The Fading Captain

Last night I found part of Guided By Voices‘ final concert on demand (there should probably be a trademark there, please do not sue me, unless it makes me famous). In 2004, I tried to see GBV on their “Electrifying Conclusion” tour in Austin, TX, but they canceled at the last second due to a band member’s family emergency. We went anyways, and after watching that “concert” on demand, I’m just a little bit glad that the lasting memory I have of GBV live is one from 7 years ago.

That show, by the way, was fucking awesome. I had barely even heard any of GBV’s stuff at that point, but luckily good ol’ T-Bradley Baker and Indie Rock spokesman Marc Mercer convinced me to go. Robert Pollard was electric – drunk – but electric. It was like watching Robert Plant and Johnny Rotten’s anally conceived love-child go to town with a half Persian princess. I even bought a shirt, which I never wore, and ended up giving to Brad. (Funny sidenote – Brad will die in that shirt. Trust me on that one.)

Knowing the tendencies of Bob Pollard and friends, I expected everyone in the band to be fairly wasted for the final concert. Some small part of me was hoping that they would sound amazing, even better than the night I saw them way back during my freshman year of college. Some small part of me thought that they might want to remember their final concert, might want to have some lucidity of the death of an iconic name. Sure, sure, Bob Pollard still does solo stuff, and of course it’s not that different, but as I watched Beatle Bob give GBV’s final introduction, it felt like an era was somehow ending.

Bob Pollard was shit faced. As he stumbled to the mic before they had played even one song, my heart was both encouraged and yet defeated. If GBV was going to go out, surely there could be no other way than under a tsunami of beer and whiskey – but I knew from the outset that this final show might not live up to the standards of memory.

With each song, Bob got more and more visibly drunk, and for the first time in all the shows I’ve read about and the first time in all the live recordings I’ve heard, Bob Pollard was missing notes left and right. He continually interrupted his singing to smile at some random old friend, and shout some slightly intelligible thank you to someone. With each song he clearly had more trouble standing. To even hit half the notes he was forced to close his eyes tight, and focus every last ounce of mental awareness on the notes- and even then, he missed. And despite the fact that GBV didn’t gain notoriety until Pollard was well into his 30s, it was the first time I can remember Bob really looking old.

As the concert footage progressed, things got sloppier and sloppier. Both guitarists found themselves hitting the notes with about as much accuracy as Pollard’s singing. In fact, only the bassist – the one visibly drinking the most – seemed to be on top of his game.

Watching this somewhat pathetic turn of events, I wasn’t really that surprised. I mean, all good things come to an end, and you might as well be drunk as hell when the end comes. But, I was still a little bit sad to see that GBV’s death was that ugly. It’s the songs that make GBV so great, and they’re usually not even that difficult to play. It’s a shame they didn’t at least try to remember the final set.

I guess that’s why they call him the Fading Captain.

Blizzards and Poop

The weather affected us all in some deep and meaningful way. Perhaps you didn’t go get to see your Brother’s Band, Giant Steps, play in Albuquerque. Or maybe you were someone who had some other sort of travel problem, one that I probably don’t care about. Or perhaps you built an igloo, or giant snow statue of Lenin.

Perhaps you built a snow toilet, and pooped in it, reading a snow paper that you also built.

Perhaps you used it as an excuse to try out your new snow bong.

Whatever the reason, it had some effect on you, probably, and whatever was, it’s over now. So stop crying about it. I said stop, stop crying you baby.

“Stop crying, you baby!” I said.

South Park Music Festival, Day Two

Dawn broke, and snow had covered the mountain tops.

I’m not sure how, but everyone was able to roll out of bed. I felt pretty good, but most the group had been stricken with slight hang-overs. Of course, for some of us, the hang-overs were only going to get worse.

There’s a free shuttle that runs from Breckinridge to South Park, and since we all wanted to get drunk, it seemed like a good idea. We had fun making breakfast, (the bacon was delicious!) but barely made it in time to catch a ride. On the way up we caught a glimpse of the yellow patched mountainside, small teardrops of autumn. The shuttle, aka a big van, climbed the steep road steadily.

We arrived just as things were getting in full gear, and stopped to eye the art booths. I found a nice little tent with a nice woman parked inside, drawn in by the “we sell vintage LPs” sign out front. I perused the vinyl, which was chock full of great finds — including a Bruce Willis album — but didn’t want to deal with carrying around a record all day long. Luckily, I found less awkward item, a WCW comic book with Lex Luger and Sting on the cover. Good fortune, it seemed, had blessed me with her heavenly smile.

The wind was starting to blow, and it was cold enough for coats. A few brave souls clung to summer in shorts and skirts, but I happily donned a sweater and wool cap. After some fierce coercion, I got the gang to follow me to the Skate Park Stage, where the Queers were slated for a two o’ clock rock out. I’ve never bought a single Queers album, but I’ve always liked the fact that I can sing along by the time a song’s half way through. I’ve also always loved “Granola Head.” Fairplay stuck its skaters in a good spot — about a mile from downtown and right next to the highway. BTW, by good I meant stupid. The stage was clearly rented, and sat squarely in the dirt behind the skate ramps. Ominously the clouds passed over, and the bass amp was tagged, The Queers are here. The Queers were indeed there.

I was stoked to hear classics like, “Ursula Finally Has Tits,” “My Old Man’s a Fatso,” and the greatest Queers anthem of all time, “Granola Head.” Every now and then a few kids would come mosh, but for the most part people just bobbed heads. One guy ran around all crazy and knew the words to every song, but I’m assuming he was related or something. It was a good old fashioned punk show, with shout outs to the Ramones and Mr T. Experience. I felt like I should be in the basement of someone’s house drinking cheap beer. Instead I was trying to stay warm drinking vodka and Gatorade in the middle of a rodeo. It was cold, and it was in the middle of no-where, but as Joe Queer put it to Ryan and I, “It’s better than having some pimply faced kid spitting at you.” That friends, certainly sums up a lot of the South Park Music Festival…come to think of it, that pretty much sums up the majority of my life.

The rest of the day was wide open, so we jaunted back to town — which again, was only a few blocks — and looked for beer. Pabst was flowing in the streets like milk and honey, and I saw a few people conspicuously drinking the sweet nectar out of giant 24 oz. cans at the clearly designated “no alcohol” stages. I got a few beers of my own, and the altitude did the rest.

Speaking of altitude, don’t ever take altitude sickness lightly. It can be fatal if not treated properly, and it can really make you feel like shit. Also, if the bouncer, the sheriff, and some people working at the festival don’t seem to know how to get down the mountain, just call the fucking shuttle, he’ll give you a ride. And if the bouncer at the hotel (don’t get me wrong, he was a really cool guy and we really got along with him, but…) calls the taxi at ten o’ clock at night to make sure the shuttle’s coming, resist the urge to scream, WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU CALL THEM EARLIER?!!!?!? Part of the festival chi was sucked out when a member of the party was stricken with altitude sickness, and thankfully there are some really good friends in our group that were by her side the entire time. That’s about all I want to say about it. Please, learn more about altitude sickness here.

The only actual reference to the South Park cartoon was witnessed at a storefront, where people could sit down next to a painting of Mr. Hanky. One of the beer stands had cut outs of the kids, but since that was artificially brought in, I don’t count it.

At some point, it looked like Machine Gun Blues was going to play another set, which wasn’t in the schedule. I was excited to see a full set of theirs after the underwear excursion the night before, but after about 30 seconds of one song the music suddenly stopped and somebody on stage kicked a water bottle into the crowd. I’m not sure what was going on, but it looked like a case of whiny ass baby syndrome (wbs). Look, I know sometimes things go haywire, monitors go out, somebody heckles you. But I’m a performer, and I’ve been in some shitty situations, and I think that unless someone is physically threatening your life, you play the fucking show. Grow up. A lot of people came to see you play, and you repay them by throwing a temper tantrum. That’s what my 4 year old nephew Liam does when he has to go bed. I’m sure there’s more to the story, and if anyone knows, please tell me. As it stands, Machine Gun Blues really disappointed me. Unfortunately, wbs was spreading.
We aimlessly wandered through town until we were tireder n’ shit, and finally decided to grab dinner at the Fairplay hotel, where the bulk of the bands I wanted to see were playing. I ordered the fried chicken, because chicken is fucking good, and we talked about ghosts.

Pee Pee kicked off the Onion showcase, which conveniently took place at the hotel…in the dining room, which was not so convenient. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the managment that trying to serve dinner during a music festival is really annoying for waittresses that are barely tolerating all the ironic mustaches. Frontman Doo (don’t remember his last name) wore a plastic bag over his head for the first few songs, which looked cool but is extremely dangerous, and should only be attempted at high altitudes when drinking. Pee Pee was quite good, complete with a horn section. On the way home I happened to sit next to Doo in the shuttle, and he was a really nice, down to earth guy. Even after I told him I was going to start a rival band called Poo Poo and put out nothing but Pee Pee dis records.

After some blueberry pie was enjoyed by the local patrons, Monofog started to set up. Finally, dinner service was over and more room was made for the hipsters. I had been talking “the fog” up to friends all day, and I was pumping myself up for a good set. I’m not a music journalist (although I certainly would love a job being one, take not all potential employers) so I didn’t write down the set-list or anything, but I can pretty much some up the set in three simple words: FUCK YEAH MOTHERFUCKER! At first a couple of “tallies” were standing directly in our way up front, but they finally moved after they realized the rock was far too explosive for their tight, holy jeans. Ryan summed it up pretty good after one particularly sweet dancey-post-punk number: “Aaaawesome.” Dave (bass, beard) quickly burned himself into my memory, so that I would never again forget what band he was in, and Doug (guitar) looked really cool with his ski-mask down on the last tune. Hayley was scorching and dead on, and of course you know Lucas rocked it out. Lucas had a few problems with the rug he was using, as the drums kept sliding away from him, and Hayley had to hold the bass drum with her foot a few times. This ultimately culminated in an ancient, ritualistic rock move, as Lucas sprawled himself across the floor on the very last note, causing his drums to fall and crumble under the weight of this most sacred of moments. I first saw Monofog open for The Breeders back at the Starlight in Ft. Collins, and I can honestly say that they have grown leaps and bounds into one of Colorado’s best bands. Congratulations Monofog, on receiving Pirate Poetry’s prestigious award for “Best Rock Performance, South Park Music Fest 2006.”

We caught a few glimpses of Cowboy Curse, who played after the fog. I was really digging them, and not just because they have a girl drummer. I’ve heard some songs on 1190 before, and I liked them, but live they seemed to bring a whole new energy. Cowboy Curse was just one the bands I vowed to go see the next time I could.

We took a break from the hotel to see a couple of bands at the high school. They had made a few adjustments to the sound scheme, but it still pretty much blew. We got to the school as Love Me Destroyer was in its, oh, 12th minute. I mention the time, because it’s important. They were playing some metally shit, which I don’t really care for, considering that Destroyer is the lovechild of Denver punk pioneers Pinhead Circus. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long for it to end, because LMD got a bad case of WBS. That’s right, whiny bitch-ass syndrome. They played one song after we got there, and then left the stage, presumably due to the sound. You would think a band that started “punk,” and is now whatever they are, would have played in some shitty sounding places before. But that must have been before their balls were surgically removed by mom at the sweet 16 party. How many bands played full sets there, and were just happy to be a part of it? How many people went to see those bands, and rocked out depiste the fact that it didn’t sound very good? And you think you are somehow more important than them, more important than the kids who came out there to see you? Here’s some advice: You’re not Cat Power, and quitting on your fans like that is like quitting on a kid who has cancer — fucked up.

We joked around and milled about for the next 40 minutes waiting for another hyped set, Vaux. Ryan was really stoked to see these guys, and we were both hoping they would just blow the shit out of the sound. Our wait got exciting when one of the locals started shit with the Photo Atlas. At first, they just blew him off, but as more kids arrived in anticipation of Vaux, more of them started talking shit back to the cowboy. He was saying something about how it was his town, and yada yada yada. While I’m grateful that Fairplay was hosting this event, and I have nothing but respect for the locals for enduring the whole thing, somebody needs to tell this guy to get a life. Why were at the show if you hate it so much? Finally some big guys went over and basically told the guy to wank off, but it got my heart pounding for a while.

Vaux has had an interesting ride, including some huge major label support. I don’t really dig the whole hardcore scene, but Vaux sounded really good. They were the only band that I heard in that gym that actually sounded good, and they nailed it. While I’m sure the sounds would have been much better in a different venue, Vaux was still able to get down, and you could tell they were enjoying themselves. I’m sure they’ll be breaking it big soon, so be ready to hear me talking about that time “I saw them in a fucking high school.”

We mosied on back to the hotel to catch The Photo Atlas, but everyone else was ready to go, and considering the Atlas plays about a hundred times a week around here, we figured we’d just catch them another time. Looking back, I’m thinking I should have stayed, maybe they were all fired up from the threatening encounter. We hit the road, and the shuttle driver blasted out some Grateful Dead, the last music we would hear in Fairplay…at least until next year.

I could bore you with all the last details of the trip, but that would be boring, so I won’t bore you. Then you’d be all like “booooooring.” (can you tell I’m ready to be done writing this post????) The highlights of the last day included some damn good biscuits and gravy and some really tedious homework. As we drove down the mountain back to the city, there was a feeling of gratitude to the small town we had just encountered. Chef, with his delicious meals and rampant womanizing. And then there was the mad scientist that gave Tony four asses. And who could forget the child in the orange jacket, who kept dying horrific, terrifying deaths right in front of us. Yes, South Park was a whole hell of a lotta fun, and we look forward to freaking out some mountainfolk again next year. Thanks for the memories, Fairplay, see you next time…