Getting Bunburied in Cincinnati, Ohio

Skyline view of Cincinnati from the 600 block of Main Street.

Looking back on our recent trip to Cincinnati for the Bunbury music festival, there were as many low-lights as there were highlights. This is a festival in its third year, and the event’s new organizers, PromoWest, still have much to learn. Rookie mistakes include a security team that asks about weapons on your person instead of checking for them; too few water stations in an unforgivably hot and humid climate; poor sound quality at the smaller stages; and a “craft beer village” that served us Stella Artois–a brand owned by Anhueser-Busch, the world’s largest beer manufacturer and distributor.

My favorite oversight was the poor signage and lack of visible staff at the start of the festival. On Friday, my little group entered the only marked entrance a few hours after opening, and walked into a Kafkaesque scene in the parking lot. Without any direction, attendees had formed a web of lines TO NOWHERE, some of which snaked into the ends of other lines and moved nonsensically in circles. People were hot, people were missing beloved bands, people were hangry. Some people were stuck outside for an hour or more, while craftier festival goers walked straight through the gates with ease as the only two visible staff members stood near the entrance and did nothing to control the situation. This was an amazing social experiment. Thank you, Bunbury, for proving that society descends into chaos within minutes in a vacuum.

In truth, these are all fixable deficiencies and some were on the road to remedy by the third day while others will probably (most likely…hopefully) be worked out by next year. For a note of positivity, the beer lines were short, and we weren’t packed into the festival grounds like sardines. Re-entry was allowed so we could come and go as we pleased (a fact that probably improved the bathroom situation immensely), and Bunbury was very kid friendly. In fact, there wasn’t one tripping teen, scared and lost in a sea of acid, to be seen all three days–a marked difference from Outside Lands. Most notably, the crowd wasn’t clogged with fashion bloggers and wannabe chanteuses looking to commemorate their coolness with Internet. This is because Bunbury hasn’t jumped the shark like Coachella, Outside Lands, or SXSW: all of which are now places to see and be seen rather than places to see and hear music. People actually came to the banks of the Ohio River to be with friends in the presence of live music; what a concept.

The highest of highs, however, came from two bands I’ve seen on the west coast many-a-time. Father John Misty has been profiled on this blog before, and I don’t feel there’s much more to add. His pitch was perfect, his outfit on point, his set amazing and peppered with insights that skewered the absurdity of every band asking the audience “how y’all doing today?” as well as the weak explanation Bunbury gave for its choice of name. For the record, he renamed the festival Blimberskrimp. After all was said and done, he made two grown females swoon just by walking by them. I was one of those two females, the other was my lady compadre for the weekend. He passed us and we attempted to say words with our mouths but words that never came; then he was gone in the blink of a swoon. As soon as he was out of earshot, we released breathy, disbelieving screams and lost our minds just as it began to pour down rain with a southern fury. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that means Father John Misty conjured the rain. It was a monswoon.

As the skies opened up we stood in the rain like teenagers and watched Tame Impala play an epic set through the downpour. For a band that up until recently hadn’t seen any of its U.S. royalties, Tame Impala always plays an amazing show like none of that BS is happening to them. Listening to psychedelic Aussies while running losey-goosey in the rain with an equally stimulated crowd conjured thoughts of Woodstock in the best of ways. Especially for a Californian that had almost forgotten what it was like to see water come from the sky, this moment was seared deeper into my memory as each huge sweat-salty drop of water stung my eyes. I was blown away when they played the Fox Theater in Oakland a few years back, and blown away a second time here in Ohio not only for the quality of their performance but for their professionalism in finishing their set as thunder wailed, lightning flashed, and the rain incapacitated their keyboard. This is a great band; this was a great night.

Other than Friday, we didn’t spend much time at the festival because we’re jaded city folk who weren’t that impressed with the line-up, and the trip was more of an excuse to see old friends than an effort to see new music. I am 30 now and I wasn’t paid to cover Bunbury, both facts which de-incentivized fighting crowds to catch a glimpse of Snoop Dog or enduring the heat to hear a local band I can hear better on Bandcamp. Instead of trapping us by the river, however, Bunbury’s re-entry policy allowed me and my band of merry travelers to explore Cincinnati.

Did you hear that, American cities currently negotiating with festival promoters, and the festival promoters that try to rob us blind with over-priced food and drinks? By enabling ticket holders to come and go at their leisure they will spend more money within city limits, and be much happier, much less destructive people at the festival because the herd mentality has been usurped by the freedom of movement. We still bought plenty of food and beer at the festival, but we also frequented Cheapside Cafe, MOTR Pub, Park + Vine, Coffee Emporium, the Taft Museum of Art and Eden Park, among others. In addition, we Ubered everywhere–further injecting Cincinnati’s local economy with our out-of-state moneys. Freedom = Choice, Choice = Patronage, Patronage = Successful Small Businesses.

Our band of merry travelers in Eden Park.

Bunbury is a quaint local festival that sent us home feeling unsullied and sun-kissed with a side of musical memories. Cincinnati is a cool town grappling with the same issues of suburban flight, urban blight, gentrification, and the on-coming flood of hipness as are so many other American cities in the 21st-century. But there is an element of midwest charm in Ohio that compels even the hippest bartenders and baristas to be awesomely polite and authentically engaged with me, the customer. I had almost forgotten this was possible, living as I do in San Francisco where rudeness is now worn as a badge of honor–a way to stratify class in Northern California into hierarchies of unhip, hip, hipper, and hippest. I’m sure Cincinnati’s growing pains are not over and that the city’s gentrification is not appreciated by all its residents, but, from an outsider’s perspective, it was encouraging to see murals restored and small businesses popping up amidst empty storefronts, while other businesses remained in place and looked untouched by time.

If you’re looking for a relaxing pace of life and an excuse to catch up with old music-loving friends, Cincinnati is the place and Bunbury is the festival for you. Will I personally return to Bunbury next year? Probably not, but Goonies never say die and this lady is most certainly for hire as a freelance music journalist. We’ll see where the year takes us, but until then…you take care, Ohio–perhaps I’ll see you again some day.


Father John Misty, “I’m Writing A Novel”

Josh Tillman’s brain is a national treasure, and I mean this in all semi-seriousness. During performances as Father John Misty, he lights up the stage with his eccentric dexterity, his quick-witted banter and superb musicianship.  This video, for the track “I’m Writing A Novel” off his album Fear Fun, was just released on 11 September and it puts on exhibit a life most likely not like your own. Perhaps what I admire most is his irreverence, his seemingly resolute desire to make life entertaining. Take, for example, the title of directional tabs on his WEBSITE: “I’m Coming To Your Town So You Can Film Me On Your iPhone” aka Tour; “Please Buy My T-Shirts!” aka Merchandise; and “These icons may be tiny but they will take you to websites that will be around for at least another 8 months before they are bought and made uncool by major media conglomerates” aka Facebook and Twitter.

Genius. Rumor has it that he’s ACTUALLY writing a novel. I can’t wait to read that.


Throwback Thursday: Fleet Foxes

Robin Pecknold and Skylar Skjelset, Bottom of the Hill, Feb. 2008. Photo by Paige Parsons courtesy of The Ice Cream Man

Conceded: Fleet Foxes are not technically a “throwback,” per se. However, this is a blog about memory, and whilst sitting at my computer and stumbling through the internet abyss I came across a recording of the first Fleet Foxes show I ever attended courtesy of Wolfgang’s Vault. Talk about nostalgia in real time, this vault gives me the band banter and crowd chatter in addition to their set.

In 2008, the hither-to unknown Fleet Foxes opened for Blitzen Trapper at Bottom of the Hill during a local indie music festival called Noise Pop. I say “hither-to unknown” because this was their first out-of-town show; they hailed from Washington state. If you live in San Francisco and haven’t attended a Noise Pop festival, you should: the lineup always features a few stunners and the shows are staged in awesomely intimate venues scattered around the City. I was coaxed to the show by a friend who loves Blitzen Trapper, and dragged my heterosexual Lifemate with me. At the time I was painfully (painfully) single, and just young enough to foster the delusion that lead singers in bands were making eye contact with me.

We arrived at the venue early to survey and be surveyed, so we were front center when Fleet Foxes took the stage. Perhaps it was the second beer on an empty stomach, but this concert became a religious experience. For those unfamiliar with the venue, the stage at Bottom of the Hill is minuscule but has height to accommodate the storage of gear underneath it. These dimensions create an odd dynamic where the band feels accessible because they’re crammed onto a tiny stage, yet remote since they sort of overlord above you in an illusory command. Being front and center, we were gazing up into the lights when the fellas took the stage and, in that atmosphere, the flannel-wearing, long-haired Robin Pecknold looked like a modern-day Messiah. Please remember, I was somewhat intoxicated. Then the man opened his mouth and out came that folk hymnal mightiness that has driven this band into the limelight. Glory, glory, everyone.

After our communion with musical religiosity, the Lifemate and I moseyed over to the merchandise table which was manned by Fleet Fox Skylar Skjelset. Being awkward college co-eds, we fumbled to make conversation and what transpired is the reason why my memory of this concert (aside from the music) remains so fond. As we pawed at CD’s and records we had no intention of purchasing, Lifemate said to Skjelset, “Has anyone ever told you you look like Macaulay Culkin?”

Skjelset’s expression went from welcoming to deadpan and my inner monologue screamed “Uh, oh. Abort. ABORT.” He simply said no and then there was silence. So I jumped in with an uncomfortable giggle and the caveat that, sometimes, people just like to make celebrity associations. For instance, people often tell me I look like Kirsten Dunst. To which he replied, “At least Kirsten Dunst doesn’t look retarded.”

Having sufficiently slammed the door shut on that interaction, we moved on–specifically a few feet to the right in order to stay in close proximity to the band (cut us some slack, we were young). I went to grab another drink, and I returned to find Lifemate chatting up Josh Tillman. Sweet lord, she was on a roll. The point at which I entered the conversation, I heard him say “Oh yeah? What instrument do you play?” It should be noted that Lifemate does not, nor has she ever, played any instrument. Ever. Meaning she somehow either intimated mistakenly or blatantly lied to the fact that she was also a musician in order to find common ground. Excellent strategy; I think it unnecessary to elaborate on how that turned out.

To reiterate, we were incredibly young and intoxicated, and who hasn’t done some stupid stuff when those are the elements in play. For the record, I now KNOW through the wisdom of age that lead singers are not making eye contact with me except to acknowledge that I’m the girl that cold-emailed him/her about reviewing his/her show. Although it’s painful to recall growing pains, it’s also a delight to remember a time when possibilities were rife when you set foot into a venue–when every glance and every innuendo were titillating, and the music was all you had. I do take issue with the Wolfgang’s Vault for-profit model in which they market our memories to us, betting on the fact that we’ll subscribe to the soundtrack of our youth.

But…I am a subscriber. I am a subscriber because listening to the exact transcript of a show that partially inspired me to pursue music journalism is an out-of-body experience and is priceless. And that is the definition of a throwback.