Kansas City Blog

Probably due to the massive amounts of various New Belgium beers (product placement: cha-ching!) consumed over the weekend, I get the set times mixed up and show up to the festival at 4 p.m., believing in my head that I was there to see Dr. Dog, when in reality, I arrive for Alejandro Escovedo, and I am thoroughly glad I accidentally showed up to see him.

Obviously very comfortable in front of a festival crowd (and in the same storytelling vein as Wayne Coyne but in a much more stripped-down fashion), Escovedo takes the audience on a tour of his life and his work, referencing his prior bands The True Believers and Rank and File, as well as dedicating “Real as an Animal” to Iggy Pop, telling the crowd “He did you a big favor. He killed the '60s.” Escovedo's band is incredible as well, with a violin and cello complementing the airier arrangements of some of the slower songs, but sometimes getting a little too Boston Pops on the rock numbers. After the overpowering sensory overload of the Flaming Lips, it cleansed the palette to return to earth and hear the great blend of rock riffs and delicate acoustic work in Escovedo’s catalog.

After a few hours of wandering the grounds playing games like “Spot the Attention Whore,” “Find the Filthiest Dude,” and “Most Questionable Fashion Decision,” I eagerly make my way back over to the Sun Up Stage. The dirt and grass in front of the stage have the consistency of a wet and sticky putty, and I count seven lost single flip-flops, a hat, a Coors Light coozie and a couple mismatched shoes stuck in the muck. The reason for braving the muck? Philadelphia’s Dr. Dog, a revivalist outfit of all things good and right about the '60s: pop sensibilities, psychedelic meanderings and harmonies. My God, those harmonies. I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen four men lock into such perfect, beautiful melody. If Dr. Dog ever hits a sharp or flat note, I’d gladly buy you a New Belgium beer (cha-ching!). Add to that guitarist Scott McMicken’s reedy vocals between functioning as resident jumping bean, complementing and contrasting Toby Leaman’s stomping, soulful Waits-ish shouts and perfect bass lines, and you’ve got a band who may not be the most modern, but who have gone back in time to say, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” and create some of the best and most diverse pop in recent history.

The crowd never swells for Dr. Dog like it did for the Lips or for the hip-hop acts on the previous day, but those in attendance are treated to a set of songs from the upcoming “Fate," as well as old favorites such as “Old Ways," “Fools Life," and the triumphant “The Way The Lazy Do." After watching Dr. Dog work their magic so perfectly, add my bearded jaw to things that have been dropped and left in the muddy muck in front of the stage.

I run over to the Revival Tent to catch a few songs from Dallas’ Old 97's. People whose musical loves fall squarely in line with mine have spake unto me glowing words about the Old 97’s, but every chance I’ve given them has left me lukewarm. Their performances, while charming and energetic, never have a transcendent quality, and the songs themselves never stick in my head as anything other than aping old fiery country songs. Instead of watching Rhett Miller play the dangerous but pretty frontman act, I find myself just wanting to listen to Johnny Cash play the dangerous-but-also-really-not-giving-a-fuck act that he perfected over 40 years ago.

I had lost interest in Ben Folds since he dropped the Five and became Ben Folds, solo artist. While an evening with Ben Folds is always an entertaining one, I can never find the reasons that I fell in love with him in the first place in his set: the absolute nerdy charm of a guy who grew up in Chapel Hill around Superchunk and Archers of Loaf but made piano pop, and how ridiculously and refreshingly different that piano pop sounded in the mid '90s alongside Superchunk and Archers of Loaf.

Folds still has all of that nerdy charm, and has thankfully gotten a trio (albeit not “Ben Folds Five”) back together. He still has goofy fun with his live show, still makes occasional crude and immature jokes, still likes to pound his piano with his stool, but an hour and a half of piano-driven pop trio doesn’t quite have the same staying power that one would hope an artist capable of Ben Folds’ caliber of work would have. Still, the best pieces in Folds’ catalog still shine bright, and the crowd of well-adjusted white kids to whom Folds is a snarky Billy Joel eat it up without my concerns for innovation and diversity.

Vibe-wise, Saturday feels like the wildest night of all, given that Sunday was the last day of the festival. The VIPs are downing beer like water, the camping kids fly the holy hell out of their kites and dig into the last bits of their respective stash, and the three days' worth of drinking and drugging among the crowd make the whole evening more of a Midwestern Burning Man. Using, “Hey, man, it’s Wakarusa” as an justification for anything starts to sound legitimate.

Back at my house, my friend’s drunken cousin ends up peeing on a pile of laundry in my room while I’m brushing my teeth. I am not amused, but, “Hey, man, it’s Wakarusa." I get over it.