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I Came, I Saw,
I Wondered Why I Bothered:
The CMJ Wrap Up
Back in August, I was looking
forward to the CMJ
Festival. In the past I'd borrowed a badge or glommed onto
a guest list and thoroughly enjoyed myself dancing, taking cabs,
pushing through crowds, mocking industry
types, and impersonating a member of New
Radiant Storm King. This year I'd have a pass and a
purpose and I'd actually know what the hell was going on. But
optimism faded with the passing of summer, the piecemeal arrival
of the schedule, and the realization this would be an exhausting
week, with lots of that blurring of work-leisure boundaries I've
grown to hate….
Rising bright and early (okay, sometime
during the second Jerry
Springer episode) Wednesday morning, my first editorial duty
was to interview The Afghan Whigs.
I hate doing interviews: beforehand, it's like dreading a science
test you haven't studied for; during, you feel like a chump; afterward,
the profound exhilaration of ending two days of constipation.
So I head down to the Bowery
Ballroom, where several kind gentlemen wave me in without
having any idea why I'm there, and stand in the half-lit, empty
room watching the soundcheck. The
band sounds great: horn section, backup singers, percussionist,
a whole wall of sound that they've clearly been building up and
sanding down for some time. Until Greg Dulli dropped his guitar,
and declared "We have to rearrange this
whole stage! This will never work!" The horns were having
some trouble getting on and off and, after about three minutes
of ranting ("We've got, like, five fucking
acres of space behind these speakers!") and a lot of men
in weightlifting belts putting on the patient face, a solution
was acheived. The Whigs continued with "66," my favorite song
off the new album
and a perfect single of ever there was one, so I sat on the steps,
lit up a Lucky Strike, and
enjoyed them playing it for me and me alone. I didn't even mind
when the manager told me the band had to go rest their fragile
selves, and agreed to delay the interrogation until tomorrow.
My next duty was treking uptown to pick up the badges and scope
the scene at the Millenium
Broadway Hotel, a venue more suited to a convention of 800
orthodontists than 8,000 musicans, managers, journalists, groupies,
flacks, flunkies, and the otherwise deluded. The first thing I
saw upon walking in were the lines--and
I don't mean the happy kind. Lines
down shiny marble halls and around brass-railed corners, lines
snaking through crowds, lines threaded
through velvet ropes, one line that
became three, two lines that became
one. Then there was the line that
kept us out of the 360 Schooly D
show, the line of about 400 people
trying to get into the closing Mixmaster
Mike/Rob
Swift DJ panel, the 20-minute line
just to pick up your bag o' freebies. (A lousy bunch of swag it
was, considering the wait--earplugs, a money clip, and three out
of 11 magazines had Marilyn Manson
on the cover. And let's not even discuss that Rolling
Stone with a big photo of Alanis
Morrisette working her version of the long, stringy
hair/neo-Indian/yoga thing on the outside and a pie graph of how
RS provides more "indie" readers than other magazines
inside.) More than any other year, the 1998 CMJ Festival was about
lines because, quite honestly, they
cannot accommodate 8,000 participants--but they're sure as hell
not gonna to turn down anyone's $300. And waiting on line
may be a nice way to socialize over a pre-entry cocktail during
early September (the usual CMJ time) but during a November
cold snap, it's profoundly unpleasant and potentially unhealthy.
After
catching a few acts at Coney Island High, we headed back over
to the Bowery where, naturally, they weren't accepting passes
anymore. So we beat it for Irving
Plaza to catch Man...Or Astroman?
Now, I've been talking this band up in a froth of giddy anticipation
after witnessing a fantastic, hilarious performance of the Astromen
a few months ago during the fabled "Clone
Tour." But as soon as they take the stage, it's immediately
clear that something is very, very wrong. Sure, these guys are
better-looking, but they ain't funny. In fact, they're kinda boring.
And must be told so. I proclaim "let's go
down front and start trouble," drag my companions downstairs,
and begin shouting "YOU SUCK!" All
they do is mumble something about Zoltar. "SHOW
US THIS ZOLTAR!!" Nothing. I mean, it's festive enough
space-age surf-rock, but Clone Band played it better--sloppier
and faster, but punkier and goofier. And their drummer was definitely
better. And the rountines.… Let me explain it this way: this Man...Or
Astroman? frontman did the flaming head gag by setting a small
fire to the top of his space helmet, doing a quick lap around
the stage, and running off. Now, the fellow in Clone Band tore
onstage with the blazing shell of a TV set atop his skull, scurried
around in circles for a good 20 seconds, yanked the flaming hunk
of plastic off, waved it in the air, and threatened to throw it
into the audience before stamping it out onstage. "WHERE'S
THE REAL BAND!!!" As has happened so many times in scientific
history, Man...Or Astroman? has given
birth to a superior race that will render them obsolete. Or
at least get them fired.
I
began to feel like I was hitting my obnoxiousness stride, like
last CMJ at the hipsters-packed-in-like-sardines
Dust Brothers
gig at The
Greatest Bar On Earth. I had dressed up as Sharon Stone in
"Casino,"
nearly got in a physical fight with some antagonistic fireplug
who must have been an off-duty cop, scooped up $20 he dropped,
mocked Twiggy Ramirez,
and went around demanding "Show me this
Beck!" (Kerry
Burke finally showed me the Beck.
He's about three feet tall.)
So
we head for what was left of Atari Teenage
Alec Empire Digital Hardcore night. DHC
live shows have been described as aurally painful--while I wouldn't
go that far, it's the kind of music that you're more excited to
walk into a place it's blaring out of than actually be there.
But the techno-punk beats were in full effect and that Atari
Riot girl was shrieking away while Alec Empire kept piling
more noise on the barbecue. Despite the excess of wincing in the
audience, I was rather enjoying the cacophony, until some demented
little rave child flailed backward and knocked me off my 3-inch
heels. I
got up, my friend looked at me, shrieked "What
happened to your face!?" and I fled to the bathroom
to discovered that I'd scraped it against the stage (though I
was relieved to have drawn
blood somewhere sanitary like CBGB's).
For the rest of the fest I sported a two-inch scar on my right
cheek that made me look like a good bet in a bar fight.
I set out to accomplish the aborted Whigs interview next morning
at some under-construction boutique hotel on Lexington Avenue
(some of the hard hats outside hung a boom box blaring The
Vandellas from the scaffolding). Inside: soothing new-age
colors, Japanese calligraphy, and art
books in the lobby. When I finally found the tastefully concealed
house phone, a very pleasant woman told me that the band had checked
out about ten minutes earlier. After being stood up twice, all
I could do was go across the street and buy myself a very frivolous
sweater and three packs of cigarettes before strolling down to
the Virgin
Megastore to catch PJ Harvey.
Of
course it was crowded well before
showtime and catching a glimpse of the dimutive Miss
Harvey necessitated a lot of neck craning and othoopedically
unsound leaning. The set was primarily drawn from her new album,
"Is
This Desire?" and the previous "To
Bring You My Love"--a low-key, daylight-appropriate show.
It didn't lack in intensity, which Harvey obviously has in spades
even when it's hard to see her, but she only seemed to cut loose
and get loud once she put down her guitar and picked up the maracas
for "Meet Ze Monsta." The strongest moment was her hushed
rendition of "Is This Desire?" with an a capella opening--if
it can raise goosebumps in a megastore, it's gotta be good.
Another
powerful but subtle afternoon show came the next day when Chcocolate
Genius played the Hudson Theater in the hotel (as part
of "college day"). It was low-key set, just Marc Anthony
Thompson (aka Mr. Chocolate
Genius), looking like he'd rolled out of bed a half-hour earlier,
and sideman extraordinaire Marc
Ribot. The two-guitar format was a bit limiting, and the songs
accordingly slow and minimal--even admitting that "we're
pushing two chords way past where they should go."
But Anthony has the voice, charisma, and a wise sense of humor,
asking the audience "What does CMJ
stand for, anyway?" As the crowd
fumbled for a witty response, he answered: "Can't
make a job," thus rendering downcast a dozen 'zine
editors in one fell swoop.
With a full band (and especially a rhythm section) to put back
behindhis solid songs, he must be truly something.
After
a too-brief cruise by the Asian
Dub Foundation show at the Westbeth
that evening--which you couldn't help but move to no matter how
beat you might be--we stopped by the Interscope party at the Bowlmor
Lanes. Now, I
went to this party last year, before the Bowlmor got it's ironic
little facelift
and
the day-glo bowling balls. It was packed
beyond belief and, as they say, off the hook. People were
running around smashed and barefoot. The bathrooms were full of
smoke. We go-go danced on the ball returns and ran down the alleys,
kicking over the pins. The bartenders were so harried that one
of them misheard my "bourbon and ginger
ale" as "bourbon and gin"
and handed me an entire morning of projectile
vomiting in a single glass. (No, I didn't drink it.) No such thing
this year: despite the de rigeur line
halfway down the block, the place wasn't the least bit crowded.
Everyone bowled according to the rules in regulation footgear
and only the beer--and only Rolling Rock--was free. But
CMJ on the whole lacked
the party atmosphere it had in the past: everyone seemed a little
too frantic getting here, going there, shaking hands and taking
names to actually have the proverbial funky good time.
Drawn by the deafening buzz,
we decided to check out Sarge
at Coney
Island High, a bunch of kids who just plain rock, for lack
of a better description. Kerry described the lead singer as "the
sophomore next door"--she looked like her, addressed
her topics, and sang with the sort of gritty-edged trill all teen
girls aspire to. We kicked over to the Black
Eyed Peas/Jungle
Brothers swiftly as soon as possible, but an hour after
the doors opened, no more badges were being accepted. (Overheard
on line:
"Yo,
what's CMJ?" "I dunno, some party they had here last
night.")
The DJ and hip-hop events definitely spawned the longest
lines, especially since there was only one each night--a few more
might alleviate some frustration. Likewise questionable was scheduling
three-quarters of the RPM acts on the same night. There were also
rumors of Giant
Step's semi-hostile takeover of the three biggest shows
(for example, the opening night party at the Roxy
was originally supposed to be largely an Asphodel
gig), which may have added to the scheduling problems and general
animosity.
But all was not lost, as we headed back eastward to Brownies
(where, apparently, "one of New York's most
prominent lawyers just got busted for smoking pot outside")
to see The Interpreters. Recently
signed by RCA, the lads didn't disappoint, leaping and flailing,
thrashing out two-minute mod-punk anthems: the album is good,
but the songs are faster and edgier live, making for one of the
best shows of the whole festival. Their frontman is a spastic
kid who can barely keep his bass on and himself from flying off
the stage--fortunately he's small enough that the audience can
keep tossing him back up there.
The best part was when he latched onto some large power cord hanging
from the ceiling: all the club's electricity must run through
it, because two huge bouncers materialized and attempted to tear
him loose. The kid's half their size, and it still takes two of
them to pry his fingers off one by one--and he's still playing
bass with his free hand. It was hilarious. And none of the shrieking
girls pressed up against the stage seemed to mind that the
lads "weren't as cute as the picture
on their CD." Then again, there was something of a
boy blight all week, and the guitarist was the first thing to
provoke so much as a hair toss and eye roll out of me thus far,
so….
We
made our final jaunt cross town to the Cooler
to see the garage rock extravaganza bill of ?
and the Mysterians and Thee
Headcoats. The Mysterians
played all their versisons of "96 Tears"--we watched
a bit and then adjourned upstairs to Baktun
for a beer. The two venues should really keep their connecting
doors open all the time, since the Cooler can be a madhouse and
Baktun can get a bit dull. Thee
Headcoats are one of the best live bands I've ever seen, kicking
garage, punk, and blues into an irresistable mix. A lot of their
fellow rowdy Brits seemed to be in the house, amplifying the compulsion
to scream, holler, and bob your head, but I finally had to go.
When the Cooler is packed, it's suffocating,
especially when you've got two sweaters on and have forgotten
to eat for several days. So I conclued my music marathon experience
at Lucy's
and, damn, did that jukebox play a good set.
Bottom
line on CMJ is
"why?"
The same moan we moan every year: what is the point when the only
bands that get good dates and good promotion are high-profile
acts? No longer a way for audiences and labels to hear brand new
bands, now the music marathon is merely a means for the conglomerates
to showcase their product for radio and promo flacks. No one gets
discovered, no one gets signed at CMJ--no
one has in years, which may have something to do with the process
by which the bands are scheduled.
As
I understand it, labels can purchase showcase nights to load up
with their acts. The bigger the label, the better the venue, which
is why majors get the Bowery
Ballroom and minors get the Lion's
Den. Bands who aren't taken care of by a label are at the
mercy of the club owners, who pick and choose what they want from
the remaining acts. The artists who are left land wherever they
fall, which is why a trip-hop outfit will wind up playing with
a folksinger, a biker band, and a spoken-word act (one musician
lamented that their drummer passed up a trip to L.A. to work on
the new Tricky/Canibus
collaboration to appear on a similarly useless bill).
And it's not just the bands who may be feeling ripped off. Any
show that's got any names at all fills up immediately: you kick
down $300 for a pass, and now the doorman says it won't get you
in unless you pay another $15--and, no, that doesn't save you
standing on line. Some
venues were accepting as few as 20 badges per show. But what's
to be done about it? As long as industry types need a carrot dangled
before them, this glorified elks meeting will roll along, sucking
up dollars and spitting out the indie rock. The sad thing is that
I'll probably keep going and so will you....
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