The Maldives and Moondoggies Sing-Along ::: photo by Abbey Simmons

2009 was an inspiring year for live music locally. My favorite shows ranged from intimate living room gatherings to huge festivals. They spanned genres from horror punk to hip hop to Ballard Avenue twang. They were almost all exclusively local, though I’ve seen a number of great touring bands in 2009. My hometown is where my heart is musically. Lucky for me (us all really) it was a banner year for local music, with a new found energy in the air and coming off the stages of Seattle. 

Seeing that we have a couple weeeks left in 2009, I’m hopeful there’s still another show in my near future that will be worthy of being dubbed a favorite. Considering how great 2009 has been, it would surprise me more if that didn’t happen. While this list isn’t ennumerated, it is in a hierachal order of most cherished towards the top.

David Bazan in an Edmonds, WA Living Room

Bon Iver at Sasquatch

Black Eyes & Neckties Final Show - Halloween in Bellingham

Doe Bay Music Festival

Nurses in a South Seattle Living Room

The Moondoggies at The Blue Moon

 The Maldives Three Night Stand at The Tractor

The Lonely Forest, Telekinesis, and The Globes at the Showbox

 Blue Moon’s 75th Anniversary Shows

The Rural Alberta Advantage at The Sunset

 The Ironclads Final Show Before Hiatus

Widower with Pearly Gate Music at the Sunset

 Fresh Espresso at Seattle Weekly’s Reverb Festival

Hey Marseilles and all of the Bean Room Shows at Cafe Vita During Capitol Hill Block Party

J. Tillman and Pearly Gate Music at The Sunset

A Gun That Shoots Knives and Doctor Doctor at Neumos

Mad Rad at Sasquatch

The Ironclads CD Release Show with The Whore Hands and What What Now at Holy Mountain

D. Black CD Release Show at The Crocodile

The Lonely Forest at Bumbershoot

Though I don’t have a photo to include with the list Regina Spektor’s sold out show at the Paramount is also one of my very favorite concerts  of 2009.

Dead Confederate ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Day Three of Bumbershoot 2009 was characterized by rain. A whole lot of it. Macklemore’s first show of the day on the Fisher Green Stage met the brunt of it, yet a thick contingent of fans kept their hands raised and swaying, oblivious to the wet. Even with the weather, the enticement of Cold War Kids, Franz Ferdinand, Modest Mouse and Metric all in one day was enough for a healthy number of fans to still brave the festival. Those who did were treated to great sets from both the night’s mainstage acts (including supposedly one of Modest Mouse’s better sets in Seattle, ever).

Janelle Monae ::: Photo by Marcella Volpintesta for Sound on the Sound

An Adoring Crowd ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

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Metric ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be a full on “rockstar?” Sure you have. That’s why you listen to music, attend live shows, have silly band t-shirts and read absurd blogs by nerds who also like music. Don’t be embarrassed, it’s perfectly normal to fantasize about rock n’ roll or divahood. In fact it’s expected. So if you hold such pipe dreams close to your heart, I’m here to tell you that it’s your lucky day! Do you want to know why!?!?? I’m going to give you an inside peek at what it’s like to be Metric. Gentle reader, I’m forgoing the factual creation of this band. I’m bypassing all the boring six degrees of indie rock separation to give you Metric, if they existed in a vacuum.

Every day James Shaw (Guitars + Vocals), Joshua Winstead (Bass + Vox) and Joules Scott Key (Drums) wake up in their matching pajamas with the footies and collectively jump out of their triple bunk bed. What do you think they do? Brush their teeth? Write songs? Eat breakfast? If you guessed any of the aforementioned, you’re dead wrong. The first thing they do is create a three-man prayer circle and thank the good lord above that they somehow convinced Emily Haines (Vocals + Synth) to join their band. Without Haines igniting all who lay eyes on her, these dudes would have trouble playing your little brother’s birthday party. And even with their charismatically sultry lead singer, I still wouldn’t let them play my little brother’s birthday party.

For reasons that I could never explain, the crowd was into Metric from the initial notes of “Twilight Galaxy.” Let me apologize to those Metric fans who read Sound on the Sound if I got that opening number wrong. I’m a professional, I had to listen to a decent amount of Metric’s catalog just to figure out what that peculiar song was. Painstaking research that wasn’t a very pleasant experience if I do say so myself. The electronica aspect of Metric didn’t translate very well on the Broad Street stage. This may or may not have been due to the shitty sound problems that a majority of Broad Street stage performers experienced during the entire weekend. The Good Charlotte-like rage against the mall riffs that are a specialty of Shaw were paper thin and frail, thus ruining any electronic ambiance behind it. Keyboards and theremins utilized to keep things interesting, constructing breakdowns that brought to mind a non-threatening version of “Milemarker.” “Help I’m Alive,” a song that has a better name than content, sounded empty and vacant.

“All we get is…dead disco…dead rock n’ roll…”

The above line could some up this entire review, but it would be plagiarism. It’s a lyric from Metric’s song “Dead Disco.” Nothing screams legacy more than prognosticating your musical career in your own refrain. Pure genius. Geeks under the press tent and those wishing they were watching Shiny Toy Guns didn’t seem to pay any mind. Metric had returned to Seattle, dressed as mediocrity in a $3000 suit.

The lone musical highlight of their set was ultra-mega radio hit “Gold Guns Girls,” a song so predictable, it had better rock or else. The way Haines cooed those verses, my opinion of the band suddenly felt adulterous. Maybe I should let my guard down a little bit and hopscotch around like so many of those in my peripheral vision. Maybe all music isn’t meant to be listened to, sometimes it’s just background noise for blending fruit for smoothies. Maybe this music wasn’t music at all, but aural fun at it’s finest. My heart righted itself once the song ended. No more second guessing. This was a yawn-fest.

The hardest working, most interesting member of Metric may be their shadowy chain smoking guitar tech. He killed what seemed to be an entire pack of cigarettes while tuning and polishing an array of fine guitars that should be in my possession. The problem is you can’t really appreciate his hard work and occasional “oh brother” grin unless you have a press pass. Bummer.

One song. A guitar tech. A hot lead singer. A guitarist who ejaculates upon vibrato. A stiff drummer. A bassist not worth mentioning. You do the math.

Metric ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Metric ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Flickr: Metric at Bumbershoot 2009

Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band (I couldn’t find a Bumbershoot photo of them so here is a Sasquatch 2009 pic) :::  by Josh Lovseth

How do you feel about first impressions? Do you let them linger and define or do you shrug them off and occupy your mind with other things? If I think back to my freshmen year Psych 101 class, people tend to make up their minds about one another within the first two minutes of meeting someone. Personally, I tend to give a pass on lackluster first impressions because my own usually leave much to be desired.

I’m not saying Mt. St. Helen’s Vietnam Band are a band who gave a terrible first impression at Bumbershoot. They just didn’t leave me weak in the knees. As I look over the harshness of my notes on their set, I blame some of my acrimonious electronic scribbling on the fact that the stage time for their set was in contention with the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s performing. MSHVB frontman Benjamin Verdoes was almost overly apologetic for the scheduling conflict, as if he mistakenly arranged what time bands were playing throughout the weekend. I appreciated the sincere gesture, didn’t he know that him and his band were potentially fucking up my concert-goer flow? Shit.

And so the music began and it went something like this: Big cool harmonized riff, flaccid chorus, “What the fuck is this weird part? It came out of nowhere but I’m liking it,” flaccid chorus, big rock’n roll riff and now we’re done. For the record, I do remember one of their new songs being particularly cool because it reminded me of older Wolf Parade. They had a lot of riffs that reminded me of The Bloc Walkmen Party of Artic Monkeys having a Vampire Weekend. Yawn. You know whatever indie label you want to throw on it, the truth is the kids love it these days. I don’t know. Maybe I was just in uninterested asshole mode, but the Mt. St. Helen’s charm wasn’t working on me that afternoon. Besides Benjamin and the band looked pretty beat up and tired. There was mention of a 5am ferry ride from Victoria early that morning. I hope MSHVB rested after the show because they’re on a somewhat long tour with Japandroids as we speak. Rested or not, they’re lucky. Japandroids are a good band.

The sound on stage was kind of weird, I can’t hold that against the band. On record, the levels are more evenly mixed, duh, I know. The big riffs don’t rival Sasquatch in stature and the jangly riffs aren’t so cowardly. I was dying during their set, constantly being teased by the former only to be let down by the latter. I’m all about odd time signatures and guitar lines that mirror the complexity of an ivy league lecture, yet have a brevity similar to the amount of time it takes a teenage girl to act like a self-important bitch. But it’s a sin for a guitar player to kill a good riff with a bad one. Reprehensible. And to mix riffs that are so jagged only to followed up by anesthetic chord progressions with literal adolescent, garage rock drumming? I don’t know man, it’s pretty catatonic. Why don’t you call me back in a bit? I swear it’s me…not you…honest…..

It hurts. I want to cheer for this band so badly, because they’re infinitely more interesting than so many acts out there. At least they are willing to take risks regardless of whether they fall on their face or not. That’s admirable and definitely worth mentioning. I think if Mt. St. Helen’s stay a cohesive unit for the next couple years, during that time they’ll put out something truly amazing and mind-blowing. In the meantime, I’ll just wait for it and say “I told you so” when it does eventually happen.

Franz Ferdinand ::: Photo by Josh

I’m rather reluctant to catch most acts on a massive festival stage if I haven’t already seen them in a more intimate setting. In large rooms or outside, so many elements are out of the control of those tasked with making things sound good. In the case of the Rockstar Energy Drink Stage at Exhibition Hall during Bumbershoot, a mean echo was the wild card. For the Dead Confederate it sort of worked. For MSTRKRFT it was so loud it didn’t matter. For Dutchess and the Duke it was an unexpected gremlin. In the case of the Cold War Kids, who played the mainstage on Monday, they alternatively would have loved a few walls to bounce Johnny’s guitar off of. Slotted in the first Monday mainstage evening set in front of Modest Mouse, Franz Ferdinand on the other hand, was one of the few bands truly in their element.

At this point, on the road, these guys pretty much live in stadiums. And it showed. They owned the big stage, and just the fact that they were loud enough no matter where you were in the stadium made a huge difference. As soon as the first song began, the excited audience sprouted surfers. Franz busted crowd favorite “Matinee” out second and then all bets were off. After finishing my Stereogum photo duties and extracting myself from the pit and the hail of teenagers being hauled over the barrier, I spent a few songs meandering about in the crowd, trying to find the best place to listen from. Closer was better of course, but my eventual spot high in the stands near the back of the stadium was definitely good enough and I could really see everything.

Though they barely needed it, frontman Alex Kapranos expresses the perfect amount of prodding to really get the crowd into the call and response moments. And he jumps with his guitar more than anyone I’ve probably ever seen, never missing a beat. Big lights, huge custom amps, and the generally great showmanship and appreciation for the crowd amounted to an arena experience at Bumbershoot I wanted to remember. For me it was one of the top three sets of the ‘Shoot.

See all of my photo’s from Bumbershoot 2009 at Stereogum.

Holy Fuck ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

What’s in a name? William Shakespeare created Juliet Capulet to ask the question. Hundreds of years later, I think we’re too busy with the ordinariness of our lives to answer it.

When you’re a adolescent or teenager and you’re are thinking about starting a band, the issue of band name is almost always overly important. You imagine the name in lights. During classroom boredom you’ll scrawl it on the desk and in your notebook. You might even tag it on restaurant tables and in phone booths. Unfortunately for you, you’re so young that your taste in band names is complete shit or juvenile in humor. Before you know it, your band name is Lesbian Bikini Team, you write riffs that would make Ted Nugent proud, and you call your songs “Sexual Glaze.” Believe me I know, this happened to me.

Eventually you’ll get to a point where you realize band names mean nothing. It’s all about your music (read: product) and whether people can identify with it (read: want to buy into it) or not. Sometimes you have bands that become pop culture icons, who also happen to have the worst band names in the world. I know, this is actually not a big surprise at all. A primary example of this would be Def Leppard. What is a “leppard”? It’s not a leopard. Despite the horrific band name, Def Leppard will probably outlast their animal counterpart. (The rest of this review has credibility. I swear.) My point is, not everyone can have cool names like Dillenger Escape Plan and melt your face off with their live show.

Holy Fuck are a band with a cool name. But even if that wasn’t their name, they’d make you think it was. As in “Holy fuck! These dudes are awesome!” In a time where there’s a slew of bands that have “fuck” or some sort of variation in the band name, it’s important to be good enough to differentiate from the rest. Holy Fuck do just that. They want you to dress up like a cheap C-3PO knockoff and meet them at some trendy downtown dance club so they can rock that new robot body of yours. They want you reduced to a pile of nuts, gears and bolts. Before they even took the stage, their pre-performance ritual of jumping up and down was more exciting than some of the bands I saw actually performing at Bumbershoot. And as soon as they took it to the stage, it was lights, camera and…doot beeep doot doot bee boop bop. Whirrrrrrrr. Bass that sounded like it was using Thor’s mouth for amplification. Drums that were reminiscent of early DJ Shadow. Occasionally vocals would cry out for help only to be engulfed again by sweet feedback. At times Holy Fuck are like a simplified, analog bastard child of Battles. That’s a good thing, seeing as Battles is one of my favorite bands. Yes, I’m fully aware that there is nothing inherently “analog” about Holy Fuck. But between the two bands, I think it’s safe to say that Battles is the one that is digitally enhanced and technically advanced.

Whatever the case may be, Holy Fuck had the Broad Street stage and its muddy surroundings ablaze on Sunday night. They had the best set I saw during Bumbershoot and I saw a lot of good sets. Like any good “danceable” band they had me going through a number of emotions, yet I’m pretty sure I was doing the same dance the entire time. It’s weird how that happens. I closed my eyes and thought, “Wow, this music sounds like robots wrapping Wonka bars in Willy Wonka’s factory.” I wasn’t even on drugs. “Frenchy’s” was as intense as it was undeniably infectious. During most of the song the bassist kept on making these goofy on-time faces at the drummer. It was pretty hilarious. Come to think of it, besides playing bass I think his only other reason for being onstage was to make the drummer laugh. The beginning of “Jungles” reminded me of The Wall-era Pink Floyd with the abrupt bass and cymbal catches. However, after a matter of moments that song turns into a Decepticons-terrorizing-Berlin groove before returning back to its original form.

“What is that machine?”

I kept on hearing spectators mutter on the side of the stage. I had been thinking the same thing since Holy Fuck took the stage. Brian, one of the chief noisemakers of Holy Fuck, looked like he was pulling film out of a mutated Polaroid camera. Obviously, this is no camera. He keeps on rotating it and when the supposed “film” slides through the machine. Crazy noise ensues.

Oh fuck, am I listening to Daft Punk all of a sudden? Has the Space Needle become my de-facto poor, poor, poor, poor, poor man’s Eiffel Tower? “Royal Gregory” will do that to you. It will take you to Paris without your permission. “Milkshake” rocked like some sort of tribal rite of passage. Sporadic machine-gun-snare meeting foreboding bass lines and peculiarly placed chimes. When every song died, there were screams of appreciation from the crowd. Mass jubilation. Holy Fuck didn’t let the crowd adore them for too long though, often cutting the applause short in order to send the mob back into a frenzy.

After Holy Fuck were done, I didn’t want to see any other acts. My night was finished. The only alternative was seeing Holy Fuck again later that night at Neumos. I wouldn’t have settled for anything less.

Holy Fuck ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Common Market ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Common Market’s Sunday afternoon set at the Fisher Green stage was characterized by a peculiar tension. Initially word had it that this could be Common Market’s last set. Unable to snag RA Scion himself, I tested out this assertion on a number of people until finally finding a member of the live band backing who assured me that it was not the last, but the future would be bringing a change in focus for RA Scion to a new project.

Aside from that bit of unconfirmed rumor winding its way around, what was well known was that this performance was advertised to be unlike any other of Common Market’s performances previous. A giant silver “machine” was planted at the corner of the stage with no apparent musical purpose. As a dressed up live band entered the stage (members of Vunt Foom/Theoretics), instead of picking up their instruments, they proceeded to pull out newspapers in front of their face. Then flanked by trio’s of chained zombie dancers, RA Scion entered the stage himself. As the dancers progressively doffed their chains, they then became slaves to the machine, dancing in aid of the “machine” and struggling in fear of the Man.

Now Common Market’s lyrics are already a bit heavy to be starting a party with, but this completely unexpected visual accompaniment only made it seem more so (which I suppose is a credit to the dancers). Despite the continuous stream of out of place crowd surfers, the people around me seemed rather unsure of how to react to this display. A few people mouthed the words and bopped along, but the mood overall seemed particularly somber given the other acts the stage was playing host to.

One final thread of unveiled joy did shine through though when after the end of the set, the fairy ballerina who had ushered everyone from the stage was honored with a hearty round of Happy Birthday. She, it turned out, was RA Scion’s daughter, and it was her thirteenth birthday.

Birch dropping in for business as usual… or is it? ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Chains ::: Photo by Marcella Volpintesta for Sound on the Sound

An encounter with “The Man” ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Zombies ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Struggle ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Common Market’s Birthday Ballerina ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Flickr: Common Market at Bumbershoot 2009

Holy Fuck ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

If the first day of Bumbershoot reminded me of a renaissance festival, then the second day reminded me of last-minute shopping at your local mall. The day felt a bit odd because there was noticeably less people than on Saturday, but somehow it felt more crowded. Blame it on the rain that came down so aggressively, but at one point I felt like I was back in the southeast. I was in a state of befuddlement. The press room conjured up memories of freshman year in high school, as I paced the carpeted corridor trying my best not to make a fool of myself. Barely seen, definitely not heard. Just give me a plate of pita chips, a cup of coffee and a quiet corner and I’m good. It was funny seeing people with Rolling Stone and Spin press passes. They reminded me of sailors who were getting ready to board the Titanic, I didn’t have the heart to tell them their ship was going to sink. Worst part is, at least in the two aforementioned cases, they were boarding ships that sank more than a decade ago. Tragedy.

For the record, concert goers look at people with press passes like vestibules to the rockstars. Whenever I journeyed beyond the guardrail, I saw many eyes that said “How come you get to do that?” like some small child feeling injustice for the very first time. It was a weird dynamic that I’d never experienced before. When asked I would tell them the truth, only the self-involved can hang with the like. They understood.

Despite the afternoon torrential downpours and the bitter winds that came in the evening, the spirit of the music didn’t suffer one bit. I missed Cold War Kids for the umpteenth billionth time but didn’t really care. I missed the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s in favor of Mt. St. Helen’s Vietnam Band, which may or may not have been a mistake. I’ve heard mixed reviews on the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s set on Sunday, but when I saw them a couple of years ago they were majestic. Mt. St. Helen’s Vietnam Band have become local darlings since their cryptic YouTube videos debuted a while back. I’d never seen them before but after Sunday, I’ll keep one eye on them, the other eye closed.

After years of being a fan, I finally got to see the transcontinental jam connection that is Extra Golden on the Fisher Green Stage. They were astonishingly crisp and tight. From now on, every LP they release should be a live recording. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way but the Fisher Green Stage was easily the best stage the entire weekend. Dyme Def and Common Market were great on that stage. Every live set I witnessed seemed to be energetic with good crowd participation. Maybe the Vivian Girls would’ve been better served if they moved their set from the Broad Street Stage to Fisher Green. Then again, probably not. I must say that the Vivian Girls are the most boring and rehashed group to ever play music. Ever. Yes, I said ever. While I enjoyed their voices, I think they need to put down their instruments immediately. Shame on any media heads that have given kudos to this band. You’re inexplicably boring or you’re being paid off, you’re definitely a dick that’s for sure. Cut it out. Seriously.

Sleepy Eyes of Death are sonically the completely opposite of Vivian Girls and they put an impressive show at the Sky Church. Sleepy Eyes’ intro was crazy, it sounded like cicada’s with synth strings serving as their marionette had suddenly entered the room. Lights became the curtain and photographers bloomed in the press pit. Big rock n’ roll. I could see them scoring computer generated scenes from “human body” specials on the Discovery Channel for sure.

Holy Fuck lived up to their name. They were magical, my favorite set of the weekend. I was happily convulsing on the side of the stage. It was weird because I felt the Broad Street Stage had some sound issues during Mt. St. Helen’s and U.S.E. The sound, accompanied by the outdoor setting kind of fucked up U.S.E’s enjoyable set. But Holy Fuck sounded immaculate, I wonder what happened? They had me, as well as everyone else, moving like snakes being charmed. By the time they were done, I was done as well. I decided to be that guy and rock a track jacket and a trucker hat instead of a nice warm hoodie. The cold turns me into a coward. Never again will I accidentally trade fashion sense for comfort. Knowing what I know now, I should’ve stayed for Raphael Saadiq, I heard his set was really good.

Bumbershoot 2009 ::: Photo by Marcella Volpintesta for Sound on the Sound

The Dutchess and the Duke ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

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The Whore Moans ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

[ Editor's note: This is Phil's debut piece for us, talking about a band he knows fairly well. We couldn't be happier to have him on as a writer and general purveyor of comedy and truth. -josh ]

Do you remember when rock n’ roll was dangerous? Back before you could scare people off with a parental advisory label? Long before people bit the head off of bats and did cocaine through their vaginas? Before they cut Elvis’ body in half on television and he looked like he was floating in space? Back when rock n’ roll used to exist in speakeasy form and you had to go to “unsavory places” in the city and give someone a secret handshake in order to get into a hip “rock n’ roll hangout place?” Back when rock n’ roll was like prohibition and god was like religion?

Of course you don’t remember back then. You’re too young. But if you were alive back then, I’d like to think you’re cool enough to be into that kind of thing. Rebellion. If the Whore Moans were around back then, they’d be one of the bands you’d “dance” to in one of those “hip rock n roll hangout places.”

For Bumbershoot, the Whore Moans told folks that don’t know any better, that their set was going to be a theatrical soul revue of sorts. Funny. There’s nothing theatrical or soulful about the Whore Moans, so how is this going to work out? Beautifully. Do you want to know why? The Whore Moans stayed true to themselves but added a few layers to their rowdy brand of rock music. A saxophone, a keyboard and two backing female vocalists. What sort of theatrics were you expecting? Meatloaf-esque? Maybe more in the vein of Gwar? I wouldn’t mind a mixture of both. This occasion called for courageous gold suit jackets, slicked back hair, shades, nice suits, dapper dolls… the whole nine!

The Whore Moans weren’t James Brown and the J.B.’s on its best day, they were snake oil salesman. They were corrupt pastors. They were spitting fire and stomping out demons. Parents with little children watched in the front row. I couldn’t believe it.

The Whore Moans were doing what they normally do, but on an abnormally big stage. If anything the band toned down the rocking out in order to play up their theatrics. This is an act that is best seen on the floor of some crusty basement, where they can hurl their bodies into the crowd. Screaming and spitting in your faces during “Wall of a Song”. The more claustrophobic the space, the better the Whore Moans are. I wonder if anyone out there in the audience closed their eyes and took themselves back in time, back when rock n’ roll wasn’t allowed? Did they change the dimensions of that room to one that was collapsing and smokey? Did they get rid of the stage lights in favor of a single 40 watt light bulb? I did. I didn’t see a soul revue. I saw a dangerous rock n’ roll band that had to play by the rules for one evening.

Don’t get me wrong, they threw a little soul into the mix. The intro with bassist Ryan Devlin on vocals before “Fingers and Martyrs” was outstanding. When they played “No Soul,” the female backed vocals really added to the dramatic yet simple refrain of “no soul….” Before the start of “Nerve Tonic,” Singer/Guitarist Nikki O turned into the kind of salesman that would fuck your mother on your living room couch while you ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the kitchen. It was a thing of beauty. I felt that “Rise and Shine” was finally done the way it was always meant to be done, with female backing vocals throughout the entire song. The song even featured a funny little skit between Nikki and backup singers Prisilla Ray and Duffy, who were borrowed from the Cute Lepers for the evening. New songs such as “Rebuilding Babel” meshed well with old Whore Moans staples, improvisational Motown mimicry was charismatically done. Sure there was a literal slip-up at the end, but like Brandon Lee who plays Eric Draven in The Crow once said “It can’t rain all the time.” I know what you’re thinking, “That doesn’t make sense?” Give it time.

It wasn’t the Nation of Ulysses but it wasn’t supposed to be. I think it would serve the Whore Moans best to try this stage show again but in a smaller, more intimate setting. I think the chaos they naturally create in smaller venues would go well with their doomsday priest judging you from the pulpit approach. There’s nothing wrong with a punk rock doo-wop mixed in with eternal damnation.

The Whore Moans ::: Photo by Marcella Volpintesta for Sound on the Sound

The Whore Moans ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

The Whore Moans ::: Photo by Marcella Volpintesta for Sound on the Sound

The Whore Moans ::: Photo by Marcella Volpintesta for Sound on the Sound

Flickr: The Whore Moans Present the Black Atom! at Bumbershoot 2009

Matt & Kim ::: Photo by Marcella Volpintesta for Sound on the Sound

[ Editors Note: Bumbershoot 2009 marks the first time a new photog has been on assignment for Sound on the Sound (since Josh was taking pictures for Stereogum), and Marcella Volpintesta was gladly recruited as our second photog for the task. We couldn't be happier with what she came up with! ]

The weather situation leading up Bumbershoot 2009 was ominous. The entire weekend had a forecast of on-and-off precipitation and even a thunderstorm thrown in for good measure. Saturday morning’s dark skies blanketed Seattle in an unusually intense downpour that seemed to almost miraculously stop as noon rolled around.

For us the early part of the day centered a number of younger local groups who’ve been making waves lately. A Hey Marseilles set in the KEXP Music Lounge, Sound Off! Winner Dyno Jamz! and then Past Lives at the EMP, and the Perez Hilton-endorsed Natalie Portman’s Shaved Head at the progressively muddy Broad Street stage. For only 2.30 in the afternoon, NPSH appeared to have attracted every teenager present on the Seattle Center grounds, skillfully whipping them into giddy, bouncing dervishes.

Despite the damp circumstances, roaming around on cement paths and many opportunities to retreat inside (or just under one of the many covered walkways) made for a not uncomfortable experience at all. After taking a break inside ourselves for Telekinesis’ KEXP Lounge set (another young local band worth noticing), we caught in full Mayer Hawthorne and the County’s tour opening set, where he confirmed the promise of his debut album A Strange Arrangement. Given the opportunity to catch Elvis Perkins in a more intimate setting than he was scheduled for later in the day, we wound our way to the day’s final KEXP Lounge Session where Elvis Perkins in Dearland played their entire new Slow Doomsday EP for a packed audience.

Local hard-rockers The Whore Moans were intent on bringing something special to this year’s Bumbershoot, souping up their act as a kind of soul-influenced revue with more players involved and new songs composed. Calling it The Whore Moans Present: The Black Atom! it was complete with backup singers borrowed from the Cute Lepers and Mike and Jordan from the Hands guesting on sax and keys respectively. Guitarist Nikki shined in gold sport jacket while the Whore Moans held nothing back in their retro adventure.

As the light waned at the Northwest Court stage, Elvis Perkins in Dearland played their official set to a respectfully silent crowd (in-between hearty round’s of applause of course). Cold War Kids guitarist Johnny came on stage to help out on a couple of songs, among them one of my new favorites, the jangle-blues jam of “Stop, Drop, Rock, and Roll.” Perkins dedicated the dirgey “Chains, Chains, Chains” to the maker of the animated video for the song, Sean Pecknold, who was appreciatively taking in the show off to the side. The mournful songs from Ash Wednesday were nary in sight until a final song to usher us home, “While You Were Sleeping.”

Wrapping up our evening at the Broad street Stage we were interested to see if JRod had managed to pump out any more new Long Winters songs in the weeks since we’ve last heard from him. The band was playing it’s last set with drummer Nabil Ayers who’s moved on to other more business-like endeavors in New York, and as was expected of the occasion the band was goofy and loose. A few new ones did make it into the mix, but nothing really seemed quite firm yet about them, with one song even necessitating stopping midway through for a situation re-evaluation.

Once day one was finally finished, amazingly I wasn’t muddy, cold or disgruntled. While threat of imposing weather had apparently kept many people at home, those who did make it out experienced a rather mild day with minimal sprinkles and even a few hours sun. In addition to enjoying a healthy amount of elbow room so one never felt to crowded, food and ATM lines were relatively short (but not the comedy lines) and there was always a spot to plop down on the grass if you wanted to. On Saturday we reaped all the benefits of a depressed turnout.

Everest ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Hey Marseilles in the KEXP Music Lounge ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Bumbershoot 2009 ::: Photo by Marcella Volpintesta

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