Crow’s Nest 39: 090422
Leisuretime Labor Before Labor Day Leisure
What’s up,
Welcome to issue #39 of Crow’s Nest. I’m sure you know the deal about how much I appreciate you opening up this newsletter and reading it, but it bears repeating: thank you for doing so.
RIP jamie branch
Housekeeping note: this is likely the only Crow’s Nest issue this month. September is looking pretty active for me concerts and socializing-wise, work has been tough recently which impacts my ability to take pleasure in music and other lesiuretime pursuits, and I’m dealing with with a bunch of externally-imposed bullshit I’d really rather not have to deal with ever but especially now, including the demise of the right headphone of the Sony MDR-7506s I usually take into the office. I’ll try to share the really good stuff on Twitter @embirdened but bear with with me as irl life takes precedent for a bit.
Recommendations on new higher-end headphones—switch to the ATX-M50x? Or something else instead?—and what to eat, drink, and do in Philadelphia are appreciated:
Inaugural editions of music festivals are notoriously rough. No matter how much experience and expertise the organizers bring to the table, interest and attendance can be huge misestimations, planning and setup may not work out in your favor, and even if all goes off with only minor hitches the money you likely lost on your first try does not guarantee a second chance. Like any first date, things just may not click and the whole thing bombs. I recall Pitchfork’s inaugural Midwinter 3-day event at the Art Institute, which was conceptually cool but a mess in execution; as one point, even considering steep ticket prices in general, I cannot recall any other occasion where everyone posting event photos felt obligated to note the cost of attendance and the tickets within the tickets setup for that. Sacred Rose Festival, occurring on the grounds of SeatGeek Stadium in suburban Bridgeview, IL, was not issue free—even putting aside the bizarre issue where the venue’s POS erroneously charged attendees thousands more than expected, the festival subreddit was full of complaints about bad experiences. Some of that could be chalked up to Sunday weather cancellations, but other not so pleasant first-time experiences were present.
(Pro tip: if you want to have a good time at a music festival, never check out the festival subreddit during/after the event—and, generally, avoid Reddit all the time. You’re upset security confiscated your weed? And you write as though you had it right out in the open in your bag? Come on.)
Admittedly, my opinion is influenced by the fact that I received a pair of free 3-day passes through Do312 More. If I spent closer to $1,000 if not more attending all 3 days for a full vacation weekend/trip instead of the $100 or so I did for 1 day off, I’d likely be much more upset about what happened. And my credit card statement matches my expenses, unlike my Coachella hotel room from earlier this year. I do feel a bit of leeway for Sacred Rose’s inaugural iteration is merited. It remains to be seen whether the jam band-centric festival will return next year, but the job they did is, in my opinion, admirable for a first-time, largely independent operation.
I’ve driven past SeatGeek Stadium dozens of times going to and from family events when I lived in the suburbs, but never had a reason to venture onto the grounds until the Friday of the fest. Without a car getting there and back is definitely a schlep, though the shuttle from the lower West Loop was convenient enough, even if mine had insufficient A/C and I was coated in sweat by the time I stepped off. The majority of the fest took place on artificial turf fields next to the Stadium—the grounds were custom built for the Chicago Fire, but local soccer fans have flexed their muscles and games have moved to Soldier Field—which was better than the full-on parking lot setup I was expecting. Sacred Rose didn’t sell out but attendance seemed healthy, and the only time it felt crowded was navigating out from the (covered) Canopy stage after the first Phil Lesh and Friends set, mostly due to other attendees’ blankets and camping chairs. Straight-line navigation between stages and festival areas was moderately circuitous but nothing like, say, III Points’s setup. Cell service was never a concern. I’m sure 3 days of attending would have been taxing even absent Sunday’s storm disruptions—I only went on Friday, and the fest is the Chicago area’s only one to run to midnight on Friday and Saturday, so even if you drove leaving was probably taxing—but depending on next year’s lineup I may be returning.
I have to commend the Sacred Rose team for their commitment to transparency in ticket pricing, scheduling and a receptiveness to fan feedback (at least up until Sunday): a demand from fan attendees to bring in their own granola was heeded (at least for 1 prepackaged bar), and some last minute schedule changes after the first day not related to Black Pumas dropping out was done to minimize sound bleed. It could feel a bit twitchy, but one got the sense the organizers did so to make the fest the best they could for attendees. They know what they’re about, who they’re after (Deadheads and other people who go to music festivals to smoke weed and chill), and a dedication to doing the best they can. Given their debut, I look forward to seeing what next year brings (as a starting point, hopefully a better festival layout).
The first act I caught was Texas rock group White Denim, who’ve been on my periphery for about a decade at this point. They were at their best when the frontman and lead guitarist locked into good-natured, Minutemen-esque guitar duels; were I not pacing myself on the cannabis I might call those moments face-melting. Afterwards I popped into the laser dome installation/stage to get off my feet and chill, placating my Twitter addiction while taking in DJ sets of slap bass-heavy tech-funk and, later, interstellar remixes of classic rock. Not 100% my cup of tea but solid enough ways to pass schedule breaks. (Other installation/lounge spaces were present but mostly seemed to be there as Instagram set pieces. Influencers 🙄)
Yves Tumor and their indie-glam-funk was definitely an outlier in terms of lineup; they’re maybe not someone to catch 3 times in 12 months like I have, but they were also probably not the primary reason anyone was there. Animal Collective cancelled last minute with no replacement due to Avey Tare losing his voice; despite the upset as couldn’t they, of all acts, improvise onstage instead?, I was ultimately fine with it due to (again) having seen them twice in the past 12 months. The opening gave me adequate time to peruse vendors, get the shittiest chicken sandwich I’ve eaten since the pandemic started (yes, even worse than Shake Shack), and camp for the main act. The War on Drugs and their ‘Springsteen does ambient techno’ sound were also excellent. Frontman Adam Granduciel, de facto indie lord of the fest with AnCo not taking the stage, handled the task well—despite the serious trappings of the music and the weight of being one of contemporary rock’s biggest acts, he was legitimately a hoot, using most of his stage banter to unsuccessfully bait his saxophonist into playing a riff developed after mistakenly thinking ‘Sacred Rose’ was a setlist addition and not a tour stop. I’ve definitely endured subjectively worse festival days than this.
The main draw of Friday and the reason I’d guess most were present was Phil Lesh and Friends, the Grateful Dead bassist’s current vehicle, joined by Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy and Nels Cline for a one-off collaboration dubbed ‘Philco’. While the Dead are a top 3 taste influence on me, I’d never seen a Dead project live before this; I had the contrarian ‘I’m not going to like this thing because you do’ thing with them amongst my siblings (and parents). I’ve also not seen Wilco live before, which is also weird, I know, but somewhat more explainable. The set was more country-leaning than I would prefer, but the first set—which I caught in full, missing part of the second as The War on Drugs were killing it—built in intensity through its first half and was well worth experiencing.
Honestly, I felt Jeff Tweedy was the weak point of the group. Nels Cline seemed much better integrated into the group’s sound, and didn’t dip in and out depending on whether he was singing lead vocals. Playing an acoustic guitar, Jeff’s strings weren’t discernible in the midrange mix of 3 electric guitars, keys and tenor sax. But of course Tweedy is Mr. Wilco and the name that sells tickets, which sidelined Elliot Peck, even though he seemed the best vocalist in the ensemble. Philco, in my opinion, stood for ‘Phil and Company’, not ‘Phil Lesh with Wilco’.
As for Mr. Lesh himself, I (again) am not terribly familiar with his individual sound and style, but he is still an integral, capable player in his group. My cannabis consumption dubbed out my aural perception, and focusing in on his bass playing, Phil was holding together the rhythm section and didn’t need anyone to pick up his (nonexistent) slack a la Brian Wilson. From my vantage point in the mid-left-center of the crowd for the first set, I would’ve guessed he looked (and played) like he was 67 or so, despite knowing he’s 82. The first set ended earlier than the advertised slot, and the second started late, I believe partially due to sound bleed from The War on Drugs, and partially because Phil is, again, 82 and vocal about his declining capacity to play through marathon sets. If he’s still around, ask your grandpa to anchor a rhythm section for 2 hours between 9 PM and midnight and see how that goes. As far as semi-novelties go, it was a good time, the crowd seemed to enjoy it, and Sacred Rose had taper sections so I imagine decent bootlegs of the sets are available for you to judge the success of it yourself.
Despite a resurgent popularity in the genre fueled by the desire to relax more and the need to pass time during pandemic isolation, where many took to exploring vast bootleg archives (and, admit it, legalization increasing demand for smoke session soundtracks), the state of jam banding as a whole seems more in flux than it perhaps has been since 1995. Dead and Co won’t be heading out next year; Phish and their fans (from what I’ve been told) are too exclusionary to have ever had a full claim to the Mandate of Jerry; I didn’t see Goose on Saturday and I’m not familiar enough to know if they are truly the next generation; The National don’t jam, appear to be in their own greatest hits era, and did enough to revitalize the genre as appreciative outsiders already; Phil and the remaining OGs are definitely close to joining the great neverending gig in the sky; and who at this point knows what impact the Scorsese/Jonah Hill biopic will have. It’s questionable whether either Chicago should have another massive music festival in its summer calendar, or Sacred Rose will blossom next year to help guide this state of affairs. Then again, no one has ever said the trip has been short, normal or straightforward either.
I have a strong first exposure bias with music. The first listen to this, coming after a bad work day topped with other out-of-the-blue bullshit, was not at all what I expected and exactly what I needed. Gothenburg, Sweden’s Amateur Hour is just one of many of the members’ bands; others include Makthaverskan, Westkust, and Enhet För Fri Musik. If any of those proper nouns make you think you can guess the sound of this … nope, lol. The term ‘blasted’ comes to mind, though dream pop bombed out by industrial ambient textures is probably more descriptive. Grouper, The Dead C, Dividers, other members of the monochrome, international, experimental underground come to mind as I listen to this. Some pieces are sketchlike, other start off conventional before going haywire … ‘Feel My Loneliness’ is an apt name for a song and the obvious highlight. It’s still meteorological summer and global warming makes flannel and PSL manifestations difficult—but this is the perfect fall soundtrack for believing in ghosts and haunted bonfires. Wretchedly beautiful stuff.
Good luck conducting independent research on this one. At the height of the U.K.’s 90s rave culture, Dave Paton started playing around with some synths from his place in Leith. The results have only come to light this year, but they’re an excellent discovery via Apartment Records. It’s not exactly boundary-pushing stuff for 90s dance music, though some phased lines in the latter half of the record help keep things interesting to the end. Tapes still available, if you’re so inclined.
Crow’s Nest favorite Gloin announced their debut album this week, and yes I preordered it on Bandcamp Friday. Lead single ‘Shoot to Kill' sees the Toronto noise rock quartet move away from the lo-fi psych of their EP into something more closely resembling contemporary U.K. post-punk. I don’t hear the Lightning Bolt influence they claim, but the Sonic Youth comparisons the copy makes seem on the mark, particularly their more conventionally structured moments. Will I enjoy this more than Stumpwork in terms of favorite release out on Oct. 21, 2022? I can’t say at this moment other than I am really looking forward to that weekend.
Reading time and quality reads have been light as of late because of life and shit. Anyway:
-Luke O’Neil at Welcome To Hell World interviews a fellow investigator about their big story: “If police investigated this case thoroughly would they have prevented the Boston Marathon bombing?”
-Jonathan M. Katz of The Racket has a theory as to “Why the right hates history right now”
-The New Yorker published an archival look at celebrity, to hide that most of their staff is … wherever East Coast elites ritually scamper off to for summer vacation, I guess. The highlight of it is this 1964 piece from Nat Hentoff profiling Bob Dylan at the age of 23, pivoting away from conventional folk into the personal.
I haven’t found a whole lot of words to describe my feelings on abortion post-Dobbs—as a cishet upper-middle class white male in Illinois, I’ve been insulated from most of the immediate consequences of the decision, condemn it as someone who believes in the right to choose without exception, have started donating to a local abortion fund (and encourage you to do the same, if you’re able to), don’t believe my voice should be prominent/centered regarding this, and know all those brownie points don’t cash out into any real value. That all comes to mind when I spin this, particularly because of the name. Queer NYC post-punk/no wave, output tempered by daylight which, even when not fully suppressed, cannot ever be fully expressed due to the complex, competing indignities and marginalizations of our hell world. Send them some cash if you dig this too.
Leeds trio Drahla were a sleeper favorite in 2019, I band I sort of liked, caught at the Bottle, then found them on repeat as my appreciation grew after. Their obliquely literary, cubist take on guitar-bass-drums post-punk stands out amongst the current crop even if they’re not yet scoring prime festival slots. The band have been quiet through the pandemic but have dropped their first single from their in-progress followup. The motorik groove and layered vocals that can’t be done live through doubling are new; there’s no evidence of a sophomore slump on the way. Take your time guys, I’m happy to wait for the full LP. And please bring the saxophonist with you on your next tour.
It’s been a couple issue since I last wrote up a compilation, and now I’ve got another one worth spending more time with and digging into than I’ll actually do, for sure. The intrepid crate diggers and archivists at Finders Keepers have put out this one in collaboration with Verdant Brewing Co. It’s the label’s trademark territory of internationalist 60s/70s underground psych and the wide umbrella of fellow travelers. A couple familiar names but plenty more not. The beer side of the collab is a “premium strength triple-hopped IPA” … would it surprise you to learn, recommending this, that I put “hipster-adjacent” into a recent dating app profile as well?
Ambient music frequently doesn’t do it for me; too little going on or attempting to intentionally induce calm can backfire and cause me to start to spiral, which is why I more frequently find solace and comfort in the good kinds of noise. Mister Water Wet’s latest release, on West Mineral, does fit with Eno’s originating claim that ambient should be as interesting as it is ignorable (emphasis mine). Context clues suggest MWW is a buddy of leading haze Brian Leeds (best known as Huerco S.), which makes sense given the sonic palette and some of the compositional tricks within. Immerse yourself and see what you think.
Melbournian/bush outfit Tropical Fuck Storm season is here, and while there’s no new album from the group on the radar, conditions are ripe as they come ashore again. They’ve released a grab-bag of a cassingle to whet appetites: new ballad ‘Moonburn’; a cover of The Stooges’ ‘Ann’; an acoustic take on Braindrops’s quiet moment ‘Aspirin’, melancholically filmed around a campfire for limited release film Goody Goody Gumdrops from last year, recently re-screened; and a re-release of their Talking Heads cover ‘Heaven’. Not their best, I’ll admit, but enough to prime you for their European and North American tours. Catch me being quite fucked up at their Lincoln Hall show next month.
Well, that’s the issue. I’ve said plenty and hopefully it’s enough for now, though it doesn’t really feel that way a lot of the time. If you’re reading this, thank you for doing so, as always I hope you found something within you enjoyed even if music-wise this issue’s a little thin. Until next time, which may be a little bit longer than expected as noted above, try to practice kindness and patience with those in your company until then. Cheers.
Really digging that Gloin track. It reminds me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on it. Wanna say RevCo, but that’s not it. Will probably remember as soon as I hit “send.”