Hopscotch Panel documentation

Abby Nardo took some great pictures at the Hopscotch panel I moderated this year, a few of which you can see below. For those of you with interest, fortitude, and free-time, a video of the entire two-hour proceeding can be found here.

Me and Sam Herring from Future Islands

Moi

Hopscotch Panels in the Duke Chronicle

I spoke to a reporter at the Duke Chronicle for her story about panels at the Hopscotch Music Festival because I'm moderating one at the Raleigh City Museum on Saturday, Sept. 10, at 3 pm (info). Strangely, the story is headed by a huge, old photo of my face, even though I'm only quoted at the end. Solid overview though. Read it here.

"The Bubble: The Limits of Pop Music"

Another year, another panel for me to moderate at the Hopscotch Music Festival...look how sick the roster is! (Sick meaning awesome.) UPDATE: note the date change from Thursday to Saturday, reflected below. 

The Bubble: The Limits of Pop Music
Saturday, Sept. 10: 3–5pm

Raleigh City Museum

with
Wayne Coyne (of The Flaming Lips)
Mark Richardson (Editor in Chief of Pitchfork Media and author of Zaireeka)
Chris Stamey (of the dB’s)
Julianna Barwick
Sam Herring (of Future Islands)
David Tompkins (author of How to Wreck a Nice Beach: The Vocoder from World War
II to Hip-Hop, The Machine Speaks)
Moderated by: Brian Howe
With music by Chris Stamey

http://twitter.com/hopscotchfest
http://twitter.com/EdMcKayRaleigh
http://twitter.com/RalCityMus

Super-late Hopscotch recap

Last September, the Independent Weekly held its first annual music festival in Raleigh, Hopscotch. I was one of the writers they sent out with a weekend-pass to document the Festival, ostensibly for a post-fest wrap in the paper that didn't wind up happening. I found my write-up, which I'd forgotten about, going through some old files recently, and figured I'd post it here for POSTERITY since there's little chance, at this point, that I'll be able to monetize a months-old festival review (please forgive the cynical mention of monetization; these are dark and inimical days for a freelancer). At Hopscotch, I mostly avoided the big tickets to scope out the margins, as is my wont. This was my experience:

What’s your “Hopscotch tally?” Here’s mine: 150 miles driven (i.e. 3 Durham-Raleigh round trips), 40 blocks walked, 30 conversations about how exciting this was for the Triangle engaged in, 10 pedi-cab rides declined, 7 performances witnessed, 5 venues visited, 2 hours spent getting lost on the outskirts of Raleigh, 1 panel moderated, 1 random slap on the ass from a passing college-bro outside the Pour House, 1 instance of late-night vomiting, and fewer beers than that last figure suggests. And I squeezed it all into the first two days, as I missed the final night to cover Prairie Home Companion’s “Summer Love” tour in Cary, which just as culturally jarring a transition as it sounds.

My first stop was the Five Star Restaurant to see Deakin from Animal Collective. As soon as I entered, a young woman approached me and said words I couldn’t hear over the throbbing music while proffering something I reached for reflexively, until I saw that it was flavored vitamin water and recoiled as if she were holding a snake. A hot one, made of poo. I got a beer instead and began to search for Deakin, who was nowhere to be seen. A crowd of young people faced a brick-and-mirrored corner that seemed empty. Had Deakin actually gone through the looking glass?

But no, when you got closer, there he was, in a tie-dyed t-shirt, with long, limp, center-parted hair, playing open guitar chords that came out of the speakers as glasses-rattling sheets of bass, backed by a drummer and keyboardist. If Panda Bear is for opiates, Deakin is definitely for psychedelics, juxtaposing pyrotechnic miasmas with heavy slabs of rhythm. Whenever a beat dropped, the kids in front snapped out of their euphoric stupors on cue and began to dance in the Deakin-appropriate style, which resembles a mellow seizure, with lots of “no no no” head-shaking. On the way out I was really thirsty and snagged a flavored vitamin water to drink on the walk to Kings, which was cold and refreshing and didn’t taste like poo at all, although I wouldn’t recommend mixing it with beer (#late-night vomiting).

The new Kings  is nondescript from the street: a white brick façade with only the clustered hipsters outside and some soaring guitar notes from within betraying its function. Inside, I was pleased to discover how much it felt like the old Kings, where I fondly remember rocking out to the Chestpains and Sharon Jones (although not, sadly, on the same night), if it were crossbred with the mazy tiers of Ringside: lots of poured concrete, lurid murals, arcade cabinets, and artifacts from the old location such as the crown-shaped beer shelf. Locrian played as I entered, which was quite a tonal shift from Deakin: dark, sparse, and precise, rather than day-glo, caterpillar-thick, and sloshing. The room was thinly populated—this wasn’t Hopscotch’s trendiest bill—but Locrian sounded awesome and I wished I’d left Five Star a bit earlier as to hear more than two songs. Then Cloudland Canyon took the stage. The tall, skinny drummer pulled off his sleeveless black Liturgy t-shirt and carved up the band’s towering mass of VU-style reverb into lucid planes. They were powerful and proficient, although I didn’t take much away from it besides “loud.”

On Friday afternoon, I moderated the “Black Mountain College: Legacy and Inspiration” panel at the Raleigh City Museum. My friends Ken Rumble, Megan Stein, and Chris Vitiello staged a happening that included breaking glass, blending drinks, power tools, slowed-down records, thrown dice, and much more layered minutiae. It worked great, imbuing banal actions with a heroically repetitive aura. Another friend, Chris Tonelli, gave an illuminating talk on the Black Mountain poet and publisher Jonathan Williams, and read from Williams’ humorous, profane work as well as from his own. And Broken Social Scene’s Andrew Whiteman gave a marvelous reading from Ed Dorn’s Gunslinger, replete with multiple voices and lusty sound effects, before reading a poem of his own that updated a portion of Ezra Pound’s Cantos to address the touring musician’s life. Then I went home to work and nap. I overslept and sadly missed Ryan Gustafson’s set at the Pour House, but Ryan deserves special mention for being (as far as I know) the only musician to play all three nights of Hopscotch (with Max Indian on Thursday and the Light Pines on Saturday).

Arriving at the Pour House in time for Sharon Van Etten, I expected a quiet, intimate vibe. Boy, was I wrong. The venue was packed to the rafters with predominantly undergrad-aged patrons, and in the back, Van Etten’s loud, brassy rock numbers could barely compete with the crowd noise. The ballads didn’t stand a chance. I worked my way to the front by stealth and guile, and it was better, but there were still people standing ten feet from the stage with their backs turned, deep in conversation. I’m not one to expect a reverent hush at shows, and admittedly, I was often “that guy” at age 22. But this was pretty shameful. “This next song is very special to me,” Van Etten said over the catcalls and chatter, as she launched into a beautiful, dragging torch song for harmonium. She handled it gracefully, though you could see the hurt in her eyes when they flickered over the crowd. Outside the Pour House is where the aforementioned ass-slapping incident occurred: that’s what the vibe was like there, weird and crass and aggressive. It was the only time all weekend I felt less-than-proud of the Triangle.

On the street outside, it seemed as if all of Chapel Hill and Durham were in Raleigh. With apologies to Bowerbirds, I needed a break from the Pour House, and went next door to Tir Na Nog with a posse that included Josh Moore, Hometapes' Jon Polk, and a Juan Huevos raging on Amped gum and rocking a ripped white tee like Lou Ferrigno. The War on Drugs was just getting started, and the vibe was just as excitable as at the Pour House, but much friendlier and more music-focused. War on Drugs is a band I’ve slept on but won’t anymore—their deep bass lines, Technicolor shredding, and Herculean drummer were a thrill. I thought it was kind of like Tom Petty crossed with Wavves, although the latter was mainly due to the singer’s psychedelic baseball cap.

Still, I cut out early, because my unilateral soul-mate Richard Buckner was playing back at the Pour House, which was utterly transformed: the room was now half-full with people who were there not to be seen and hook up with friends, but to—gasp!—hear Richard Buckner. It was 1 a.m. by the time he went on, playing an acoustic set with his uniquely chunky and barbed guitar playing. At this point, I was pretty tired, and leaned against the wall with other battle-weary but ardent Buckner fans, letting his voice wash over me. By 1:30 I was slightly swaying  on my feet, and I said my goodbyes and made for the door. But on the stairs, I heard the opening notes of “Town,” one of my very favorites. With a resigned smile, I turned around and went back in to hear one more song.

Black Mountain Archives

A note from Ashley Yandle of the North Carolina State Archives, following up on the Black Mountain College panel I moderated at Hopscotch:

The Black Mountain College records are at the North Carolina State Archives, a couple of blocks away from the Raleigh City Museum.

Our website

Our blog

The list of BMC collections we have

Some BMC photos on our Flickr account

And a series of BMC publications that we've scanned and put online

Craziest Weekend Ever

Hopscotch in Raleigh! Prairie Home Companion in Cary! A new blog launch (more on that soon)! If I survive this weekend, this weekend is going to rule. To top it all off, I'm moderating one of the afternoon panels at Hopscotch, which you might want to check out for some chin-stroking action before you start pouring beer over your own head at Fucked Up's show. It's at the Raleigh City Museum on Friday afternoon, from 4-6 pm. Press release:

FRIDAY, SEPT. 10 (Free/ 4–6 p.m.)
Black Mountain College: Legacy and Inspiration
Andrew Whiteman writes, sings and plays guitar in the Canadian bands Broken Social Scene and Apostle of Hustle. Not long after Broken Social Scene confirmed their co-headlining Hopscotch set, Whiteman approached festival organizers about an event that would honor Black Mountain College, the influential interdisciplinary school that opened in western North Carolina in 1933. Whiteman will read his own poetry, as well as that of several Black Mountain acolytes, and discuss the school’s importance with a panel of local poets.

The speakers include Toronto’s ANDREW WHITEMAN, a Broken Social Scene staple who will read from his forthcoming book, Tourism; Durham’s KEN RUMBLE, an installation artist, musician and the author of Key Bridge (Carolina Wren Press, 2007); Durham’s MEG STEIN, an installation artist and musician working and playing in the 715 Washington art collective, along with Rumble; Durham’s CHRIS VITIELLO, a poet and artist and the author of Irresponsibility (Ahsahta Press, 2008); and Raleigh’s CHRIS TONELLI, a professor at N.C. State University, the author of four chapbooks and the founder of the So and So Series. Pitchfork Media Critic and Paste Senior Contributing Editor BRIAN HOWE, an accomplished poet himself, will moderate the discussion. Rumble, Stein and Vitiello will also present a performance inspired by the Black Mountain College happenings of John Cage and Robert Rauschenberg at the start of the event.
SATURDAY, SEPT. 11 (Free/ 4–6 p.m.)