All Points West :: 8/8/08

The All Points West Festival did not mark the first attempt at a 21st century, Tri-State Area rock festival spearheaded by Radiohead and Underworld. That would be the unmitigated disaster known as 2003’s Field Day. Comparatively, All Points West was a smashing success, and this was most evident on two fronts: 1) Goldenvoice productions was not scrambling to get their permits approved the week before the show, therefore preventing the three-day affair from being condensed into a one-day Giants Stadium hoedown at the last minute, and 2) Mother Nature cooperated enough that the rain, while not non-existent, was of the fleeting, fat summer droplet variety as opposed to Field Day’s hypothermia-inducing downpour. Outside of band overlap and a Northeast location, the sole commonality between the two events was, at least as Friday was concerned (“festival” tag aside), that both felt like glorified Radiohead gigs with a bevy of opening acts.

Liberty State Park is a bucolic New Jersey enclave within spitting distance of downtown Manhattan, home to kick ass views of both Lady Liberty and the New York City skyline, and surprisingly easy to get to via mass transit. My party was able to travel from Manhattan’s East Village in a little under an hour, though this was in the early afternoon. Those who treated Friday and Saturday strictly as Radiohead gigs reportedly had to contend with far denser masses of people and, thus, extensive lines for either the ferry or Jersey Transit Light Rail.

Upon arrival, All Points West certainly looked like a “festival” is supposed to, rife with esoteric sculptures masquerading as “art” and various activity tents (DJ Scratching! PS3!) that probably only scream fun if you’re on shrooms. Aside from the moments a million knuckleheads deep during Radiohead, the grounds were extremely easy to navigate and Goldenvoice deserves much credit for nailing the stage setup; sound bleed between the three stages didn’t happen and they were placed close enough together that booking back and forth between acts wasn’t needlessly difficult. The only obvious downer (or so I gathered) was the brewski situation. Having All Points West in a State Park forced certain restrictions on alcohol consumption, requiring imbibers to chug their eight dollar Budweisers in segregated “beer gardens” (plus, you were limited to five…the horror!). Some festival-goers compared the gardens to internment camps, but what’s more important: crystal clear sound in a gorgeous state park or being cordoned off while you spend 40 bucks to get plastered on yellow water? C’mon.

The inevitably tough multi-bill choices were just that—Do I pass on Underworld to go see Andrew Bird, but then risk sacrificing valuable real estate for Radiohead even if I skip the last fifteen minutes of Bird’s set and run as fast as I fucking can? Actually, for both my party and what appeared to be the majority of the attendees, the choice was obvious: get as close to the front of the Blue Comet stage as humanly possible during the New Pornographers and hold onto your lawn space through Underworld so you can get a decent view when the ‘Head comes on. Suffering through the ADD-addled mashups of Girl Talk on the second stage would be a mistake, unless you’re prepared to see Thom Yorke and Co. reduced to ant-size.



But prior to staking out the main stage, there was time to at least check out Forro in the Dark, a Brazil by way of New York City sextet stirring up “forro” grooves, a brand of music native to Northeast Brazil that resembled samba fortified by feverish drumming and woodwinds. They were plenty enjoyable on the mid-sized stage and a fine way to get the afternoon blood flowing. Michael Franti & Spearhead attempted a similar trick on the main stage with a somewhat nauseating blend of cod reggae and treehugging conscious rap that made Jurassic 5 look like the Clipse. Franti’s a wee bit removed from his comparatively radical days with Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy, now proclaiming his status as a “human being!” while showering mad love to a tiny crowd in what amounted to an unintentional tribute to the PM Dawn spoof in Fear of a Black Hat (1994). In Franti’s defense, Spearhead was very tight and his brand of positivity would have been appreciated at Bonnaroo, not to mention by attendees at APW’s hemp necklace-centric Sunday night lineup, which included dorm room bong faves such as Ben Harper, Grace Potter & the Nocturnals, Trey Anastasio, and headliner Jack Johnson, the barefoot man’s Radiohead.

We figured All Points West would be as good a place as any to catch at least fifteen minutes of the Duffy phenomenon before the New Pornographers came on. But since her set was delayed by rain and heavy winds, and as we weren’t about to risk the Pornos going on similarly late, we bolted—not before listening to Duffy’s PA blare the first four songs from Blues Traveler’s Straight On Till Morning (1997), their totally underrated fifth album and last with founding bassist Bobby Sheehan. My secret jamband past won’t leave me alone.

No sooner did the New Pornographers hit the stage then the sun instantly came out again, the weather pattern apparently warming to the friendly strains of Canadian power pop. Having already seen the NPs a number of times, I’m actually happy to report that their live show never changes; while the songs differ minimally from their studio counterparts, they’re always played tightly and with flailing energy, and Carl Newman seldom fails to work in a stage patter reference to cult classic Strange Brew (1983). The All Points West Pornos lineup was of the more typical live ilk, which is to say no Dan Bejar or Neko Case. But Newman’s niece Kathryn Calder has been handling the Neko songs in the band long enough that while Case’s absence is noticeable it’s not exactly missed. Calder tackled numbers like “Mass Romantic” and “The Laws Have Changed” with aplomb, one difference being that her voice has more of a musical theatre timbre to it, which, while fine, sometimes makes her sound like she’s auditioning for the role of Belle in an off-Broadway production of Beauty and the Beast. They concluded their 70-minute set with the one-two punch of University of Phoenix anthem “The Bleeding Heart Show” and their now standard cover of ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down.” It was a very solid set from a band whose onstage joy was ideal for the late afternoon performance slot.



Want to see a bunch of British music fans lose their shit? Throw them into an open field and blare the opening strains of Underworld’s “Born Slippy.” Of course, Jersey City ain’t Glastonbury and the sounds of the Trainspotting (1996) anthem were mostly greeted by us Yanks with smiles and head nods of partial recognition. And considering zeitgeist folks CSS were playing one stage over, I’m guessing the reasonably large crowd for Underworld would have been smaller had people not been obsessed with conserving Radiohead blanket realty. Despite never really attaining much more than a sizable cult following on these shores, Underworld are cagey festival veterans and the rare live techno act who treat their shows as something other than an excuse to spin their own records really loudly (surprise: the Chemical Brothers). They alter the setlist nightly and seemingly invent new song segues on the fly. Along with auxiliary third member Darren Price aiding in onstage programming, frontman Karl Hyde plays the Andy Bell to Rick Smith’s Vince Clarke, occasionally aiding in electronics but mostly cavorting around the stage and singing while Smith remains huddled behind the giant computer rig, leaving the listener to wonder just how much he’s doing “live” versus simply pushing a button or two. While this may sound less than enthralling on paper, it’s a high energy show from a duo that have been honing their brand of driving, synth-intensive beats for the past fifteen years.



Unfortunately, performing in broad daylight is anathema to a group with a light and video show as elaborate as Underworld’s. Huge video screens flashing both ancient Atari games and wordy information streams were on hand and the giant inflatable cylinders (a G-rated version of what used to happen onstage during the Stones’ performances of “Star Star”) that surfaced during “Two Months Off” were extremely cool. But they make a lot more sense in the dark when the lights are able to bounce off of them and this type of music is simply easier to enjoy in the confines of a darkened club. Limitations aside, Underworld still clearly earned their pre-headliner slot, largely ignoring the recent Oblivion With Bells (2008) for a (relatively speaking) hit-packed set including such notables as a “Cowgirl”/“Rez” combo, the ever present “Born Slippy,” and a frantic “Moaner” to close.



I’m guessing Radiohead hasn’t had to play in daylight for at least ten years and the A/V spectacle that is their stage show goes a long way towards justifying this. Irrespective of how one feels about the band’s music, it’s difficult to hate on the multiple, full-color LCD screens and all encompassing washes of light that accompany the festivities, a huge step up from the already considerably hi-tech black and white screens they utilized at Liberty State Park in 2001. Wherever a festival-goer may have been located among the 20,000-strong crowd, the video screens assured that the view did not lack for extreme close-ups of Thom’s face (especially when he stares directly into the camera during “You and Whose Army?” to purposely freak people out with his lazy eye). Even more impressive is that, despite their arena hugeness, they still alter the setlist nightly (albeit minimally), keeping their lighting coordinator from nodding off.

This was my fifth time seeing Radiohead and I was once again struck by two things that don’t really surface on record: that Thom Yorke plays a ton of guitar and seldom gets credit for it and that uility man extraordinaire Ed O’Brien gets far more opportunities to supply mournful backing vocals than he does on CD. Seriously, his “Ehhhhhh!!!!” death rattle during the final minute of “Lucky” is a highlight of any Radiohead gig and he adds vocal textures to the “rain down” portion of “Paranoid Android” that somehow make it even more awesome. The setlist was fairly typical of recent Radiohead shows, which is to say nine songs off of In Rainbows, only “There There” and “The Gloaming” from Hail to the Thief (2003), and then the expected Kid A/_Amnesiac_ grab bag. I’m told that lovers of The Bends (1995) got a stronger setlist on Saturday night; apparently they busted out not only that album’s title track and “Fake Plastic Trees,” but also “Planet Fucking Telex,” the simple presence of which could drive a Radiohead fan who only caught them on Friday to tears.

To paraphrase my fiancé, “When your band achieves that level of fame, I expect zany production values. I’m 26, I’m American, I like Radiohead.” And even if the Friday evening portion All Points West felt mostly like an anti-climax building up to a sole Radiohead concert, it was nothing if not extremely well planned. Very smooth for a first effort. The majority of concertgoers seemed prepared to welcome back Goldenvoice productions to New Jersey with open arms and should All Points West surface in 2009, I wouldn’t hesitate to attend. Fantastic corn dogs, too.