11:45am: The parking at the Gorge supposedly has a system, but
damned if I can figure it out. Bored attendants wave us into symmetrical rows
without rhyme or reason, right in the middle of the tall grass—which I
mow down with the giant Escalade the rental car company gave me (the magic of
the free upgrade!). I look around desperately for some sort of landmark, and
some guy—noticing my frustration—says, "This is C3," pointing at a
broken sign laying flat on the ground near the base of a light pole. Great.
11:55am: After an incredibly lax security check of my bag
("Uh, any weapons in there?"), I make my way through the onslaught of swag
merchants trying to get me to rock the vote or petition this or drink that. The
biggest phalanx of pushermen approaches waving bandanas that simply say,
"Rocker"—the first of many plugs I'll see today for the upcoming Rainn
Wilson movie (more on that later). It's hard to resist a free bandana, and more
than half of the crowd is already decorated in them—some more creatively
than others.
12:01pm: It's just the first of many steep climbs
today—and it's also the most rewarding. Cresting over the top of the hill
is some of that purple mountain's majesty I've heard so much about, with the
Columbia River snaking across the horizon. For a Texas boy born in the
brush—or, at least, the flat-as-fuck suburbs—it's genuinely
breathtaking.
All that splendor is the
perfect backdrop to the bucolic, baroque hymns of Fleet Foxes, currently making the aural equivalent of amber waves
of grain on the main stage. The band plays seated, adding to its
round-the-campfire vibe, the only movement the rippling of the members' long
hair in the breeze (those beard-y hippies!). They're also flanked by huge ads
for Rock Band—funny, since
despite the slightly Who-like, anthemic build of "English House," I certainly
wouldn't classify them as "rocking." They are, however, an excellent choice to
kick off a festival that's as much about atmosphere as music.
12:13pm: "I'm rarely ever up before noon on a Saturday,"
singer Robin Pecknold says, before humbly, repeatedly thanking everyone for
being "awesome." Throughout its set, the band sounds confident and unhurried,
obviously at home here in the natural setting where it spends so much time
lyrically. Pecknold's solo take on the round robin that opens "White Winter Hymnal" gets some
surprising cheers of recognition, nearly drowning out the gentle harmonies that
follow; it's obviously the crowd favorite, but my own tastes run more towards
its follow-up, the minor chord spaghetti western gallop of "Your Protector." I
think it's only a matter of time before some enterprising music supervisor
scoops these guys for some soundtrack work. I grabbed Pecknold for a quick
interview after his set.
AVC: How was it being the
first band to play?
Robin Pecknold:It was cool. I was worried that no one would be here
yet. But it was fine. People were here.
AVC: This sort of setting
seems tailor-made for your kind of music.
RP: [Laughs.] Yeah, yeah. I love it out here. I've been
to a bunch of shows here. There's no place like it—maybe Red Rocks. But
this is the first festival we've played. Just getting in here was a huge
nightmare. There were so many gigantic tour buses and stuff.
AVC: How'd you like being
flanked by giant ads for Rock Band?
RP: That stuff's always kind of weird, but I guess they
have to pay for it somehow. At least it wasn't on the microphone. But whatever.
Someday we'll get a song on there.
AVC: Oh yeah?
RP: [Laughs.] No.
AVC: Who are you looking
forward to this weekend?
RP: We're
leaving for Europe on Monday, actually, so I might need to go home tonight to
get packed and ready for that. I did see half of Beirut and half of Throw Me
The Statue, and they were both really good. But I mostly just plan on going
home. I got no sleep last night. I had really crazy insomnia. It was really
weird. We stayed at this place—like the kind of place a frat would rent
out and go party. So when we rolled in there was this huge frat party going on.
AVC: I have the same
problem at my hotel. My whole floor is apparently a college baseball team, plus
me. Do you wish you were camping instead?
RP: Compared
to that, yes. But camping here isn't really camping. It's still kind of a
party. I think it would be even harder to go to sleep. I saw Radiohead here
when they put out Kid A, and it
was crazy.
AVC: If you had to share a
tent with anyone playing here this weekend, who would it be?
RP: Dengue
Fever. That girl has a nice voice. She's pretty. Do you mean, like, one of
those mansion tents? Or a regular tent? Maybe Throw Me The Statue, because
they're buddies.
AVC: If this were
Woodstock, who would you be?
RP: Maybe John Sebastian. You've seen that movie, right? He's the
most annoying dude. His banter was so terrible. You know, I just assume we're
the most annoying band here.
12:20pm: "This is some awesome grass," a guy behind me says.
Until now, I've been wondering where all the drugs are. The view, the
vibes—this place should be ablaze with a thousand joints. "Yeah," a
female voice answers. "It's real nice and cushy." Oh…They're actually talking
about the grass. A few minutes later I overhear another conversation: "Man,
that chick was rolling like crazy." Ah, you crazy kids and your ecstasy. "I
know," his friend says. "This hill is so steep, rolling down it like that is
really dangerous." Oh…they're actually talking about rolling. This is like an
episode of Three's Company.
12:55pm: There's a total clusterfuck going on at the Comedy
Tent where the Upright Citizens Brigade is due to go on. The security guard at one side directs a mass of
hopefuls to the other side of the fence—which means trudging back down
the hill and up it again—and her partner on the other side says the main
entrance is back where we came from, and he doesn't know why she told us to
come over here. The total lack of communication between these folks in Live
Nation shirts will be a running theme today, as no one seems to be on the same
page about anything, or have any idea of what's happening when or where things
are. (Those walkie-talkies dangling from their belts are apparently just for
fun.) When I get back to the side I started at, the line stretches back up the
trail towards the ridiculous MLB Road Show batting cages, and now that same security guard is explaining how
everything is at capacity and no one else can come in. I spy Matt Besser through the fence and do something I swear I don't do
very often: Drop my Onion
affiliation to see if he can get me in. Surprise—it works. He comes
around the gate and personally escorts me inside the tent, which, while holding
a good 100 people or so, shouldn't really count as "capacity" at a festival
this size. Part of the problem are these metal folding chairs, not to mention
the dozens of giant backpacks half the guys are carrying.
1:05pm: Matt Walsh
comes out on stage, acting as host for this performance. He bitches about his
intro music, saying that it should be something more upbeat—it's a rock
festival, for God's sake. Matt Besser pops up behind the DJ booth, and they
have a funny back-and-forth as Besser repeatedly puts on stuff like "Piano Man"
("Who doesn't love 'Piano Man'?") and a maudlin selection from the Lion King soundtrack before Walsh gives up. It's a funny bit,
but hindered by the fact that Walsh's microphone keeps cutting out. Frustrated,
Walsh says, "This is a really good opening bit, where no one can hear what I'm
saying."
1:08pm: Walsh introduces Jerry Minor (Mr. Show, Lucky Louie) as "the guy who does all those great sound effects from the Police
Academy movies—Michael Winslow!" Minor proceeds to do a routine as
Winslow, recounting the Jasper hate crime against James Byrd Jr. and punching
it up with lame sound effects. It gets more stunned silence than laughter. When
he gets to the part about how, when Byrd died, his bowels
released—punctuating it with a long, drawn-out fart noise (usually comedy
gold)—it becomes obvious that most people here are uncomfortable. "I see
some of you are laughing, but this is a very serious story!" Minor says. "We're
not laughing," someone calls out.
1:10pm: Walsh and Besser come back out and get the crowd back
on their side with some funny bits about all of the things that are for sale
after the show, including T-shirts and "Wet And Wild Teen Cunt downloads."
Besser reminds everyone that by entering they've agreed to have their image
used in the UCB video they're taping, and that "we can also Photoshop a donkey
dick in your mouth." He then does a funny bit about the various hats you can
and cannot wear, including, "No ironic sombreros. If you're Mexican and it's
your siesta time, it's okay, but we don't want to see you wearing a sombrero
just because you won some stupid margarita contest or something." Again, a
funny routine hampered by the fact that the microphones keep cutting out every
10 seconds or so. Everyone's eyes keep turning to meet the soundman, who's
shrugging and texting someone on his iPhone.
1:15pm: Poor Sean Conroy is the hardest hit by the sound problems: The mic seems to cut out
right on the punchline of every joke, forcing him to repeat it once it cuts
back in. It's absolutely killing his timing, and his frustration is obvious.
Finally, he just starts screaming his jokes without a microphone, which adds a
funny Sam Kinison vibe—although his routine is mostly of the "skewed
observation" variety, focused on his little niece and nephew and the things
they say, such as his nephew's tendency to talk in hip-hop slang despite being
white and incredibly nerdy. ("Yo kid, I gots a bassoooon lesson.")His struggle
wins him the sympathy of the crowd, though, and he's finally getting the laughs
that Minor's act presumed he would be getting.
1:20pm: Walsh introduces the next act as a veteran of Last
Comic Standing—a comedian who
overcame the adversity of being deaf and blind and having no arms to win.
Besser comes on stage, his arms tied behind his back, speaking in a voice that
someone familiar with the show (is anyone?) would probably read as a dig at
fourth season winner Josh Blue. It's a little bit wrong, but jokes like, "What
has two thumbs and likes to eat pussy? Not this guy" are so, so right.
1:30pm: Walsh introduces Tim Meadows in his "Leon Phelps, The Ladies Man" character, who
gets huge whoops and applause as he enters draped in a toga, explaining that
he's late because he was "taking care of M.I.A. She's a feisty little number"
and that "The Breeders are next—because they're breeders." The gags are
pretty stale—not surprising for a character that was played out over a
decade ago—and the Q&A; session with the audience is about as obvious
and uninspired as you'd expect, with people asking Phelps if he "likes to do it
in the butt" and what his favorite position is. The one slightly funny moment
comes when Walsh asks if Phelps likes to "toss salad," to which Phelps says, "I
don't know. I've eaten salad. I
also like licking ass, if that's what you mean." Hey, can we get Opera Man in
here next?
1:45pm: Lots of people clear out after Meadows, and even more
walk out during Rich Fulcher's
set, which seems entirely based on stuff that he and Besser (a former roommate)
found funny while stoned at 4 a.m., including a bizarre, joke-less riff on how
he has moles growing in the shape of a Starbucks and a Subway, and a Taco Bell
growing out of his ass. Huh? He does a semi-funny riff on the Austrian incest
dad ("If that were my house, my mom would be screaming at me down in the
basement, 'What are you doing down there? Do you have a secret family where
you're raping your daughter?"), and Besser calls out from the audience and asks
him to do his impression of Dr. Smith from Lost In Space. "Mmmmm, stop rrrraping me!" Pulcher says, for his
second rape-related gag in a row, then takes it one step further by doing an
impression of Smith as the Austrian incest dad. Besser is cracking up, but, uh,
I guess you had to be there? Pulcher wraps up his half-baked set with some
all-too-obvious "fake porn titles based on real movies" gags, better examples
of which I've seen here in the comment boards. ("Juno? How about, um, Spooge-o?") Hi-larious.
[pagebreak]
2pm: As the show wraps up, I spy Eugene Mirman in the
corner—whom it seems like I bump into at least two to three times a
year—and head over to say hello.
AVC: Who are you looking
forward to this weekend?
Eugene Mirman: I'm looking forward to a lot of bands: R.E.M., Modest
Mouse, The New Pornographers. There are so many bands that I forget their
names, uh…
[Attendants start stacking up
metal chairs in the tent, banging them together really loudly.]
EM: This is a good background sound. I'm looking forward
to this, this kind of art-rock. I don't know if you've heard this band before.
They're very good.
AVC: Is this Einstuerzende
Neubauten?
EM: Yeah! This is my favorite
industrial noise band out of whatever town we're in.
AVC: So which band that
peaked in popularity in the '90s are you most looking forward to?
EM: Does R.E.M. count? Yeah, and The Breeders. All the
bands everybody's excited to see. I'm not like, "You know, Blobbity Bloo.
Nobody but me knows about them."
AVC: If you had to share a
tent with anyone performing this weekend, who would it be and why?
EM: The New Pornographers,
because they're fun. And I already know them. Or, did you want me to say, like,
"MIA—because she's dangerous!"?
AVC: Is she dangerous?
EM: No, she's probably very
nice. But I mean, do you want me to say realistically or unrealistically?
Because I was like, "Well, they're friends, so I think it would be fine if we
shared a tent." [Laughs.] But I could actually be interesting and say, like,
"The Flaming Lips—because they wear suits made of blood, and that's something
that I want in my tent." I could
also pick people I know who are comics, I guess. I've given you three versions:
Realistic, made up, and douche-y.
AVC: If this were
Woodstock, who would you be?
EM: Of course I wanna say, "Oh, I'd be Jimi Hendrix." But
more realistically: Country Joe And The Fish. Or, uh, Nash? Of Crosby, Stills,
and Nash. The thing is, who that played that isn't dead? Crosby, Stills, and
Nash are still alive. Did Simon and Garfunkel play Woodstock?
AVC: Nope.
EM: I'm just trying to list who isn't dead. I would be
anybody who's not dead—or too wacky. I'm like, "Oh, there's some people
who aren't dead: Wavy Gravy, Country Joe." Nah. Arlo Guthrie? I don't need it.
Whatever.
I then figure it's a good
opportunity to chat up Besser, who's standing on stage waiting for the soundman
to fetch some new microphones.
AVC: What was the
inspiration behind having the mics cut out? What does that add to the comedy?
Matt Besser: It's a challenge, you know. It's not enough just to
do comedy anymore. It's like a steeplechase. You gotta have barriers, so we
decided we wanted to have our microphone cut out once a minute, at least. On
punchlines in particular.
AVC: It did add sort of
take it to an Andy Kaufman-esque higher plane.
MB: Yes, maybe we should embrace that further and insist
that you never hear the punchlines of any set-ups.
AVC: Is it hard to be
funny in a tent?
MB: You saw me. Did it look like I was having a hard
time? Come on. It was effortless.
AVC: So, if this were Woodstock,
who would you be?
MB: I would
be Country Joe.
AVC: That's what Eugene
Mirman said.
MB:
[Laughs.] He already said that? That was his reference? Okay. I would be
Wavy Gravy. I'd tell people to stay away from the brown acid. All the more
brown acid for me.
AVC: What's the equivalent
of the brown acid at this festival?
MB: Those
bandanas for The Rocker. And
everybody's on it.
AVC: If you had to share a tent with anyone playing this
weekend, who would it be?
MB: Robert Smith from The Cure. We have
a long feud going back years and years, the UCB and The Cure. They're the kings
of depression rock, and we're the kings of depression
comedy.
2:15pm: One of my biggest fears about this weekend is coming
true: I have zero bars on my cell phone, which means that all of the publicists
and bands who were supposed to call me about our various scheduled interviews
are not going to be able to reach me. I manage to get one bar by crouching down
and putting one hand on the backstage press trailer, and I make all of my phone
calls for the day at once, setting concrete appointments to meet me back here.
This means I'm grounded in the press area for the next couple of hours, but
it's not so bad. I can see the main stage from here, and I end up chatting with
several people who happen by, including Will Sheff from Okkervil River—who, before he became Mr. Big Time Indie Rock
Star, was just my coworker at a little video store in Austin. He happens to be
hanging out with Carl Newman from The New Pornographers, so I turn on the recorder for an incredibly
rambling, self-indulgent interview.
AVC: Hiya, Will. How are
you?
Will Sheff: Hi, Sean. I'm doing pretty good. I just got here an
hour ago, and I'm still getting my bearings. The staff here don't communicate
here with each other very well. There's a lot of confusion in the air. But…you
know that.
AVC: Who are you looking
forward to seeing?
WS: I wanted
to see The National, but I guess they're having a hard time getting here.
They're getting held up at the border. I just saw them at All Tomorrow's
Parties, and I was excited about seeing them again, so I hope they get here.
I'm kind of excited about seeing M.I.A., Destroyer, and The New Pornographers.
AVC: You're just saying that
because Carl Newman's right there.
WS: Yeah,
well. I was trying to say it loud enough so he'd hear me.
AVC: So which band that
peaked in popularity in the '90s are you most looking forward to?
WS:
[Laughs.] Okkervil River. Yeah…Isn't it interesting the way that that
stuff happens? Everyone gets to have their revival now. But I'm okay with that.
It doesn't make me disgruntled. I'm gruntled. I feel like some very cynical
hipster part of me wants to be disgruntled, but it's not kicking in, so instead
I'm just gruntled.
AVC: That's my job.
WS: That's true, that's true. But you know, your cynicism
is sort of poisonous.
AVC: Oh, sorry. If you had
to share a tent with someone playing here, who would it be?
WS: Uh…CARL
NEWMAN! I love those guys…We just got off tour with them, and they're so fun.
They're the sweetest, sweetest band we have ever toured with. And we've toured
with some pretty sweet people.
AVC: What kind of
tent-mates do you think they'd make?
WS: They'd
be considerate. And we'd talk a lot about music arcana. Their drummer is the
identical twin of our drummer, in pretty much every way. It's weird. They're
like the same person, essentially, which is occasionally frightening and
freaky.
AVC: If this were
Woodstock, who would you be?
WS: I'd be John Sebastian, tripping my balls off on stage,
saying creepy poems about children on acid.
Carl Newman: Should I
drop in on this interview?
WS: Hey,
it's Carl Newman!
CN: Just
doing a Bob Hope-style drop-in. Hey guys!
WS: I see
you brought your guitar—why don't you play us a solo? You should answer
this question too. I just gave an answer that's already been given. Oh,
wait…I'd be the Incredible String Band. The band that got rained out, and then
Melanie played instead and made a career off it.
AVC: Who would be the
Melanie then?
CN: Is Mary
Lou Lord still around?
AVC: Carl, who are you
looking forward to seeing this weekend?
CN: I don't
really listen to music anymore.
WS: Yeah,
that's a really bad question to ask cynical musicians.
AVC: OK. What band that
peaked in the '90s are you most looking forward to?
CN:
Oh…Modest Mouse, definitely.
AVC: If you had to share a
tent with any band here, who would it be? Don't feel like you have to say
Okkervil just because Will is giving you puppy eyes.
WS: Yeah, I
already said you guys, so if you said Okkervil, it would be creepy.
CN: Well…I
wish that just once Michael Stipe
would look at me. Just once. I was at my friend Ruben's art show last month,
and there were only like 50 people there. And Michael Stipe walked over to talk
to Ruben, and the whole time I was just like, "Look at me, man! Just look at
me!"
WS: "I just
want to take up a blip of your mind space."
CN: Yeah.
But no. Not even worthy of a glance. Not even a "Who's your friend, Ruben?"
AVC: Have you tried
dressing a little sluttier?
CN: What…You
don't like this shirt?
AVC: So, if this were
Woodstock, who would The New Pornographers be? You can't say John Sebastian,
because we're all sick of hearing that.
WS: And I
said Incredible String Band, so you can't say that.
CN: Sha Na
Na. They stole Woodstock. Have you
ever seen that footage? It's not the Sha Na Na you remember from the TV show.
It's like this weird punk rock Sha Na Na—like this '50s precursor to The
B-52s. They were so far ahead of their time. The '50s revival in the late '60s?
The whole early to mid-'70s glam thing dipped into the '50s, but Sha Na Na were
the first ones to go, "Hey, you know this music that only died out, like, eight
years ago? Let's do a resurgence!" It's like somebody doing a tribute to 1999
right now.
AVC: Isn't that what's happening this
weekend?
CN:
[Laughs.] Well, just between us…You know, all of your questions have
been very leading.
AVC: That's what I do.
CN: It's
like when Pitchfork asked me, "How
does it feel having your song ["The Bleeding Heart Show"] linked to the crappy
University Of Phoenix?" Like, what are you going to say?
AVC: Well, how does it
feel having your songs linked to Rock Band?
CN: That kind of thing makes me very proud. There's a
level when you get into music, where it's all about being "hip" or "indie," but
there's a deeper level that comes from being a kid that's into music, that
comes from liking pop culture. And being even if only a footnote in pop
culture? I love that kind of stuff.
WS: Is that
one of those things where it's not really you singing, and they got a Carl
Newman soundalike?
CN: No, no.
It's me. When we played the game and we finally got to our song on "Expert"
level, I sang along…I was, like, "Finally!" And I got 85 percent singing along
with my own song. Without Auto-Tune I'm at 85 percent. But come on…It was
"Expert" level. I can nail "Intermediate" level any time. I pretty much run on
"Intermediate" all the time. If I could nail 100 percent on "Expert" level, I
wouldn't be talking to you.
WS: You'd be
hanging out with Michael Stipe.
AVC: Speaking of rock star
games, I noticed Okkervil was signed up to make an appearance in those batting
cages over there.
WS: That's
probably Patrick [Pestorious]. He got in a fight…uh. Never mind. I don't want
to air any more stories about fighting. I've already aired two stories
involving Okkervil River and fisticuffs.
CN: It
wasn't quite fisticuffs. It was more of a knife fight.
AVC: You were in another
knife fight? [Note: At a New Year's Eve party we both attended, Will
disarmed a drunk guy who was brandishing a knife at people. It was very brave.
And kinda stupid.]
WS: And I
think I broke up a gang rape in Wellington, New Zealand.
AVC: When the hell did you
become this sort of vigilante, superhero guy?
WS:
[Laughs.] I know. Wherever there's a woman threatened by some drunken
yobs…Wherever there's a knife being pulled at a party, I'll be there.
AVC: Are you gunning for
martyrdom? Not too many rock stars die as martyrs, I guess.
CN: Are you
kidding? There's so many of them.
AVC: Who are the rock
martyrs?
WS: Uh…St.
Cobain.
AVC: But that's not what
I'm talking about. He didn't save somebody by blocking a shotgun blast with his
face.
CN: That's
true. Has any rock star ever died heroically?
WS: Right,
like pulling a child from underneath a bus?
CN: There's
gotta be one.
WS: I heard
that Ray Davies chased a purse snatcher, but I can't remember any more…You
know, recently I was at a pub quiz, and there was a Pink Floyd question that I
couldn't figure out, and I looked at my iPod to find the answer, and I had this
vision of a Pitchfork headline
that said, "Will Sheff shamefully ejected from a pub quiz." That would be the
opposite of that—a moment of public shame.
CN: That
could make front page. It's amazing what makes front page sometimes. Like, one
time we figured out we had to cancel a date in Winnipeg because the drive was
too far, and there it was, front page on Pitchfork, "New Pornographers cancel Winnipeg. Are The
Pornographers getting too big for their britches?"
WS: People
will make a story out of anything. I've seen entire stories from completely
fabricated press releases get fed to blogs and get repeated constantly. There
needs to be a fact-checking police stopping the James Freys of indie rock.
AVC: Who are the James
Freys of indie rock?
WS: There
are whole bands of James Freys.
CN: And
every damn writer.
WS: Yeah,
they're liars! Every last one of you!
2:35pm: I'm somewhat missing Beirut, though I can hear the winsome melodies and squeals
of hipster female delight from here. This is interrupted, however, by another
round of reunions with my friends in What Made Milwaukee Famous, who are doing some sort of impromptu acoustic
performance for somebody's video blog. Then my wife's old friend from Sub Pop
happens by (with a bottle of Jim Beam), and we sit and chat for a while. I've
also made the acquaintance of a couple of girls from The Stranger, who ask me to do one of their "How High Are You?"
interviews for the website ("Like giraffe ass," I say—thanks Clipse). All
those worries I had about not talking to a single soul this weekend were
apparently for naught, as there's actually too much talking going on to
actually hear the music.
3pm: On our way down to the hospitality yurt—a word
I've never heard before, which my new friends from The Stranger think is hilarious—we run into David Bazan, an
incredibly nice guy who enthusiastically agrees to listen to my smart-alecky
stock questions.
AVC: How's your festival
going?
David Bazan: It's
going good. I have a headache like I've been drunk all day, but I haven't.
Otherwise it's been great.
AVC: Who are you looking
forward to seeing?
DB: Fleet Foxes are playing again at 4:20, and I'm very excited
to see that. Modest Mouse. The Cure. Death Cab For Cutie.
AVC: What band that peaked
in the '90s are you most looking forward to seeing?
DB: Disintegration came out in, what, '90? [Ed. note:
Actually, 1989.] Definitely The Cure.
AVC: If you had to share a
tent with anyone here, who would it be?
DB: I'm visiting with a good buddy of mine here whom I
would gladly share a tent with—Horatio Sanz. We ran into each other, and
we were both major alcoholics at the time, and we had a really good time
together. He can come off as kind of quiet and shy, but he's really easy to get
laughing. He's very much a normal guy. We both snore. And I think we'd be
pretty much down to business. Uh, like sleeping, up, and out.
AVC: Not Brokeback
Mountain-style "down to business."
DB: [Laughs.] Probably not. He's got a girlfriend and I'm
happily married.
AVC: If this were
Woodstock, who would you be?
DB: The Woodstock back in the '60s?
AVC: Yeah, not the '90s
perversions.
DB: I was gonna say…I could make a fortune off of bottled
water. I guess pretty similar to me now—you know, I have a good time
usually, and I could imagine getting my hands on some chemicals and, like,
losing myself for a couple of days, and…yeah.
AVC: Uh, so which artist
would that be?
DB: Oh! That's right. I'm an artist. Uh…Something about
David Crosby is appealing to me. I don't know what kind of guy he is, so I
don't know how good a parallel that is. Just a guy that likes to sing some
songs and chill out.
AVC: David Crosby?
DB: Oh, he's kind of an alcoholic, huh? Uh, maybe not
current…but, yeah.
[pagebreak]
3:35pm: Hanging outside the yurt, drinking complimentary beer
and noshing on crudités—ah, the life of a professional rock
journalist—I can hear the party-starting Latin funk of Ozomatli. For a moment, it makes me a little
homesick—then I remember that I'm fucking sick of Latin funk. Time for
another beer.
4:20pm: The Office's
Rainn Wilson, unofficial master of ceremonies for this weekend—and star
of omnipresent movie The Rocker,
which is being advertised everywhere from those bandanas around people's necks
to a plane that's been circling overhead for the last couple of
hours—takes the main stage to let everyone know that The National, who were scheduled to play this slot, couldn't make
it. Filling in, he says, is an amazing band from Calgary, Alberta, Canada,
famous for its hit songs like "Turn Me Loose" and "Working For The Weekend."
Wilson continues to read Loverboy's Wikipedia entry from his phone, before
admitting that, okay, they're not really playing. Instead, "the Fleet fucking
Foxes" are coming on to play an encore set—which prompts him to read us
the Wikipedia entry on foxes. He's nearly drowned out by yahoos shouting,
"Dwiiight!", all of which he takes in good humor before escaping to our
backstage area. After he grabs a free cone from the Ice Cream Man, I snag him
for an interview as he stretches out on the grass to sneer at the Rocker plane circling overhead.
A.V. Cub: How does it feel
to be the Wavy Gravy of Sasquatch?
Rainn Wilson: It feels great. I don't know what that reference
means.
AVC: You've never seen
Woodstock the movie? You're the guy who comes out and does the announcements.
RW: Ohhh. There was a guy named "Wavy Gravy"?
AVC: You should Wikipedia
it.
RW: If I could get a signal I'd look it up. That's cool,
though. I like that. Thank you for that. I am the Wavy Gravy of Sasquatch.
AVC: You're also the most
oppressive corporate sponsor.
RW: Yeah, The Rocker is everywhere. You notice I didn't mention it on stage.
AVC: True. But there was
that plane circling overhead.
RW: I know. I think people can put two and two together.
Yeah, I'm like, enough with the plane already. If they could just bring it by
once an hour it would be perfect, but it's literally going around and around
and around. People are like, "I'm never going to see that movie."
AVC: And you're part of
the fashion too, with all the bandanas.
RW: I know, I know. And I busted out my flannel today, to
represent the Northwest.
AVC: So tell us about this
movie that everybody's already sick of.
RW: The movie starts in 1988, and when we meet my
character Fish, I'm the drummer for a heavy metal band called Vesuvius. They
kick me out right before they become huge, like as big as Cinderella or
something. And I live a life of total mediocrity and depression, but get a
second shot at fame by joining my high school nephew's rock band. So it's me
touring and living the rock star life 20 years too late with a bunch of
teenagers.
AVC: Did you ever have any
inclination toward being a rock star before becoming an actor?
RW: No. But I've always loved music, rock music, and
alternative music, and I play some guitar. I may even bust out a song tomorrow.
AVC: What's the most
impressive song you can play on guitar?
RW: Probably the one I'll play tomorrow is, I do a really
sad, introspective version of "867-5309" by Tommy Tutone.
AVC: That song is pretty
easy, though.
RW: Eh…It's not that easy. C-sharp-minor? That's kind of
hard. But no, all actors want to be rock stars, and all rock stars want to be
actors, and definitely after I got more successful as an actor I was like,
"This is perfect. I have notoriety. People know who I am. I'm a celebrity, and
I should channel this into being a rock star." You look at so many terrible
actor bands, actors who make terrible rock stars. Don't they? Has there been
one truly successful one? Jenny Lewis. But no one knows her as an actor.
AVC: Depends on how you
define "success." David Soul from Starsky And Hutch had a number one single.
RW: That's true. [Sings] "Don't give up on us baby…" I
should learn that one. What about [Sings] "My girl likes to party all the time,
party all the time, party all the time…" Number one.
AVC: Not as good as
"Boogie In The Butt," though. Have you heard Scarlett Johannson's new album?
RW: I heard it's pretty bad. I think if you're going to do
Tom Waits covers, you have to have some kind of voice that's equally as
interesting as his. It doesn't have to be rough and gravelly. But I'd like to
hear, like, Bjork do Tom Waits. Or Thom Yorke. Someone with a cool voice. But
turning it into showtunes is a bad idea.
AVC: So what's your
favorite Bruce Willis album?
RW: I'd definitely go with Return Of Bruno.
AVC: If you had a band,
what would you call it?
RW: I'd call it The Rainn Wilson Band. No. I always liked
the name Throbbing Gristle. Can you reuse an old band's name?
AVC: You should probably
ask P-Orridge first.
RW: How about, like, when Jefferson Airplane became
Jefferson Starship and then became Starship—how about Starship Jefferson?
Or Jefferson…what?
AVC: Davis?
RW: [Laughs.] It has to be a vehicle, right?
AVC: Pushcart?
RW: Jefferson Pushcart. It needs to be in the air.
Jefferson Blimp?
AVC: Can I make a
suggestion? Purple Rainn—with two "n"s.
RW: Not bad! Not bad at all.
AVC: So what band that
peaked in popularity in the '90s are you most excited to see this weekend?
RW: I think you're nudging me in a certain direction.
AVC: I'm only asking
leading questions this weekend.
RW: Uh…The Cure is pretty amazing…You think about the scope
of the stuff he's done over the last 20 years, that guy with the weirdest voice
and no discernible musical talent—and yet they always produce these
really amazing, catchy songs that get hooked inside your brain.
AVC: Were you a goth kid?
RW: I was in like the thrift store new wave crowd. And I
had a ska period, and for a while I was all about the skinny black tie and the
Specials pin and the porkpie hat.
AVC: Do you know how to
skank?
RW: No comment. Ask my wife.
AVC: So does it feel good
to get out of The Office?
RW: Yeah, this is really cool. My wife and I have a cabin
up in Oregon, and I drove up today. It's great doing a rock 'n' roll movie,
because I get to go to a lot of rock 'n' roll concerts and see some incredible
bands. It's a lot more interesting than going to awards shows and Hollywood
bullshit.
AVC: What about the IFC
Awards? That was pretty cool, right? Hanging out with Dennis Hopper?
RW: That was really fun. I got to hang out with Dennis
Hopper for the day, man. What a legend. What a cool guy. That was hard work,
but it was actually a lot of fun.
AVC: Did he give you any
advice on retiring?
RW: Yeah! "Collect art." He has the most incredible art
collection—Basquiats, Chuck Closes. These giant canvases fill his Venice
house. That guy's amazing, because he started in Rebel Without A Cause and Giant
in the '50s, then Easy Rider in
the '60s, and Apocalypse Now in
the '70s. In the '80s Blue Velvet
and Hoosiers. I mean, he made
classic movies in four decades. I don't know who else has done that. Jack
Nicholson?
AVC: Al Pacino?
RW: No, The Godfather was '72. And he's made nothing but crap lately. I did a play with Al
Pacino—Salome. I played the
page of Herodias, and he was the king. That was fascinating, watching him work.
You just never knew what kind of performance was going to come out of him.
There was no consistency at all. They were really expensive seats—like
$100 seats, and this was 10 years ago, so that's crazy expensive. And on some
nights people should have paid $1000, because he was that good. And some nights
it wasn't worth $5, because you couldn't hear him, or he'd just phone it in.
You just never knew what you would get.
AVC: Did those kind of
curveballs prepare you for working in improv comedy?
RW: Well, I started as a theater actor—honing your
performance and bringing a certain level of consistency. It's not
regimentation, but you spend weeks rehearsing, and you give the illusion that
it's happening for the first time, but it's a carefully crafted illusion. But
on film it literally can happen for the first time. In film you can have Marlon
Brando reading his lines off the side of somebody's head, and it will appear to
be spontaneous. Those are just two very different ways of working. But what do
I know? I'm just on a sitcom. I just have to be annoying and have a bad
haircut.
AVC: Isn't that mostly
done with gel?
RW: Yes, and a blow dryer. You're very discerning. How's
Austin these days?
AVC: Good. My house just
got hit with a minor tornado. A tree crushed my wife's car.
RW: Oh no! How terrible…. But, good breakfast tacos.
5:00pm: The saving grace in this sea of strangers, my buddies
from What Made Milwaukee Famous
stroll back down from their video shoot ("I had to pretend to drum in the
dirt," Jeremy Bruch says, baffled) and we spend a few minutes catching up
before I whip out the tape recorder on lead singer Michael Kingcaid, whom I'd
teased earlier about his crush on singer-songwriter Kathleen Edwards. I
promised I wouldn't bring it up anymore—but the guy can't seem to help talking
about it.
AVC: How's your festival
going?
MK: Pretty good. This is a really cool place. I'm kind of
scared of heights, but I'm all right now that they have this fence up. If this
fence weren't here I'd be fucked.
AVC: Do you think if you
wanted to you could lead the audience out into the wilderness there?
MK: I doubt it. I'm not that influential. Maybe after four
Makers. Then I have a pretty slick tongue. But before that I stammer a lot. I'm
practically a legal stutterer.
AVC: Who are you looking
forward to seeing?
MK: Kathleen Edwards. She's great. Very talented, among
other things. And she drinks Makers. Uh, I'm married. I'd like to see Modest
Mouse, too, and The Flaming Lips, since I've never, ever seen them. And M.I.A.,
The Breeders, and The National. David Bazan is a big one too, and The Cure.
Death Cab For Cutie, sure.
AVC: If you had to share a
tent with anyone here, who would it be?
MK: Uh…Kathleen Edwards.
AVC: But you're married.
MK: We could still hang out. And just kick it.
AVC: Is that a euphemism?
MK: Could be, if I wasn't married.
AVC: If this were
Woodstock, who would you be?
MK: Who was the black guy with the Pancho Villa thing? Who
played right before Jimi Hendrix?
AVC: Richie Havens.
MK: Yeah. Him. Maybe after a few Makers.
5:35pm: Recalling the words of Phillip Seymour Hoffman in Almost
Famous, I finally decide that it's my
journalistic duty to get away from these people who are not really my friends,
stop getting drunk on feeling like I belong, and get out of VIP Land. Besides, The
New Pornographers are on the main
stage, and the stars have finally aligned to where I can catch a full set by
them. "We don't often get to be in the same place at the same time," Carl says
as he, Neko Case, and Newman's niece Kathryn Calder are joined onstage by Dan
Bejar, who's just finished playing a Destroyer set on the other side of the
festival, with everyone singing along to "All The Old Showstoppers" and
"Testament To Youth In Verse," which Bejar sings while clutching a Budweiser in
one hand. It's one of the most crowd-pleasing sets of the day, despite the fact
that it's finally started to rain, prompting several folks to cover up in their
ponchos and huge plastic tarps.
6:15pm: I've been pretty negligent of the far-off Wookie
Stage today, so I decide to hike over to see Crudo, the brand new rap-rock goof
from Mike Patton and Dan The Automator. Patton and his fellow emcee (whose name
I can't find) are dressed in spattered butchers' aprons and latex
gloves—supposedly because they're cutting up big meaty chunks of R&B;
or something?
The music is a little more
goofy than good—the dominant facial expression in the audience is
"bemused"—but Patton has a surprisingly convincing slow jam falsetto
going on, and the various samples (including "We work hard, and we play hard"
from Homer's trip to the gay steel mill on The Simpsons, and an impromptu cut
of C&C; Music Factory's "Gonna Make You Sweat") make it clear they're just
trying to have fun up there, which is infectious. At one point, Patton pulls a
little girl and her father on stage, and when the girl waves to the crowd,
everyone waves back. It's a sweet moment. Dan The Automator does his scratching
thing, which isn't nearly as impressive as their tiny keyboardist, who pulls
out one of the most impressive beatboxing solos ever done by someone not named
Rahzel, all while playing the piano with her other free hand. The crowd goes
officially nuts—as does Patton—and then, by some cosmic
coincidence, the group bursts into a song whose chorus is "Gonna make it rain!"
just as the scattered drops turns to a full-on drizzle. Who knew Mike Patton
had command over the elements?
6:40pm: Over on the Yeti
stage, recent Sub Pop acquisition Grand Archives is making more of that vaguely
pleasant, vaguely country-ish pop that's become the label's signature ever
since Band Of Horses took off—which makes sense, because Archives
features Horses co-founder Mat Brooke. Fleet Foxes aside, I'm not really a fan
of this new genre of easy listening bands that BOH have spawned like fucking
gremlins (another spin-off, Sera Cahoone, is headlining this stage tomorrow).
"Inoffensive" is the most charitable word to describe their soporific,
white-bread cover of Sam Cooke's "Another Saturday Night." I'm watching them from
backstage and would leave immediately were it not for the fact that The
National have just pulled in, apparently relegated to playing a set on this
tiny regional stage as a last-minute solution. I hang back, hoping to chat with one of
the various Berningers walking around, but they all look understandably harried
so I give them a pass on pestering them with my inanity.
7pm: "We're gonna pretend
we're in Glastonbury, 1992, and everybody's on ecstasy!" M.I.A. is throwing a
multicolored melee on the main stage, everything bathed in pixilated neon while
air raid sirens and klaxons pierce the air. Her two back-up
dancers—sporting a fire engine-red wig and the last surviving Fly Girl
costume from In Living Color, respectively—keep the momentum going as
M.I.A. hops back and forth in her sparkly green tights and gold jacket, ripping
through the club bangers from Kala and Arular.
"We want to take you
somewhere hot—Africa!" she yells. Last time I checked, though, there
weren't any penguins in Africa.
7:15pm: "Sunshowers" causes a
huge commotion of waving hands and jumping up and down, but suddenly the waves
of joy are rippled by a speeding current of security guards who have a
struggling fish in their hooks. Judging by the way he's being hustled out of
the pit, I'm guessing he tried to join in the fun by hopping on stage; he's
screaming, "Fuck you guys!" and trying his damnedest to latch onto anything he
can grab to stop their momentum. It takes four men to wrestle him to the ground
and slap a pair of plastic handcuffs on him before hauling him out.
7:25pm: I'm surfeited on noise
and getting jostled by people doing awkward, outré arm motions in some
approximation of dancing that should have remained in their bedrooms, so I
decide to trudge back up the hill to see if The National is playing yet. It's
my fourth or fifth climb, and by the time I reach the top I'm completely
winded. As I say every year around festival time, I should probably quit
smoking. And as if it were a sign, the Yeti stage is sponsored by stop-smoking
site BecomeAnEx.com—yet ironically, there are more people smoking here
than at any other stage I've seen. Take that, corporate sponsors! The National
is nowhere near ready, so, sighing audibly, I head back down to M.I.A. who has
apparently invited half the audience to join her on stage, screaming, "We want
everybody jumping!"
Security is visibly freaking
the fuck out as more and more kids stream past the barriers. I ask the
pleasant-looking redhead girl next to me what happened and she says it's a
"lawsuit waiting to happen." I spy the What Made Milwaukee Famous CDs in her
hand and ask if she works for Barsuk; as it turns out, I've managed to run into
Kathleen Edwards, who's nice enough to grant me an impromptu interview.
[pagebreak]
AVC: So you said you've run afoul
of security in the past. What have you done in the past that got you in trouble
like this?
Kathleen Edwards:Maybe just saying things that
should have been better self-edited.
AVC: Seditious things?
KE:Oh, just stuff that wasn't
intended to be bad, that was taken the wrong way. People in the music business
can be very sensitive about themselves. I'm sure I'm included in that. I'm sure
I take myself way too seriously.
AVC: Who have seen that you've
enjoyed or who are you looking forward to?
KE:I really wish I could see
Sera Cahoone, but we're not going to be here. The New Pornographers, I was
really excited to see them, but I couldn't get close enough to really feel like
I was interacting.
AVC: If you had to share a tent
with anyone here, who would it be?
KE:If you'd asked me that five
hours ago, I probably would have said Neko Case. But know I'd say Michael
[Kingcaid] from What Made Milwaukee Famous.
AVC: He said he'd share one with
you too. So…That could happen.
KE:[Laughs.] That's very cute.
Am I blushing? Oops.
AVC: Unfortunately he's married.
KE:Well, I'm also married. We
can sleep adjoined tents, and text each other from each other's tents.
AVC: If this were Woodstock, who
would you be?
KE:I couldn't answer that. I'd
be giving myself too much credit. That would be weird. Well, OK…I'd be like the
Porta-Potty cleaner. Except they didn't have those at Woodstock.
AVC: Uh, you'd be the person that
dug a trench to direct the river of feces away from the crowd?
KE:Ew. Pretty gross. I'd really
just like to be a fly on the wall. I wouldn't want to have to shit in the river
of feces.
AVC: But if you were a fly, you'd
be all about that river.
KE:Oh yeah, I'd be really
enjoying that. Good point.
7:55pm: Somehow The National
still hasn't finished setting up, after more than 40 minutes of loading and
tuning. Even worse, the rain—intermittent since Crudo's set—is
becoming steadier. Maybe it's the fact that Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" is playing
(you know: "When the rain washes you clean you'll know")? I'm not sure who's
being clever here—the guy choosing the in-between songs, or Mother
Nature. It's another 20 minutes before anything happens, then Rainn (enough
with the irony!) Wilson comes out again to introduce his "favorite band, The
Nationals," explaining that they are "assholes, and such total fucking
douchebags and rock star divas" who didn't play earlier because they requested
s'mores on their rider but they were too burnt. Wilson continues to berate the
band ("Ooh look, they've got a trombonist!") before turning his deprecation
inward and saying, "You know about my movie The Rocker because you've seen that
plane like 80 times today. You know what? Don't go see it." He then proceeds to
read off the lyrics to "Squalor Victoria," openly mocking every line as "meaningless"
or "too repetitive." "Who writes this shit? Skinny Brooklyn hipsters!"
8:00pm After Rainn drops the
act and introduces "the greatest fucking band in the history of rock 'n' roll
music," The National finally takes the stage, four hours tardy for their
scheduled appearance, with "Start A War." "Look at this view!" Matt Berninger
mock-exclaims, gesturing at the trailers and tents behind him before saying,
"Oh wait. This isn't the picture they showed us." While it obviously isn't the
ideal main stage setting they were hoping for, the band's slightly mournful,
reflective rock is far more suited for these early evening hours, particularly
with the backdrop of gray storm clouds. The relatively tiny Yeti stage, too,
adds to the club-like intimacy, boosting songs like "Baby We'll Be Fine" and
"Mistaken For Strangers" into full-bore, surprisingly noisy rockers that the
hermetic seal of being up in the stratosphere of the main stage probably would
have reduced to merely adequate. I'm missing Modest Mouse right now but can't
seem to turn away.
8:20pm: During the line about
"raise your heavenly glasses" from "Squalor Victoria," everyone raises their
giant cans of Coors Light—an incredibly open interpretation of the word
"heavenly" if I've ever heard one. Incidentally, the Coors Light comes from the
nearby "Beers Of The World," which—by my count—carries about four
kinds of beers (Coors being one of them).
8:35pm: As I'm mentally
stressing out about the fact that I still have about three hours to go, then
another hour's drive back to my hotel, then untold hours of transcribing
interviews and trying to write up this blog entry before I have to be back here
and do it all over again, and I still haven't really eaten today, a guy bearing
a huge sign reading, "Intuitive Spiritual Healing" stops right in front of me
and does some weird tai chi breathing exercises, looking right at me. Can he
really sense my tension? And wouldn't you know it, as soon as he finishes, I
feel better. Hey, the pressure on me is pretty bad, but at least I'm not that
guy.
9:05pm: The National closes
out with a rollicking version of "Mr. November" that finds a red-faced Matt
Berninger shredding his throat on the refrain, followed by a truly transcendent
version of "Fake Empire" that gets the entire crowd clapping in unison. I'm
really glad I caught this.
9:10pm: It's a slightly
subdued version of "Float On" that I hear drifting up from the main stage as I
make my way down to Modest Mouse. The band is as obviously sick of playing it
as most of us are of hearing it. Actually, most of the rest of the set that I
catch feels somewhat half-hearted—though it's leagues better than the
last time I saw Modest Mouse, on that infamous Lonesome Crowded West drunken
free-for-all. On my way to a better vantage point I spy Sean Conroy, the comic
whose routine was repeatedly foiled by shitty mics at the UCB show, and tell
him I enjoyed his set despite the technical difficulties. He tells me that
other shows were better, but the 6:30pm ASSSSCAT show was drowned out by the
noise from M.I.A. and "The Oakersons" (Okkervil River). In retrospect, perhaps
the idea to put live comedy in an open tent in the dead center of three loud
music stages wasn't such a good idea. As I'm talking to him, Modest Mouse
finishes its set on a wanky, feedback-y note. Guess I'll have to catch them
some other time.
9:30pm: I make my way to the
very top of the mountain—that's the last fucking time, I swear to
myself—to settle in and wait for R.E.M. I hear the opening strains of The
Breeders playing "No Aloha" and wander over to the fence to watch them on the
far-off Wookie stage. Having just seen them in Austin a couple of weeks ago,
I'm not inclined to make the trek to get any closer, but with no one else
scheduled against them the sound reverberates crystal clear across the entire
grounds. I'm feeling spent anyway, content to just lean against the fence and
take in their redux of The Amps' "Pacer," a sloppy rendition of "Cannonball,"
and other flashes from the past while listening in on strangers' conversations.
Some guy passing behind me says, "Those two music videos are, like, why I am
the way I am"—and I'm trying like hell to figure out what those could
possibly be. (My vote is for "The Humpty Dance" and "Take On Me.")
9:40pm: Some frattish couple falls
into me, reeking of red wine and beer and violently French kissing. The girl
leans over and asks if I "have any E to sell—or anything else fun." I say
no. "To give away?" Nope. "Do you know anyone who does?" I'm not sure why I
always get mistaken for a drug dealer at things like this—though my Dad
would say it's because I wear too much black—but I tell the girl she's
barking up the wrong tree. She takes a look at my notebook and says, in rapid
succession, "What are you writing? Are those notes? Oh, you write in all
capitals—me too! I think it's more professional, don't you? But they say
not to use it on your résumé, but I did it anyway, and I only have a demo
version of Word so now I can't change it!" Jesus Christ. The last thing this
girl needs is something to lower her inhibitions any further.
9:45pm: The rain that's been
drizzling off and on now starts in earnest, coming down in genuine sheets.
There's a race to huddle up under a nearby sausage stand as the wind picks up,
sharp and cold. Waiting for R.E.M. to take the stage becomes a battle of wills
against the elements, weighing the merits of seeing them play versus surviving
to see another day. I vow to stick it out for you, dear reader, despite the
fact that it got nasty fast, and already the exodus of casual, non-paid
professional concertgoers is streaming toward the parking lot.
10:10pm: "Children of the
rain!" Michael Stipe says as R.E.M. finally takes the stage. Stipe is clad in a
natty pinstripe suit, but he's completely barefoot, just begging to catch his
death of cold on this, only the second night of their world tour. (Mike Mills,
meanwhile, is sporting a ridiculous cowboy hat that makes him look like he just
got in from the Dallas/Ft. Worth Airport.) The band opens with "Living Well Is The Best Revenge," and
while I've spent some time with and learned to appreciate Accelerate since my
disappointing experience at SXSW, the weather is bad enough that I decide I'm
going to bail if it's another repeat of that night's new song-heavy setlist. As
if sensing my growing hesitation about sticking around, the band launches into
"These Days"—one of my favorite R.E.M. songs of all time—and I'm
glad I stuck around to brave the rain. In fact, the set plays on that nice 2:1
ratio of old to new I was hoping for last time around, with some chestnuts I'd
recently heard ("Drive," "Auctioneer") and some I hadn't ("Ignoreland")
breaking up the Accelerate tracks. Stipe is also blessedly short on wonky
politicizing tonight, other than
asking, "How many people here think Barack Obama is the coolest person on the
planet?" He's even—gasp—kind of funny like days of old, saying, "If
I'm on stage and I'm barefoot, does that make you a hippie?"
10:45pm: I've lost track of the setlist and stopped taking
notes, as it is officially pouring right now. Huddled back under the sausage
stand I hear the opening mandolin notes of "Losing My Religion," and right on
cue the torrent slackens. It's my perfect R.E.M. moment, taking me back to the
years I spent wearing out Out Of Time on my Walkman, and I decide that that's
as good as it's going to get tonight—as do approximately 1,000 others. On
our way to the parking lot, I hear "The One I Love"—which I'm sad that I
missed, but considering how much work I have ahead of me (and the fact that I
have to get up and do it all over again tomorrow), it's probably for the best.