As the tall grass sways...

... the music of freedom plays...

Sure, I may have moved some readers to raise concern and/or commend yours truly for descending into a kiddie pool of mescaline following my last "post," but alas, no... tried as I did to channel HST, it was only the early PST and the Brothers Chivas that persuaded me to rant a "what if," last weekend... and this was only after I read a useless sun-rising blog about some corn husking band now riding the wave of MySpace popularity to Venice Beach and chance encounters with B-players on "The Hills..."

Ok, there I go again... time for a time-out... this post is really all about a trip, south of the border (but not two) where the landscape looked like Palm Springs and the slopes covered with hill-kites, pomegranates of burnt skin, and the optimism that holds the hands of all music festivals...

Here we go to find the Sasquatch...

Camping gear (of everyone but me) packed, the car loaded, and a departure time short a few hours, the pavement cruise to George (Michael) and Quincy (Jones), Washington was on... we met border guards dope on the power of a clip and joking about their girlfriend with Oil of Olay skin like Bigfoot, families with vacant sons likely fantasizing about Tech-9's in gym class while we devoured Taco Bell, and gas station attendants with 30 years of petroleum nails and pony tails, who didn't drink but had no problem selling six dollar cases of PBR so long as the Lord was praised...


And I said, Praise the Lord... for PBR...

Breaking land speed records with German engineering isn't hard... trying to see the landscape (of both the land and the lay) near your camp is a different story... disembarking with "Woo-hoo's" and cold aluminum in hand, the night sky said, "Hi" and we were ready for the sights, the sounds, the vibes, and the Honey Pots...

Saturday AM: New friends 20 ft away, who lived even closer in Vancouver... Paris and QC represented well, but the poutine was missed (as was ELSS)... ultimate flicks between tent cities and passing Land Rovers, the High Life in hand, while the grill was lit and camping with attitude laid out (who eats grilled chicken breakfast burritos in the middle of a camp ground of a scuzzy teenage wasteland? Yup, we did)...

The HP minus the TP line-ups started early, which we by-passed knowing the Blender was itching to go... driving past fields of burnt-out buses and bored cows, bungalow banks and cappuccino shacks, the liquor store looked like a military recruitment centre that was doing fairly well... Basra would be seeing the benefits of the Surge in no time... Pancho Villa in tow, we blasted back for hitch-hiker pick-ups, margarita madness, and sun burnt cities before the walk to the Gorge...

There was always a casual waft of the porta's on the way to the venue... the chemicals never being strong enough when the sun is out of the Raisin Bran commercial and you're looking to borrow his sunglasses... King cans and silver bullets awaited us on the long walk in, with screening techniques that would make JFK (Int'l) proud... "Um, can you at least put a glove on first?"

No hemp-making contests to be found, though, and limited friends named "Bianca"... somewhat disappointing, in terms of the meet n' greet... but if you were a fanatic of the back, calf, ankle, neck, and/or rib cage rose n' thorns tattoo set, you really couldn't find a better speed dating service... ok, the Scene is now established: how about the music...

The Hold Steady: the strip search killed any chances of seeing them, even after leaving 30 mins ahead of schedule... thanks a lot, Ashcroft... you created a country of plastic glove and lube lovers, even at music fest (I thought I'd get a shoe scan, but they were more interested in my Frisbee)...

Ozomatli: who?

Neko Case: straight from the studio to the stage, the woman is a wonder... a little too mellow for an early afternoon act, though... 2nd stage as sought after...

Viva Voce: A guy and his drums, a cowgirl and her double-neck guitar... taking notes from the Stripes, adding a dash of southern hard soul, and covering Allan Parsons without missing a beat, these two are ready for the main stage in 12 months...

Citizen Cope: barely coping with this snoozefest... and the king cans, evidently, get warm very quickly if you're not pulling double-shotgun duty under 31 degree heat...

Grizzly Bear: Who?

Beastie Boys (Instrumental): remember when you find that mix tape in front of the building you take your piano lessons, and your buddy throws it into his blue and paynful Camry... and suddenly, you're taken to the burroughs of New York and you forget Robin's Doughnuts, and the hockey team, and you hear white guys playing funk and whammy bars and cowbell, and you think: CDs suck... and you will always remember that tape and that ride and thinking the Beasties were wearing horrible suits and Vans while they played this funk shit... and 15 years later, you see them doing the exact same thing live, and you know - damn, you were right back then... CDs suck.. and Beasties will not lose a single ounce of anything they've ever had...

Manu Chao: His Mariachi dropping into sixth gear on the acoustic guitar, Manu let loose a sea of world music that had friends wondering when Marx would be read aloud... I clapped at the demand to close Gitmo, to stop fighting terror with terror... but, still, I wished I understood more of what he sang... three languages after an afternoon of Elway's fave beu-vrage was slowin' me down...

And then... the arcade caught fire...

Arcade Fire: There is not a single band on the planet today that plays with as much emotion, diversity, investment, and imagination than Arcade... 10 members, all of whom playing musical chairs on their own instruments, sweating, swaying, and living the music they make as though it paid for itself... and it did... I was casually reminded today that I once thought Pilate was a more complete and original band... someone back me a loaf of bread and bring the PB... I'll eat it down in one sitting... The Arcade Fire is motivation, pure and simple, for that something so close to perfection...

The night: Cheetos, burgers, PBR, ringing ears, a tent that turned into a Turkish steam bath of heat, the morning of having to leave...

Day 2 was much of the same... swallowing porta fumes while cleaning dishes, handing out free soap and impressing new friends with something as simple as a bottle opener... barren martian landscapes and swims with 12 year old independents fishing and laughing at your lameness... tents packed, the Blender back in retirement, no more scalpers to tackle and threaten... just the sky, the dusty wind, and an afternoon of beats...

Blackalicious: Finally, a heartbeat to kick off the afternoon... 10 min freestyles and a keyboarder with sweeter moves than Sammy Davis, Jr... one of the best bands of the weekend...

Bad Brains: Ancient and respected punk/reggae/rock gods... their lead singer scared me... and he kept smiling...

Patrick Wolf: He looked like a "Patrick" with those suspenders, pale skin, and Pet Shop Boys affection... granted, he also looked like Conan O'Brien... with a British accent... and a flare for Rick Astley feyness... interesting?

And then it was over... the wind still blowing, the line-ups at the border still slowing, and the Cheetos still mowing... bags of seashells and nickels would await my wake-up... until then, a smile... for the sound, and for the tall grass that sways...