Hopscotch Music Festival: Raleigh, NC

The Hopscotch Music Festival is only in its second year, but the event already feels like a tradition.  That’s partly due to the undeniable uniqueness of the festival, and partly to the huge cache of local bands that take part, thus drawing out local music fans by the busload.  During Hopscotch, the lucky locals are happy to show the weekenders just how brightly Raleigh’s music scene, and the city itself, can shine.  With so many amazing venues taking part, and the ever-increasing variety of other diversions downtown, the weekend becomes one big make-out session with the capital city.

Hopscotch not only lines up first class local, national, and global talent for all to enjoy, it practically shoves esoteric music down your ear canal.  The festival is organized by local free paper The Independent, and the lineup is often like taking a glimpse into the iPods of their music staff.  Thursday night, for instance, featured one of the most challenging shows many of the attendees will likely witness in their lifetime.  The stunning sound quality of Fletcher Opera Theater played host to avant-garde guitarist Rhys Chatham, who presented his world-renowned work Guitar Trio.  Recently referred to as “G3” because of the varying number of guitars featured in the show, the composition spans nearly half an hour and consists of just one chord played with a wide range of emotion, volume, tone, and texture.  This show featured 9 guitarists, many of them local, following Chatham’s lead through moments of intense restraint and starry-eyed joy.  Each added a singular technique or touch to the trance-like music, which encompassed the pounding groove of funk, the noisy abandon of punk rock, the theatrical ambiance of post-rock, and the applied intellectualism of experimental jazz. 

It’s often not the bands, but a particular food or beverage that can draw people into a Hopscotch show, and I soon found myself enjoying a Bell’s Java Stout and the music of the lovely Cheyenne Marie Mize at Tir Na Nog Irish Pub.  Her downtrodden folk sound stood in stark contrast to the atmosphere across the room, where revelers drank and watched football.  Still, a sizeable and stone-faced crowd stood and even sat for the length of Mize’s soul-searching set, proving that Tir Na Nog is one of those places that can do it all at once.  The night’s de facto headliner, J. Mascis, proved equally in contrast to the experimental shenanigans that occurred prior to his set at Fletcher.  The alt-rock icon shambled onstage to vigorous applause and sat down for a few seconds, only to get up and wander offstage in search of a music stand.  After positioning said stand he proceeded to eye it for the entire show, reading lyrics for several of his new songs while favoring a dazed, uncaring expression.  His signature vocals and disaffected lyrics are always appealing, and his cover of Edie Brickell’s “Circle” was neat, but the half-assed manner in which he performed was disappointing. 

Friday found the city alive with anticipation of the headlining sets at City Plaza by two of America’s great untamed bands – Drive-By Truckers and Guided by Voices.  The Dodos warmed up the growing crowd with an extra- caffeinated version of their California folk rock before the Truckers stormed the stage.  Sporting a considerable bandage on his hand, a gnarly beard and wild, snaking hair, frontman Patterson Hood looked every bit like one of the dastardly characters that inhabit many Truckers songs.  The set was heavy on songs from more recent DBT works like Go-Go Boots and The Big To-Do, but one of the highlights was the lone track from 2004’s The Dirty South.  “Where the Devil Don’t Stay” opened up into a tornado of snarling guitars and foreboding vocals.  Along with the opening “The Fourth Night of My Drinking” and the smoky, sinister “Go-Go Boots,” the start of the show was fast and furious.  “Used to Be a Cop” and “Get Downtown” were appropriate choices for the setting, and “Three Dimes Down” closed the short set with a distinct southern flair courtesy of singer Mike Cooley’s righteous drawl. 

As the action in the clubs started to get going, the notoriously unhinged Robert Pollard led the “classic lineup” of Guided by Voices onto the City Plaza stage for their umpteenth “final show.”  There have been more “final” GBV shows than previously thought possible, further cementing Pollard’s status as an innovator – a great songwriter that can break up the same band dozens of times.  Ripping through a couple dozen songs from their monstrous catalog, the band swilled, smoked, and slammed along with each song, somehow exerting more energy with each passing tune.  The band set a blistering pace with opener “Watch Me Jumpstart” and kept the pedal to the metal, offering boisterous, charmingly sloppy renditions of “Jane of the Waking Universe,” “Cut-Out Witch,” “Kicker of Elves,” “Striped White Jets,” “A Salty Salute,” and “A Good Flying Bird,” among other fringe classics.

As fun as GBV was, I was bummed about not being able to catch Carlitta Durand at the Lincoln Theatre.  However, a fun rickshaw ride to Deep South The Bar lifted my spirits, and Chip Robinson’s straightforward brand of rock provided a nice backdrop to a beautiful night.  A recommendation from a friend had inspired me to venture there to catch the two-man wrecking crew known as Bandway, and I am forever indebted to him for hipping me to their disarmingly funny brand of mock rock.  Indulgent guitar shredding, subversive lyrics and a well-programmed drum machine make the self-effacing duo a joy to watch.  Mixing the faux superstardom of Tenacious D with the delusional grandeur of Spinal Tap and a genuine joy of performing, Bandway made the most of their, and the audience’s, buzz.  The packed club was treated to future classics like “Glossy Magazines,” “Balls Out,” “King Kong,” and the cult classic “4 Day Weekend.”  Hopping back to the Lincoln Theater for a nightcap with The Foreign Exchange, I was suddenly struck by the diversity of our local scene.  The two-man histrionic hijinks of Bandway in a tiny, packed club gave way to The Foreign Exchange and their lush, powerful brand of hard soul in a much more accommodating setting.  Led by local hip-hop stalwart Phonte Coleman and Dutch producer Nicolay Rook, the project is far more than standard R&B.  Serious musicianship balances the catchy female vocal harmonies and bouncy hooks, and the result is a nearly indefinable type of universal soul, full of tricky instrumental breaks, glimmering vocals, and inspiring lyricism.

Saturday was the big one.  When The Flaming Lips are in town, it’s always a big one.  Hopscotch celebrated the big show by putting one of the cornerstones of the North Carolina music scene, Superchunk, in the warm-up slot.  Their agitated style of punky pop rock sounded better than ever more than two decades into their existence.  As soon as they left the stage, though, the Flaming Lips crew descended on the structure, quickly transforming it into a wonderland of gadgets, blowers, smokers, flashers, and such.  Ever unable to leave his toys alone, Lips leader Wayne Coyne oversaw the setup with the brimming joy of an orchestra conductor.  He stood in the center of the stage and sniffed out the sound, warned the crowd about the strobes, and implored everyone to freak out.  That they did, particularly during the show’s eye-popping intro and gripping run of songs to start.  The Lips decorated City Plaza with their usual truckloads of confetti and balloons during opener “The Fear” and the churning “Worm Mountain” before unleashing a string of hits.  “She Don’t Use Jelly” always manages to please, “The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song” offered a positive flash of energy, and “Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots Part 1” has taken on a new, if less cathartic, life as an acoustic ballad and group singalong.  It was at that point that the train came off the track a bit with some questionable setlist decisions. 

The Pink Floyd-obsessed band slowed the pace to an interminable crawl for a good while before closing up with “Brain Damage > Eclipse” and their own ubiquitous “Do You Realize?”  One’s enjoyment of a Lips show is somewhat proportional to the amount of previous exposure to their shtick.  If you already know about the dancing girls, confetti, balloons, smoke, and LED screen madness, chances are your jaw won’t drop as quickly as a newbie’s.  Despite this aspect, and the odd setlist choices considering the amount of material at the band’s disposal, a Lips show is still a singular experience and Hopscotch was no exception.

After the Lips spectacle, fans flowed out into the streets angling to get into the hottest late-night shows, like The Budos Band at the Pour House.  The Pour House’s spectacular Saturday night lineup was as horny as they come.  Prodigal saxophonist Peter Lamb led his band of Wolves through a set of jazz works that, musically and sonically, encompassed the whole of jazz’s golden age.  New Orleans jazz, swing, bebop, and experimental jazz were all touched on by the frighteningly talented quintet.  Where Peter Lamb and the Wolves mashed their present-day existence with timeless influences, the next band up, Richmond, Virginia’s Fight the Big Bull, loaded up on modernism and haughty composition.  Guitarist and composer Matt White steered a five-man wind section through all manner of indulgent charts, and I get the feeling that the guy is simply full of music that will be manifesting itself in various forms for the rest of his life.  After presenting several carefully rendered pieces, the band cut loose and engaged the audience in a rousing version of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” a rousing climax if there ever was one. 

After the sheer joy of the 14-man ensemble D-Town Brass, one of the weekend’s main attractions closed down The Pour House with thundering precision.  The Budos Band put an unforgettable final stamp on Hopscotch with their enthralling psychedelic afro-beat.  It was, by all accounts, one of the defining sets of the festival for everyone in attendance.  As sweaty, musically saturated, and satisfied as everyone was after the final show, there was also a tinge of sadness in the thick air outside The Pour House.  As quickly as it had come, Hopscotch was gone, and the countdown to another weekend of discovery and debauchery had begun.

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