As always, I’m more than a week late on my coverage of a festival, and really, this time it’s a shame. I came out of Marymoor Park on Sunday evening sunburned, fairly intoxicated, numbingly exhausted and unabashedly in love with one of the great record labels of the last 20 years. I mentally scribbled down all the great things about the weekend that I would write in two days of epic coverage of the event. The great bands, the amazing VIP area, the pleasant crowds and the shocking lack of lines for bathrooms, beer, or food – I was going to write about it all, and it was going to be brilliant.
And then I slept for nearly two days. I blame my PTSD-affected liver, but for nearly two days I was a half-asleep wreck. In the hours I was hazily awake, I sat in front of the computer, frantically trying to place my ecstatic memories of the weekend on to a page. But, alas, nothing. What I’m left with is a handful of sharply-lined memories from a weekend I consider to be one of the better musical experiences of my life.
You’ll get what I remember, in a vaguely chronological order.
1. Marymoor Park is the place for a music festival. I don’t know about how effective is logistically, but the general grassy-hill, dirty hippy feel of the immaculately laid out space, is one that’s friendly for all types of concert goers. You’ve got everything from hammered frat-boys to tight-jeaned hipsters to toddling children all co-existing harmoniously. Also, no matter where you at Marymoor – toilet, food line, joint-smoking corner – you can hear the music and loudly. I’ve never felt more comfortable at a festival.
Flight of the Conchords::Shawn Brackbill
2. I’ve never seen a reunion show before. I’m not old enough to be super excited when fucking Boston or a reunited Styx come roaring in to town, and in truth, I’ve always been pretty skeptical, even negative, about the whole idea. Sub Pop changed that for me. Seaweed was the first act of the day I caught (what, a man needs to drink some cheap beer in the grass next to his car before entering a music festival, it’s one of the Ten Commandments … or something) and all of my worries about bands reuniting fell to the side. These weren’t bitter old grunge-veterans churning out a tired set for a measly crowd, these were genuinely happy musicians blasting through a set of early-90s sludge-punk to a fairly adoring fan. I don’t know if it was the third beer of the day or how much I enjoyed Seaweed’s set, but I was wearing a pretty solid shit-eater when the band was through.