Does anyone remember ANY Memphis in May BBQ or Music Festival that didn’t get soaked? I’m talking any year. Tell me when it was, because I’ve forgotten. This was what it looked like after we got hit with a front that brought so much rain we couldn’t see the bridge from the tent. And did I take a picture of that to show you? Uh–NO WAY! I’m looking pretty rough already, just from being caught in the sprinkle and I was not getting out in the downpour.

But here’s the aftermath. I’m glad to report that the skies are clear(ish), and that I’m off to a tent that’s serving up seafood at 6. After that, catch me on the wine blog at 7.

the contest for “who can have most women dance on stage with him.”

Usually that honor goes to a rapper.

I guess it doesn’t hurt if you play 10 or 12 shows.

Whatever, he still wins.

Internet, I’ve discovered why I don’t care so much for jam bands. I was watching Umphreys McGee just a bit ago, and I was really enjoying all the pasty white folks doing their swaying pasty white folk dance (you know the one), when it occurred to me that I had been listening to the same song for at least ten minutes. Except that it sounded nothing like the song that I had begun listening to and in fact could have become three or four different songs but was still the same godforsaken song that it was ten minutes before. And then I began to wonder if the song was ever going to end, or if UM just plays one incredibly long song per show. And then I started to get stressed out. Because don’t they need to take breaks so they can reach up and wipe the sweat from their brows? What if a bee landed on the drummer’s nose? What if they picked a song to play for their one-song set and no one liked it? What if people left before the end of the one and only song? How would they ever know how it ended? WHAT ABOUT CLOSURE?!?

This is why people drink at these festivals: KILL THE BRAIN CELLS, KILL THE STUPID THOUGHTS.

Tom Lee Park is a fragmented mess of smelly mud and trampled grass today. I’ve seen lone flip-flops left behind, stuck in the mud — annual sacrifices to the outdoor festival gods. Where do all the abandoned flip-flops go? I’m sure they just chuck ‘em with the rest of the random crap people leave behind, but I’m thinking there’s a higher calling for them. (A good flip-flop is a terrible thing to waste.) Something akin to One Cold Hand. We’ll call it One Muddy Foot. And all the abandoned flip-flops from the previous MusicFest will be on display the following year in a tent next to George Hunt’s art. Are you listening, MIM organizer people? Call me. I’m full of horrible ideas. And I’ll give most of them to you for free.

I’m sitting here in the air conditioned media trailer beside videoblogging genius Jon Sparks, who’s chowing down on some BBQ, beans, and coleslaw and crafting his next piece. He will probably kill me for telling you that (I plan to run away before he finds out), but sometimes I like to hold the curtain back so the people know what really happens behind the scenes at these things. I mean, besides all the boozin’ and torrid backstage love affairs between twentysomething journalists bloggers and the rock stars they blog about.

I’m sad that I missed the action yesterday; I was at my cousin’s wedding (live long and prosper, Keri and Randy!). So I didn’t get to see my girl Cat Power and my girls Tegan and Sara. But today I’m psyched to see my girl Aretha. Actually, I have to remark that this year’s festival has been a good one for female acts. Of course, I’ll be lining up to see Fergie so that I can mark the exact moment that she sets the movement back.

Oh, I kid because I love.

I made it down pretty early because I wanted to catch Umphrey’s McGee. Last year I went to see them based solely on the fact that their 10-year-old debut album is entitled Greatest Hits: Volume 3.

That’s funny enough to merit 40 minutes of my time.
And I think I remember really liking it.

But I’m a battered and ill-cared for old robot, and I hadn’t heard them before or since, so I need to check again. I can’t accurately access that data at this time. Please wait…

I’m also rigging this old deck up with some Photoshop action, so imagery is imminent.

The weather is beautiful.

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Yea. It’s this guy.

“So anyone going to the Disturbed photo pit?”

-”Oh, I’m in!” I reply.

These guys play all super serious, but I’m standing two feet in front of “dude” and giggling uncontrollably. I mean I guess this stuff gets a pass if you’re playing guitar hero, but I thought it was pretty silly in person.

They try to be all intense, but at the end of the day they still play Phil Collins and Tears for Fears covers.

It’s also great fun watching the kids beat the tar out of each other at a show like this.

You guys need to go see Mastodon or Lamb of God or something and just settle down.

Well… I still had fun. I usually do. Till tomorrow.
Cheers.

I would like to officially apologize to the Memphis Police Department for speeding here to catch Oracle and the Mountain. I’m sorry, but I only break the law when it’s really, really convenient for me.

I had to catch the only band here who is from Memphis, who is not a rap group, who is somewhat representative of what currently, really goes on around here. (In my tiny head/world anyway.)

I mean seriously, where is all the Memphis music?

(I’m not talking about the Jerry Lee Lewis kind.)

We didn’t have 40 minutes for the Noise Choir? or Vending Machine? or even Lucero or Snowglobe or The Glass or whatever? Adios Gringos maybe? Joint Chiefs? Mouserocket? The Warble? The Subteens? Arma Secreta? I’m nothing that even approaches a music critic, but come on!?

In my head its early Saturday afternoon at the Tom Lee Park BSMF, most people are waiting around on the headliners, and this is the best time to wander and discover something. Preferably from Memphis. We have such an amazing, diverse music scene and it’s lame for it to just lie here dormant at our big “showcase.” I guess Muck Sticky and Saving Able is what the kids want to see.

But I’m not so sure. Maybe I just don’t get it.

Anyway Oracle and the Mountain was great.
We should have more acts like that.

Now that I’ve gotten my single, solitary gripe out of the way; I’m going to have some fun.

Maybe wander over towards the Buddy Guy, Lou Reed area. You guys should come hang out. I hear the draw today is 60,000, but it doesn’t really seem that crowded to me…

(I have pictures, but this computer is bobo… you’ll have to wait. I know you can hardly stand it.)

A corn dog is calling my name.

Cheers.

What is sticky muck? So I’m this old dude trying to figure out the music festival. Last time I was at something like this the Grateful Dead was playing and everyone was doing a field of wheat dance - arms waving kind of mellow in the breeze like Kansas on a good day. Something tells me times have changed. But when I check out this act called Muck Sticky, the first thing that happens is two giant reefer torches start smoking on stage. That looks familiar, but it’s been a long time. Muck Sticky comes on stage between the monster joints looking like an annoying leprechaun who got into his kid sister’s wardrobe. I asked around about him. Listen to the audio. Click here. What is sticky muck?

Okay John  and I are over 50. So as we entered the park we immediately noted the proximity of the restrooms to the stages. (We briefly thought about the portable restroom biz as a  second career but we’re done trying to move up in the world.) We noticed that most of the facilities were marked for men or women. What ever happened to any port in a storm? Then John noticed that some had no gender designation at all and decided that those were for the undecideds.

The Roots cancelled. Ben Folds, too.

It rained and rained.

You couldn’t have kept me at My Chemical Romance if both my legs were broken. But I still had a blast. I spent most of my time shooting dumb little videos you can see here:

www.qik.com/commercialappeal

But here’s some pics, too.

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