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Tibetan Freedom Concert-------
FIRST OF TWO REPORTS
the whole sweep of Saturday's event was played out in miniature at the ticket gate. She: Hypersocial patchouli-and-piercings girl with painted hands and a glass bauble spirit-gummed to her forehead. Her VIP credentials weren't coming through smoothly. In between arguments with the promoters, she chit-chatted with a group of round-glasses guys nearby, and did a laconic freedom dance in place. He: The Jesus-bearded, slightly feral-faced boyfriend, peering out from behind the press trailer. He has a bauble glued to his forehead as well, and a rain stick poking out of his floppy knapsack. They both look healthy and well-fed. At some juncture in the negotiations, a young, ponytailed music-biz guy with a clipboard appears out of the office and schmoozes her with a honeyed newscaster voice. He has a great tan. Standing watching to the left, just barely inside the heavy cyclone fence, is a Tibetan monk, smiling and intent, but obviously slightly bewildered. The Tibetan issue is one of the most unambiguous in world politics. China clearly has no goddamn business occupying Tibet in the first place; what they're doing there is infamous; and the Tibetans have conducted themselves with a nobility that is perhaps without contemporary equal. This isn't Somalia: It's a no-brainer. But Tibet has no significant power interests with which to bargain for a settlement on the world stage. Also, as you'll recall, the US and China have been in each other's pockets lately over trade issues -- so the climate for any sort of diplomatic resolution of the matter has become a little more nippy than usual. So if you're Tibet, what do you do? It probably wouldn't be your first idea to throw a big party for America's youth, but when the offer came in from the Beastie Boys' Adam Yauch last year for the first big Tibetan Freedom concert to be held on the West Coast, you'd probably hold your ears and go for it. I held mine for Ben Harper, whose set at this year's Tibetan Freedom Concert had no distinguishing characteristics at all. It was some sort of bluesy, grungy stuff that had me wandering off the field and towards the press tent. Even bluesier and grungier was what greeted me when I arrived. It was the Jon Spencer Booze Explosion. A platoon of noonday drinkers (writers, ya know) was already in fast orbit around the beverage table, while Jon Spencer -- who'd apparently hijacked the stage early -- was being pumped through the video monitor. Amazingly short sets today. After a beer breakfast, I realized that I was wasting my golden opportunity to be the first journalist ever to say something true and balanced about Jon Spencer, so I stomped back out to the stage. Jon Spencer Blues Explosion: The Cramps with bad amps. James Chance with bad pants. RL Burnside with QT sideburns. Down, down to Hell, and say I sent thee thither. And a speaker spoke, and then Porno For Pyros played an acoustic set. It was middling. Ah, but then there was Radiohead. I'm always saying this, but you're all going to regret missing these Britpop acts after they've all thrown up their hands and given up on the States. See them now. Radiohead is a first-water, weapons-grade rock band. They have texture and dynamics, loud guitar-blare and lilting strings, drama and irony. Their crowd wasn't as big as the one for PoMo for Pyros, but every pair of eyes was glued to the stage from first to last. Magic Moment: During "The Bends," when the stage-left guitarist played the keyboard parts with his headstock. Didn't miss a note on the guitar. U2 seem tired. Apparently, there had to be some heavy scheduling done for them to make the gig. Their appearance was a last-minute affair, and with the paucity of advertising for the concert, it's conceivable that a lot of people didn't even know they were coming. With that in mind, it's forgivable if the band was working at half-steam. They were dressed in grand K-Mart style, looking spookily like Palm Beach retirees, with the top Zany Duds prize going to Adam's off-blue Gilligan hat. Bono hobbled on wearing a hooded sweatshirt, and leaving a good part of his voice back in the dressing room (try jasmine tea with lime). Edge was Edge, as always -- his playing was the most on-target, and his stage movements the most natural. And he's still wearing cowboy hats to keep it a secret that he's as bald as a bowling pin. The short set began with "Mysterious Ways," and ended with a song by and for the late Jeff Buckley, which was a nice gesture that much of the crowd didn't seem to understand (Me: "Do you know the name of that song?" Guy in crowd: "I think it's called "Jeff Buckley"). Noel Gallagher did a solo-electric next, to scattered hoots and sarcasm. Got a big hand at the end, though. Sonic Youth's set saw me browsing the literature tent. Then, Patti Smith. You wouldn't think that a crowd of young kids would care much about a faded old dahlia like her. And these kids today -- callow, shallow, consumerist and media-crazed, right? Yeah, well there's something going on here that science can't explain. The crowd blew up like a bomb for Patti Smith, who in real life (although not on last year's album cover) is still, somehow, about 35 years old. "People Have The Power" led off, then "Dancing Barefoot." Then she pulled out the old cojones. Patti: "I find it disturbing that people who paid to get in are behind barricades, while these photographers (arm sweep to stage right), who are often parasites, are right up on the stage." (Roar) "You don't need any MTV News to tell you how to feel!" (Huge roar) "This next song is by the bassist." (Enormously huge roar) The bassist!? By then, she could've turned a thumb down and sent a howling army of berserkers out to plunder the city. (But how? Why? Science is mute.) They ended, later, with "Rock 'n' Roll Nigger," which wrecked the stadium and sunk the island into the river and toppled the Government. Somebody make this woman dictator, or shoot her, or something. A bunch of other people played, like KRS-1, and Nawang Kechog
(superb ethnobeat), and Biz Markie, and Foo Fighters (with Pat Smear
still in effect). Sunday had an even better lineup though -- and
unlike at the real festival, nobody'll be allowed to wander away from
the review to get a snack as soon as we start to talk politics.
--Gavin McNett Gavin McNett is a regular contributor to Salon. |
