High Bias stagestruck

GEARFEST
@Emo's, Austin, TX
August 30-September 1, 2002
Hot rod/rock & roll rag Gearhead has been putting on its annual Gearfests for the past few years, but only in Europe, with a particular focus on Scandinavia. (In fact, current media darlings the Hives made their rep headlining Gearfest a couple of times.) After years of begging, the Gearheads finally brought the nonstop dragstrip rock party to the United States, screeching up to the doors of Emo's, Austin's premier punk club. Three days of tattoos, chrome, power chords and cleavage later, Emo's still stands and rockers from all over the country have had a headbangin' good time. Slam that sucker into high gear and follow me.

Friday 8/30:

Scheduling snafus meant I missed the first band on Friday night's bill; I've heard Frigg-a-Go-Go is an excellent band, so go see them for me. I also missed most of the following set by Austin's Ritchie Whites, but what little I did catch was impressive. The Whites (who have an album out on punk loyalist label TKO) played straightforward, traditionalist punk; their songs were fast (but not too fast), loud and short, with yelping vocals and singalong choruses. There was a certain nostalgia factor at work, but the band obviously loves what it does, and that affection came through in its aggressive performance. The Ritchie Whites are already being tipped as Austin's Great Punk Hope, and after the few songs I managed to witness, it's easy to see why.

Next up on the outside stage (Emo's has two stages and staggered the performance schedule so the bands weren't competing with each other) was the Lords of Altamont, an even more aggressive quintet from, well, somewhere (didn't catch the exact location, sorry). Led by a lanky, black-clad bundle of tattoos with a sneering growl and a penchant for serious Farfisa abuse, the band ripped through a set of hard-hitting garage punk (including a wonderfully devolved take on Bo Diddley's "Who Do You Love") with an enthusiasm bordering on maniacal. Performing in front of a liquid lightshow (which brought a few derisive comments about the Grateful Dead from members of the crowd—little did they know what was coming), the Lords careened across the stage with enough energy to light up a small city. The frontman mercilessly flung his organ (the Farfisa, that is) about the stage the way a guitarist slings his axe, finally spraying the top with lighter fluid and setting it on fire—and continuing to play it. The Lords ended their well-received set with a clobbering version of the Chambers Brothers' "Time Has Come Today" that easily surpassed the turgid original and left the crowd screaming for more.

While the sweating Emo's patrons couldn't have any more trips to Altamont, they could wander back to the inside stage to see Austin's Applicators, who have the rep of being one of the River City's best punk bands. An all-female (for whatever that's worth) quartet, the Apps are one of those rare bands that have a riveting stage presence without having any gimmicks at all. The bassist, drummer and guitarist knocked out slightly thrashy, powerhouse punk rock like they were having the time of their lives—the four-stringer and tub-thumper never sat still for more than a few seconds, while the picker couldn't keep a smile off her face. The singer, meanwhile, relied on an unconscious, short little hop between vocal exhortations; she had an intriguing air of aloofness, rarely speaking to the crowd or moving much beyond her hopscotch routine. She simply saved all her emotional energy for her powerful wails. The crowd really dug the Applicators, and justifiably so.

Back to the outside stage and the first of the festival's legends. Akron, Ohio's Rubber City Rebels released their first album in 1977, during the first wave of Anglo-American punk. The bandmembers had clearly aged in 25 years, but were still young enough at heart to pound out a solid if unspectacular set of tongue-in-cheek punk rock. The band's clear spiritual ancestors would be the Dictators, not only because most of their songs were more revved-up hard rock than what traditionalists would call punk, but also because of the group's twisted sense of humor. The latter came through in particular after frontman Rod Firestone put down his guitar and handled the mike unencumbered. As the band's energy rose dramatically, Firestone snarled out the gruesome ode to cannibalism "Child Eaters," complete with monologue from a talking cat, as well as "Pinhead," "Kidnapped" and the group's theme song, "Rubber City Rebel." Just as the band finally hits its stride and made steps toward justifying its legendary status, it ended its set with a cavalcade of wanton guitar destruction. The Rebels couldn't match the power of their progeny the Lords of Altamont (whose drummer gave the band an adoring introduction), but at least they caught fire towards the end.

On the inside stage, the Jewws revved into action. A garage punk trio from Houston, the Jewws knocked out vibrant Nuggets knockoffs with enthusiasm and skill, if little originality. Not even the premature death of the bass guitar two tunes into the set could dampen the group's spirit; the guitarist and drummer merely played on until a replacement could be procured. The R&B-laced songs were difficult to tell apart, but it didn't matter much; they were perfect for frugging, shimmying and shaking, which cuter-than-cute bassist Rebecca and the audience proceeded to happily do. Eventually Rebecca and the guitarist put their vocal mikes on the floor and joined the crowd for its last couple of songs; a reminder, perhaps, that shared energy between performer and audience is what makes a good show.

Back on the outside stage, the Indiana-bred, L.A.-based Lazy Cowgirls had already begun an incendiary set of roots-informed punk rock gems. Traces of R&B, country and rockabilly could be detected under the aggressive firestorm; it was clear within a couple of numbers that this was where the New Bomb Turks learned most of their tricks. Guitarist Mike Leighton ripped monstrous riffs and sizzling solos out of his axe, while the rhythm section kept the engine fueled with nitro. The visual focus was singer Pat Todd, whose short stature, bulging gut and balding pate may not lend themselves to a vision of great rock frontpeople, but his clear love for the music and great punk sneer more than made up for him not looking like Robin Zander. Great songs like "Goddamn Bottle" and "Give It Away" had an elusive quality besides melody and fury that set them apart from the tunes of everyone else on the bill—could it be soul? Regardless, song for song, the Lazy Cowgirls were indisputably the best act of the night and the only one to make me want to drop everything and run to the nearest record store to buy all the albums I could find.

As if the Lords of Altamont and the Lazy Cowgirls had upped an ante no one else knew about, Austin's Riverboat Gamblers hit the inside stage like an atom bomb, spewing energy in all directions. The quintet was all over the place, especially the wildman singer. Only the drummer was content to stay in place, and that was only so he could thrash his kit like it was the guy he caught his girlfriend with. The guitarist recycled classic metal riffs in the pre-80s punk rock style, substituting brute force for any kind of finesse; only a 50s-style ballad (if anything at that volume can be called a ballad) broke the one-two-three-four-ROWRRG! pattern. The Gamblers somehow managed to hold the chaos together, if barely, and while none of their tunes stood out as anything special, their performance was riveting.

Last up for the night was another American punk legend, Boston's garage rock-obsessed DMZ. With one hand clutching a tambourine and the other fondling his organ (a Vox), frontguy Mono Mann (AKA Jeff Connolly, who took a break from DMZ in the 80s to lead the similar Lyres) drove two guitarists, a bassist and a drummer through a set of indistinguishable 60s-flavored garage punk tunes, highlighted by an ardent cover of the 13th Floor Elevators' "You're Gonna Miss Me." Mann's enthusiasm for the form is undeniable; his talent in crafting same, however, is up for debate ("Out of Our Tree" being a catchy exception). His vocals aren't terribly distinctive; overall, the group got by more on attitude and attack than on tunes. Still, the band's presence was appropriate; after all, without DMZ working so hard in the 70s to bring the sound of Nuggets back to rock & roll stages everywhere, there would be no so-called garage rock revival today. Still, my general exhaustion (damn full-time job) and lack of empathy for the band led me to quit the joint before the end of their set. Maybe they burned the place down at the end. Oh well.

Saturday 8/31:

First up on Saturday (a strangely thinner evening, crowdwise) was the Deadites, another Austin crew. The quintet got points from the name (not every band would take its moniker from the Evil Dead trilogy, let alone from the much-maligned Army of Darkness), but there's more to the group than a snappy sobriquet. Like the previous night's star performers Lords of Altamont, the Deadites play 60s-style garage rock with 70s punk intensity. Also like the Lords, the group has a charismatic frontman, skinny as a rail, dressed in black, with a snotty (but friendly) attitude. Special mention should also be made of the crack guitarist (who played actual riffs as well as chords) and the organist, who helpfully covered the name of his electronic keyboard with a piece of paper labeled "Farfisa," just in case we didn't catch his intentions. Sharp tunes like "Joke's on You," "Strange Fruit" (not the Billie Holiday song) and "Can't Behave" (no kidding) were cool and catchy, and the band's energy put them right where in your face where they belonged. What a great way to start off the evening.

Next up, on the outside stage, were the Crackpipes, another Austin band about whom I've heard many good things but was checking out for the first time. The quartet started out with a couple of Nuggets-styled ravers, which led me to believe the 'pipes were in keeping with so many of the other bands at Gearfest. But then the singer picked up a harp and an old-fashioned microphone, and the band became a Texas garage version of a Fat Possum blues act, all 12-bar repetition and swampy grind. The combo also belched up what sounded like Black Sabbath playing the blues, with slow tempos, drawn-out riffs and the singer's bluesy wail. The frontman, who could scream and growl with the best of 'em but also possessed a fine, clear baritone, fed that old mic back into his amp when he wasn't blowing fat, ugly riffs into it, while the highly-skilled guitarist and bassist hopped around like they could barely contain themselves. During a seriously grunged-out version of Aretha Franklin's "Save Me," the guitarist/singer from the Jewws appeared and took over for the four-stringer midsong while the dude took a quick potty break, all without missing a beat. The Crackpipes' incendiary performance served notice that Gearfest was about a lot more than garage punk.

Back inside, Chapel Hill power trio Buzzsawyer took the stage in a hail of fiery guitar licks and pounding drums. This band was the biggest surprise of the Fest for me; I wasn't expecting much from them with such a silly name. But the group wasn't just good, it was damn good, churning out thick hard rock/punk riffs, strong melodies, powerful rhythms and forceful vocals to give life to sardonic songs like "Turning the Screw" and "Life Sucks For Everyone But Me." It wasn't unlike the catchy power rock of the Hellacopters. The pudgy guitarist was flashy in that good way, and not a bad dancer, as his impromptu buck-and-wing indicated, and he was extremely happy to be slashing away at his Gibson SG (the unofficial guitar of Gearfest—the organizers should get a Gibson endorsement next year). The whole band was very much into what it was doing, as if nothing made the band happier than playing its heart out in some sleazy dive in Texas summer heat far from home. In fact, this seemed to be the theme of the festival in general. What connected all these bands for three nights wasn't so much connections to the wild, woolly world of punk rock, 60s division, so much as an utter devotion to playing rock & roll as God intended it: loud, fast and for no other reason except to do it. Buzzsawyer epitomized that urge as well as any better known band you'd care to name.

Speaking of bands doing it because they love it, next up was Houston's long-running hard rockin' garage band Sugar Shack. The fivesome has been a fixture at gatherings like Gearfest and Garageshock for well over a decade, and has lost none of its onstage intensity. The bassist and guitarists cranked out the riffs and solos with smiles on their faces and fire in their fingers; the two six-string pickers in particularly had a teamwork thing going on that few bands of this ilk bother to work out. The drummer pounded the holy crap out her drums like she was working out issues; she was definitely the nuclear core of this atomic engine. But all eyes were on the tall drink of water at the mike, as he sang songs like "No One's Ever Gonna Fuck With Me" as if he was trying to ram the words down everyone's throat. The band's turbocharged rock didn't shamble particularly well under any one umbrella, which was good—it was all about great riffs, solid songs and a feral singer, all wrapped up in a neat little package of volume and energy. Not even a broken bass drum pedal slowed Sugar Shack down for long.

Back inside, the Baseball Furies hit the stage like it was 1976 all over again. Fronted by a Joe Strummer lookalike (but not soundalike), the Furies rocked punk like an amphetaminized Social Distortion, with nods back to rock & roll's roots and a big middle finger to anyone's expectations. The Clash obviously looms large in these boys' record collections, but it would be unfair to label the band a clone. Rather, the Furies seemed to represent that transition point between the garage rock of Nuggets and the onset of the Ramones and the Sex Pistols—not a bad place to be, and a locale visited numerous times over the course of the weekend. The bandmembers were extremely enthusiastic, hopping all over the damn place, except for the singer, who channeled his intensity into his powerful singing. The Baseball Furies flew that punk flag high.

Next up, Red Planet took the stage outside with silly grins and the effervescence of youth. Significantly younger than most of the other bands, the San Francisco quartet couldn't keep the ear-to-ear grins off its faces. The lead guitarist/synthesist in particular seemed to have inhaled laughing gas before the gig, mugging for the audience, skipping across the stage and ripping off jokey heavy metal leads at every turn. RP was definitely the most upbeat band so far; tunes like "Blackout," "She's Got the Stuff" and "You Knock Me" were really just power pop cranked up to eleven. The scorching "Let's Degenerate," however, proved the lads could rock as hard as anybody when they're of a mind. Hearing Red Planet in the middle of all these other bands was kind of like drinking a Shirley Temple after hours of straight dark beer, and it was just as refreshing.

RP's San Fran homeboys the Nads picked up the West Coast flag back inside for a loud set of good old-fashioned Les Pauls 'n' Marshalls hard rock. With an impish grin and a full moon courtesy of the drummer before the set, the foursome slammed out power chords and snotty vocals as if taking the piss out of every arena rock band of the last 30 years. With one song dedicated to the film "Omega Man" and another, as the singer announced, "about smoking weed and chopping people's heads off" (shades of Tad), the Nads are all about big, dumb fun with hot guitar licks. Nothing fancy about these guys, just guts and guitar solos. Cool beans, dude.

Barreling out of Champaign, Illinois, home of REO Speedwagon, came the Gaza Strippers, fronted as always by the irrepressible Rick Sims, former leader for many years of the much-beloved Didjits. In his sunglasses and stylin' satin shirt, Sims looked every inch the rock star, and he simply expected adoration as his due. "You can't help but love me," he seemed to say as he shook his booty, shimmied all over, spanked himself, licked his guitar neck and shamelessly mugged for the audience. This isn't to say he in any way neglected the music itself; quite the contrary, all his goofy antics were a by-product of the performance, not its raison d'être. Sims writes classic hard rock tunes with a glam edge, injected with enough punk energy to power a thousand hardcore bands. Add the guitar heroics performed by himself and his co-six stringer—often in harmony, of course—and you have a half-hour of some of the most fun rock & roll anywhere. The sheer wall of rock power was indeed impressive; even more so was the bandleader's nonchalant willingness to tear it down. Inspiring.

The last act on the inside stage was NRA, a punk band of no fixed style from Amsterdam. The quartet's songs were really short, which to its advantage meant it could cram an unusually large number of them into its allotted slot time. Fortunately, the young men were good tunesmiths, filling the air with snarling ditties alternatively relentless ("Damnation," "Why Do I Listen to You") and downright tuneful ("Real Life"). Despite the anger displayed in the songs (Amsterdam may be a legendarily great city to visit, but apparently it's not such a nice town in which to live—"It's a horrible place," the band asserted at one point), the frontman was quite affable, smiling broadly but with a bemused expression, as if he couldn't quite believe the positive reception his band was getting. "We're glad you like us," he remarked, "'Cuz in Holland they fuckin' hate us." Given the band's friendly demeanor and high-quality tuneage, I find that very hard to believe. Maybe all that decadence has clouded the Dutch's eyes.

The final act of Saturday night was one I've been waiting to see for years: the Dragons. Based in that unlikely rock & roll Mecca of San Diego (don't laugh—it was home to Country Dick Montana and the Beat Farmers) and led by Mario Escovedo, younger brother of True Believers siblings Alejandro and Javier, the Dragons completely rejected any genre labels and just, as the title of one of their albums puts it, rocked like fuck. Cool as a cucumber except for a few Townshend-like guitar windmills, Escovedo led his merry band through a selection of the band's faster/harder material like "Whoa Yeah" and "Loaded." The group also dipped into its growing collection of covers for jackhammer rips through the Four Horsemen's "Let It Rock" and the True Believers' "Who Calls My Name," putting its stamp on those tunes as surely as the original artists put theirs. (MIA was the band's terrific take on Doug Sahm's "Adios Mexico.") The riff-rockin', energized yet relaxed set stood out from the rest of the pack by virtue of being unbeholden to any fixed genre, owing everything and nothing to punk, roots rock, metal and anything with high volume and a snarl. The Dragons' massively loud set paid tribute to three chords and simple pleasures, rock & roll with no prefix required.

Sunday 9/1:

The last night of Gearfest USA began in much the same way as Saturday, with unrepentant 60s-derived garage rock. The San Francisco troupe Killer's Kiss played aggressive Nuggets rock with high volume guitars, cheesy organ and a screaming lead singer. The songs were solid but unspectacular and the energy level would have been impressive on another bill, but was par for the course here. The quintet's only true distinguishing characteristics were the noisemongering lead guitarist, who indulged his every whim of wah-wah, slide and whammy bar to generate more mayhem per tune than most pickers do in an entire set, and the organist, who occasionally let rip with a solo that had more in common with Sun Ra than ? and the Mysterians. Though nothing exceptional, this set by Killer's Kiss was an agreeable way to spend 30 minutes, and a good way to warm up for the other acts to come.

More striking was the next act and first to take the outside stage. The mysterious Knuckle Drager mounted the boards in smoking jackets and fright masks (the drummer remained unadorned, and as hard as he worked it's no wonder), wielding three guitars, bass, drums, a real Farfisa organ (which was in much better shape than the one played by the Lords of Altamont), flash pots, strobes, skulls, streetlights, severed gorilla heads and a carnival atmosphere, if said carny is run by a man named Dark. (The organist, wearing a nearly-featureless burn mask and a fez and reacting to everything like a vampire to a cross, was particularly disturbing.) The Dragers quickly set to work, punctuating their grunged-out instro rock (more like the Black Widows or a primitive Huevos Rancheros than a surf band) with sudden flame jets and oddball samples from 50s and 60s hygiene films that served as the only interludes between songs. Though the arrangements degenerated a bit towards the end of the set, with the musicians not being as tight as they could be, the pure spectacle of it all more than made up for any looseness. The Dragers of course ended the show with destruction and collapse, as well they should have. Fun stuff, and the crowd dug it a lot.

Cleveland's Vacancies were up next inside. The quartet was quite possibly the most traditionalist punk group yet, up there with the Ritchie Whites in the authenticity sweepstakes. The guitarist even had a safety pin in his T-shirt. This isn't to say that the band was obsessed with orthodoxy—not at all, in fact. But the Vacancies obviously had a mission, which was to spread change through anger, and the best vehicle for that urge is and always has been punk rock. Raging tunes like "Rise Up," "My City" and "I Wanna Be There" (tagline: "when you fall") tilted at windmills with a raised fist and the attitude that change WILL come, so you better be ready. The group's obvious enthusiasm for its chosen idiom made any questions of wheel reinvention moot. The group also had probably the single most impressive tattoo collection of any band at the festival.

Next up outside was the infamous Immortal Lee County Killers II (the appellation of the Roman numeral is because this is the second version of the group). These guys have a fearsome reputation as stage-tearer-uppers of the first order, a rep the drummer was only too happy to play up, proudly showing off a wrestling belt with the World #1 Rock & Roll Title on it and bragging at every opportunity. Not that he had to do much of that; after a quiet but anguished gospel ballad, the Killers tore into their primitive, primal bluesabilly with abandon. The duo was all riff, rhythm and roar, indifferent to such niceties as melody, harmony and sophistication. Any filigrees were provided by special guest harmonica players Walter Daniels (Big Foot Chester, etc.) and the dude from the Crackpipes. If any element took precedence over any other, it was the sheer emotional power of the guitarist's vocal and six-string assault; the rough boogie "She Likes It" was pure lust, while the slow, open power ballad with the "I'd rather be dead than stuck in this life with you" refrain wallowed in bitterness and misery. The Killers kept the rhythms danceable, however; the guitarist spent a great deal of time hopping across the stage, and at one point even left his axe to feed back while he capered and pranced about the room. The duo wasn't always together, but for a band like this, spirit is much more important than precision anyway. The audience certainly felt it.

After the performance, the drummer picked up his snare and led the crowd to the inside stage for the Total Sound Direct Action Committee, the latest project from legendary Austin punk figure Tim Kerr. The list of accomplishments on the balding guitarist/songwriter's resumé is getting pretty unwieldy at this point (the Big Boys, Poison 13, Bad Mutha Goose, Jack O'Fire, the Lord High Fixers, plus side projects like the Monkeywrench with Mudhoney's Mark Arm and the Now Time Delegation with the BellRays' Lisa Kekaula, not to mention a busy production career), so why not a band with a name as long and convoluted? In many ways the TSDAC is the culmination of a long career in music, as it's about abandon and audience participation as much as anything. Fronted by Kerr and Poison 13/Fixers singer Mike Carroll, the large ensemble (besides the standard rock quartet there was also an organist, a three-piece horn section and a small child on a snare drum) took simple rock song forms and seemingly deconstructed them, putting the pieces back together in a different way—garage rock as free jazz. Carroll was very intense about whatever the hell he was on about ("This Is What It's All About" was about the only song I could identify), but Kerr and the rest looked like they were having the time of their lives, as Kerr toured the crowd, offering his guitar and a huge grin to patrons, a reminder that a live rock & roll show is as much about the people as the performers. By the last, long song, another drummer had set his kit up on the floor, soon joined by the band's original drummer and one of the horn players, while the ubiquitous Jewws guitarist took the stage to pound on what kit was left and the bassist (the same guy from the Crackpipes) also abandoned his axe to beat on a floor tom. There were musicians everywhere, and it was impossible to tell the band from the crowd, which was no doubt the intention. It was a glorious mess, and a hard act to follow.

Fortunately the next band up was Texas' redoubtable garage punk icons the Sons of Hercules, who were their usual solid, dependable selves. That sounds like damning with faint praise, but it's not meant to be; the band's consistency over the years is indeed amazing. The acid sneer of singer Frank Pugliese showed no signs of wear and tear even though its owner has migrated to his 50s, and the catchy tunes held up extremely well. This band understands the concepts of writing actual vocal melodies, so its songs didn't sound like variations on the same old Standells tune. But what has really set the Sons apart all these years is their ability to make 60s-style garage rock sound not retro but timeless. As long as there are carports some kid's gonna bang out three chords and a snarl, and the Sons of Hercules gave voice to four decades worth of those kids' dreams.

The Austin-based Hard Feelings brought the blues back to the inside stage with a loose, driving set full of attitude and fire. Joined on the first three songs by Walter Daniels, the trio was even more of a blues band that it normally is, with the guitarist's shredding bottleneck calling up the ghosts of the Delta that Daniel's Little Walter-style harp put back down. After Daniel quit the stage, the band played more of a blues-inflected roots rock, but still with loads of snot and piss. At its best, the Feelings' take on R&B was like punked-up Howlin' Wolf; "You won't like it," growled the singer during the song of the same title, but how could one not? The only misstep, unfortunately, was the last song, when the band invited 70s punk vet Spike Perpetrator onstage for "Hide From Me, Baby," a fairly lame song the musicians cut for an upcoming single. Oh well, it was cool up to that point.

For the next band, Mike Gearhead himself took the stage for the introduction. After making snarky reference to certain other Scandinavian bands for whom Gearfest was a stepping stone for the proverbial bigger and better things (for those keeping score at home, it was the Hellacopters, Turbonegro and the Hives, though Mike inexplicably alluded to ZZ Top), the Gearhead Records/magazine overlord proclaimed "This is why you're here; you may not know it, but it is," to introduce "Demons." (No, I don't know why they use the quotation marks.) In pompadours and matching black "Stockholm" T-shirts, the band hit the stage running, cranking relentlessly through a good half-dozen songs before pausing for breath (the audience's, not the band's). Like a lot of bands from Sweden (not to mention at the show), "Demons" were punky but not punk, garageish but not garage; they simply ripped through loud/hard/fast rock & roll in as raw a manner as possible, sort of like the early days of the Streetwalkin' Cheetahs, or the Hellacopters pre-Grande Rock. Frontperson Matthias Carlsson snarled the songs with absolute, unsmiling confidence; considering that the band barreled forward like a runaway bullet train while remaining tight as fucking hell, he had every right to be confident. "Demons" had the audience in the palms of their hands already with tunes like "Hot Runnin' Blood" and "Blackballed;" once they interpolated "Who Do You Love" into a number and raucously covered Radio Birdman's venerable "Aloha Steve and Dano," the crowd was theirs forever. Its encore was well-deserved.

After that performance, the Turbo ACs were a bit of a letdown, but not because the band was without talent. Quite the contrary; its high-volume, high-speed power rock was as immediately gratifying and entertaining as one might expect. Like the Gaza Strippers, the well-named band was a punk combo in the same way a hard rock band after way too many caffeine/amphetamine cocktails is a punk outfit, which is a good thing. The singer/guitarist had a strong grasp of dynamics, alternating clean leads with raging power chords to excellent effect; no wall-of-shit approach for this guy. His heavily tremeloed tone and habit of injecting stinging surf licks into the din were very cool as well. The hardworking trio deserved all the love the crowd gave it, even if its performance wasn't quite up to the standards of the previous act. Of course, after three days and nearly 30 examples of high-energy rock & roll, it may have just been fatigue talking.

No time for that, though, as the last band of the Fest mounted the outside stage. The New Bomb Turks have been one of America's best punk rock bands for a decade, with damn good reason. The combo had that punk attitude down, with just the right mixture of sardonic humor and mean-spirited anger, and it grafted its sneer to an arsenal of tuneful nuclear missiles, with catchy riffs, a variety of melodic approaches and singer Eric Davidson's witty lyrics. And he was a singer, by the way; he may not cause Paul McCartney to lose any sleep, but he was more than a tuneless screamer. Guitarist Jim Weber's slashing, freeze-dried tone, not unlike Paul Leticoq from the late, lamented Effigies, set him apart from every other punk guitarist working; that he applied that processed tone to what were often nothing more than turbocharged rockabilly licks gave the band an even more unique sound. Davidson was all over the place, never sitting still for an instant, whether singing, interacting with the crowd or simulating any number of acts with the mic stand, stage columns, himself, whatever. Sort of a savage clown, but one with an intense maniacal stare as well as a playful manner, he worked the stage as hard as Bruce Springsteen ever has, and with a lot less contrivance. Cracking good rockers like "Pretty Lightning" and "Born Toulouse Lautrec" inspired the first mosh pit of the festival and earned the Turks a well-deserved encore, closing things out in rocking style.

One could argue that Gearfest 2002 showed the length and breadth of this thing we call punk rock. But it's more than that. "Punk" is far too limiting a term for what I saw this weekend and far too orthodox a designation for the artistic impulses driving these fine folks. Nearly every human being on those two stages looked as if he or she would at that moment rather be nowhere else but rocking; at no point have I ever seen such a large concentration of musicians so completely in love with live rock & roll. That's what Gearfest 2002 was all about, folks; that's what we were here to celebrate. We don't need Danny & the Juniors to tell us that rock & roll is here to stay; three evenings at Gearfest prove it will never die. There's only more thing left to say: When's the next one? Michael Toland

Copyright © 2002 High Bias