THE BACK ROW

OH MY GOD, THE MURDER CITY DEVILS

(and the Back Row takes the stage)

Posted by: Bart Blasengame on May 28, 2009 at 10:30AM1 Comments

I have seen approximately one billion rock ‘n’ roll shows in my lifetime. That’s probably why my liver is pickled, my ears are basically deaf flaps of flesh, and my fingers have curled into permanent devil horns from overuse.

But I’d never before done the whole three-day rock and camp extravaganza. Which is to say I didn’t realize what a toll ten solid hours of loud music, curdling heat, and lots of beer can take on ones body. As the sun came up on Sunday morning I wanted to punch it in the eye. I couldn’t move. But after a little coffee and some broken bits of burned pancake, life seemed like it could go on.

The ladyfriend and I checked the showers, saw that it would be a two hour wait and decided to take hooker baths in a sink near one of the porta-johns. We brushed our teeth, ladled on another layer of deodorant and called ourselves clean.

At 11 a.m. we cracked the first beer of the day.

I’m sorry to say that I missed Viva Voce’s noon set, but sitting where we were on the hill overlooking the stage we could hear them. And they sounded wonderful.

After meeting up with our friends we wandered again to the mainstage to check out NYC’s Walkmen. They’re like the Strokes without the media adoration. Next up was Calexico, whose Southwestern-tinged rock fit right in to the hot, dusty landscape at the Gorge. The ladyfriend and I then made a sidetrip to the Yeti Stage to check out our very own The Builders and the Butchers. They were great, but since you can read out ravings about them in the June issue of the magazine, we’ll save our slobber.

Besides, it all seemed like some silly precursor to what happened next.

MURDER BALLADS

And what happened next was Seattle’s Murder City Devils. Anybody else remember these guys? Put out a couple excellent records on Sub Pop that mixed gritty punk, sea chanties, and blood-lusting lyrics shouted out like a really pissed-off man’s dying curse? I saw them play once in Austin and was blown away by their ferocious live show. They broke up in the early aughts and everybody assumed they were done. But over the last year or so they’ve been playing again. And up until now I’d missed them.

I am an idiot.

What the Murder City Devils did was show all the rest of the new wave of gently mumbling indie bands in attendance like Grizzly Bear, Animal Collective, Fleet Foxes, and Bon Iver what it was to truly put on a rock ‘n’ roll show. It was an educational beatdown delivered with shouts, roaring guitars, and the conjured spirit of the Stooges. It was loud, dangerous, borderline out of control, and easily the single best show of the festival.

I’m not sure if lead singer Spencer Moody was drunk, stoned, or just in a really bad mood but from the beginning he made it clear that he owned the stage and if you didn’t like it he would bite out your jugular. He shoved bandmates, berated the crowd, flipped off the VIP section, dry-humped speakers, threw the microphone stand, went on tirades about jocks and trust-fund kids, fell, stumbled, professed his love for homosexuals (driving home the point by full-on kissing any man within arms length of him), and on more than one occasion threatened to pull his manhood out for all to see.

You just don’t see this type of aggression anymore. Nobody knew what would happen from song to song. Would he really pull it out? Was he really that angry? Was he going to punch somebody? Would somebody punch him? And all this drama happened while they absolutely ripped it up, nowhere better than on their song “Idle Hands.”

T.V. on the Radio had the unfortunate task of following the Murder City Devils. But they pulled it off. Besides, after gnashing our teeth and flailing about for the previous hour, the crowd seemed ready to dance. Which we did, furiously, as New York’s best band weaved through its set of new wave stoner rock. The guitarist with the crazy hair and beard used to serve me coffee back in Brooklyn with eyes that seemed to scream of how much he loathed his job…now he’s headlining Sasquatch. That’s kind of awesome.

TIME TO GO TO WORK

After working ourselves into a lather, the ladyfriend and I had to get to work. Yes…I said work. Work you can do when you’re half in the bag and sunburned. Earlier in the day I’d met the festival’s publicist and he was a dear, sweet, very, very stressed and tired man. Over a few gulps of water he’d mentioned that Of Montreal—a psych pop band whose live show is like “The Nutcracker” on a bad acid trip—needed some thirty volunteers for their theatrical show. He asked if we were interested. After figuring that I’d never again get the chance to set foot on stage in front of a few thousand people, the ladyfriend and I agreed.

So when Of Montreal started their Wookie headlining set we were ushered backstage. Once there a shirtless man in a codpiece gave us our instructions. We would be led onto the stage in front of the drum riser by a man in a pig costume. We were supposed to act scared. Wary. At some point a man in a tuxedo with a tiger’s head would burst onto the stage, slaughter the pig guide and attack us. At this point we would freeze in a state of horror. Then the man in the tuxedo with the tiger’s head would manipulate us into various poses. Finally, our hero—another pig—would emerge, lift up the man in the tuxedo with the tiger’s head, bite out his crotch and save us. At that point we would unfreeze and wander off stage.

Simple enough, right?

And that’s pretty much what happened. With the crowd roaring we went out with the pigs and the tiger-headed tuxedo man and played our part. I made one crucial mistake though…when I froze I did so in a crouched position. As the song went on and the crowd screamed my legs were beginning to burn. And then the man in the tiger’s head came up to me, yanked me up like a rag doll, threw my arms over my head, and stood me straight. My hero. The crowd screamed.

And just like that—crotch biting completed—it was over. A fleeting moment of fame that I still can’t find on You Tube.

But it happened, I assure you.

Followers of crotch-biting pigs don’t lie.

Tomorrow: Day 3.