about doing the fucking dishes. So The Pecan’s thing in the car where she’ll ask “When are we going to get there?” in a kind of singsong, repeatedly, pretty much until you feel like your eyeballs are melting and not only do you no longer want to go where you’re going, but you’re (un)reasonably sure you’ll be dead before you get there? Yeah that’s rough too. “How long is five minutes?” Guess we’re about to find out, kid.

The next three days — Thursday, Friday, Saturday — are Freak Valley Festival 2023, in Netphen, Germany. I will be covering as much as I am able — not gonna promise to see everything, but you know I’ll try — while tending to things like hydration and the various aches and discomforts I bring with me: knees, back, feet, head, and so on. I am deeply appreciative of the chance to write about this festival, to go and take pictures and do all that kind of stuff. Last year was my first time. In 2023, I have the reassurance of prior experience to tell me it’ll be amazing, as I have to believe it will, or at this point I probably wouldn’t be going. Thanks Freak Valley. I hope to see you soon.

And thanks of course to The Patient Mrs. for keeping the kid for five frickin’ days so I can abscond and get my head right in the best way I know how. She will not have an easy time.

And thanks to you for reading. The only reason I get invited to do stuff like this — ever — is because you’re reading these words right now, and because of the support this site gets. I know this and appreciate it. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, so thank you. I will do my damnedest to have the work I do in the next few days live up to how honored I feel to be doing it in the first place.

Looks like the plane’s here. Fine. Guess I’ll get on it and fly to Germany for a thing. Oh, alright.

Thanks again.