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CONCERT REVIEW: What I Learned at Sasquatch 2012
I didn't shave my armpits for four days, washed my hair in a large cooking pot, ate only almonds and dried fruits for breakfast, lunch and dinner and waited in line for a bag of ice for over an hour. At one point this weekend, a teetering man standing behind me in the Port-O-Potty line almost projectile vomited over my shoulder.
CONCERT REVIEW: What I Learned at Sasquatch 2012
You know that Soul II Soul song that goes “Back 2 life, back 2 reality”? That’s how I feel right now. After four straight days of dirt-camping, ray-catching, music-listening and vodka-and-Red-Bull-drinking it’s time to wave the white flag on this rock star lifestyle and go back to my part-time job as a receptionist at a doctor’s office, but before that I’d like to let y’all in on a few little secrets: I didn’t shave my armpits for four days, washed my hair in a large cooking pot, ate only almonds and dried fruits for breakfast, lunch and dinner and waited in line for a bag of ice for over an hour. At one point this weekend, a teetering man standing behind me in the Port-O-Potty line almost projectile vomited over my shoulder. But despite all of this, my weekend at Sasquatch was the probably best weekend of my life. I learned a lot, I listened a lot and I took a lot of pictures. Let me explain:
First, my travels started after a three-hour nights’ sleep. The girls I went with ate the entire weekend’s ration of beef jerky before they picked me up. One admitted she didn’t like guitars. Things I learned on the way to Sasquatch (May 25-28): groceries make OK pillows, cigarettes cost $9 at back country Washington gas stations and that my copilot likes the Eagles fight song enough to put it on three different mix CDs (could be the lack of guitar).
Seven hours after we left Portland we were in. We made it to George, Washington and after a quick tiff with a 14-year-old parking guard who thought it was funny to tell us that our camping pass wasn’t valid, we staked out a space and set up camp in between two groups of friendly Canadians. It was around 11 p.m. and we were exhausted. We went to bed, three of us in one tent, to the sounds of an overbearing Red Bull promotional truck blasting dub step and a DJ repeating the words “all you beautiful Sasquatch people.” Tomorrow is a new day, we collectively decided, and a fresh start.
Things I learned while walking into Sasquatch: If you’re planning on bringing your anti-anxiety meds into the venue you better have a valid form of photo ID. You can trick out binoculars to make a double flask but you can’t use a plastic Easter egg to hide your weed. And you need to finish your Five Hour Energy(s) before you enter the gate.
Once I was fully patted down, carded for my Klonopin and amped up on energy shots, I felt that there was something I needed to address. “Outdoor music festivals are just an excuse to dress like a total asshole,” I announced to a friend who was wearing a plain grey t-shirt and Ray Bans. He agreed, and then let me know that he usually dresses like an asshole but used this weekend as an excuse not to. After he stopped talking, some grown men dressed as Muppet Babies walked by. Other fashion highlights of the weekend included: feathered Native American headdresses paired with skin-tight dresses, hollowed-out stuffed animals made into hats, and a man in a full bunny suit having what looked like a pretty serious conversation with a woman dressed as a purple unicorn. I was honored to stand shoulder to shoulder with these fantasy creatures to catch the tail end of the Seattle’s Beat Connection and the pretty light show set up for “Silver Screen.”
And then there was Annie Clark, or St. Vincent. The Berkeley graduate and ex-Polyphonic Spree-er can wail, and I’ve never said “wail” seriously before. She jerked around the stage looking like a Tim Burton character dressed in all black with black snakes for hair, pale face and dark red lipstick. She was electric on guitar, sparking Jimmy Page comparisons. She dedicated “Year Of The Tiger” off 2011’s Strange Mercy to her mother, who helped her co-write the song.
And I’m not just saying this because I’m talking to you, Philly, but The Roots put on the best show of the festival, hands down. From the shout-out to MCA and related “Licensed To Ill” performance to Hendrixesque guitar player Captain Kirk who helped the out on the “Sweet Child O’ Mine” / “Bad To The Bone” mash up, the energy on stage and in the audience was unreal, impossible, but happening. “I dare you to play one more song!” an audience guy taunted kind of quietly, “I bet I know what it is!” And then they played “Seed 2.0,” but there was no relation.
Sunday was like a dream, even while it was happening, due to lack of sleep and general… dreaminess. Zola Jesus played to a small audience on the Yeti Stage and, despite an amp blowout that practically turned off her ghoulishly powerful voice for half a song, was able to carry out her performance with the style and class that makes her what she is, a petite and unassuming girl with bleach blond hair, stark white outfits and the voice of a 200-pound opera singer.
Beirut was absolutely epic, as was Jack White, Blind Pilot and most of the other acts worthy of main stage status. But the thing about Beirut, and what set the Santa Fe act apart from the others, was the timing. The main stage is set up directly in front of the best view of The Gorge, and by mid-set its long, thick waterway and textured, clay-colored walls were lit up by the sunset behind. Beirut’s enormous big brass sound, its horns on horns on horns and Zachary Condon’s fantasy-driven vocals worked to push this moment into the depths of my memory where it will marinate and get better with age so that by the time I try to recall it to my grandkids there will have been doves and shit flying out of The Gorge. What I won’t relay to them is the Bon Iver set, which I fell asleep watching.
I’ll leave you with a few more things I learned during my time at Sasquatch: You should rely more on your Costco-sized container of Wet Naps than any chance of getting a shower. You can (and will) become immune to Five Hour Energy if you drink 25 hours’ worth in a day. If you act like you’ve done it before you’re more likely to get backstage. And you might forget about how dirty, itchy, hungry and hungover you were all weekend but you won’t forget what you saw and heard, and that’s why my weekend at Sasquatch was probably the best weekend of my life.
- Activism
- Arts
- Arts Events
- Books
- Dance
- First Person Fest
- Last Chance
- Museum
- On the Fringe
- Philly Artists
- The Curator
- Theater
- Visual Art
- Arts News
- Artist Profile
- Arts Preview
- Street Art
- Been There, Done That
- Big Ups
- Comedy
- LOL With It
- Stand-up
- Critical Mass
- DVD
- Events
- Friday Fill-in
- Ice Cubes
- In Memoriam
- Interview
- Just Do It
- Just Opened
- Kaleidoscopic
- LGBTQ
- Art Phag
- Mailbag
- Movies
- Film Fest
- Movie Review
- On set
- Scenester
- screening
- trailer!
- Music
- 10 Track Mind
- Album
- Album Review
- Concert Review
- DJs
- Local Support
- Now Hear This
- One Track Mind
- Philly Bands
- Show
- Somebody Else Was There
- Song
- The Showdown
- concert photos
- jazz
- DJ Nights Blogged
- Night Watch
- Now See This
- Poetic License
- Printed Matter
- Radio
- Shopping
- Coveted
- Fashion
- What We Heart
- TV
- 24
- Idol Hands
- Mad Men
- ProjRun
- True Blood
- Useless Lost Recaps
- Couch Potato
- Shore Trash
- Turned ONN
- TopMod
- Video Games
- Free Online Game
- PSP
- PlayStation 2
- The 1-Upper
- Wii
- Web Junk
- CAGE MATCH
- Free Online Toy
- Weekend Omnibus
- Win
