Day 2 of the Monolith Festival was a far different animal from Day 1, mostly for personal reasons:
a) no rain
b) no kid in tow
c) no wife in tow
d) no responsibilities/worries/stress in tow
e) several brownies and other goodies in tow
As you can see, I was sittin' prettier than Madoff pre-bust. And, as an old roommate of mine once told me, the only thing better than going to a movie/event with friends and loved ones is going to a movie/event all alone. I couldn't argue with that logic then, and I sure as hell am not going to argue now. With that in mind, I officially became that Weird Guy sitting alone amid the families, post-hippies, couples, college yahoos, and other assorted riff-raff, and with The Mars Volta on my plate, I knew I'd need plenty of seclusion to fully soak it all in.
“Soak” being the inclement word here. Day 2 didn't downpour like Day 1, but the Red Rocks crowd got sprinkled like a chocolate cupcake all day, and a constant drizzle can be as maddening as a full-on drench-job. Even more distressing was the fact that a long-ass line prevented me from catching HEALTH on a small-ass stage at a perfect-ass time. Rats; apparently there are people in Colorado who know of this band, of Lovepump United/remix-record fame.
Shifting gears a LOT, I headed to the main stage to secure a spot for Method Man and Redman. When the duo finally announced its presence, sight unseen, their booming voices sounding over the PA system, the whole crowd perked up, no doubt still reeling from The Dandy Warhols -- who deliver more oddity and baritone than one would prefer -- and Glitch Mob.
As I've bemoaned via TMT many times before, live hip-hop is a questionable, barely fuckable beast (if you follow me). I've seen the good (Kanye W., The Roots, Brother Ali, Lifesavas), the bad (Public Enemy post-heyday, Beans solo, Subtle), and the ugly (Insane Clown Posse, before their WWF days), and the only sure thing is the varying degree of quality. Meth and Red, of course, are legends, the former by dint of his Hits and his outgoing Presence in rap, and Red by dint of his motor/marble-mouth'd MC-ing and murky albums including Dare Is a Darkside (one of the only albums to hold a candle -- or two -- to the older Wu-Tang records).
Together, the pair pretty much split the difference between their contrasting-yet-well-fitting styles (though the showbiz lean/swagger/bravado of it all makes me think of Method Man more than Redman). They carry a keen business sense like a gold-plated carry-all, mentioning a sequel to How High nigh 20 times. (Who gives a fuck?) Their rap acumen, of course, is enough to cut into any crowd; any evaluation hinges on this fact. I haven't even heard the new album, their second, and I don't plan to. It's enough to catch them live every few years -- that's where you get the best interplay, Meth tossing out diamonds and Red matching them with pearls, their teamed-up voices booming like thunder and cracking like a clipped electrical wire. As MCs who have put in their time in the underground and out in the open, they possess effortless flow and unending amounts of what many would simply call Game. Checkmate, I say.
At this point, some beardo informed us MSTRKRFT would not be performing due to an illness. Replacing them on the mainstage would be, YAY, Phoenix! Since I could give a hot-wet beershit about either of them -- as it turns out I prefer Phoenix, if it matters to you -- I sat and daydreamed of a time when The Mars Volta would be taking the stage, then wandered to the second stage, where I heard the balls-clipped shriek of a mega-banshee the likes of which I'd never dared dream. It came from the singer of Passion Pit, and it caused me to collapse on the ground in a twitching, convulsing heap. I know the Kids like this shit, but lord have mercy, did it ever Blow. Stay away from this band, the Grey's Anatomy of “indie” rock.
Trudging through a set by Phoenix didn't seem nearly as violatory now, so I did, and though this isn't my Thing, I like the music for what it is: harmless, tuneful post-Muse (or just Muse-ish, if you prefer) pop-rock, with mass appeal and commercial prospects built into its apparatus. Interpol or Arctic Monkeys make more sense to me as modern-rock festival bands, but Phoenix have that kiddie thing going; tough to argue with if you're booking the shit.
El Mars Volta... So, are they, like, huge yet? I can't really tell, but they have their devotees. Who would have predicted the refrain of “Exo-skeletal junction at the railroad delayed” would become the “Don't give me no lip and keep ya hands to ya'self” of the new millenium? But there the fans were, chanting these oblique, Word-of-the-Day lyrics like Alanis Morrissette fans digging on “Ironic.” It's a brave new world, I tell ya, and Mars Volta bolt molten guitar riffs to some of the queasiest prog-yelps you've ever heard, all in the name of Progress.
It's a take-it-or-leave-it deal, and I proudly take Mars Volta, warts and all. Seeing them live for the first time, I was surprised at how reined-in drummer Thomas Armon Pridgen seemed, content to bash out fairly rudimentary fills far flung from the acid-apeshit you'll find on Rodriguez-Lopez' best solo albums. And that everyman/percussionist with the hand drums and keyboards? Yeah, not really hearin' him over the squal of the guitar, bass and drums. What's more, Cedric Bixler-Zavala's squeal drifted in and out of the mix unpredictably. He tended to hit his notes, a feat in itself considering the pitch he laid down in the studio, but the volume and control was lacking.
Thank god for O-Rod. His axe work is dynamic almost to a fault, his steady movements belying the complicated, fast-fingered fret-fucking taking place. We all know Rodriguez-Lopez and Bixler-Zavala have sort of turned into tight-pants-, boots-wearing hepcats, but it's all good as long as they dance gaily across the stage as they do, B-Z twirling his mic and stand around like post-coke Steven Tyler and R-L spinning in circles and stutter-stepping like Adrian Peterson. Pridgen, as I mentioned, could have Worked It to a higher degree, but his playing in and of itself was spot-on even when he dropped a stick, and the bassist did what a bassist must do: he stood near the drummer and nodded his head. Same with the organ player; props.
Where song selection is concerned, the numerous cuts from Octahedron worked well with the older material, particularly the Pink Floyd (and that's NOT a comparison I use lightly or often) circa Meddle float of “Luciforms,” but I keep coming back, memory-wise, to trusty ol' catcher's mits like “Inertiatic ESP” and “Roulette Dares (The Haunt of).” They sounded pitch-perfect in concert, and they're still -- along with “Concertina,” sadly absent -- the best Mars Volta have to offer as portals into the full thrust of their talent. A few more tracks from Bedlam in Goliath would have been appreciated though.
And with that you have MONOLITH, THE FESTIVAL YOU COULD NEVER, EVER STRADDLE!
