Athens, Ohio sits on the rolling, rocky edge of Appalachia. Ohio University is the heart of the modest city, a quaint main street community overflowing with bars, restaurants and boutiques. Motorists passing through the historic burg’s narrow core pause for the usual student foot traffic, the tides of academia pouring out of stately, worn brick buildings. Forested and ever-visible foothills loom beyond the campus bustle.
On the outskirts of town, acres of tightly packed trees shroud secluded houses and gravel roads. These woods offer plenty of ideal sites for an outdoor music festival. The architects of Hoopla in the Hills have used this land to their advantage, organizing one hell of a shindig in a bucolic setting.
A ragged caravan started to form at the festival entrance early Thursday afternoon, complete with hulking vintage vans and weathered truck beds full of dreadlocked passengers. A buoyant mood infected every waiting attendee, and happy conversation bubbled up as gabbing old friends and strangers mingled, strolling from car to car on little goodwill missions. Incoming traffic moved slowly but orderly, held up on occasion by staff-laden golf carts driving against the tide.
Behind the gates, Hoopla slowly materialized. Under a heavy gray sky, vendors fumbled with sundry wares, setting up tents, displaying jewel-encrusted wraps and hand-painted flatbrims. Tour buses and trailers eased into the dirt lot functioning as the backstage area, each vehicle carrying equipment and entertainment. The treed festival grounds gradually filled up, but the wooded expanse, divided by a small, low-lying creek, was far from overtaxed.
The composition of Hoopla immediately made an impression. Far more homogenous than highly publicized festivals that attract fifty thousand people or more, Hoopla lacked a diverse cross-section of fans. Rather, it appeared to be a collection of experienced festival-goers, pros practiced in the wild, somewhat seamy art of touring. Fans clad in earthy garb proudly bore the Grateful Dead’s skeletal calling card, commonly referred to as a “stealie.” Bearded men outnumbered the clean-shaven. “Wooks,” a particularly grungy, gung-ho substratum of the jam band fan-base, moved in bedraggled packs, leading the woebegone pit bulls they never seem to leave behind. Too much for the uninitiated, this concentration of neo-hippie weirdness felt like home to many.
Music began around three o’ clock. After a period of witty banter, West Virginia’s KR-3 launched into a drifting, slightly morose psychedelic jam, an exploratory push reminiscent of the acid-soaked San Francisco sound of the 60’s. This band sticks to rock fundamentals, spurning the bells and whistles many nascent improvisational acts rely upon. Their stripped-down sound provides a refreshing dose of rock revivalism, satisfying the jam-hungry.
There’s something wonderfully genteel about David Gans, the music journalist-turned-musician. Harnessing a forceful yet pleasant acoustic energy, Gans belted out a sublime rendition of the Grateful Dead’s “Stagger Lee” during his first performance on Hoopla’s main stage. The song took a rag-time turn, eliciting swaying and small dance steps from an attentive audience.
After Gans’ brief but stunningly emotional solo set, two members of the Rumpke Mountain Boys joined him onstage. With Gans at its center, this trio possessed at least half of the components of a traditional bluegrass ensemble, racing through several folky Dead covers. The Rumpke Mountain Boys went on to play a set sans Gans, engaging an eager, vibrant crowd with their cutting nasal twang. The Rumpke Boys’ lauded “trashgrass” was vaguely funky at times, alt rock-like at others.
Much like Twilight in the ocean, dusk at a music festival brings out a colorful array of nocturnal creatures, including schools of bottom-feeders and sharks. As night fell on Hoopla, the first stumbling partiers lurched through the gathering darkness. Iridescent, incandescent trinkets of every kind twirled and spun, many of them wielded by slight, agile women. Firewood, which event staff provided, was piled into heaps and set ablaze, filling the night with bobbing shadows and ascending sparks.
One of Hoopla’s cooler features shined brightly after dark. A massive art installation consisting of lighted inflatable crystals changed color frequently, strobing from red to blue to green. (there was some pink and yellow in there as well.) This huge display sat behind a swing set in the form of a jellyfish, a piece intended for the children in attendance. This didn’t stop adults from swinging. Laughter emanated from the play set all night long.
As it should, electronic music began at night, pushing gentle, jolly americana aside for a while. Up Until Now, a rising act comprised of James Murphy (brother of former STS9 bassist David Murphy) and drummer Kyle Holly, kicked off Hoopla’s dance party on the main stage. Bass-heavy remixes of rap hits and well-known club bangers permeated the set, a hyperactive affair colored by an eighties vibe.
As Murphy and company wrapped up, a tightly-packed crowd grew in the cramped artists’ tent. Vermont jam bad Twiddle eventually took the stage, treating enraptured onlookers to a rollicking, slightly Phish-y musical joyride. A testament to the band’s increasing popularity, the close quarters didn’t seem to bother anyone. In fact, every sweating sardine paid close attention to this group.
Back on the main stage, Cornmeal’s bluegrass/rock fusion exploded, humming along with an intensity foreign to most acoustic outfits. A thundering cover of “Talking About Love” set the tone for the band’s performance, remaining strong and bombastic until its conclusion.
After a slight delay, DJ/producer Phutureprimtive stepped onto the main stage at around two A.M. Dressed in a leather jacket and hidden beneath a low-riding cap, the performer thanked the audience for waiting, warmly bemoaning the snares of air travel. With that, Phuturepremeitve got down to business immediately, playing high-energy songs while restraining the overpowering bass present on many of his albums.
FRIDAY
The gloomy weather broke on Friday. As the threat of rain diminished, shorts and flowing skirts replaced mud-splattered jeans. The warming landscape teemed with bubble blowers and hula hoopers, active clumps of crunchy chums basking in growing pools of sunlight. Frisbee golf, football and dancing converged in the the main artery of Hoopla, a well-trod thoroughfare flanked by vendors. Children and dogs scampered underfoot, running to and fro in their search for amusement.
The Coop, a young jamtronica act out of Chicago, took the stage late in the afternoon. Playing to a thoroughly relaxed crowd in the breezy artists’ tent, the band imitated the fluttering tapestries adorning the canvas walls behind them, matching the speeds of brisk zephyrs propelling clouds of pot and cigarette smoke. The group’s set was a booming karate chop, featuring a rocking cover of Cake’s celebrated anthem “Never There.”
Meanwhile, on the main stage, The uptempo bluegrass stylings of Larry Keel and the Natural Bridge drove a bounding throng to dance. Keel’s gentle baritone, the backbone of the acoustic band, drips with the influence of bluesmen and buskers, carrying the group’s firm roots inclination. Toward the end of the set, Keller Williams joined the band for a rousing high lonesome version of Pink Floyd’s “The Wall.”
A swollen crowd spilled out of the artists tent at dusk, gyrating to Moon Hooch, a brass blitzkrieg hailing from Brooklyn. Composed of a raging drummer and two accomplished saxophonists, the band skirted pop at times, crafting a blunt, honking full court press. Electronic mimicry, the crux of the group’s sound, owes its effectiveness to woodwind virtuosity and stellar drumming.
The action picked up on the second night of Hoopla. Electrified by the arrival of Friday, the buzzing conglomeration of artists, musicians and fans approached a fever pitch. Peals of laughter drowned out the chorus of insects sounding off in the tranquil forest surrounding the gathering. Between the two stages, a steady stream of humanity flowed uninterrupted, periodically coalescing around a bevy of LED hoop handlers and two mesmerizing fire dancers. “Shakedown,” a term used to describe an area high in foot traffic and merchandise, neared full bloom, pulsating like a central organ lit by glow sticks and golf carts bedecked in multi-colored lights.
People weighing a journey to an event like Hoopla must be prepared for spontaneity, especially at night. Expect the swift, presumptuous approach of a rapping saucer-eyed stranger. Brace for unprompted offerings of rotgut wine.The characters inhabiting the festival universe delight in malleable social boundaries, and a good time at these events often depends upon a certain amount of openness.
Sometimes the drug-fueled breakdown of convention turns ugly, though the ugliness seems to be exacerbated by inexperienced crowds. Out of the thousands who attended Hoopla, only a handful exhibited signs of dire overconsumption. On Friday evening, one man decided to disrobe, rushing the stage before being corralled by security.
Multi-instrumentalist and master of the loop Keller Williams packed the main stage tent at 8:30, doling out his beloved kooky humor as he glided between various guitars and mixers. Keller’s uncanny ability to single-handedly pilot a full band set-up impressed a crowd that seemed familiar with his bag of tricks, confirming the spectacle hasn’t lost any of its potency. True to form, Williams squeezed rhyming references to fellow acts and Hoopla into the performance.
In the artists tent, Powerhouse livetronica rockers Arpetrio sucked in a sizable audience during their first performance of the weekend, hammering away in a computer-generated frenzy. The Tennessee trio’s imaginative interpretations of Earth Wind and Fire’s “September” and the Beegees’ “Staying Alive” sparked a spastic dance-off. The significance of this accomplishment shouldn’t be downplayed. A mere three decades after the wholesale rejection of disco by the rock crowd, a jam band has successfully reengineered one of the maligned musical movement’s most recognizable pieces.
All of Hoopla greeted hometown heroes Papadoiso, sons of Athens hitting the big time. Frequently discounted by skeptics who take issue with the band’s clever (if somewhat sophomoric) name and derivative sound, the quintet has defied its critics, amassing a fiercely loyal following. (incidentally, Papadosio asserts its name means absolutely nothing, putting to rest the phonetical hidden meaning many point to.) The band has also built up the lore and symbology essential to long-lived jam bands, as evidenced by the proliferation of Papadosio-inspired artwork and fans who know the group’s catalogue by heart. Papadosio weaved in and out of jams, with the versatile guitar of Tony Thogmartin almost sounding bluesy at times.
In an odd moment, Thogmartin explained the meaning behind the song “Cloud Found.” Before playing the tune, he prefaced by saying the song told the stories of friends who battled and overcame addiction, a statement which seemed odd in the face of a decidedly altered crowd. It sounded paradoxical, but it’s possible Papadosio’s emphasis on positivity and personal growth is overtaking the band’s youthful interest in psychedelics. “Cloud Found” entered “Puddles with Oceans.” A blistering “Unparalyzer” and a memorable encore jam capped the evening.
SATURDAY
A wet wintry blast blew in Saturday morning. Hoopla’s roads quickly turned to sludge, swallowing and stranding cars. Despite the best efforts of plank and straw layers, the deluge overwhelmed the main stage area. A sloshy quagmire lapped ankles throughout the tent. By mid-afternoon, firewood became a precious commodity. When the rain turned to snow, small pockets of would-be blaze builders struggled to tease flames from damp logs. The sight of snow at a festival stunned veterans. For many, it was entirely new.
The crowd came out of the weather for a throbbing afternoon Zoogma set. A tour-hardened jamtronica band from Memphis, Zoogma maintained an invigorating rhythm, powering through a set rich in digital noise, hip-hop samples, synthesizer and flying guitar.
Accompanied by a troupe of hula hoopers and acrobats,(including a hoop-straddling young lady who dangled above the crowd) electronic duo EOTO churned out a completely improvised, earth-shaking melange of beats and loops. Lasers danced across the ridged ceiling of the main stage tent, and rainbow reflections flashed in gaping, glimmering pools of mud. Drummer Jason Hann, who prides himself on vocal improvisation, added the cry, “I can’t feel my toes!” to EOTO’s circular tapestry of sound. The soaked, shivering crowd hurrahed in reply.
About halfway through the show, a few very special guests joined Hann and Travis. Chris Berry’s reggae flavor took EOTO in a funky direction, a Caribbean turn starkly contrasted against the whipping snow falling outside. Michael Kang, the String Cheese Incident bandmate of Travis and Hann, completed the sit-in.
While EOTO’s sensory overload boomed on, the delicate strains of Dixon’s Violin entertained a respectful audience seeking something a bit more cerebral. Dixon’s command of his instrument, a strange, hollow digital violin, hooked the hushed crowd. Rapt attention reduced conversation to a whisper. The meek and soft-spoken Dixon expressed his love for unscripted music, sharing his creed. “We have no idea where this will go,” the violinist said, referring to his performance. “Let’s follow the music.” As rare as snow falling on a “festie,” silence retained its grip on the audience.
Hoopla started the festival season in grand fashion. By keeping things “in the family,” the bacchanal brought out the very heart of the jam band community, warts and all. The event’s sense of community can’t be attributed to chemicals alone. The citizens of Hoopla truly care about their lifestyle and one another. Bless ‘em all.
The music acted as a measuring stick for the state of the jam band scene. Bluegrass and electronica, two strange bedfellows, continue to get along swimmingly. Bands in both camps are gaining traction, and while rock is making a steady comeback, fans of long-winded solos and “head sessions” should expect more robot vocals and rebel yells.
Photo Credit: Hoopla In The Hills Facebook Page
