A week later, a couple of gigs out, and about a full rack of Fat Tire heavier, finally, I have some solid time to recap Bumbershoot 2007. And a memorable one it was- no doubt!
When I peeped the line up early this Spring, I was a little bummed to find the festival spanned for a mere three days as opposed to it's previous staple Friday through Memorial Monday weekend blow out. In years past, I made sure to deliberately avoid the Bumbershoot hype and mayhem either through a relaxing stay at home with an exciting jam-packed action movie rental where the fate of the planet rests on the shoulders of scientologists or at work performing the menial task of bullshitting with Belltown yups. I managed to sneak in last year for Q-Tip, Phife, and Ali Shaheed Muhammad's return to their legendary NYC trio A Tribe Called Quest. Their call and response flow had me reeling with exuberance for days. The year before that, one of my all time favorite West Coast hip-hop crew's, The Pharcyde, reunited for a B-shoot extravaganza. I was dead broke that summer with two jobs up my ass. It was the show that got away.
2007 brought together the reunion of another infamous NYC crew, hailing from the slums of Staten Shaolin with the poison swords- minus the liquid presence of GZA and Mr. Iron Man Ghostface Killah- of the Wu Tang Clan. This alone convinced me that Bumbershoot 2007 was worth my while. Factor in a free three-day pass from a wealthy aunt and a chance to ditch Olympia for a couple days and we've got historical significance brewing here.
I really hate how that fucking Postal Service song is on every goddamn business commercial from UPS to Schwab. Those dudes should just score Microsoft ads for now on so that guys like me can finally have a solid reason to openly sneer and swear whenever the first bar of one of their stupid midi-synth progressions is heard.
Moving on.
The week leading up to my B-shoot gala, I prepared a plan of attack. My mission was to see all the hip-hop I possibly could with little gaps of freedom between shows to roam and let something catch my attention. My sixteen-year-old cousin and his Italian friend from Cortona coached it from Bricktown Oregon to kick it at my pad the night leading up to opening day. I accommodated them with Covosier, Vodka, and video games. I taught Francesco a little bit about turntabling, played a game of Madden with my roommate, and called it a night. We woke up relatively early that morning and motored up I-5 to Seatown for the big day. (Just a quick pro-quo, never let an Oregonian drive anywhere outside of their state, they expect gorillas to kiss their feet and fill their tanks at every pump station. Remove the gorilla and they become apes flinging shit. Just warning you homie.) We arrived in Seattle during Macklemore's set. I hustled past the entrance point (after minor confusion with my anxiety stricken family) and jetted like a Boeing 757 to the Skychurch stage. I touched down at the beginning of D. Black's set. Bumbershoot was on its way.
Now there were a variety of acts that I praised witness too. Instead of expanding my already elaborate rant on each performer, I will review each set with a haiku. Interpret as you will...
D. BLACK: B.I.G. IN RAIN CITY
SPORTIN LIFE REC REP
HUMBLE EMCEE SUPREME SHOW
I enjoyed D.Black's set but the real showstopper in the onset of BumberSaturday was Dyme Def. The local crew backed by Bean One had me feeling right. They played a great variety of gangsta club mash ups and one brilliant choral ode to the struggle of a man (Fierce Vill) in a broken family borrowing it's title from Paul McCartney's "Let it Be." Each man, S.E.V., Fierce Vill, and Brainstorm balance each other almost perfectly. They're set was simply electrifying. Check out Space Music by Dyme Def. A definite Northwest classic!
I rolled out of Paul Allen's psychedelic logos in the EMP to a perfect northwest summer day. They're ain't no summer like a northwest summer. It is the truth.
I meandered through the fountain and herds of blunt lit teens to the art exhibits in the Northwest rooms. I was on a mission to the Claiming Space gallery to catch a peep at one of my favorite northwest grapher's, Parsik, when an art installation by a Vancouver, BC collective called Instant Coffee caught my eye. The setting was colorful and impressive. The space was designed to facilitate an intimate experience. People casually sprawled their tired bodies on the cozy floor cushions while couples sat eye to eye in one of IC's scratch built private booths. I mozied my way to the Northwest corner (always the best corner) and to my surprise, I found a set of Technics tables and a FAT stack of 45's and ancient 12 inch records. If you are a vinyl enthusiast, the sight alone would have inspired plans for chaos and mass nostalgia. A vinyl purist is like a music archeologist, always digging for that rare artifact. Two men guarded the tables like wolverines around their prey. I hesitated to put a record on when one of the V-junkies encouraged me to play my record. He was playing some good old James Brown. I wanted to fade into Tito Puentes. Not a bad playoff. The dude was smiling like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. He expressed his love and devotion to the record and his discontent with new media and the beat generation of hip-hop kids who know nothing of the culture of the music and make shitty dime-a-dozen beats on software programs like Reason and Fruity Loops without any knowledge on wax and designing breaks. I immediately took a liking to the guy. His name is Otis, known around the scene as OCNOTES. We traded knowledge and wax for a good long while (almost an hour) and I got a free CD off him. It is his latest effort and people, when I say something is gold, it is probably platinum, and this dudes work is platinum. OCNOTES is off the hook! If you ever see this man on the street:
Give him all your money and buy all of his music. You are making an investment on true talent. Believe me! Anyway, I will give OCNOTES a real review in a future post, for now, just take my word. OC peaced and I was left alone to call my own. I inherited the role of Instant Coffee's unofficial festival DJ as I was there for almost three hours just slicing records together. I love Instant Coffee. I will describe Instant Coffee's feel and mission as the perfect click with the perfect house and the perfect basement to just relax in and bask in good people and good vibes. Clicks usually suck and I have never been one to fancy myself in one. I treat people on a real individual basis. Clicks have their drama and their incest and their exclusive recreation. So the perfect click in my mind has always been a group of friends who are open to new friends and new experiences and extending their click into a movement. That is what I got from Instant Coffee. If you are at all confused than I will just let there verbatim fill you in courtesy of Instant Coffee's website http://www.instantcoffee.org/:
"Instant Coffee seems to be of the right stuff because it is a little tacky, all consuming and cheap. Yet it still holds enough allure, as contemporary products go, and it mimics the real thing."
Instant Coffee: get social or get lost
Instant Coffee is all right: trust Instant Coffee.
Also, a big shout out to the Henry Art Gallery for setting Instant Coffee with a gig at Bumbershoot and to Betsy Brock of HG for being the sweetest and kindest woman I have ever met in a mega-festival chalk-full of crazy self-obsessed artists and art promoters. Much Love. Visit Henry's website at http://www.henryart.org/.
Here are some sweet pics of the Instant Coffee installation.
Three hours later, I muster the courage to say goodbye and bounce to Claiming Space. I walk in and immediately I scope art in the making. Northwest visual artist Jesse Reno was working on a live piece as the festival was at its peak for the day. Reno's work from what I encountered are like hieroglyphics on cave walls from a surrealist and super naturalist postmodern brush stroke painter. Visual arts are always hard to decipher unless you know a thing or two about form. I only know style. So I apologize to Mr. Reno if my review does not bode well. Plan B played a live midi-fx-loop set from their Euro-transit inspired concept album "I'm the Captain, Where We Going." I checked out Parsik's few canvass works and walked out. Parsik is also the cover artist for Plan B's aforementioned album. It was semi-satisfying. But that's what I expect from classic gallery spaces. Lots of looking and standing and other people wanting the spot that you claim to stand and look at the piece in front of you. If anything, Claimin' Space filled every space on the white gallery walls and the concrete floors neighboring it. But the spaces between west to east and north to south were baron and empty. Typical art show and no wine… Ugh.
MENOMENA: LOVE THE CHORUS IN BROWN CLOAKS
BARITONE SAX SEX
COUSIN'S GOT GOOD TASTE FOR AGE
Wazup Courtney! We'll get to you later.
COMMON MARKET: SABZI COOKS UP A FUNK STOMP
BEARD GUY TALKS A LOT
I TOOK BAD PICTURES, OH WELL
My feet grew weary after spending a solid ten straight hours using them for hikes and tight as hell salsa crump steps. I checked out and kicked it with my good homie Matt Parish in Columbia City. Big Ups to James Parrish for loosing two straight fake ID's. Damn kid!
SUNDAY
Woke up in Colombia City with a side ache and a hangover. Kicked it for a bit and tagged along with my homie to work. He works at Seattle Cutlery at the Pikes Place Market. Go buy some knives!
I saddled my boots on the stony streets of the Market Place with no real intentions. I Gave dirty looks to tourists and bounced down to one of my favorite record stores in Seattle, Holy Cow. I flipped through the dollar stacks of 12 inches and pulled out a couple records. Kicked it inside with the staffer and pulled forty fives for the man to play. He pulled out a James Brown Instrumental record and gave me a reduced price. I spent the next three hours digging and narrowed a selection from thirty plus assorted formatted records to about six: bought some 45's of the Rolling Stones, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Bob Dylan, a Kool Kieth LP, The Clash "Combat Rock" and the JB instrumental. Pricey but well worth the money. I walked to the Seattle Center from there and re-entered the festival for day two. I went straight to Instant Coffee to play my records and say what's up. That was that. I felt kind of creepy coming back again and again and again and again but they seemed to enjoy my company. Good people. Oh speaking of weird, an old customer of mine from back in my Cherry Street Coffee years, Janet, walked in with a video camera and taped an interview with me. She is an exceptional Civil Suit lawyer and whistleblower for other corrupt lawyers, contractors, and private firms. And she is an exceptional jazz dancer or so she will tell you. She is a relentless woman, always working on multiple projects at once, and she loves dopio espressos. Currently she produces a monthly television show at Scan TV. It's all local and all love with this impressive woman. So if you watch Scan regularly, you might just catch a glimpse of yours truly saying a bunch nonsense about nothing important. Keep me posted.
I went next door to volunteer my troubled thoughts in an interactive art installation set up by local artist Greg Lundgren and company. The three men built a trio of Portable Confessional Units. The basic premise was to encourage the public into participating in this Dadaist art experiment and shed some sins, regrets, problems, or a simple chat. The wait was long, which was fine because it allowed me to hang with the IC crew some more, and after a short somewhat humorous fake PSA about the PCU, I entered my own personal unit with my own personal priest. Well, he wasn't exactly a priest or affiliated with the Catholic Church whatsoever; in fact, I saw the so-called "Priest" enter the booth. He was just some guy. I thought, "Sweet." I jumped in and shed some feelings about the usual struggles: work, woman, career. It was honest. There was no bullshit. When I was done, I expected my "priest" to be somewhat humorous and removed like a drunken comedian from the Republic of Komedy or something. But my "priest" whose name as I remember was Scott gave me some really good advice. We had a nice chat and he related some similar troubles of his own. It wasn't exactly a Hallmark mind-altering moment. I didn't cry tears of epiphany, renounce my white heritage, and change my name to Yusuf Islam. But I did walk away with some ammo against some problems and smiled in appreciation. They’re good guys and good artisans.
After that I met up with my friend Tahnee. We hung out at a beer garden and tried not to listen to the Thompson Twins sing their alternative country pop but failed. We couldn't afford beer though, so I bought a Pepsi while she paid three bucks for some water. Oh and they took our bottle caps! What the fuck!? I couldn't leave with my drink in hand. So I was stranded. I didn't even finish my Pepsi. Goddamn environment! At least I managed to take this cool picture of Tahnee.
I caught the tail end of Gabriel Teoderos when it was announced that Ryan Shaw had to cancel his show and that BLUE SCHOLARS would perform in his place!!!!
So while I waited in ancy anticipation of watching Geologic and Sabzi spit Bayani, I chilled out on the grassy field by Vau de Vire and watched their crazy fun circus ska set. I'm not big on the whole circus resurgence. It seemed like the performers longed for Burning Man and all the crazy hippie sex and drugs. But put on a great show they did. Dr. Mad Vibe of Fishbone formed the tribe of tramp clowns and burlesque broads. It was mad fun and I got a boner. I couldn't help it yo!! Those women were shaking mad rump!
Yes! Blue Scholars! Bayani is probably one of my favorite all time hip-hop outputs. I know it's blasphemy to a lot of people, but the album hits me inside man. I can't help it! It is the most honest and real record any artist in the game has released in quite a long time (More so than Kanye, than Big Brother, than Sage Francis and Brother Ali, or Sluggo.) and Sabzi's beats are so incredible! It is a near perfect album. Listen to the intro and track 10 and 11 combined and tell me you didn't cry. I dare you! And if you didn't, you don't have a soul.
I tried to get as close as I could but only managed to get as close as the bass speakers. But that was just what I needed cuz I love the bass! I got blasted Magnavox style! I couldn't here Geologic too well or the beautiful synth progressions Sabzi cooked up but it didn't matter once Abyssinian Creole got out there and hyped me up. That's not all, during "Fire for the People" Geologic unleashed every major player of the 206 hip=hop community. Were talking 1st Platoon, Grieves, Barfly, Tilson, Chev, Daps, etc. The list goes on! It seemed like whenever you thought you saw every face in the Mass Line label another would jump out and rip one vicious little lyric. Plus a lot of unsigned artists jumped in and showed their stuff. It turned into one long cipher bout. And surprisingly, the crowd went wild for scrawny old Ballard high boy, Grieves. I think because the majority in the crowd were north end high school kids and Grieves has quite a following with the youngens.
The momentum subsided and the emcees of the present and future stepped down as the class was back in session. What a fucking fantastic show! I got nothing but mad love for the 2-0-sickness.
I caught up with Otis after the show and received another gift album by one of his homies DJ100proof. I was really excited about this one. It is a great summer mix tape. DJ100proof's "Backyard Barbecues" is and steady. Proof does not try to dazzle us with scratch skillz and technical juggle jarg like some DJ's when they put out mixes and mashes. He simply fades song into song and catches us off guard every so often with a great kill hold and cross curve. He's got the touch of an able turntablist.
Anyway, Sunday faded into a live night as I met up with Matt and Nick Ware and Steve Ode. We checked out this party on the hill and I danced and drank and charmed every dazzling biddy I could. Good times. Sleep. Snore.
MONDAY
Woke up and motored south to B-shoot for day three and the killah sting of the WU. I met up with my home girl Courtney and my cous, aunt, and pops. We peeped Culture Shock give us a flare of some local gypsy folk inspired punk. They tore it up! Mad love for Culture Shock.
Mad ups to Scarf Man for dancing the dreary grey day away with his colorful scarf dance to the sun God.
Lyrics Born came up next and I shimmied my hips with some young dames. Maybe I should have kept my distance but the more I separated from this one biddy the closer she got. Damn girl, I'm old enough to be your... manager at work! Lyrics Born was all right. But my man, less talk and more lyrics. I wondered if your lyrics were truly conceived yet or still stuck in the gamete cycle. Next time don't hold back homie. I know you want to get us hyped but we want your music. I'm glad we got that settled.
All right! Here we go. The big one. The main stage! Oh shit! Oh Shit! I can't believe I'm about to see the WU! Oh shit! Calm down V. Calm down... cool. I'm good.
OH SHIT!!
I sat in the stands for Lupe to rest my legs. Raindrop Hustler labeled Fiasco a speed freak struggling to please his crowd, but I thought Mr. "Kick Push" kept it live. He was only a white blur from my vantage point but the mans energy was good and the whole whisper thing was weird but at least he didn't Ying Yang anything. Gemini stole the set though. The man is crazy fast and inaudible but it sounds good nonetheless. He could have been rapping about whacking pud and I still would have eaten it up.
I lunged two hundred feet from the upper deck on to the ground below and like Night Crawler I zipped through the crowd to solidify my position. I grew two extra feet, gained thirty five pounds of muscle, on account of the full moon, and made out with like hundred girls before the WU fiercely struck the stage with their bigger than life status. Once they hit their marks, I shrunk back to the little hip-hop wannabe dweeb of before and flipped up my "W" for all to see.
Method Man and RZA noticed that I was the only real fan in the crowd and invited me on stage to help put a Philly out while the Meth spelled out his own name to a chorus of blazers.
All of a sudden Mathematics lost one of his hands due to U-GOD's poison shirkin accidentally misfiring its target of Reakwon's massive beard. I seized the opportunity and leaped behind the decks and unveiled my automale armored hand and juggled and scratched the entire Wu Tang Library simultaneously as my unit in front of me finished out the show.
Then Masta Killa announced the location of our hotel to all the sexy ladies (Even though Reakwon did most the work.)
in the audience and I had me a club muff by the time I passed out on a bed full of Seattle's finest biddies. Man what a way to end the festival. I am so trill!
Well, that's that. Catch my laden adventures and fiery escapades in the near future. I got CD reviews and Sketchfest Seattle to let ya'll know about. For now, I want to go get smashed with some good Seattle people, and maybe find me a sweet angel for the night.
Shout outs to Jesse Friedman, Francesco, Aunt Stace, Pops, Courtney Witcher, Tahnee, Matt Parrish, Nick Ware, Ode, John (I kind of remember you), OCNOTES, 100proof, Instant Coffee, The Henry Art Gallery, Tigik at Holy Cow records, Easy Street records, and all the performers. 2007 will never repeat.
-V
