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OZZFEST '99 Woodstock was bigger and badder, Lilith Fair kinder and gentler, but when it comes to rock pure and simple, Ozzfest reigns supreme. The finale of Ozzfest '99 -- which took place before some 50,000 people at Blockbuster Pavilion in the arid hinterlands east of Los Angeles -- was a hulking, day-long, sun-drenched, beer-soaked, hormone-charged heavy metal bacchanalia. Festival organizers prudently staggered the set times on both stages so that it was possible, theoretically, to sample all the bands on the bill, but as the day progressed, thirsty throngs in the concession area made it increasingly difficult to navigate between the main and second stage where a fine line-up of bands including Puerto Rico's Puya, Sweden's shredding sirens Drain STH, and Ozzfest vets Fear Factory were slated to play. Between bands, gaggles of audience members in varying stages of sunburn/inebriation periodically scrambled to their feet to gawk at whatever the people in the next seats were craning to see -- sporadic scuffles, pyromaniacs igniting towels and T-shirts, or women who felt compelled to doff their tops. But for all the raucous ambiance the crowd generated, what made Ozzfest a great concert was the kick-ass music that transpired. Topping the bill was the purported final reunion appearance by Black Sabbath, a festive enough occasion in and of itself, but everyone else on the bill -- from the unsigned Flashpoint and Apartment 26 to tried and true vets like Slayer, Primus and, Rob Zombie -- did their damnedest to stoke the party-hearty spirit of the day. After an opening set by Hed p.e., System of a Down made its main stage debut, and despite some stretches of murky sound, the Los Angeles quartet whipped up a volatile set of brutally elegant, politically-charged tunes that drew a lively response from the crowd. Godsmack probably benefited most from the live setting. The Boston quartet hammered out tunes from its self-titled debut with vibrant energy. Singer Sully Erna even had a fling with his first love - drums -- during the group's radio hit "Whatever," manning a prodigious set of congas and engaging in a little percussive sparring with his drummer. Primus frontman Les Claypool wryly announced that playing Ozzfest '99 was like having a two-month long erection -- an observation that his band punctuated with some heated jamming, including a "Crazy Train" tease that surfaced out of the lurching groove of "Too Many Puppies." Though they were forced to restrain themselves to a mere 45 minutes, Claypool and company nonetheless managed to unfurl their quirky funk-metal sprawl in all its eccentric glory. Slayer's set was almost as blistering as the afternoon sun and inspired the most audience mayhem of the day. Driven by the urge to mosh, sorties of fans attempted to overrun the security personnel in neutral zones separating the seating sections, which culminated in a group effort to remove the seats bordering the pit and crowd surf them stage-ward. The unenviable task of following Slayer fell to Deftones, and although the group's moodier, mellower set was something of an abrupt change of pace, it wasn't entirely unwelcome -- especially on the part of the small but feisty femme faction who were moved to shrieking ecstasy by frontman Chino Moreno's brooding charisma. Rob Zombie's spectacular stage shows have traditionally been as big a production as his studio efforts -- the flashy, effortlessly festive result of much meticulous work. For his appearance at Blockbuster, the stage was shockingly underdressed (one go-go dancer, some gargantuan fuzzy dice, a flag motif and a few flashpots), but Zombie was as full of vim as ever -- a post-apocalyptic madman presiding over a tumult of monstrous grooves, iron clad riffage, and industrial debris. Stylistically it was a far cry from Black Sabbath, but thematically it was the perfect prelude for "War Pigs," Sabbath's opening number, and the vigor with which the infamous foursome delivered the tune set the tone for the rest of the night. Bassist Geezer Butler and drummer Bill Ward tackled the chunky, insidiously groovy rhythms with more fervor than most rhythm sections half their age, and guitarist Tony Iommi unleashed searing solos and churning riffage with the implacable cool worthy of a guitar god. Ozzy Osbourne for his part was endearingly Ozzy as ever, demanding that the crowd wave its arms/clap its hands in time to the music (which it did with marvelous adeptness considering the vast amounts of controlled substances floating in its collective system), go completely crazy (which it already was), and flick its Bics. The heavy smoking crowd packed enough lighters to give the moody intro of "Black Sabbath" an impressive, twinkly allure. During more obscure numbers Osbourne and company jammed heartily, but the best moments of course were epics like "Children of the Grave," "Iron Man," and "N.I.B.," during which the audience acted as a big slurry chorus. After the last strains of "Paranoid" died away and Osbourne cautioned the crowd not to drive under the influence, a volley of Fourth of July caliber fireworks erupted -- the perfect pyrotechnic close for a day of explosive music.
-- Roxanne Rollins
VANS Warped Tour The dust in the air was as thick as the upstate accents as a motley gathering of skate punks, alternateens, and a few old schoolers gathered under a blazing hot sun for another Vans Warped Tour. With production values as polished as the fans (four hokey stages -- two medium sized, two downright dinky -- a throng of indie-mag and skate company tents, large patches of dirt in-between), the atmosphere at run-down Randall's Island was part midsummer barbecue (albeit with stale $3 pretzels), part slumming suburban teen preen, part sentimental outpouring of punk pride. Filthy port-o-sans were hardly going to cut into the layer of sweat and scum covering anyone who wandered from one stage to the other (let's not even start on the mosh pit enthusiasts), but though the afternoon may sound like a sophisticate's worst nightmare (OK, it was a sophisticate's worst nightmare), judging from the throngs of ear-to-ear grins, arm-in-arm swaggering, and in-unison cheering, the kids in attendance wouldn't have had it any other way. Seems like this skate-inspired tour is, after all, all about punk rock (dude). Ironic, when you consider the "new look" lineup: this year's Tour tried to get a spread of acts that they thought would better reflect the diversity of taste among MTV-influenced skate-rats today. Sadly, the best they ended up with were two hip-hop acts (Black Eyed Peas, Eminem), a Mexican punk-rap trio (the very up-to-par Molotov) and a dash of industrial speed-metal (Sevendust, who ain't much of a stretch when you think about it). Though the reception to headliner Eminem was more than cordial (downright ecstatic, which may or may not be a reflection of his ethnicity, and most definitely was a reflection of his performance chops, charisma, and songwriting skills), for the most part, those who assembled the biggest crowds were predictably punk veterans like Agnostic Front (erroneously placed on the smaller stage: "They've still got it" would be an understatement), Suicidal Tendencies (also as tight as they were back in the Venice Beach summers of the mid-'80s), and The Vandals (as frat-dorky as ever); and relative newcomers Pennywise (utterly tight) and Sevendust. So despite (or maybe because of) Vans' nominal attempts to diversify, no one should blame the Black Eyed Peas for feeling a little defensive (dare we say tokenized?) and throwing in more than a few salutations about "universal music" which came across as slightly good-natured "welcome to hip-hop, white kids." Their hearts were in the right place, and their performance was a great backdrop to the Vans skate ramp set up adjacent to the stage, but their slower tempo and Native Tongues-style cultured bohemianism went over the heads of a lot of the same kids who were screaming for Eminem. Guess the audience just liked it more hardcore, guitars or no. Note to the bookers: Duh.
-- Alexandra Marshall
Bauhaus A curious sight: groups of young and not-so-young men and women, in leather and velvet and hairspray and blush and eyeliner, groping through the foliage of a palm tree outside the Hollywood Palladium, stashing their wallet chains and lipstick and cigarettes and other contraband that the venue has deemed too dangerous to be permitted on the premises. And outside the ropes, a girl in a chain-mail dress assuring the amiably intransigent bouncers that her clothing will not be a security threat. Not even, it seemed, on this one night, are they allowed to be who they once were, and beneath the graduate studies and the white collar jobs, still are. But inside the venue, the darkness breaks free, proud, and unbowed. "I Dare You..." To an eruption of teenybopperish whoops and cheers, drowning out the malevolent opening guitar chord and submarine radar pips, an image of Peter Murphy appears on a center-stage monitor and begins the tormented croon of "Double Dare." And next, during "In The Flat Field," the strobes reveal the landscape: a real life, really alive Murphy, his gaunt frame immaculately draped in white shirt and black waistcoat, his drawn face frozen in passionate grandeur, at complete command of the capacity crowd. What follows, as Daniel Ash had promised, is virtually the quintessential greatest hits package. With the exception of "The Passion of Lovers" -- played the following night -- and "Telegram Sam," every cult classic is recreated in flesh and blood, noise and passion. "She's In Parties" is an exact replica of the recorded work, while "God In An Alcove," originally dry and brittle, explodes on stage. Ash, in silver lame top, pours high-end guitar distortion all over "Silent Hedges" and punctuates "In Fear of Fear" with sax blasts, while Murphy pirouettes and gesticulates like a traffic cop who's indulged in some of the crystal meth that's been flooding the Southland of late. The pace slows and the mood thickens for an eloquent cover of Dead Can Dance's "Severance" and a melancholic version of "Hollow Hills," visually aided by suspended lanterns. But the somber interludes are balanced by the breakneck volatility of "Terror Couple Kills Colonel" and "Sanity Assassin," before the set climaxes with "Kick In The Eye," with Murphy kicking out along with the chorus -- though not quite eye-high. After a pregnant five minute pause, the band returns, in new garb, for a fanatically greeted "Ziggy Stardust." And the night ends, of course, with a full-length, full-throttle version of "Bela Lugosi's Dead," featuring Murphy, in as rich and resonant voice as ever, swooshing his black cape around before freezing in a spread-eagle crucifixion pose -- which he smartly segues into an unpretentious, friendly wave as he leaves the stage. False memories, as many psychotherapists and their lawyers now know, are enchantingly deceiving. This glorious 20-year flashback to the time when Bauhaus cut a fresh swath through the wasteland of contemporary music and reached a pinnacle of cultural and popular acclaim is largely a hallucination. In fact, most early Bauhaus shows were shoddy, sparsely attended affairs; their legend was born after their demise. And so this "Resurrection" tour is misnamed. The fact is that Bauhaus tonight are bigger than they ever were, and the dark intensity of their music has never been so powerfully delivered. Perhaps it's the flagrant 60's regression of Britpop -- ironically foreshadowed by early Love and Rockets -- that makes this oasis of intensity seem so fresh. But it's probably more simple: Before and since the age of Bauhaus, there's been so little music built on knife-edge tension: such little competition for the staccato pathos of "God In An Alcove," the eerie vulture picking of "Terror Couple Killed Colonel," the gothic dub of "She's In Parties," the brazen bombast of "Bela." These classics have not been matched. But their reincarnation may serve as standard-setting inspiration for the future. This isn't nostalgia; this is new, and this is now.
-- Dave Kendall (dave.kendall@mindspring.com)
Beastie Boys Picture this: you're the biggest band in America, your current release is selling faster than hotcakes, the press has nothing but good things to say about your work, and every time you sneeze, a new trend ensues in its snotty wake. The only problem is, you're over 30 and you're getting tired of the rockstar thing. So how do you deal with the exhausting necessity of touring? Well, since you're the Beastie Boys, you do as you always have -- you just dive right in. No one knew quite what to expect from the punks-turned-rappers-turned-superstars on this, the opening night of their first tour since '95. DJ Mix Master Mike kicked things off by engaging the crowd in a little turntablistic foreplay. His arousal method of choice: a scratched- up version of Rush's '80s-rock classic, "Tom Sawyer." The unexpected melding of hip-hop and butt-rock proved the Beasties may have grown up, but their sense of humor has remained intact. Without warning, the trio exploded onto the scene in orange coveralls that looked equal parts mechanic, escaped convict, and construction worker. Mike D -- the band's de facto PR agent, leader, and spokesperson -- shouldered the entire burden of audience relations. Ad Rock was his usual zany self, thrusting his pelvis like a horny dog in need of someone's leg. MCA quietly wandered around the stage with a calm that went far beyond Zen. Overall, the Boys lacked the stunning energy for which they are renowned. Whoever dreamed up the Beasties' "in-the-round" concept for the Hello Nasty tour deserves a medal. The boxing-ring-inspired stage situated dead center in the huge arena made sure not one person in the sell-out crowd had a bad seat. The Boys spent most of their time bounding around the circumference of the stage, periodically joining Mix Master Mike and miscellaneous band members for a jam in its oscillating core. There was only one glitch with this set-up -- the stage, exposed on all sides, became all the more attractive to fans. One after another, kids made valiant attempts to climb past the goons and onto the stage. Many succeeded, but they were all quickly whisked off by the men in blue. The hero of the night was the guy who not only made it up on-stage, but had enough time to perfect his camera angle for a Beasties snapshot. Ad Rock even struck a pose. The crowd shrieked their approval as he turned and leapt back into the crowd before security even made a move. Crowd antics and innovative stage arrangement aside, the night suffered from one very major handicap -- the formulaic set list. In every segment of the show, the Beasties insisted on doing a track from each of their personas -- a little hip-hop here, some funky grooves there, and far too much speed-punk everywhere. There's a reason Pollywog Stewwas a flop, Boys, remember? The show's musical highlights were borrowed ones. Digital Underground's "Humpty Dance" and Billy Joel's "Big Shot" were far better executed than the Beasties' own "Egg Raid on Mojo" and "Tough Guy." This tour has the potential for greatness -- let's just hope the Boys don't squander it on sloppy punk rock silliness.
-- Courtney Reimer
Beck When I bought the "Loser" CD single back in 1994, my first impression of Beck was that he must have been a supreme wastoid. Who the hell was the ratty blonde mumbling mushy raps about god knows what? The last track on the single, "Fuse," was about he and a friend coasting down the highway in a tattered pick-up with a container of nitrous oxide that could explode any minute, and even if it did, they would've been too tanked to notice. The music really kicked ass, but the singer seemed out of his gourd. The glueheads who hung around my grammar school playground seem positively lucid by comparison. Let's just say that was a long time ago. When Beck took the stage at Supper Club, it was as if someone you always pegged a boyish clown had morphed into a bona-fide elder statesman. (It helps that songs on his latest album, Odelay, reach into territory that the disjointed Mellow Gold never touched.) On-stage, Beck fleshes out the hip-hop rhetoric of his recorded work with an incredibly tight live band, and his wiggy persona animates a wordy buffet of lyrics like "hitching a ride with the bleeding noses/coming to town with the briefcase blues." It's kinda like falling in love with an album by a comedian and then going to see him do stand-up. Not to say that Beck's a joke; he means business. Several songs into the set, he tried to get the crowd warmed up with a few call-and-responses. When they fell flat, he shouted, "That was weak!" (Despite his endearing charm, how could he top opener Cibo Matto, a female Japanese hip-hop duo, crying, "Anybody here from Blook-ryn!") Sensing the crowd was suffering from rusty joints, he applied lubrication by pouring himself a glass of wine and singing a slow jam in a falsetto that would've knocked Prince's purple ego black and blue. And how did he follow that up? Oh, by strapping on his acoustic and harmonica and changing the vibe from boudoir to hoe-down in a heartbeat. By the time he came to full circle with "Where It's At," though, he had the whole place hoppin' in the palm of his hand. After a long run, the artistry of hip-hop has become unrestricted by race, and Beck has been called--along with the Beasties--the only hip-hop whiteboy with a clue. Yet people forget that a large part of hip-hop's essence was the likes of Afrika Bambaataa cropping hooks from Kraftwerk, or Run-D.M.C. snipping an Aerosmith lick. Going from the show, it was hard to imagine a genre Beck that couldn't turn on its side. To paraphrase what the audience just couldn't stop yelling at him, he's the man! --Smith Galtney
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