Sept. 11--Riot Fest veterans could be forgiven for thinking "Oh no, not again," as the skies opened up at noon and rain bucketed down for about 30 minutes. The crowd waiting to get in after an unexplained delay (gates were suposed to open at 11 a.m.), was good-humored, if also sodden.
Douglas Park felt a lot like Humboldt as your boot-clad feet sunk into the mud, helped a bit by nice, long grasses that soaked up water and staved off a quagmire. And there was music to be had.
12:51 p.m.: The Coathangers kicked off the fest, embodying much of what is wrong with punk these days. This trio played what was essentially the same song, a '90s-feeling, benign, moderately high energy thud. Three chords are cool, as long as the other stuff rips. It didn't, the shrieks and howls of Stephanie Luke notwithstanding. People cheered, but truly, this band was terrible.
1:15 p.m.: Death, where is thy sting? A slow opener for these punk pioneers from Detroit, who ply a fascinating blend of blues, punk and r There is rhythm to go along with the skirl, but you have to remind yourself that when this band was shredding convention, there was nobody doing this. Folks didn't like it then, but bands such as Bad Brains and Living Colour laid the groundwork for the return of these pioneers. But time hasn't been kind to Death or its sound, which now strikes the ear as dated. A smallish crowd took in syncopated ditties such as "Rock and Roll Victim," that made eloquent cases for the notion of a band overstaying its welcome, even if Death never really got a proper one. And finally, with "Freakin' Out," came the power. That nasty guitar jangle, fogging with the rest of the band as it became one giant percussion instrument, and Death was off and running. "You're A Prisoner" came off like a collision of Prince and Motorhead. Maybe old dudes just need more time to warm up.
2 p.m.: Fishbone. That drumming! This band blew onto the scene with an incendiary rock/punk/ska blend that, like predecessors such as Death, demonstrated the frenetic melting pot that informed bands before everything got all genred up. But at the core of it was funk, and nothing has changed in 2015. And at the core of funk is a majestic drummer. John Steward isn't up to the massive, back-facing glory of "Fish" Fisher, but he's still one of the best stickmen in the genre. Fishbone will start off almost gospel-tinged, slam on the brakes and hurl itself into the most frenetic punk. Steward held it all down (with precious little help from the bassist). Angelo Moore is still present, still full of energy and still acting as a vocal agent provocateur. The bummer was that, as Fishbone is wont to do, the tunes got a little jam bandy. Fishbone is best with the pedal jammed to the floorboard.
2:45 p.m.: In Living Colour is magic. When you wonder how in the heck a veteran band keeps on keepin' on, in the face of changing times and tastes, the answer is easy: kick people in the face. It's still Reid, Glover, Calhoun and Wimbish. And Vernon Reid is still one of the best guitarists you will ever have the pleasure to hear. But none of that is why this will almost certainly be one of the sets of the day. It's because live rock is supposed to be a show, ambituous, wild and verging on bonkers. It isn't the latest music, played really loud. It's interplay, ambition and failure. It's Glover, standing in the crowd, looking at Reid doing the impossible with the same awed expression as any fan. It's a bass player goofing off and falling over, but not missing a note as the lead vocalist props him up. It's a show. This band has aged gracefully, sliding ever closer to funk-based metal as time passes, and has gained power with that sonic elder statesman status. Reid's power chords have heft, his borderline academic status allowing him and his band to transcend that "legacy rock" stuff. My heavens, what a set.
