Ain't nothing but a rock'n'roll blog: For Real Fest
By Dani Purcell, Staff Writer
April 27, 2008 | 12:17 p.m.
This Saturday, The Union hosts Athens' fourth annual For Real Fest, which comes equipped with several fantastic components: a healthy dose of punk rock, a vegan dinner and your friendly neighborhood blogger.
12:04 a.m. -- Sick Fix
I've rushed back to my dorm from the Union to blog this last entry, still dazed. Sick Fix's set was laden with stage dives and slam dancing -- and the vocalist was entirely generous with mic grabs. The best I can describe it, in blatant terms, is a term fondly coined, "eargasm," or audio orgasm.
The brilliant rush of energy and passion in both the musical and lyrical content is fantastic, and the crowd reacted with equal enthusiasm. Sick Fix played a short set -- all five songs from its 2006 demo, and the rest from its 7 inch -- which highlighted the band's ability to charge the audience into an explosive mass of moving bodies in such a short time frame.
The vocalist made the band's sense of awareness and purpose clear by explaining her feminist perspective to the audience, which appeared to respect her views with approving shouts and clapping. The entirety of my time during this set was spent smashed against the stage, headbanging apprehensively screaming every word from the demo I could remember. I can really appreciate a band with song titles like , "Thanks for telling me I'm fat (like I don't know already)" or "Scum."
I have a habit of applying the label of "cathartic" to a select few bands, but I can earnestly say Sick Fix is one of them. The name, which I assume is the straight-edge refute of substance abuse, is undeniably accurate; for lack of better term, Sick Fix's live sets are "fucking sick."
8:34 p.m. – Endless Mike and Beagle Club
Pennsylvania’s Endless Mike and the Beagle Club just began its set, and the combinations of reverberations, tambourines and happy-go-lucky drum beats has got me shimmying in my seat already.
The band combines synth-pop, folk punk and straight rock and roll, with an array of extra percussion (can anyone say, “maracas?"), a banjo and a hefty dose of vocal harmonies scattered throughout its tracks.
Might I add, several of its members (or not?) are shirtless, dancing and tapping away at their instruments. The curious mesh of many styles, including the singer’s whining-screaming-scratchy-rock (I am assuming this is “Endless Mike”), and the switching between these styles, makes them extremely difficult to categorize exactly.
The singer explains that he now “has a kid.” The next song manages to combine folk-punk-style guitar and lyrics so sincerely adorable it’s almost disgusting: “It’s too early to assign this kid a gender,” and “I’m gonna bounce it on my lap until it hurls.”
Better yet, another set of lines proudly claims: “We’re gonna teach you how to swear/That you should never trust the mayor.”
The Beagle Club is executing its last song. Excuse me, I’ve got to go boogie in the most absurdly sincere '50s fashion possible.
7:34 p.m. -- Wartorn
Wow. Just, wow. Wartorn's For Real Fest performance was nothing short of amazing: this Minneapolis outfit's precision and talent left my skin crawling after its first song. With the technical skill and melodic quality of metal yet the progressions and style of crust, Wartorn pleased a multitude of audience members.
The singer effectively introduced each song with a short explanation – including one in which he proclaimed, “This [song] is about when people trade drugs for religion and grow 10 times more stupid.”
Another song detailed the band’s real-life encounter in which the members attempted to help some hitchhikers, who later attempted to kill them. One, which he said was a cover of The Beach Boys, sounded frighteningly like Aus Rotten. I mean that in the best way possible.
Honestly, I just can’t do justice to Wartorn. Seriously, they’re incredible. If you’re down with blast beats, circle pit beats, fantastic guitar and inflatable sharks being tossed across the mosh pit, by all means, check out Wartorn's music.
6:36 p.m. -- Harms x Way
On a journey to avoid Masakari's set (sorry, guys), replenish my cigarettes and water stash and mend the problems between Safari and Speakeasy, I missed a hefty chunk of Harms x Way’s set – but I’m fairly sure from the final few minutes I did catch, I can accurately sum it up in two words: holy shit.
This band is solid – both ways. The lead singer is an attractive fellow with a tattoo of two crossed mallets (an infamous Judge logo) on his left shin and two other tattoos on the backs of his calves. He is the reincarnate of Hercules. His pectorals and biceps are the size of a small child’s skull, and the strength of his voice matches his appearance.
As a unit, Harms x Way sounds traditionally tough guy: low-tuned instruments (can anyone say drop C?), guttural vocals and breakdown-laden jam sessions. I’m impressed, and by the looks of things, the audience was, as well.
Ray Houska attributed the brutal cacophony of Harms x Way in a previous interview, and his assessment was correct.
Oh, and by the way, the vegan potluck was excellent.
5:17 p.m. -- We March
The lead singer of We March tries to explain the legacy of his bass guitar: “I bought it from some hippie for 90 bucks; he got me drunk and stoned.”
For this set in particular, the likeability factor lies in We March’s clever, languid comments, distributed between songs. “I don’t know what I’m talking about, man. I’m Maximum Rock and Roll’s ‘Most Hated,’” the singer rambles. “We’re not even going to march about it! We’re going to rent some of those wheelchair carts from Kroger’s and just go down the sidewalk!”
The members of We March are drunkenly trying to prove themselves to the audience. “This song’s called, ‘Happy birthday, Curtis, You’re a fascist,’” the vocalist bellows, and the band rips into an old-school punk-style song in a dancey 4/4 beat. “Curtis” is identified as the guitarist. It’s his 27th birthday. The song finishes, and the amps are familiarly filled with words once more.
“This kid didn’t get candles or nothing! No lighters, like it’s 'Free Bird.' BUY! HIM! A DRINK!” the vocalist demands. The demands continue as a preface to We March’s super-speed version of Weird Al’s “Dare to Be Stupid.” And even after the “Dare to Be Stupid,” We March continues to offer its guitarist birthday wishes.
4:30 p.m. -- "The Beginning"
I've just arrived at the Union for the day, and the outside is swarming with band members, hipsters and show attendees. I've received my bracelet for the day without a hitch. Delay just finished playing, and the vegan potluck outside has commenced.
So far, I've missed I Hate This, and I'm disappointed. After headliner Triceratops tossed Kraft Singles and sprayed the crowd with bottles of water and silly string last night, I'm not exactly sure what to expect. From here, I will attempt to catalogue the day's happenings, and unknowingly try to operate my friend's Mac Book.
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