Jam on the River (John's Take): I Could Do This Every Year

Well, Nate did a pretty damn good job summing up our long holiday weekend. I'm not sure if I have too much else to add, but maybe a little clarification. For those who may not know us personally, Nate hails from Lancaster county, and I, like the rest of the world, am from "outside Philadelphia."

Nate, Andy, and Myself from left to right

This was my 3rd Jam on the River in a row, and, like all things in life, it has changed over time. You might remember here when I first discussed my ambivalence towards the line-up. I had equally mixed feelings after hearing that Saturday's show was moved to Festival Pier from the usual low-key setting of Great Plaza. Festival pier is, after-all, a glorified parking lot, while Great Plaza feels like a sprawling community amphitheater amidst fountains and steps at the waterfront. Moreover, its a venue without walls or restrictions of any sort (security is a joke). It's completely conducive to the essence of "Jam."

However, the larger size of Saturday's show created an energetic vibe from an otherwise lazily stoned atmosphere. Bar none, The Flaming Lips put on the best opening to any show I have ever seen in my life. That's not to say they kept the ball (or large bubble) rolling throughout subsequent songs, but "Race For The Prize" almost felt spiritual in its jubilation. I couldn't find a quality clip from that night, but this one is nearly identical to what we saw:




Sunday was exactly how JOTR is supposed to be: good times with good friends and good local music. RJD2 killed, despite DJing his entire set offstage. Out-of-towner Deadmau5 was also unexpectedly awesome...the audio here is a little sub-par but watch the crowd explode at -0:32



And then, rightfully so, the weekend closed with Lotus -- a young band who's literally evolved from year to year on the Great Plaza stage. Their local fanbase is beginning to rival that of The Biscuits, and, dare I say, so is their light show:

Here's to next year

Jam on the River (Nate's Take): One Fulfilling Philly Weekend

I just enjoyed a fantastic weekend in Philadelphia where I attended the much anticipated Captain Morgan’s Jam on the River featuring The Disco Biscuits, The Flaming Lips, and Lotus. It was a relaxing time filled with great music, positive people, and unparalleled hospitality by the family of this blog’s co-author, with whom I stayed. I was once again reminded of the calming and optimistic effects music can have not only on an individual, but on an entire culture that is willing to embrace an atmosphere of perpetual happiness.

Saturday afternoon we arrived at Festival Pier just in time catch Bassnectar working the thousands in attendance into a spontaneous dance party with his progressive form of techno and energetic stage presence. I have never been one to get into a live performance from a DJ--preferring the visibility and growth of live music—but Bassnectar’s connection with the crowd and obvious passion for his music gave me a new appreciation of electronica.

After the set I was finally able to take a tour of the pier, and was absolutely fascinated by the cultural community that had literally sprung up overnight in what would normally be an empty parking lot. There was a large tent filled with a wide variety of vendors offering the drug-filled crowd an array of psychedelic jewelry, t-shirts, and art to explore. There were bars offering those who lacked a legitimate tailgate session (but didn’t lack a fat wallet) Captain and Cokes for seven dollars a pop. The scene was social; a steady buzz of conversation filled the venue and few seemed not to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. The crowd was a demographic I was not familiar with but one that I quickly found I related to and understood. The urban jam scene would be my most accurate portrayal. A crowd of college kids with a passion for both Phish and Notorious B.I.G. Oversized-sunglass-wearing liberals with Grateful Dead t-shirts fashionably complimenting their brand new flat-brimmed New Era hats, worn sideways with a confidence that borders on arrogance. City hippies. It was all new to me, and then I was introduced to the culprit behind the culture: The Disco Biscuits.

They came on and immediately broke into a mind-blowing jam of Wizards of Winter, beginning the song as a well-structured piece of classically-influenced music and evolving into a danceable soundscape filled with synthesizer solos and the pulsing energy that has become the bands trademark. The musicianship was staggering, the dedication of the fans admirable, and the show powerful. Before I knew it, I found myself completely immersed in the “trance-fusion” experience and was dancing like a crazed tripping hippie at Woodstock. And I wasn’t alone. By the time The Biscuits finished their second set I was drained of energy and thinking that my $40 ticket had already paid itself off.

And then there were The Flaming Lips. I was expecting a bizarre band with an emphasis on experimentation, but never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined what was to come.Thats right, a crowd-surfing lead singer encapsulated in a plastic bubble. A twenty foot Santa Clause dancing opposite an equally enormous alien. Full frontal nudity for the entirety of a song as five women danced around on stage showing their love of being naked (though unfortunately not their love of razors). Enough confetti to make New Years in Times Square look like a five year-old's birthday party. The Flaming Lips did not put on a concert, they put on a circus. A spectacle of dramatic proportions. It was a celebration that originally filled me with a spontaneous feeling of youthful happiness, but as the show went on my fatigue compounded with the lack of quality music to make me annoyed at the bands performance. The headliners were as original as they come, but the priority of placing sensory overload over auditory delight quickly elevated my disappointment.

Following Saturday’s show we returned to the homey suburban residence of John and continued the celebration into a deep drunken summer slumber. Sunday morning we ventured into some (semi) secret hills of fairmount park before returning to the show, but I think I’ll let John get his ten cents in and give our loyal readers (if such a description exists) his own account of the weekend, including one of his soon to be famous reviews of Lotus' dramatic closing to the festival (visit magnetmagazine.com and check out John’s first published review of The Black Keys).

p.s. Don't trust hot tripping hippie bitches who say they are cold with your favorite shirt, even if they promise to bring it back at the end of the show

All photos c/o Screamin' Andy Beam

Analysis of Integrity

I was approached with a deep, simple, yet disturbing definition of the word integrity. Integrity is when Beliefs equal Actions. While I would love to describe myself as a man of integrity, by this definition I would be knowingly lying. Actions are easy enough to identify, but beliefs are not quite as straight forward. When does an opinion transform into a belief? Do your beliefs determine your actions or vice versa? I don't think there is a correct answer, and in fact find truth in both possibly conclusions. To a loyal vegan, I would find it hard to argue that their beliefs didn't directly influence their (unnecessary) herbivore actions. To a profiting entrepreneur, I would argue the opposite. In order to maintain the financial comfort their actions have provided them, it seems logical that they would mold their belief system to suit the ethics necessary to live that particular lifestyle. Despite being polar opposites, both of the above examples could be accurately described as having integrity. For myself, the dilemma is that my beliefs are not developed to the point where they have the power to dictate my actions. Instead, my actions are in a scary way predetermined. Watch this movie because it got rave reviews. Go to this college because it looks good on a resume. Where this cologne because the women love it. These are not actions based on belief but rather on mass persuasion. And enough mass persuasion creates mass belief, tailored to the norms of society. I am personally trapped halfway in this belief propaganda machine; my actions directly contradict my beliefs. How is this logical? My beliefs cater to the whole while my actions cater to myself. It's kind of like a Democrat trapped in a Republicans body. No matter how much I believe in the evils of greed, I find myself wanting more. Needing more. Taking more. It is the downfall of the human race. The invisible hand according to Adam Smith. The decision now becomes, do I change my actions or change my beliefs? Because I sure as hell need a little integrity.

Old Folks

Here's something I picked up from Some Velvet Blog, aka Bruce Warren, assistant general manager for programming at XPN.



If you haven't figured out that this room full of social security-sucking bluegrass musicians are actually playing a cover of one of the biggest songs of 2007, here is the original version:

3/17/08 Journal Entry: 1st day/night of 48 hour desert solo

Well, this is it. The Edward Abbey experience. 48 hours alone in the desert. Silence. Solitary confinement in the most unconfined landscape I have ever laid eyes on. Time does not exist. Distractions lost; swept into a distant corner of the mind that surrendered to the present. The sun just set below the horizon line and casts pastel tones of orange and yellow, turning the wispy clouds in the sky a deep purple against their Easteresque background. A jet coasts smoothly away from the canvas of the departed sun, as if it knows it is not wanted in this moment of surreal beauty. I sit on a ledge of sandstone, the snaking bed of an ancient river 300 ft below. That river was the culprit of the beautiful disaster that is laid before me. Beside me. Across from me. Above me. The landscape is a place of defect: rock crumbling to the will of the wind, water evaporating to the will of the sky, society submitting to the will of the desert that allows no such intrusion. Sheer cliffs surround me in all directions, browns and reds jutting downward, the first line of defense from the burdens of modern man. A coyote howls in the distance, I look across the vast openness that separates us and allow the mournful sound to serenade me into my surroundings. I am in a place and state never before experienced. The moon to my back, a ghostly gibbous sitting alone in the Eastern sky. The chill air engulfs me, yet another layer is not in order. As the brightness is slowly seeped out of the canyons, the remnants of the morning snow make themselves evermore distinct. Patchy blankets of white stretch across the sloping ridges at the base of the cliffs, spotted with Bonzai-like trees and solitary shrubs--surprised at the unexpected encounter. The Western sky is now a sea of orange and red stretching across the blackening horizon line. The moon grows brighter and Sirius has made its appearance directly in front of me, foreshadowing what is to come. The coyote halts his cries, and a peacefulness settles over the day. The night. What a magical transition at the tip of the mesa. Ten feet in any direction would surely lead to my death, yet I feel no fear. I wish to be nowhere but here.

My Morning Jacket on SNL

I'm not the first to say it, but My Morning Jacket is the best young rock band in America. I saw them in December '06 at the Electric Factory and they blew my mind. The Philadelphia show was specially billed with post-jam/prog. jazz titans, The Benevento Russo Duo and pre-iTunes megastars, The Slip. I'm scheming to get up to Manhattan on June 6th to see MMJ headline one of their largest shows to date - Radio City.

If you don't want to stick it out through this whole clip, just skip ahead to -1:46 and prepare for a solid minute and a half of shredding; it's something most of their contemporaries (save Nels Cline and Wilco) are too cool or too scared to try these days.

Welcome Back // The Harvest

It's been far too long. Blame finals, blame mixed feelings about moving home, blame anxiety about summer employment. Let's get past all of that. Nate is back from his semester of adventure in the Rocky Mountains and I'm sure (or desperately hoping) that he'll transcribe some of his high altitude journal entries in the coming days.

Here is a piece I just had published in the spring issue of Alt. Magazine. For those of you in State College, go pick up a free copy at City Lights, Webster's, or Chronic Town, among other places. We'll be passing them out in the HUB during the first week of fall classes and hopefully at some local shows during the fall semester. It really does look pretty incredible, and I couldn't be happier to call myself a part of it.

So anyways, here we go. Starting off a hopefully productive summer of blogging for the five of you who read this. Here's looking at you, Em.

The following is a first-person account of the first night of the 2007 Chuck's Farm Harvest Festival. Every last detail is true.

The Harvest

The offers ring out as we walk along the beaten path toward the clearing of the meadow. Aside from the headlights of incoming cars, the road is pitch black. The harvest moon, full and bright, glides in and out of patchy clouds. On occasion it shines white like a fluorescent light bulb, illuminating the 44-acre farm and more than one thousand visitors on this September night.

Chuck Roeschen is not your average farmer. He is the ringleader of a sustainable community that has refused to die despite countless efforts by conservative Centre County residents and law enforcement agents. Each year he holds free music festivals on his Brush Valley sunflower farm, the largest of which takes place in the fall to celebrate the Harvest Moon.

“The cops came last year and tried to shut us down,” says Chris, the farm’s main vendor at the September 28th State College Farmer’s Market. “But there’s really nothing they could do, there were three of them and a couple thousand of us.” He pauses for a moment and shakes his head with a big smile. “They left after five minutes.”

In addition to fresh sunflowers, basil, garlic, and assorted greens, Chris has a stack of pink flyers on today’s table with directions to Chuck’s Farm. He is handing them out and answering questions to curious Penn State students walking through the market on Locust Lane. “It’s totally free. You just show up and bring what you need,” he says with a smile. From our brief meeting, I can tell that Chris is one of Chuck’s many followers, perhaps even his protégé. Like Chuck, Chris has long blonde dreadlocks and a scraggly beard.

Hours later the sun is gradually setting along the mountains of Highway 192, just outside of Centre Hall. A mere thirty minutes from the ever-expanding bubble of State College lies farm land that seems untouched since the late 1800s. It is as humbling as it is frightening.
“If you hit a dog out here, would you stop and check on it or just keep going?” asks my roommate Lloyd from the passenger seat. I shoot him an angry stare.

“Keep going,” I reply. “Do you know what these country hicks are like?” Our conversation is more joking than ignorant or xenophobic, but nevertheless the thought sits with me. The eerie melodies of Wilco’s A Ghost is Born echo through the speakers of my Jeep as we speed along the empty highway. “I don’t want to be out here any longer than I have to.”

It’s an especially windy night and the temperature will dip below sixty degrees. Perhaps because we are lost in conversation, or because the wind knocks the sign down, we end up thirty minutes beyond our destination, somewhere around Bald Eagle State Park. When we finally correct our mistake and make that sharp hidden turn off Highway 192, I sigh a deep breath. A long dirt road guides us onto the farm where dozens of cars, tailgates, and campsites line the grass.

The now 90-minute trip has fried our nerves and we don’t even bother to set up camp. I pop the trunk and dive into the Styrofoam cooler. We each gulp down two Bud Lights, load up our pockets, and head down the road.

The concert is slated to start at 7:30pm, but it is now 8 o’clock and the stage is bereft of instruments and musicians. We head back toward the camping area with many psychedelic solicitations along the way. There’s no one-way to describe the passing people. If one has long hair and an oversized beaded drug rug, the next has jeans and a Penn State sweatshirt. Despite such differences, there is an undeniable feeling of community on the farm tonight.

At 9:00pm a steady stream of cars is still filing in. A sea of tents surrounds the main road in every direction for fifty yards, illuminated by two-dozen or so campfires. We mosey over to a friend’s site toting snacks and my set of bongos.

I take a seat next to the fire and play along with the guitar player’s understated melody. The flame dies down and Lloyd fans it with a collapsed case of Miller Lite. A can of Pringles is passed down the line from one side and a roasting bowl from the other. I envy the lucky camper who gets to chase his toke with a handful of chips.

These patterns continue for close to an hour with neighboring campers wandering over to say hello. More guitars appear, as do various cases of light beer, each cheaper than the one that preceded it. One particularly generous guy even sends a spliff around the circle, now twenty people in circumference. At 10:30 the concert still hasn’t started and no one seems to notice.

“Have you guys been down to the Kitchen yet?” asks a man in a Penguins hockey jersey.

“The what?”

“The Kitchen, down around the big trees off the main road. There’s a shit-load of free food!”

With our munchies and curiosity at full peak, Lloyd and I leave the camp to go in search of this food with that tasty adjective, “free.” Down the road at the base of several tall pines runs a narrow pathway lit by garden torches. The path twists and bends for about a hundred feet before we step through a wire archway and join a circle of people at a large fire. There’s a table with assorted bottles and spices surrounding the biggest stir-fry pot I’ve ever seen.

Lloyd scrunches his nose. “What’s in it?”

A short woman shines a flashlight in our direction. “It’s all veggies, rice, and whatever extras people donate. Do you have anything to contribute?” She has a hunched back, big glasses and stirs the pot like a witch over a caldron.

“Ummm…not right now,” Lloyd replies.

“Well go ahead,” she says, “Take a handful.”

“Are there any plates or bowls?” he wearily asks.

The woman shakes her head and goes back to her methodical stirring. We turn around and face the fire pit where a small group is grilling burgers and hot dogs.

“Bun?” asks a man with a smile. We each take one and watch the meat roast over the open flame. Two hot dogs and a few introductions later we leave the kitchen and make our way back through the woods.

“You!”

Two hands grasp my shoulders: my deadhead TA from last semester.

“What are you doing here!?” she shouts. Her eyes are wide and vacant like a raccoon.

“I’m here for the show,” I tell her, “What are you doing here?” She looks around. “Are you tripping?” I quietly ask.

She looks around excitedly.

“Yeah! Are you?”

“No.”

“I ate some mushrooms that my dad found in our backyard! I gotta go, bye!” She stumbles down the path before I can say anything more. A part of me wants to find someone to go help her, but I realize there are no medics, no security, nor police officers within a mile. We move on toward the stage.


State College’s funk/rock quintet, The Man, is in the heat of their set at the stage on the big hill. We maneuver our way into the audience just in time to hear an extended improvisational jam coming to a close. The band takes a breath then bursts into a cover of Kool & The Gang’s “Jungle Boogie.” The audience roars in applause and an uninhibited dance party comes to life.

At the end of their set, loud chants of “CHUCK! CHUCK! CHUCK!” sweep through the crowd and the grizzly man himself appears from the side of the stage. He stumbles about in search of a microphone and looks just as wide-eyed as my TA had back in the woods. His long hair shines especially grey under the stage lights and he has two neon glow sticks braided into his foot-long beard. At first glance he appears stoned and confused, intimidated by the wild crowd before him. He calls for silence and the flock obeys.

“I just have a quick announcement to make.” He suddenly has the poise of a politician (Note: Chuck Roeschen appeared on the ballot of the Democratic primary for the position of Centre County Commissioner this past year).

“We do this every year to foster a sense of community. That’s what this whole thing is about. We are a community, and we celebrate that fact.” He pauses while people cheer and applaud. “And I think an essential part of building community is breaking bread, which is why we have the kitchen. I’d really like to see more volunteers down there over the course of the weekend, keeping things productive, making breakfast for everyone tomorrow!” The crowd cheers and nods their heads. He starts again, “We bought a hundred pounds of potatoes and…and…it’s not about that! It’s about breaking bread and being a community and that’s all I have to say!” He leaves the stage with a fist in the air and people circle around him to offer praise and ‘thank you’s.’ He shakes them off and stumbles down the hill.

“He’s got my vote,” I say to Lloyd with a smile.