mission freak!

So we made it.  We can trot out all of those clichés about dust and smoke settling, because, let’s be frank, we’re all really fuckin’ tired.  Many Mission Creekers took advantage of this concert-free day to sleep till noon, or later.  Last night, however, smoke and dirt were flying everywhere, and I find myself a humbled skeptic.

Ben Marcus: The Mill:

Damn, writers aren’t the prima donnas many think they are, these guys get right into things.  Normally when a band or event is scheduled in an Iowa City bar, it’s understood that things will get started one hour after doors open.  However, these uppity writers shirked tradition yesterday afternoon.  So while I finished up my post for Friday’s festivities, dudes started reading.  I mean seriously, have you scribes no sense of decorum?

Under normal circumstances, I should have been able to finish my post, get a cup of Joe, walk to the Mill, and make it halfway into Mark Leidner’s reading, but noooo.  I walked in to hear the afternoon’s MC introducing the Chair of Columbia’s MFA Writing program, the headliner: Ben Marcus.

Marcus was a delight.  As one would assume, if one knows his work, he was thought provoking and challenging.  He first read from an interview conducted with a 71-year-old child who spoke at great length about the problems with maturity.  It was the most enjoyable defense of the Peter Pan syndrome I’ve encountered.

He followed that up with an excerpt from his wonderful short story “A Failure of Concern” (it’s in this year’s January edition of Harper’s).  This was the first of many esoteric performances that left a portion of the room in smiles and the other with furrowed brows…I almost got used to it by the end of the night.

Caleb Engstrom: The Black Box (IMU):

For some reason, in all my time immersed in Iowa City’s music scene, Caleb and I had never clicked.  Maybe I had been too drunk or not drunk enough, or maybe I just had a stick up my ass.  Last night, with a full band in tow, Engstrom’s sweet songs struck a chord, apparently removing said stick from said ass.

Maybe it was his calm and easy demeanor, maybe it was his almost effortless, bittersweet songs, and maybe, just maybe it was the bottles of bubbles and glow sticks.  (I’ve learned this weekend that I’m a sucker for a good spectacle.)  Ultimately though, Caleb and company powered through the kinds of technical difficulties one would expect from the first major event at a new venue (lighting and sound being the primary sticking points) and put on a splendid show.

Samuel Locke-Ward: The Black Box:

You wanna know ’bout some technical difficulties?  Well imagine the potential headache of getting 11 musicians wired for sound, and this, as mentioned before, is the first major event at The Black Box Theater.  Sam brought in a small army consisting of 3 horns, 2 drummers, keyboards, electric guitar, banjo, upright bass, auxiliary percussion, and Locke-Ward himself on rhythm guitar and vocals. 

On top of that, Sam is a dynamic performer, and I don’t just mean the flailing and cross-eyed looks to the audience, I mean, dude gets really, really loud.  So with over 20 mics on the stage, we’re talking feedback heaven, and Sam is up there bellowing and barking in his mic, the poor guys from Murphy Sound couldn’t do much to keep it from cutting out on occasion.

Looking at the faces of my fellow audience members, I’m pretty sure I’m in the minority opinion here, but Sam’s big band experiment easily sits among the top five shows of the whole darn festival.  And buzz ’round town has it that this was a one-time thing, so for those of you standing there puzzled or angry, be thankful it’s only once, but for those of you who missed it, damn, sucks for you.

Bon Iver: The Black Box:

Not that I was skeptical of Bon Iver’s quality, far from it (”Skinny Love” and Wolves Act I and II” are both getting high play counts on iTunes), but after the frontal assault of Sam Locke-Ward’s big band, I couldn’t imagine sitting on the concrete and pretending to be captivated by some rambling troubadour.

But when singer/songwriter/guitarist Justin Vernon launched into the first song and I put down my camera to listen, I was hooked.  And after the one-two punch of my favorite (aforementioned) tracks, it was an arduous task to tear myself away as he announced the closing song of the set, but there were other shows and other obligations…

Porno Galactica vs. ZAP!Rowsdower: The Picador:

This duo from Fairfield, Iowa changed a lot of minds about the quality of anything that can come out of that hotbed of Transcendental Meditation.  While it wasn’t much of a duel as the vs. implies, more of a collaboration, there was plenty of friction…on the dance floor.

I don’t admit my lack of knowledge very often, but these boys from Fairfield laid it on me hard.  I got schooled. I’m the first to note my deficiency in electronic music, I can’t name drop shit (I mean, Girl Talk and Daft Punk don’t get you very far), so I don’t know who or what influenced these guys, but it has to be awesome.  You’d better hope those boys in Flyentology bring PG vs ZR back, and soon.

The Bird Names: The Picador:

The Bird Names was a late addition to what was, already, one of the most disjunctive bills on the whole fest (dance, indie-pop, and whatever you want to call Foul Tip).  The foursome deal in quirky, jumpy pop (think a little poppier Animal Collective), and put on a show about as quirky and jumpy. 

Relying on psych-folk mainstays, like instrument jumping, heavy bleeping, blopping synthesizers and facial hair (for two of the members), The Bird Names took a little while to break out of a derivative mold.  But by the close of their set, doused in sweat, full of PBR, and wide-eyed with their wonderful harmonies, I was ready to surrender to particular wiles.

Dan Deacon: The Picador:

Ok, Andre, ok.  I give on this one. 

I’ve been at odds with Mission Creek Founder Andre Perry on a couple bands (The Walkmen and Mit’n), and walked into the Picador last night ready to, once again, give him the benefit of the doubt on Dan Deacon.  I generally approach phenomenons like Mr. Deacon with a strong dose of dismissive cynicism. 

However, as you may remember, I did have a belly full of beer and the knowledge that one thing stood between me and the conclusion to a very successful fest: Dan Deacon.  So I might as well enjoy it.  I didn’t want to go down with a frown.

Before I realized what was going on, the bulk of the audience was amassed around a small circle just in front of the stage and the almost iconic green skull was hoisted up.  So I ventured forth, pitcher in hand, to see what was the big deal.

Now, I hate to claim it was something as base as alcohol or mob mentality (because there is certainly no better word for that group of people than mob), because it wasn’t.  I mean, you can’t deny the appeal of the plentiful communal spirit, but I wasn’t just trying to fit in.  Neither can say beer has done “worse” things, because I’ve found myself apathetic or even utterly embittered during some awfully good bands after one too many drinks. 

I think it comes down to this: there are no excuses, it was an enjoyable spectacle to be a part of.  I don’t know if I’ll get a record, or if I’ll enjoy the music minus the show, but this was the a wonderfully sweaty, crowd-involving end to a wonderfully sweaty, crowd-involving festival.

See you next year.