K-Rock Dysfunctional Family Picnic
The days of the proper arena show are passed. Gone is heyday
of the Kiss stage show and ostentatious pyrotechnics. When
Rush stacks their amps seven miles high at the former Brendan
Byrne Arena and draws their logo in laser light, only the
old-timers are impressed. Single-headliner, monster-rock
arena shows with their stringently assigned seats and hot
dog vendors are kitsch for late-teens with their stim thirst
and disposable income. They don't want to sit through three
or four bands with naught else to entertain them when the
Lollapalooza was the better mousetrap
that changed the concert landscape. At the time of the first
one, I wasn't impressed by Perry Farrell's cash juggernaut.
But in hindsight, I give him credit: His mousetrap not only
charged the prey a hefty admission, he also got paid by
the cheesemakers to compete for the privilege of being the
bait. Events like the K-Rock Dysfunctional Family Picnic
(DFP) -- which I can only assume are held in every large
radio market -- are Farrell's grand-nephews, cousins to
Lollapalooza's deficient offspring like the wan Lilith Fair
and struggling Van Tour.
At this point, for most of these events,
the music is largely inconsequential. Witness the musical-chairs
lineup on the Lilith Fair: So long as there's one A-list,
two B-list and half a score C-list acts in every city on
the tour, it doesn't really matter who's who. Just fill
the stages and make sure the batik booth is confirmed for
the duration. Promoters concentrate on demographics, lifestyles
and brand awareness to bait the trap. At the DFP, the cheese
was a rickety plywood half-pipe, Doc Martens temp tattoos,
post-hippie jewelry and free samples of Yahoo. (And, of
course, the do-gooder element: a second stage where, for
a $1 donation to LifeBeat, several of the bands signed autographs.)
If Farrell's sideshow was a 90s-style, Six Flags theme park
-- dozens of vendors, competing henna booths and more charities
than you could count -- then this sad showing of meta-activity
was the local county fair.
It was a gorgeous day, though, a perfect
Friday afternoon. The perfect day for playing hookey. Breezy
60s, not a cloud to be seen, a stone's throw from the water.
Even for a larger venue, Jones Beach is a great place for
a show. The stage is visible from all points; the sound
sufficient in the back, but not distorted and smothering
up front. And, then there's the food court -- further reinforcing
the mall atmosphere, putting the suburbanites at ease with
familiar trappings -- which I must admit was a pretty cool
thing to have right outside the stadium. While I didn't
indulge at the "Fried Dough" booth, I was happy
with the chicken burrito from the Caliente Cab outpost.
And there was the crowd: Enough young women, dressed appropriately
for the hot weather, to satisfy an army of pederasts, followed
closely by packs of shirtless boys. Toss in a few cranky
fathers with fanny packs and beepers on their belts, keeping
a considerate distance from their image-conscious kids --
yet still close enough to interrupt the licentious advances
of the 20-year old Island boys -- and it was quite fun to
press through the throng.
One-hit wonder musicians are the stock and trade of these
kind of things. Just as Rick Springfield beat out Bruce
Springsteen for a Grammy in the 80s, so do undeserving acts
secure slots on these relatively high-paying, one-day gigs
while countless more talented bands languish in Brownies-level
obscurity. The upside, though, is their surprising professionalism,
no doubt maintained by ball-busting label management. While
I still prefer small-scale live shows for their sloppy,
anything-goes presentation, it was nice to see and hear
several super-tight bands in a row. No nonsense. No lead
singers asking the crowd for a beer. No banter between the
bassist and the house sound guy.
King Norris opened. We were backstage
at the time, so we didn't see much of what I assume to be
Fred Norris' "I can still rock" vanity project.
But from what I heard and glimpsed through the back curtain,
his outfit is a refreshing hard rock band -- such an unwelcome
rarity in this day of crossovers like Fatboy Slim hogging
the heavy rotation slots in every major market. Granted,
King Norris would never secure any significant air- or stage
time without his Stern connections -- and they really should
keep to their own Kenny's Castaways crowd -- but they did
a fine job of playing to the quarter-filled arena. Next
up, a band I expected to hate: Blink 182. Ten years ago,
before MR&R began to obsessively categorize the punk
rock subcultures, I saw dozens of bands like Blink 182 at
the Court Tavern in New Brunswick, NJ and CB's matinees.
At the time, those bands were riding what we thought was
then the commercialized success of groups like Fugazi and
The Descendents, years before any member of Green Day had
even had his first wet dream. But, Blink impressed me by
tearing through their set like veteran old timers, and I
actually found myself digging the show.
Live followed, another band I've never been crazy about.
When their first album was released, the singer, Edward
Kowalczyk, had that emo-crooner thing going on; he had a
cute haircut and the right clothing, ready for his oblig
interview with Kennedy. Now, he's a Bono knock-off: shaved
head, dramatic sunglasses and black leather pants. The bassist,
Patrick Dahlheimer, has even followed suit by aping The
Edge. But, if you like Live, you would've enjoyed their
performance here, even excusing the self-important singalongs
and Kowalczyk's blatant hard-on (which I only noticed because
it was about five feet from my face, me down in the skimpy
photog's bullpen, him standing above me like a priapic god).
They, like the other B-listers, were professional: tight,
enthusiastic and sincere.
By this time, our backstage access
had been rescinded (Howard Stern was soon to arrive and
the topless women were being painted -- they wanted to clear
out all non-essentials), yet we had no proper seats. We
decided to stay only for Kid Rock, the new Vanilla Ice.
According to his website, Kid Rock's toured with the ultra-cred
Boogie Down Productions, Ice Cube and Too Short. That surprises
me to the point of disbelief; I'd assumed he was a manufactured
idol, no more genuine than the Backstreet Boys. His peculiar
amalgamation of pimp-daddy hiphop with metal riffs is, by
definition, derivative, but once again, the quality of his
performance, if not the quality of music, won me over. And
when Joe C. joined Kid and his Twisted Brown Trucker band
on stage, I laughed out loud; Joe C. is a rapping midget.
The Kid may be a buffoon, but he presentes the closest thing
to a rock 'n' roll sideshow I've seen this side of Alice
We hopped a bus at seven, forgoing the headline performances
by Limp Bizkit, Rob Zombie and the rest of them. We'd gone,
seen a hundred cute young girl and been surprised by a few
decent performances, Plus, the Knicks were playing, and
Giselle was anxious to watch it live. Bus to the train;
train to a cab. I was home by nine, my own short-attention
span taxed by the experience. The Knicks won at about the
same time the last train would've pulled out of Freeport,
and I was glad to already be home.