LIVE JOURNAL: FREAKOUT FEST 2021 (Sunday)
Well, here we are again. Last day of Freakout, and at this point I knew the drill: arrive early, get a voice memo ready, shoot the bands, let the music rearrange my soul, and leave before Uber puts the screws on me again. I was becoming aware of two things: I had seen so much good music by now that I don’t know how I could ever listen to it all, and I was having the time of my life. Shame it has to end, but that’s what makes it so meaningful.
I did give myself a little more room for enjoyment – guess who got to stay until 11:00 PM this time? – and that allowed me a total of nine bands, all of which I’m happy I got the chance to catch. For everyone else, I hope you accept one more hefty apology. I’ll do my best to catch ya on the flipside.
Now, some words about the last few acts of the fest I happened to see. Check it!
All thoughts are mine; all experiences are mine. If you don’t like it, you can go[.]
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DEATH VALLEY GIRLS
Every night so far had been lightly tainted by one giant mistake on my part. Friday night I had to give my money to what’s now a glorified taxi service, and last night I thought I could handle the hunger from the pitiful amount of calories I ingested in the day. I popped by Shiki Sushi to scarf down some eats, but this meant that by the time I paid the bill I was later than I would have preferred to the Death Valley Girls set on the top floor of Salmon Bay. They were specifically the reason I wanted to get to the fest early tonight, because they’ve long been known for being an arbitrarily dope band. I know them mostly from Kevin Shields’ Lost in Translation OST and from Patty Schemel’s biography, which is one of my favorite books of all time.
By the time I made it into the building, the band were already on their last two songs. Sometimes the last few moments of a set can act as a summary, and I’m hoping that was the case here, because I got this odd communal sense from the way Bonnie Bloomgarden (which is an incredible name) put herself out there. She sat down and relaxed as she strummed, she hopped off stage to hug friends and (maybe) strangers, she sang to the crowd while she was in the crowd, and through it all the band laid down a blistering series of garage-rock tunes that demonstrated how well they’ve fine-tuned their musical rapport. Drummer Rikki Styxx (again, I refuse to believe that’s an actual name) pounded away as Larry Schemel provided the sole guitar, and Bloomgarden, her voice buttressed with the perfect amount of reverb, sang as if her voice were one foot off the cliff. Happy hour eats may have saved me for the night, but man I’m pissed I missed this set.
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PETITE AMIE
I don’t know if you’re aware, but a significant part of this year’s Freakout Fest is essentially an extension of NRMAL, an independent rock festival based in Mexico that graciously curated a handful of acts from their home country, plus Columbia and Arizona, for the weekend. I think they did gangbusters, because some of the bast acts I caught this weekend (Margaritas Podridas among them) were from this group. From that logic, I knew this was another band I had to glimpse, and I was not disappointed.
Petite Amie, true to their name, have this laid-back sensual air about them, a little like Air and other downtempo acts of their ilk. There were a great deal of people on stage contributing to such a delicate sound: three singers, a drummer, two keyboards, guitar and bass, all shared between six people. The sound was layered and sumptuous, unconfined by a single mood or dynamic.
The set kicked off with a gentle strut that eventually kicked off into an intense rock coda (“Something they never tell you about headbanging is how much it’s going to hurt the following day,” singer Isabel Dosel cracked afterward). These were compelling, multifaceted songs with false stops, hypnotizing breakdowns, an intriguing eclecticism and the occasional odd time signature that kept me firmly situated there even as other venues were calling my name. Fantastic stuff.
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WARREN DUNES
Here’s another notable name I had yet to familiarize myself with. Having done almost no research going into Conor Byrne, I wasn’t sure what to expect, because the name was all I had, and a name like Warren Dunes doesn’t give anything away.
Warren Dunes, as it turns out, was a trio: the brothers Cortese (drums, guitar) and a woman named Julia Massey who just happened to be clad in a Sonics vest and welding two keyboard simultaneously. Perhaps because she was the band’s lead vocalist or because she was, again, playing two keyboards at the same time (one on each side, as if she were a gymnast), but she drew my eye the entire time.
Now, if you guessed that a band with just a guitar and drums and multiple frickin’ keyboards at the same frickin’ time plays a little on the eclectic side, you would be correct. I honestly could not guess what kind of song was coming next; when I arrived, they had another vocalist that I didn’t catch the name of hyping up the crowd. The song afterward – a gentle ode to Ballard on just vocals and guitar – Massey dedicated to Sheldon, Conor Byrne’s open-mic ringleader for as long as I’ve been aware. Dominic Cortese’s syncopated drumming propelled “Talkin About That Burden,” which then gave way to a slow, swinging burden. In opposition to Massey’s statuesque stance at her keyboards, the band never stood in one place for two long, which I always find delightful.
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RAINBOW COALITION DEATH CULT
Rainbow Coalition Death Cult: like Warren Dunes, it’s a band name that doesn’t signify, really, the kind of music you’re in for. I certainly didn’t know what to expect when I stopped into Jupiter back in July, on the night of their very first show. What I found were local icons like Maya Marie (of Stereo Sauna) and Nicolle Swims (of Black Ends, more on that later) in a pyrotechnic clash of metal and sludge. This is not a band you see if you’re not prepared to sweat and slam against other bodies. I was, and I had the best time, although I may have drenched someone in beer by accident and felt super bad about that afterward.
Now that it’s months later, I was hyped to see if, and how, they’ve grown as a unit. The turnout was certainly impressive; clearly the word had gotten out about the intensity of their performances. On that front, they lived up to expectations. The set was punishing, as Marie and fellow vocalist Devin Wolfe threw the contents of their lungs across the room to an increasingly-agitated crowd. Blistering tempos (courtesy of drummer Zach Purtell) landed out of nowhere, excoriations were launched, and the mosh pit near the front of the stage grew in size like a sinkhole. It’s hard to capture in words exactly how intense the set was, especially considering its brevity – I could have sworn they played for only twenty-five minutes, tops. They could be a flash in the pan and it would be fine, but as a fan, I really hope this band continues to play and build themselves up. They’ve got something special here.
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BIBLIOTEKA
So far it’s been mostly up, down, up, down the stairs of the F.O.E. all night. I didn’t have a problem with it. It’s been a blustery, gustery few nights, after all.
This local quartet was up next on the docket, and the first thing I had noticed was that they brought a fan. Clearly this band endeavored to look good in photos: very smart for a fest covered in cameras. The music itself was simple but effective: classic punk chords, classic new wave leads, four-by-four drum beats, a synth underlying, and a feel that begged for a time machine so we could all go back to CBGB’s in the late-70s. Mary Robins’ rose-colored, star-shaped sunglasses were the Maraschino on top.
Judging from the general reaction between songs, the crowd were fully entranced. It was hard not to be. Biblioteka play such an established, recognizable sound that you can easily link them to their claimed influences, essentially “pop-rock” in its purest definition. I caught a bunch of songs. including “Pretty Ugly,” that I’m assuming are going to be on an upcoming debut LP. That’s awesome; it gives me something to get excited about!
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MALA SUERTE
Back up the stairs (huff puff) to see Mala Suerte, an apparent supergroup that speak in heavy tongues. I recognized Jasmina Hirschl, who I spotted playing in AJ Davila’s band, behind the keyboard in her trademark sunglasses. Miguel Servin, from another NRMAL-offered band called Carrion Kids that I unfortunately missed, sat behind the drums and commanded lead vocals. The behemoth-like Ryan Granger (of Seattle’s The Grizzled Mighty) and festival organizer Guy Keltner (leader of Acid Tongue) rounded out the band on guitar and bass. This was top talent from top to bottom, and yes, it would indeed be three-for-three on bands ripping my face off at this particular location.
According to Jasmine Albertson’s piece on the band (via KEXP), Keltner’s years-long relationships with Mexico’s hard rock bands – the same ones that eventually contributed to this year’s diverse lineup – also helped lead to the formation of this band. Though they can’t have been playing together for that long, this was a well-oiled, monstrous act. Servin’s vocals were intense, a perfect accompaniment to Granger’s blues-laden licks and Keltner’s murky, distorted bass. Keltner in particular was a live wire on stage, flailing and bouncing and acting as an audience surrogate for the energy he wanted to summon.
The audience, by the way, could not contain themselves. Halfway through the set the entire front half of the floor had become a wriggling mass of bodies in varying degrees of ecstasy. I wanted to join, but I needed that rented lens intact, and that was not a guarantee in a crowd as amped up as this. By the end of the set, I was sweaty just from the presence of so many bodies in the building. This was one of the most intense sets I’ve been lucky to be a part of – I may have missed a lot of sets worth seeing, but I’m glad I saw this one.
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BLACK ENDS
Again, the incessant conundrum of a music festival: which set do I get to see in the small amount of time allotted to me? There were FOUR acts all playing at the same time, and I found myself paralyzed by choice. Tired and sweaty, I opted to take the comfortable route and head back down the stairs (huff puff) to attend a set I knew I would enjoy. They are, after all, one of my favorite bands in Seattle.
If you’ve been following this blog since last year, you know that I dig Black Ends hard. Their most recent EP, released in the spring of 2020, hit all the right buttons for me and earned its spot on my Best of 2020 list. When I saw them live for the first time at Neumo’s in August, it was an additional revelation, and since then I’ve made sure to pay attention to any developments in (hopeful) anticipation for a debut studio album. The thing that gets me about the self-described “gunk-pop” band is that, besides the fact that they’re talents in their own right, they integrate grunge in a way that feels genuinely novel and unique to them. That’s where my hype springs from, anyway.
Their Freakout set was exactly what I needed in the moment: a familiar setlist of tunes performed with the confidence of a locked-in lineup. This time, however, I got photos. Through the observant lens (hah) of my viewfinder, I could pay attention to Jonny Modes’s deft, quick sticking on “Sellout” and Ben Swanson’s murky, measured bass notes on the bluesy “Maybe When.” Swims remained in complete control of their guitar tones, commonly clammy and detuned as if their strings were diseased tentacles. They also have that voice. I don’t know the journey they took to get to that vocal delivery, but it works so well as the twine tying together the whole package. I need a new record. Sorry, y’all. It’s a problem.
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THE SHIVAS
My night was at the beginning of its end, so it was, you guessed it, back up the stairs once again (huff puff) to catch another band I had been hyped to see since I heard them on the radio. It’s The Shivas! Those purveyors of 60’s song styles, those titans of tunefulness, the connoisseurs of iconic classics. I should be a wrestling announcer.
Rock is in and on everything nowadays, so from my experience, you have to both work hard and be naturally adept to mainline actual rock n’ roll without sounding like a watered-down version of sixty-year-old acts. Maybe that’s why so many people love this band. They do it right. On record they’re produced exquisitely, with just the correct amount of vocal slapback and instrumental warmth to sound like a classic act without sounding like a specific classic act, you know what I mean? And these records are full of songs that rock in ways that both reflect the past and learn from it.
This also extends, as I learned, to their live shows. Drummer Kristen Leonard and mop-haired Jared Molyneux make for an engrossing dynamic (and Molyneux’s mop hair makes for a fun time behind the camera) as both trade off vocal duties and harmonize across the band’s ultra-streamlined, ultra-engaging melodies. Leonard and bassist Eric Shanafelt made a solid rhythm section, allowing Molyneux and additional guitarist Jeff City to paint golden over the place.
I hate to sound like a broken record, but this was the fourth success I’d seen up in this specific spot tonight and the third time overall I felt the floor might give way. Towards the end, Leonard stepped out from behind her drums to give herself room to move, dance and lay down a ballad or two. It felt like an invitation for the audience to let go, and as they responded in unconscious dance, I wished I could stay longer. But with the pumpkin coach fast rotting, I packed up the gear and prepared to see one more set, leaving the Portland band to spread their magic dust over the crowd.
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TRES LECHES
Tres Leches are local legends, and so the fact that I had yet to see them live was an error I needed to correct posthaste. Actually, that’s untrue. I have seen them live. It was back doing the ‘Zoid, but they were playing one of the house venues, and I was really really far away and behind a picket fence. This situation couldn’t be more different; I would be spending some up-close-and-personal time with the group, all five of whom were already lined up on the Conor Byrne stage as I walked in.
It quickly became apparent that these punks are local legends for a reason. It’s not just that they’ve been playing together for years and constantly, although that makes sense considering how confidently they worked as a unit. It’s also the sheer immensity of their energy. It seemed as though whenever the band weren’t in front of the microphone (and I believe every single one of them had one, in case of a spontaneous group shout) they were in the middle of some violent motion, desperate to claw whatever needed to escape out of themselves. In the eye of the storm stood Ulises Mariscal, who occasionally hoisted the mic stand into the crowd to collect their voices, or ripped the mic from the stand completely and swung it like a kusarigama. On the fringes, guitarist Alaia D’Alessandro writhed and James Bonaci leaped, teeth bared, from the platform.
It’s not just for show. The band’s music is urgent but complex, layered but uncomplicated. A track like “Leaving my Light On” has two separate tempos, two false stops, and two sets of vocals, and yet its hooks land easily. The D’Alessandro-led “What Are You Doing” crosses a doo-wop melody with a series of staccato yawps, all attitude. That song, and many others, were just a blast to witness live. If Freakout Fest had to end for me eventually, Tres Leches gave me as phenomenal an ending as I could’ve hoped for.
That’s it for the Fest! If you’re still reading and you enjoyed it all, please, please, please do me a favor: go check out all the bands described in these posts, and also go check out the bands I didn’t see. That means all the NRMAL bands I missed – Los Honey Rockets, Carrion Kids, Reposado, Cerrero, the lot of them – as well as the locals I opted to skip in favor of rarer acts. They were all playing the Fest for a reason.
See ya at the next shows, decklings!
Lives in Seattle, terrible diet, loves music, has hope for people