Drunk at the Reading Festival; Blues and Punk Collide in Fat Possum's Juke Joint Caravan

Reading Festival Reading, England (August 25-27) My first week in England was spent in touristy London drinking my weight in Budvar and Kronenberg. I didn't see Buckingham Palace, the British Museum or the Tower, but I did witness people smoking crack outside a pub in Soho. Instead of going on to Brighton or France, I opted to smoke hash until the early morning and hang out with newly acquired friends and a boy we'll call Clark "Red Bull" Coven, because he loves Gene Clark and Red Bull is often his drink of choice. I didn't do anything touristy except look at the Tube map and visit the Big Millennium Wheel. I don't regret it. My afternoons and evenings were spent drinking and then drinking some more. My week was filled up with seeing bands and going to Alan McGee's (Creation) new club, Radio 4, in Notting Swill, I mean Hill. I was lucky enough to secure a pass with guest area access from a friend who works with Calexico, Dirty Three and Boss Hog, all playing. Unfortunately, I missed Boss Hog's reputedly stellar performance, and New York's Lapse as well; they both played before I got there. I did see a photo of Lapse's frontman Chris Leo with only a guitar covering his private parts in Time Out. Royal Trux canceled, leaving only Primal Scream, Calexico and Oasis among the bands I really wanted to see.

I've never been an Oasis fan, nor do I own any of their records, but since I was in England, I felt obliged to see them on their own turf. I was rewarded by Noel and Liam Gallagher arguing back and forth, with snide remarks. The crowd obviously had mixed opinions of the band; some shouted, "Wankers!" at them, others held up their middle fingers and sang along ridiculously loudly, like it was England's fucking anthem the band was playing. It was really scary witnessing so many people sing along to "Wonderwall." A teenage boy near me was holding an industrial-sized flashlight under his chin to light up his face. He asked if "Wonderwall" was my favorite song. I told him no, and asked if it was his. He said that it was, and asked why I was laughing at him. I told him it's not every day I see a 14-year-old in an oversized Slipknot shirt, lighting his face up like in a horror movie, belting out Oasis lyrics.

The second day was more of the same, with a whole lot of beer consumption, foosball playing, waiting in lines for the loo and holding out for the few bands I really wanted to see. If it wasn't for the guest area pass I don't think I would have been able to survive. It seemed like everyone under the age of 21 was outside, while anyone slightly older and not wearing a band t-shirt was hanging out in this area. The guest area had its own bar and food, as well as hospitality and press areas. Plus you could hear the bands playing on the main stage without having to go out there to watch. You could sit and chat, absorb some sun, drink yet another pint.

Saturday morning was ruined by heavy rains. I missed the Get Up Kids and At the Drive In. The latter are one of those bands friends of mine with decent musical taste like, but for some reason no matter how many times I see them I still don't get it. Granted, two of the guys have amazing hair, a la Rob Tyner's, but it doesn't help them musically.

I didn't leave the hotel room until 4 that afternoon to meet up with Clark and a few of his friends and go see Beachwood Sparks. They're an L.A.-based pop band that thrives on Byrds music and wears those country snap shirts. I wasn't really into their self-titled album on Sub Pop, but after seeing them three times earlier in the week they grew on me?especially after their show at Radio 4, which turned into a dance party, at which we danced to songs by Judas Priest, the Rolling Stones and AC/DC until 3 in the morning. Maybe my fondness for the band increased after smoking hash with them. Or maybe it's because I ended up at the Columbia Hotel with them singing Dr. Dre lyrics until 5 a.m. (I took Eminem's part when he says, "Stop the beat a minute/I got something to say," getting the entire room's attention, then sat down.)

That night we spent in the guest area, chugging more pints of Carling, wading through mud and dodging fires. The fires got out of control as the night went on. There seemed to be a fire every 15-20 feet. I never picked up a schedule, so I had difficulty keeping up with who was playing on which stage when, so I missed Queens of the Stone Age. And Hank III canceled. I don't think I am supposed to see this guy. I saw him a few times in high school when he played in a punk rock band called Buzzkill, but since, he has canceled four of the shows I had planned on attending.

The highlight of the night was Beck. I have been a sucker for his song "Debra" on Midnite Vultures since the day I got it. "I met you at JC Penney/I think yout name tag it said Jenny/...I wanna get with you/Ohhh girl/And your sister/I think your name is Debra...ah, ahhh..." His band was phenomenal, the backup vocalists and three-piece horn section dancing in unison. Back at the hotel I watched a Keith Moon documentary.

Sunday morning I awoke early, because everyone was going to Leeds except me. I really didn't want to brave another day of the festival alone, but it turned out to be just what I needed. It was the last day of my vacation and I could do whatever I wanted. I ran into my friend Adam, who bought me drinks and let me kick his ass in foosball. We watched a friend of his play in a band called Cousteau, like a lounge version of Scott Walker. After that the options were limited, as Sunday had the worst lineup of the three days: Stereophonics, Placebo and Rage Against the Machine were the headlining groups. The only artist I was interested in was Elliott Smith, but he didn't play until after 8. We stage-hopped for a while. The pop duo Daphne and Celeste got themselves booed and bottled off the main stage. They only got through two songs, the second featuring parodying lyrics like "u-g-l-y, you ain't got no alibi." Both of them were wearing white t-shirts, one with the words who the fu*k is Eminem, the other with I Love Brian. Bet Brian was proud. Later, a teenage boy passed me wearing a t-shirt with the hand-written logo, I met Daphne and Celeste.

Elliott Smith was a complete disappointment. I tried to convince myself that I was watching another band. I had to leave for fear that I'd never be able to listen to XO or any of his previous albums again. I headed to the nearby Bacardi Bar tent?the only place inside Reading that served 50 milliliter shots versus the standard 1/6 gill regulated by law. Watching a stocky man with no shirt on snort an entire bag of coke and attempt to dance to the horrible music the DJ was spinning, I knew it was time to call it a night. I ended my stay at Reading the same way it started, with a nice cold pint of Boddington's.

Lisa LeeKing

Juke Joint Caravan Duck Room, St. Louis, MO (August 30) St. Louis may be famous for its blues, but with the exception of three or four guys in town (Henry Townsend, Oliver Sain, Tommy Bankhead) who were around before rock 'n' roll began and play infrequently, there's not much of a scene here anymore. There's certainly no one here beneath the stainless steel Arch under the age of 35 who's playing the shit properly, much less roughing up its edges and fucking it up a la Fat Possum Records. The Mississippi-based outfit has built an enviable track record resurrecting unknown or unheralded Delta bluesmen like R.L. Burnside and T-Model Ford and filtering their work through the pomo punk-blues of Jon Spencer and Bob Log (formerly of Doo Rag). The label's records give a burly middle finger to the contemporary supper clubbing of the blues (see B.B. King and Eric Clapton's recent CD, Riding with the King). If you're going to put the blues between a Hard Rock Cafe and oblivion, argues the Fat Possum crowd, why not go out with guns (and guitars) blazing? A four-man Fat Possum posse has been touring as the "Juke Joint Caravan," and the live collision of blues and punk was intriguing. The show commenced with an all-too- brief set of acoustic blues by Robert Belfour, who spun some incredible sounds from his guitar as he sat brooding under a dapper black hat and behind ungainly glasses. We didn't know it yet, but we were watching the highlight of the evening already. Belfour's countrified blues (found on his new LP, What's Wrong with You) marry a twangy but soulful inflection with a loping, infectious gait. It's music that has the glint of railroad tracks under a vicious summer sun. Parading a mix of his own original songs and John Lee Hooker covers (including a mesmerizing "Boogie Chillun" to close his set), Belfour earned the encore that the audience demanded he perform.

Paul Jones was up next, accompanied by an aggro white rhythm section. Visually, it was a bit like watching the Jimi Hendrix Experience without the psychedelics, but the music didn't live up to the image. Jones' stuff is a fairly pedestrian hybrid of blues and soul sold with Jones' infectious good cheer and his self-conscious dabbling in pimp couture. He got the bodies in the club grinding, but no more than that.

You might argue that Tucson's Bob Log III was Beck before Beck was Beck. Or that he's still Beck while Beck has moved on. Decked out in a purple Evel Knievel jumpsuit and silver motorcycle helmet (with a telephone receiver somehow jury-rigged into a microphone), Log still peddles the bratty and abrasive subversion of the blues that first got Beck attention back in 1994, when Log was playing at the same kind of games with Doo Rag. (They released Chuncked and Muddled that same year.) Distorted and filthy, Log's music surfs on the riff power of the blues without getting down into its sex and poverty. It's a junk shop of influence and broken-down groove that's powerful in short, sharp shocks, but it leaves you empty over the course of the set.

T-Model Ford was the headliner for the evening, and when he ambled onstage with a cane, even the kiddies shut up and listened. Ford's story is at least as good as his music (found on three Fat Possum albums?Pee-Wee Get My Gun, You Better Keep Still and She Ain't None of Your'n), but tonight the music was every bit as compelling?a stinging electric blues that packed a wallop. "Gotta take my medicine," Ford quipped as he downed a shot of whiskey and launched into the kind of primal stomp that gets every fiber of your body vibrating. He ran through a number of his own songs from his Fat Possum albums with a blistering version of "Chicken Head Man" as the highlight of his set. Though he told the audience that he "could sit here and play my guitar all night," T-Model Ford's set inevitably ground down into what could almost be described as a blues trance?a slow, deep, repetitive, crawling king snake of a groove. When it wound down to a finish at last, it was hard not to be convinced that the blues were still alive in two old black gentlemen we saw onstage. The question is, just how many of those bastards are left down in the Delta for Fat Possum to find?

Richard Byrne