The Queen Mary
Long Beach, California
November 8-9, 2003

As I write this in October 2008, half a decade after the fact, my memories of this event are not fuzzy at all! It’s just that most of them have slowly evaporated up into Earth orbit and eventually found their way inside the infinite cloud of cosmic background radiation. All Tomorrow’s Parties 2003 was a full-on, weekend-long musical event chock-full of full afternoons and evenings of bands galore. Since there were two stages set up–one inside the ship itself and the other outside in a park about a quarter mile away–it was impossible to catch everyone who played.

The Danielson Famile.

The Magic Band.

On the first day, I caught the Black Heart Procession, who moseyed up from San Diego, climbed up on top of the big metal stage outside and toe-tapped their way through a set of their moody, lonesome pop dirges. The continually growing afternoon audience seemed to accept it with open arms. The Danielson Famile’s quirky indie gospel music may not be my cup of tea, but fortunately, the band played inside, where their cute nurse uniforms looked spectacular as they were bathed in the flashy, multi-colored lights of show business. Back outside, the Magic Band, sans Captain Beefheart of course, who retired from music in the early ’80s, belted out nearly an hour of fairly traditional-sounding blues rock lightly peppered with some fractured Trout Mask Replica oddness.

Mike Watt and George Hurley.

Sonic Youth.

On the boat again, Mike Watt and George Hurley bashed out a bunch of drum ‘n’ bass versions of Minutemen songs. (No, not the techno kind of drum ‘n’ bass, silly–although that might be an interesting thing to hear.) Nary a guitar player was to be seen or heard anywhere, and the audience simply ate it up. In sharp contrast, Sonic Youth closed out day one up on the big ol’ park stage with plenty of guitars, which they abused to amuse themselves and the crowd. Did Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo perform that old standby stunt in which they each hold their guitars way up high and smash them together? Probably. But, I’ve seen so many Sonic Youth shows, I honestly don’t remember. Still, it never hurts to see this band time and time again. In fact, it kind of tickles.

Bardo Pond.

Cat Power.

On the second and final day of the fest, Bardo Pond’s distortion pedal-fueled tar rock blended perfectly with a grey-smeared overcast sky as another crowd coalesced and ambled their asses about. The first time I saw Cat Power was back in the mid ’90s at the Che Café in San Diego. I recall a very young Chan Marshall who awkwardly shambled through a set of gentle songs on vocals and guitar like a shy woodland pixie with a bob. Fast forward a few years to ATP. Inside the boat, one could be forgiven for thinking it was dark outside. Cat Power’s hair grew ever longer as she more confidently belted out another set of singer-songwriter fare backed by a full band.

James Chance and the Contortions.

Jackie-O Motherfucker.

Following the Power, I took a chance on James Chance and the Contortions out on the park stage. A quarter of a century after the fact, Mr. James, looking for all the world like some sort of colorful Rocky Horror reject, brashly ejected some outright ghoulish sax squawk over a queen-sized bed of no wave monster rock. Back inside the Queen Mary, it was time to experience some wordless conspiracy theory with Jackie-O Motherfucker. The band wafted out one long puff of hovering, atmospheric drones that eventually gathered itself together into one giant, pounding rhythm. As the music hummed on, it was amazing to slowly float up, down and around the balconies and staircases, which were jam-packed with people from several walks of life who surprisingly seemed to really absorb it. Jackie-O’s performance was by far my favorite of the weekend.

Mission of Burma.

Stefano Scodanibbio and Terry Riley.

Out in the park, Mission of Burma took to the stage for the first time in a couple of decades. The only surviving memory I have from their set is guitarist Roger Miller donning noise canceling earphones to protect his tinnitus-ravaged ears. Why does music almost always have to be so loud? Anyway, they bashed out a set of songs that sounded a lot like a fun-loving grandma from Missouri who loves taking short walks on the beach and throwing impromptu Tupperware parties on offshore oil rigs. One last round of music on the big ol’ boat materialized in the form of Terry Riley and Stefano Scodanibbio. I dare you to pronounce the latter’s last name five times really slow with a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Terry tickled the ivories on his synth while Stefano sawed away on his upright bass just so. It was pleasant enough, but I would have appreciated another round of drones even more. But, apparently, Terry left his laying around back in the ’60s.

The Stooges.

Pounding the final nail in the coffin of All Tomorrow’s Parties 2003 was none other than the godfathers of ragtime, I mean punk–the Stooges. This outfit–yet another who recently reformed after three decades–is a little smarter than their name implies. After all, they were the very first group to cleverly christen their vocalist, Iggy Pop, after a brand of breakfast cereal. This shirtless leader of the band (and abandon) resembled a 55-year-old leathery slab of wildly contorting beef jerky who brazenly coaxed the band to bash through a set of classic buzzsaw three-chord punk. The spent crowd lapped it up and loved it. Was that really Terry Riley I saw in the middle of the mosh pit? The world may never know.

Brendan,

Dude, I fully watched you walk by when I was in line for Lightning Bolt last night. (I was around the corner, about 20 feet away from Sunset.) When I saw you, I thought to myself, “Dude, Brendon is so rad! Look at him walking by right now. He’s so positive and energetic…and tall.” Lightning Bolt is so rad, too, dude. Everything about them last night ruled. The way they exploded into being immediately after the band before them stopped. The way they played on the floor and everyone crunched in around them. The way one audience guy held the drummer’s fan right on him and another got down on his knees to hug the drum kit and hold it together. The way the young girl on the opposite side of me (like many others) had a big smile on her face the entire time. The way the stage was tossed out for a full-on physical connection between performer and audience. For all of these reasons and many more, Lightning Bolt is totally killer. Dude, again, I was completely stoked to see you and Lightning Bolt last night.

Solana Beach, California
November 19, 1999

Stereolab: They came, they saw, they played, and everything was just fine and dandy…until the end of their set, that is. As the band retired backstage and the Belly Up began to defecate most of its patrons, I leaned over the front of the stage and peeled one of Stereolab’s set lists off of a monitor. As I gazed nonchalantly down upon it, I noticed in my peripheral vision a hirsute ogre, who had been tearing down sound equipment up on the stage, lurch forward in my direction. Not exactly a respectable ogre of ancient myth or fairy tales, this specimen was of your ’70s burnout garden variety: 40 or 50 years old, complete with a shaggy mop, a full beard, and enough wrinkles, meth-pocked skin and bad breath to fill a million Camaros.

Sweet Home Alabama!

Unconsciously assuming the ogre was about to pick up a cable or some such object off the front of the stage, I kept looking at the set list. Without a word or warning, he suddenly plucked said list from my hands and tore it up into a million pieces right in front of me. The ogre then gingerly released the paper flurries, causing them to cascade down upon the stage in a slow-motion snowstorm of cruelty. This random act of supreme dickness was so unexpected and caught me so off guard, I was struck speechless. The ogre promptly returned to the back of the stage and continued his tedious chores as I sauntered away completely baffled. But, it didn’t take me long to figure it out. Just because your rock star dreams got crushed a dozen times over and you’ll spend the rest of your life as a lowly, frustrated stagehand doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me, Mr. Ogre. Why don’t you set your sights a little higher, like maybe get a job at Guitar Center, where you can be grumpy and mean to the public with all of the other failed rock stars–and get paid more for it!

San Diego, California
Friday, May 29, 1998

It was odd enough that a rock band, Creedle, appeared on a bill with three electronic artists; and even stranger that they played at a rock club like the Casbah. The Electric Company is Brad Laner from Medicine. His stack of rack mounts and mini-disc player was topped off by a little mixing deck, which he tweaked and twiddled for some pretty messed-up results. Disjointed beats, loops, rhythms and samples appeared and disappeared like a dance club invaded by a swarm of floods and Earthquakes. Brad seemed pretty into it for a guy standing solo behind a miniature skyscraper of technology.

For the Oval performance, I was kind of expecting to see a stack of CD players and lots of pretty, painted-on and scratched-up CDs sitting up on stage. Instead, Germany’s Markus Popp stood motionless and emotionless in front of a laptop computer and mini-disc player, which contained samples of all the damaged CDs. For 45 minutes, he point-and-clicked and tab-directed Oval’s one-of-a-kind sonic weather system through myriad electronic seasons. From spine-rumbling, low-end depth charges to pristine, bliss-out spring blossoms and a lot in between, plus Oval’s trademark digital glitching comprised of skipping CD sounds from the aformentioned damaged discs.

Jim O’Rourke also performed on laptop, mini-disc player, electronics and segued smoothly from the end of Oval’s set into his own private universe of sampled goofy music, swing-jazz and pastoral storm/reprise electronic soundscapes. The last section was augmented with some pleasant acoustic guitar and vocal(!) melodies with heavy effects along with the electronics, which added a more familiar touch and attracted previously uninterested audience members like flies on a dead body. All in all, this night could have been a bit more visually interesting if the three “acts” would’ve played down on the floor so everyone could gather around and peek into their screens to see how the music was being made.

Note: This article originally appeared in Lou Zine (Lou’s Records newsletter) in May 1998.

Los Angeles, California
March 11, 1998

In between a week’s worth of matinee performances at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art’s Temporary Contemporary, Tony Conrad performed one night at Spaceland. With friend Alexandria Gelencser on bodyless cello, Tony tried to saw his violin in half and swayed around the stage with 35 years worth of cloudy, clear, cloud flotation experience behind him. Slow, slower, slowest. Continuous ebb and flow. Egg on. Loud, louder, loudest. With Alex’s steady drone supplying the foundation, Tony was really free to soar on this night, and that he did, despite the fact that the sound system occasionally cut out, which reduced the volume level somewhat for a few moments at a time. Silhouettes of the pair were thrown by a lamp onto a large, translucent sheet that completely hid the stage. Alex’s silhouette remained motionless, save for her right arm, which steadily sawed away as Tony slowly swirled in time to this timeless comforter of sound. After 45 minutes, Alex finally had to give up when her cello began to cut out really bad, and Tony followed suit a moment later. Thanks must go out to these two troopers for sticking it out as long as they did, and for flowing out some original, important and lively music.

Tony Conrad’s motorized violin installation at LACMA Temporary Contemporary, 1998. Photo by Rich Jacobs.

Close-up. Photo by Rich Jacobs.

Tony Conrad at LACMA Temporary Contemporary, 1998. Photo by Rich Jacobs.

Note: This article originally appeared in Lou Zine (Lou’s Records newsletter) in March 1998.

Louder and friendlier than Casper, Tokyo’s Ghost delivered over an hour of awesome psychedelic folk rock on this night. Opening with a long, ambient, atmospheric piece, the hunger to rock was strong. The thirst was finally quenched as they exploded into the blistering “Rabirabi.” With a drummer, a bongo drummer who handled a full set of metal and wooden percussion, a vina and tambourine player, a bass player and two electric guitarists, Ghost blasted out way loud, rocked-out versions of the mostly acoustic-led beauty off their first three studio efforts. Of special note was the lead guitarist, whose ghostly slide abstractions and handfuls of shredding psych noodles elevated this apparition into high Earth orbit. Most excellent.

Note: This article originally appeared in Lou Zine (Lou’s Records newsletter) in August 1997.

Los Angeles, California
Monday, July 28, 1997

Nels Cline is a very tall, strangely talented man that hosts New Music Monday every week at The Alligator Lounge in Santa Monica. Treat Night, as I’ve never thought of calling it, features out-jazz, improv, and occasional all-out fests of what-the-hellness. After a few jazz combos plied their trade, the final lineup tonight contained Nels on guitar, Crib on droning electric bass, Mario Rubalcaba on drums, another guy also on drums, plus a DJ. One hour-long belch of deep space whine coalesced into a big mess of tribe-bum-electric-dark-curtain steam that finally let up a tad after midnight. Too bad the DJ was turned up way too loud in the mix, which practically nullified any hope of actually hearing noodleman Nels blast off from Cape Canaveral. Oh well, maybe next time some rockers in the audience will stone the DJ. Wait a minute. Stone him in what way?

Note: This article originally appeared in Lou Zine (Lou’s Records newsletter) in July 1997.

Hollywood, California
Circa 1996

Thai Kevin was a very suave man. He wore the color purple better than most. The restaurant in which he did his Elvis impersonation was inside a mini-mall full of different Thai eateries in Hollywood. I even seem to remember there being more than one of these characters. I would guess the year was probably 1996? I definitely saw him on purpose. I was told by friends of his existence. I think I went with either my old roommate, Leslie Ishino (drummer of the Red Aunts), or it could have been with her then boyfriend and my good friend, Sam Velde (singer for Bluebird), but that is unclear in my memory. I had trouble looking at my food, because I wanted to see this guy belt out his Elvis impersonator skills and show off his styles beyond, which he had in spades. My reactions to this were mostly impressed, satisfied, enthused, excited and confused, but there was absolutely no doubt involved. The food was a lot more average than Thai Kevin was. I don’t even remember what I ate, except that it was almost definitely either pad thai or spicy noodles, which I almost always get. It is one of my favorite dishes ever. I can’t remember which issue of Move Zine this photo was in, maybe number six or seven? It was one of the pocket-sized ones. If pressed, I would say seven, and that is all I can say. I am not allowed any other words regarding this photo.–Rich Jacobs

Note: The photo above originally appeared in Move Zine circa 1996.

The Empty Bottle
Chicago, Illinois
November 7, 8, 9, 1996

Since the early 1990s, the Atlanta independent label Table of the Elements has been very busy issuing many important minimal, drone, noise, improv and other experimental recordings from the past, present and future. They hosted their second gathering for like-minded individuals at The Empty Bottle, a small club right across the street from an ultra-sketchy area of Chicago.

Thursday, November 7
Gastr del Sol, Tony Conrad

Over 30 years ago, Tony Conrad was, along with John Cale, La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela, a member of the seminal minimal drone group The Theater of Eternal Music, who splayed out some seriously extended, consciousness-floating dream music. Since La Monte’s been hoggin’ the tapes from those performances ever since, Tony’s been bustin’ out with new material lately based on ideas he contributed to that group so long ago. On Thursday night, “Ten Years Alive on the Infinite Plain” featured Tony Conrad on amplified violin, Jim O’Rourke on electric bass, David Grubbs on a six-foot long-string instrument with a guitar headstock on one end and a pickup on the other, and Alex Gellencser on a bodyless cello. With dream machine-like film images flickering behind them, they supported an immense nebula of loud, dense, shrill, beautiful sound for an hour or two. Locals Gastr del Sol followed with some sprightly yet somber acoustic guitar duos courtesy of David Grubbs and Jim O’Rourke, who also contributed some free-floating noise-organ work on the first song to form a nice little storm over David’s minimal, melancholy guitar work.

John Fahey, 1996. Photo by Rich Jacobs.

Friday, November 8
John Fahey, Jim O’Rourke, Loren Mazzacane Connors

From New York, Loren Mazzacane Connors played solo “lead” guitar over a tape of himself playing “rhythm” in his very own unmistakable style of Venuisan blues, a simple, fractured form of traditional blues with carefully placed notes and overwhelming silences. This night’s performance was filled with the fuzz Loren’s been laying all over his mountain of CDs of the past few years. Jim O’Rourke offered another single long track of droning acoustic guitar over some nice soundscape noise. Starting over 30 years ago, Earth’s John Fahey has, on and off, made many acoustic guitars ring out the sounds of sanity, insanity and beauty. His performance was so relaxed and informal that he didn’t hesitate to stop and tune in the middle of songs. Heck, at times, I felt as if the man was just kicking back in a living room, soothing us with a few lengthy ditties. Also nice was the ghostly electric laptop slide work that sent us adrift all over the night sky.

Loren Mazzacane Connors, 1996. Photo by Rich Jacobs.

Saturday, November 9
Tony Conrad, Bruce Gilbert, Fushitsusha, Bernhard Günter

Bernhard Günter kicked off the final night of Yttrium by playing some CDs of distant, crackling, rumbling ambience in the dark. The performance was so quiet, audience members had no trouble making out the wide array of lush conversations over at the bar, which brought John Cage’s 4:33 into full effect. Since 1978, Tokyo’s Fushitsusha have translated spiral galaxy hub / black hole reality into electronic sound via the most immense guitar, bass and drums storms imaginable. Their guitarist Keiji Haino has established himself as the most original, intentionally sloppy, free, loose, soul-soaring and deeply felt guitarist ever. With simple, plodding bass and drums as a foundation, many uncharted territories of serenity and chaos, lightness and dark were explored through a way overloaded half stack with much true abandon and freedom. In the middle of the 90-minute set, Haino wildly taunted the drummer and bassist further on into the depths of improvland with bells, cymbals and a cane.

Fushitsusha, 1996. Photo by Garry D.

Next up, England’s Bruce Gilbert (ex-Wire) fooled everyone by setting up behind the soundman as a lone stool stood in dim light up on the stage. A lot of people eventually figured it out and, surprisingly, stood and watched intently as he tweaked knobs, changed tapes and pressed guitar pedals (no guitars were used) to create an hour’s worth of electronic noise collage. Tony Conrad closed out the Yttrium Festival with a reprise of Thursday’s performance, minus David Grubbs, with Jim O’Rourke moving to amplified violin, as well. Another 90 minutes of massive drone activity ebbed forward, backward, in all directions of space. The band sawed on behind a giant white sheet as their silhouettes mixed and twisted together in random beauty. (Is anything ever really random?) At 2:30 a.m., all of the sound finally abruptly stopped. Everyone looked super fried and went their separate ways. Thanks to Table of the Elements for adding another episode of raw experienece to my life.

Bruce Gilbert, 1996. Photo by Rich Jacobs.

Note: This article originally appeared in Lou Zine (Lou’s Records newsletter) in November 1996.

San Diego, California
Thursday, September 19, 1996

The effects pedal industry won’t slump as long as Bardo Pond is around. Each member laid out at least eight or nine of the things, which, at the command of their feet, transformed the room into a languid aquarium of electric guitar, bass, drums and flute delirium. For visuals, there was vocalist Isobel, who, even in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt, was more than pleasant to gaze upon as her hair hung in her face, swaying in the heavenly maelstrom.

Note: This article originally appeared in Lou Zine (Lou’s Records newsletter) in September 1996.