Excuse my language, but seriously, where the fuck do I start? Today has been one of the single best days of my life. I know I say that a lot, but I really mean it this time! When I think about how I've always envisioned growing up, I'm pretty sure it looked something like this. And here I am.
Please be sure to at least read about the Yard Dogs Road Show because if you are a human being that, you know, likes cool things in the broadest sense, you really need to check them out. Otherwise, hang tight, this is going to be a long entry with lots of photos!
Today started on the corner of 19th & Irving, where the Meissner mini-van has scooped me up for a day of music and art. We're on our way to the Power to the Peaceful festival in Golden Gate Park, the brainchild of Michael Franti, which features a slew of artists, including Spearhead and Ziggy Marley on this year's roster. Grace asks me if I've ever been to festival like this and I shake my head no, vehemently. Sure, I've been to festivals, but never with such a just-stepped-out-of-the-60s vibe. Hippies abound, my veggie burger is copped from a stand called Black Uhuru (like the reggae band) and weed smoke fills the sky like its actually legal, all the way around. Characters appear everywhere, people on stilts, multi-being yoga formations, set to a soundtrack of Ziggy Marley playing his Dad's classic songs. Trippy, maaaaahn.
We dance our way through a drum and bass dance pit, post up to listen to the music, navigate through the crowd snapping photos. I run into Yarrow's friends and give big hugs and "ahhhh we've heard about each other for years!" shouts. The world connecting in big ways! I even find that healer dude from Union Square who I've seen on a dating show and "Yo Mama." Yeah, that guy, who is like seven feet tall. "Hey man!" I say, "You're from New York!" I'm here now, he shrugs. "Can I take your photo?" I ask. Can I have a sip of your juice?, he says. Exchange. Before leaving we sit in the beautiful woods on a log sharing stories. The festival ends with Grace and I shaking in time with Lloyd's Family Samba band and the sun is warm and forgiving, feet aching. Check out the photos below. Take particular note of my huge grin.
(P.S. Can I live in this record store?)
Exhausted, but still with a long stretch of night ahead of us, the fam and I find ourselves at a Thai restaurant where you must give over your shoes in exchange for a seat on the carpeted floor. We ease our bellies with a delicious meal, all sharing from different dishes, legs crossed authentically and fueling up for what promises to be an even more wonderful evening.
Ok. More Dad stories. My father, AKA the cool older cousin with the long hair (but don't call him a hippie or he'll pop ya in the jaw), rock record under arm, used to hang at the Fillmore East in New York City back when The Who and Cream and all the other classic '60s band were rocking the roof off. I've always been a hungry audience for his stories and have held his saved yellowed programs in my fingers like treasures. Needless to say, going to the Fillmore in California was a dream lived. How badly I wished my father was there with me to share in the experience. All the posters that cover the walls, just like the Mothers of Invention authentic flyer that hangs on my bathroom well, relics from a time when creativity and music were blossoming and bursting like fireworks in the sky. The energy of the history living in the space was palpable. I have Maya and Ivy pose in front of a large photo of Janis Joplin and opt for my own goofy shot in front of our family's special band, pointing at Pete Townsend and Keith Moon. A man at the door in a top hat gives us a carnation, which we were in our hair until they fall to the floor due to dancing. Grace lines Rick's eyes with eyeliner for the occasion, which makes the girls momentarily embarrassed until I remind them how rare it is for a 50 year old Dad to get down like that.
We are here to see the Yard Dogs Road Show. I'm not sure what to expect, but judging from the crowd, I've been missing out on an entire subculture that is somewhere between rock-a-billy, rock n' rock and circus freak. Everyone is adorning pin stripes and vests and havana hats and has big plugged ears and flowers in their hair and tattoos galore. These people are stunningly gorgeous and I contemplate switching up my whole style, but think, nah, I'd just be a poser, to use 7th grade terminology. We post up in the cafe and admire the concert go-ers, drinking in the phenomenal visuals. I think I fell in love twenty times over with various strangers. My new rule is don't step to me unless you've acquired a weird talent like playing an instrument you invented or sword swallow or something equally as fantastical and bizarre.
So, the opening act. Of all the amazing things I've seen people do with a loop machine, I have never witnessed someone with such a deep, strange groove as "That 1 Guy." Aptly titled because you know people refer to him as such, "you know, that one guy we saw who has this like one string bass made of pipes and plays an electric cowboy boot and makes hilarious faces but his music is unreal?" Like a more eccentric Les Claypool (yes, it's possible), the bass player from Primus, if you remember them, this man plays an amalgamation of drum and bass beats on a contraption he clearly created that he plucks and hits and bangs on, and looks like a science experiment, but mysteriously produces these incredible sounds. All the while he looks almost Amish and totally uncool, but suddenly really cool because of what he is creating in front of your eyes, with really silly lyrics, and at the end of the set, you start to notice that not just yours, but everyone in the room's jaw is hanging wide open, the live show is that impressive.
Break to watch the magic:
This is followed up, of course, by a man in a full body, so-tight-you-can-see-his-package, shiny electric blue bunny suit introducing one member of the Yard Dog's Road Show, who proceeds to give a hilarious strip tease, peeling off layers of ridiculous boxers and speedos and socks until he is in a see-through thong with hearts on the ass. What? During the intermission that follows I can only imagine what is to come.
Except I couldn't have ever begun to imagine anything close to what The Yard Dogs Road Show put on that legendary stage. I mean, I've been thinking about how to describe this all night but its nearly impossible. A live band experience that mixes rock and roll, cabaret, circus sideshow, magic and burlesque into one hugely successful and shocking package. Hands down the best live show I have ever seen. Even though every muscle in my body ached, I couldn't sit down, nor tear my gaze away from the stage, even for a moment. I hollered and hooted and laughed and stood bug-eyed with a huge grin plastered on my face and thought, "Ok. I get the word groupie now. Count me in!"
Here is one small moment of the show to give you a sense of the utter organized chaos and madness that ensued: The sword swallower/percussionist (all the members are multi-talented), adorning a top hat and cirus-esque stripped suit, impossibly swallows a long pink balloon, the kind that clowns use to make balloon animals out of, and pulls out yards of colored scarves, which he bunches up and just when it looks like he is about to throw the bundle into the audience, he unveils a live chicken, which he then places on the trumpeters head, who, it must be said, is stripped down to boxers and a tie after the last crazy part of the show, and he plays there with the chicken atop his head, all the while the band spinning out some vaudeville-meets-psychedelia original soundtrack.
The show ends with the sexiest burlesque act, a feather fan dance and sparkling sequins-ed titties and the trombone player lady (could've been me if I stuck with that damn instrument of the elementary years!) belting out Janis-style, until the feather ladies cover her with their fans and unveil her, at peak-of-belt, in her own gorgeous sexy night-ware get up. The crowd goes crazy, the band beats on and I curse to Rick and Grace, "this is the most amazing fucking thing I've ever seen! Thank you so so so much for taking me here!" They laugh and nod as if to say, "didn't you know this is what you came to San Fran for?"
Surreal and other worldly. Those who know me well are aware of my slightly off-kilter obsession with 1930's freakshows, and this was so up my alley in an unexpected way. I was floating in performance heaven. Please, if you know what's good for you, check out the videos below. And SEE THEM WHEN THEY COME TO TOWN. I promise, you'll leave head spinning.
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Yanked from the website:
The Yard Dogs Road Show is a hobo cabaret, a living patchwork of vaudeville and rock and roll. In the enchanting land of stage show entertainment theirs is both pleasant and formidable terrain. They require a sensitivity to the subtle and the absurd. They lead the modern hobohemian on a visual and sonic journey through part of history that may or may not have existed – followed by an ambitious return to the emotional challenges of our punch-drunk contemporary world. It’s a true story on stage: sword swallowers, dancing dolls, fire eaters and sunset hobo poetry - all animated by the live sounds of the Yard Dogs cartoon heavy band. Yard Dogs Road Show is pure visual and sonic voodoo.
Born from the saloon vaudeville that toured the Wild West in the late 1800's and slammed into the underworld of modern American road culture. The Yard Dogs create a timeless space for the union of ancient theatrical alchemy and modern pop culture.
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