The day began the way all good days have recently - with a refreshing Vanilla Coke. After a pretty short subway trip to Coney Island, the age-old music or food debate played itself out in favor of food. After having some great coal oven pizza at Totonno, we went and caught a few songs from the Von Bondies - a garage/punk combo from Detroit. Ironically, I saw them open for the White Stripes last year when I was in Denver - a trip that caused me to miss the original Siren festival.
They were good but we were restless, so we went to ride the Cyclone. As we (Dan, Shawn and I) were walking by, the ticket guy literally gave us a discreet "Pssssst..." and waved at us to enter through the revolving red exit gate. After exchanging a few confused glances, we went in and he directed us to the next guy who asked for the $5 each entrance fee. It dawned on us: they were running a little under-the-table scam by having us bypass the ticket line and give the money directly to them (this money would be then be divided up by the 4 or 5 guys who were in on it, including the incredibly rotund guy who pulls the lever to release the trains, a sight to behold). So now we're standing on the platform but aren't in line, so the second guy directs us to just walk down and get in the middle of all the folks waiting to get on while he retrieves our change. So now we've just cut in front of about 100 people, none of whom can say anything because the guys running the show have authorized this. The only downside - besides being viewed as an asshole by those behind us - was our lack of choice in where to sit as I usually prefer the back.
As for the ride itself, the Cyclone is 75 years old this year but I'll take it over today's steel super-coasters any day of the week. The first drop is heart-stoppingly good, and it was a nice touch to hear the band playing over the screams of those speeding along with us (including the kid riding with Shawn who lost his hat). So the ride comes to an end, and as usual they are offering the "$4 to Ride Again" deal. But as we walk by the guy who took our money looks at us and says quietly "3 dollars to ride again". We politely declined.
We walked over to the second stage and saw a couple songs by Pretty Girls Make Graves. Musically I liked them well enough, but their lead singer didn't mesh well. She sounded like she was trying to channel Bikini Kill-era Kathleen Hanna and succeeding only some of the time. And even then it didn't seem to work. So we walked back down the Midway towards the main stage.
Among some art exhibitions there that we barely noticed our eyes were drawn to the big obelisk covered in pink vinyl. It was essentially a 12 foot version of the Washington Monument with the phallus-icity factor increased by about 53%. For some reason, soon to become clear, it was on wheels with handles on two sides. Upon closer inspection there were words, pressed into the fabric, one on each side. They said "Take" "Me" "With" & "You". After some brief deliberation, Shawn grabbed one handle and I the other and we walked it along past the Horse Racing and Skeeball games. Dan took a slew of pictures, but we had lost Marc so they aren't on his website recap. After about 200 feet or so we saw our friend Phoebe. As we talked to her, a woman came up to me and asked in all seriousness "Is that yours?" I told her it was not but that we were just taking it for a walk, at which point the other woman with her informed me that she was the curator of the exhibit and that we shouldn't be taking it. I apologized and noted that we had no intention of taking it, but were merely moving it figuring that someone else would move it again later, etc. "I thought it was some sort of performance art," I said. She replied that she thought the artist probably had meant for people to do what we had done, but that we shouldn't have done it. Suitably confused, I apologized again and said that I was just "following the directions". While applauding the fact that I had at least read what was written on it, she summarily took it away from us and with her friend walked it back to its original location.
We managed to find Marc again after having lost him during our Cyclone exploits and back on the Main Stage, Les Savy Fav had begun. Best description I can muster: A band playing spastic post-punk fronted by a balding, super-spastic, red-haired guy with a wild beard wearing early 80's style shorts who delighted in taking his (extremely sweaty) shirt off only to put it back on again 2 minutes later. During the last song he ran out into the sizable crowd, Bud in hand, whooping and sweating all over everyone. If that sounds appealing to you, you would have loved it. Personally, I found it fascinating.
In the interest of staying relatively close to the stage for the Shins, we decided to remain amongst the horde for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Dan had departed for the Boardwalk and we had lost our other friends to the madding crowd, so it was just Marc, Shawn and I. Marc went to replenish the much needed water supply and upon returning declared that Coney Island had become "Faux-hawk City" (Credit to our friend Matt Armey for coining the term, now in wide circulation). We spent the rest of the day on the lookout for the David Beckham inspired hair-do, and Marc has captured many of them in his photo essay. As for the band, Chris Larry likes to call them the "No No Nos", but I would tone that down to the "So So Sos". Nothing spectacular, but not cloying or otherwise abrasive.
In the between bands audience shift we managed to move much closer to the stage. Shawn found us after returning from Water Patrol, but our location shift meant that we wouldn't be able to meet Amy and Donovan until later. Regardless, the Shins were simply fantastic from the David Byrne-esque front man to the bass player straight out of central casting. They played most of the album (minus "New Slang" aka "The French Fry Song"), and a number of new songs that sounded great even given the festival setting. And the Keyboardist/2nd Guitarist easily won the best stage banter prize of the day. This is really becoming a lost art. Usually you get a "How's everyone doing?"' and then a few "Thanks to everyone for coming, and thanks to the sponsors and the other bands and the Academy, blah blah blah." I know the music is the main entertainment, but would it kill bands to have a funny story or two ready for the short breaks in the action? Something about how your van broke down or how the motel you stayed in sucked - anything at all (like that Guns 'n' Roses cover band that literally lost their tour van somewhere in Missouri Ð it got towed to a mechanic and they lost the address and couldn't find it. How great is that? Plus they were banned from the Hampton Inn in Harrisonburg, Va., my college town). So anyway, this guy gets major points for at least talking about riding the Cyclone and whatnot.
The beach ball throwing finally got to me here though. Anywhere from 3-10 balls were being batted about at any given time, but the crowd in no way seemed galvanized by them and having watched innumerable unsuspecting people have balls bounce off their heads, I found myself on the business end of one. Not anything to get upset over, but 10 minutes later when another projectile entered my airspace, I grabbed it and stomped on it to some enthusiastic applause from those around me. Dan, while separated from us, heard this funny line uttered by an audience member during the Shins set: "They call themselves the counter-culture? This sounds just like every other band."
The crowd seemed to have tripled in size at this point and it took a while to make our way to the back where we finally managed to meet up with Amy and Donovan. I realized that I've been chewing the same piece of gum for about an hour and a half in an effort to quell the giant nic fit that the day is becoming, and so Shawn's suggestion of an Italian Ice seemed like a capital idea. On the way we ran into Justin (shirtless and on his way to what will become one hell of a sunburn) who informed us that Dan was unable to find anyone and has therefore decided to go home. Never mind that he just found Justin and would have found us had he stuck around for another 10 minutes. Amply fortified by my cherry ice and a Miller High Life, I was now ready to do some serious sitting a plan that was thwarted once the Donnas started and we decided to move up again. Amy and Donovan's preferred vantagepoint from near the bathroom line (where Amy had earlier managed to thwart an attempted bag theft) was not particularly enticing, so Shawn and I moved back into the swarm while Marc beat his retreat to the shade of the Break Dancer.
Let me take this brief opportunity to say that what Coney Island lacks in comfort and modern conveniences, it more than makes up for in character and availability and quality of food and beverages. The people there represent every walk of life, questionable fashion choice and queer smell known to our society. And besides the world famous hot dogs, you can get all manner of sea and land creatures battered and deep fried to perfection, with a wide selection of beer available to wash it down, plus all your standard carnival dessert fare - candy apples, funnel cake, cotton candy, etc. That's ambiance you just can't get at your Disney-fied, $42.95 admission price theme park of today. Miller High Life rules.
The Donnas are what they are (though they definitely do not warrant the Go-Go's comparison that came from an unidentified source), and some people absolutely love them. I think they're pretty fun, but really nothing to get too excited about. I agree with Marc that the best thing about them is that they're from Palo Alto. During the show, I was distracted from my faux-hawk gazing by the guy next to me. Carrying a guitar case and seemingly "dressed the part" of someone who was there for a reason, I could accept that he was unaware that Blonde Redhead had canceled and was replaced by Mooney Suzuki as the headliner on the Stillwell stage. I was somewhat Incredulous,m however, when he started asking me what Sleater-Kinney sounded like and whether they were any good. My own prejudices led me to wonder how such a poser had made it here to begin with, although I should have realized that anyone who would show up at something like this festival with their own instrument in tow was a little suspect.
So we made it to the last band, and we grabbed Marc and dragged him forward as far as we could go. But before they came out we were treated to the antics of "Cosmic Colt and Combustible Kiva". Armed with what I took to be some sort of saw and dressed in purple outfits with significant amounts of metal on them, they proceeded to touch the saws to metal shooting sparks in time with the music. My view was blocked, but I think some of the act had a sexual bent to it. Any spark-fetishists out there? The crowd seemed to be enjoying it, but when they finished, there was little applause to be found. Whether due to indifference or just fatigue I'm not sure. Marc loved it though.
Sleater-Kinney were as good as I remembered. Some of their more diehard fans were annoying given that there wasn't much room to be found, no matter how hard you pushed. Marc's attempts to wow/woo the girl with the video camera fell flat, but I do like the pictures he took of her LCD screen as she taped the show. As correctly predicted by Dan, they played a bunch of songs from their upcoming album (his theory being that no one could complain since it was a free show). And as usual I was pretty lukewarm to them on the first go around. I hated "All Hands on the Bad One" when I first heard it too but it might be favorite now. Any tepidness on my part was erased during the last 20 minutes, however, as they burned through a number of crowd and personal favorites and then came out for a 2 song encore capped by a particularly riotous version of "Call the Doctor".
It was long day, but we managed to make it and even meet up with everyone for the subway ride back to Brownstone Brooklyn. Marc's pager informed us that an explosion had left much of lower Manhattan without power. A little worrisome, but it didn't figure to affect our ride home. An ill-advised last minute switch from the F to the W train, however, resulted in a detour via bus in order to bridge the gap between the stops at Fort Hamilton Parkway on the W line and the 36th street stop R line. After a Chicken Shawerma from the Galaxy (Quest? Hut?) Café, and a couple of games of FIFA World Cup 2002, it was most assuredly time for bed as Sunday promised 8 hours of work, a barbeque in the park and the Beachwood Sparks at Mercury Lounge.
