I lost the sound on Oakley, two blocks from home, so it traveled a full mile with me. Towards the end, I could only hear pockets, passing a straight away alley or a tall building, it would richochet, voice tripling over 11-second-old beats and a command of squeak: "ESS-OOH-VEE". I passed a shop on Fulton, it's a glass recycling foundry kind of place, dudes were on break, and I wonder, do they wonder what the alien din is? Or do they know about grime musik? It became another music against the industrialside that lay between the Intonation and my casa, it was the ghost of Lady Sov.
Of today: Ghostface did show, two missed flights but did show, wrapped in towel, saying our cities name. I was a city block away, pilfering fried cheese curds from Tommy's paper basket and then a game a telephone broke out, each person relaying down the curb we were eating on.
The whole posse is on stage.
There's like 16 people on stage.
Starks has 30 people on stage.
Thats not his posse, that's all the American Apparel hoochies.
Dude, there is like 1000 people on stage.
We walked slow, toward Tony Starks, who did four or six songs, an ODB tribute with tender dedication. Tommy said "Are you allowed to do that?" and Philip, possibly serious said "People dedicate things to dead people all the time. Hospital wings, libraries. It's tradition." We got as far as the sound booth, and from then out, he just big-upped the White Sox, got grinded on by the approximately 45 or 60 women on stage, and told them, and us "Make your booty bounce to get your pussy wet." I asked Liz if that happens to her when she dances. She says "Yeah. When I am dancing and thinking "jeez, I look hot." Sure." Miles said that does not happen to him.
Erase Errata were the Minutemen of now. Great and singing the questions on everyones minds. Their album is v. post-Guantanemo, very now-conciousness. You must see them and hear what they are doing.
Seeing Roky Erickson made me think he should of been playing at Kingston Mines. Blues choogle done choogled. Boredoms only had a 40 minute set, so they played two songs, phenomenal. I was totally high from eating a whole funnel cake, and covered in powdered sugar. The guy from High on Fire was missing a tooth, was shirtless, bikery and had his entire side covered in a half finished rabid wolf head tattoo, all the girls I was with professed that he was their new crush. "I saw a picture of him once, passed out, holding his dick. He's from Oakland," said one. A missing tooth=a dude that will give you an adventure. They were so loud we all had to lay out on the grass under a far away tree and eat more snacks swiped from catering, chew lemonade straws, ponder passing asses, outfits, tattoos and drunkeness of hipsters and hip frauds and talk long about why no girls are in bands anymore. It was a fine time.Posted by Jessica at June 24, 2006 10:19 PM | TrackBack