except with even more percussion. I''ve raved about them before - they've really gotten me to go beyond appreciating salsa to outright loving it. Maybe because they've just so intense. Anyway, it was before the big heat wave came in, so I didn't really call it summer until the weekend.
That weekend started off with, as us cheeseheads know, a blistering hot Friday and I'm proud to say we never hit the air conditioner's "on" switch. Not even after an hour and a half midday at Beulah Brinton, watching Sammy practice with his team (they settled on "Angry Birds" as their name) in the sun. Not even after a two hour bike ride, one hour of which was spent going uphill and against the wind. Not even after attending the high school graduation party for Madison-bound Francis Klein, a kid I've known since visiting him and his mom in the hospital hours after he was born. Not even after the Locust Street festiva where, contrary to my usual behavior, I did not get a chance to see a lot of new bands. It was stinkin' hot out and after all that, I went ahead and declared it summer.
And like the changing of the seasons, there are things you can count on like clockwork, case in point: Sigmund Snopek at the Klinger's East stage, moving from songs about pizza and baseball to I Am The Walrus. It's comforting to see him there, every year, being clever on the keyboards. That whole stage is pretty much a baseline for confirming that all is well and good with the world. Next band up was the Extra Crispy Brass Band, a pile of Riverwesterners culled from a variety of groups I've seen around (including the nu-Caberet of Eat the Mystery, a Morphine/Mark Sandman tribute band, and others) that gave that part of Locust Street a joyful, Nawlins flair. They were the kind of band you'd want to march down the street at your funeral. The were followed by perennail Locust Street bluesman Matt Hendricks, who wailed it out as usual, accompanied by these two girls who spent the festival roaming around and dancing with hula hoops. Brother Louie wrapped up the stage's day, and we could hear him in the distance as we headed to the Circle A, wondering, "What the hell song was that" more than a few times before we recognized Peter Gabriel, Creedence Clearwater, the Ramones, and anything else Brother Louie's kitchen sinkful of set lists coughs up.
This sounds like we planted ourselves in front of Klinger's all afternoon, which we did not. (BTW, they've got their chicken wing recipe back on track. They were perfect with a crunchy, flavorful crust and cooked perfectly, not too greasy, not at all dry, a huge improvement from last year's misstep.). We floated over to the Riverwest Public House's stage, to catch the buzz band of the day, Magnetic Minds, a two piece (bass and drums) that brought to mind Helmet, what with the syncopated, tight rhythms never letting up on intensity. They held me for about fifteen minutes where I was mesmerized, and then I moved on because it just didn't let up. That's the kind of thing I like in an indoor club at night; it seemed out of place at a warmed over hippie festival. Nevertheless, they were damn good and lived up to their buzz. We also popped into Linnemans to see a young pop band call Faux Fir, who seem to be part of a wave of young bands i'm seeing that have clearly listened to a lot of the Replacements and other 80s pop punk bands with an intelligently wasted bent. It was also a good afternoon for cover bands: as we walked west I told Sammy: " We're going to go see one of the best drummers in town cover one of the greatest drummers ever," (and he replied, "Buddy Rich?"). The nice thing about Substitute is that they dig deep into the Who's catalog, and they know it all so well that they can respond to a song request that wasn't on the set list (in this case, "Bargain") without skipping a beat. Across the street from them Lovanova put in a great, instrumental proggy set of (and I know this is a contradiction in terms) hard-driving loungy rock.
that off-street party was in the backyard of drummer Dave Somerscales' old place. I *do* remember that my kids weren't the only younguns there, and now, here are these teenagers, with haircolors that don't occur in nature, a lead singer who seems to be double jointed in every joint rocking out the Circle A. Good, tight, loud and obnoxious speedpunk. I get the warm fuzzies just remembering this. Offstage, nice guys too -- and there's a lot to be said for having that much class already. Sammy, not one to miss an opportunity, again asked Somescales if he could have some time on the kit, and this proud mama spent that between set time snapping pictures of her budding Buddy Rich, while people who don't know me asked me incredulously, "Is that your kid?" OK, he's not ready to sit in with a band yet, but he did impress a few folks with his enthusiasm and beginner's chops.
Floor Model, like Snopek, was comfortably excellent, as I've come to depend on them, especially after an election week like us 'Sconnies had. As I'd tweeted, I needed some snotty left-wing punk and, well, thank God for Floor Model. Every time, they're like this salve I can put on my political wounds -- not all their songs are directly political, but they explore the cultural reasons we're in the jam we're in and hearing them and their fans reminds me I'm not alone.