Old-Time Rock 'n ' Roll

THERE'S A KIND of person who believes that Griffin Dunne deserves to have his head put on a spike-or whatever those scary downtown denizens have in mind-after he spurns the advances of beehived beauty Teri Garr in After Hours. Those are the kinds of guys and gals attending Little Steven's International Underground Garage Festival at Randall's Island. It's a reliable mix of spider-assed rockers and rock 'n' roll Weebles. Not a bad-looking crowd, and representing a far-ranging demographic for Steven Van Zandt's perfectly fine syndicated radio show.

The all-day 45-band bill obviously requires major coordination, and the event starts promptly at 10:30 with Davie Allan & the Arrows doing the biker-film classic "Blues Theme." This also quickly establishes the equal billing promoted for most of the day, as the L.A. icons knock out three tunes before being spun away from the crowd on a rotating stage. Local act the Sexy Magazines are set up on the other side, and enter playing. It's the proper way to run a festival. The initial moments are a flawless blur of music-and, beginning with the Gore Gore Girls set, further backed by a rotating collection of generic go-go dancers.

The day's starting off with a decent crowd, but nobody even notices when Bruce Springsteen comes out to introduce the Swingin' Neckbreakers. To his credit, Springsteen seems kind of bemused by this. It's a typically fine set from Trenton's finest, whose presence confirms that Little Steven isn't petty enough to actually ban those three-piece bands that ignored his memo to add a few members. The Neckbreakers also helpfully close with "The Girl Can't Help It," which deftly reveals the inadequacies of those go-go dancers.

You can take the dancer out of the strip joint, but you can't take the strip joint out of the dancer. The girls at the top tier are obviously baffled by the absence of a vertical pole. They should all rightfully march off the stage in shame. That's not going to happen, though-especially if they're being paid as much as I'm told they are. At least the giant inflatable go-go girl had the grace to deflate herself onto the East River before the festivities even began.

At worst, the gals are a relatively pleasant distraction from a fine barrage of bands. Then the idiot vocalist of the High Dials-usually a fine band from Montreal-jinxes the event by being the first singer to speak from the stage. It's some simple variation on "How ya doin'?" Still, there's something foreboding there.

Sure enough, it isn't long before the rotating stage is jammed. Precious minutes are now wasted as the bands have to take time to set up. Sadly, the audience becomes aware of this disaster as legendary performer/producer/sleazebag Kim Fowley seizes the stage. Earlier announcers-à la Springsteen-barely had time to identify the incoming act. Fowley now has plenty of our time to waste. His sad ramblings eventually include the day's only idiotic political statement. "Don't forget to register to vote," he lies, "so you won't be spending next summer in Iraq." I'm registered to vote so that we'll be spending next summer in Iraq for Little Steven's Mideast Garage Fest, to be followed by a trip to AfghanDisney.

To his credit, veteran hipster Martin Lewis says something similar after the second time Fowley's compelled to make that clever announcement. Or maybe it's the seventh time. I lose count. Fowley will keep appearing throughout the day, spewing purple prose that suggests he's channeling the same hippie bullshit that gave him a hit single in the 60s with "The Trip." He seems to have forgotten that "The Trip" was a novelty song.

We're at least 10 bands deep now, and it's only 12:50 in the afternoon. I wander away from the stage and find that something interesting has happened behind my back. There's the smell of clove cigarettes, the presence of jugglers and stilt walkers and the Coney Island Sideshow. It's like some lame Renaissance Fair-or, interchangeably, Lollapalooza-is making a virusy attempt to infiltrate a perfectly pleasant day.

That's doomed to fail. For one thing, none of the merchants are ripping off the audience. Corporate sponsor Dunkin' Donuts is even handing out free lattes. This is actually the closest I've ever gotten to Dead-End Drive In-that being a fine 80s film about teens who are lured to a hipster playground that turns out to be a detention camp for troublemakers. The only thing that would send any of us here over the wall is the lack of White Castle.

Not that I'm pleased with all of my fellow inmates. There's stiff competition among the many acts, but Iggy Pop-along with Stooges variants-scores the highest ratio of idiot fans who wear t-shirts featuring the band they've come to see. Deborah Frost of the Brain Surgeons gets bonus geek points for wearing her own band's t-shirt. They're not even on the bill.

The afternoon hours offer plenty of high points, with aging rockers from the 60s (he Creation, Chocolate Watchband) and the 80s (the Fuzztones, the Chesterfield Kings) putting on impressive displays. The Fleshtones also save the show from flagging at a vital point. Their reward is to get tossed off stage after only two songs, despite having thoughtfully brought along Dave Faulkner from the Hoodoo Gurus as a guest.

Then a guard nods off and allows Fowley back onstage. He assures us that we're "doing nothing wrong," and absolves us of our "rock 'n' roll sins." Cherie Currie won't be doing Kim a similar favor.

To be fair, Fowley eventually devolves into an entertaining embarrassment. He screws up the names of bands he's introducing, the names of bands that aren't present and the locations of record labels and radio stations. It's no surprise when he finally talks so much that he actually forgets to introduce one act. At least now we know why Fowley's not a rock casualty. He's a carrier.

Fortunately, other guest announcers occasionally take the stage and spare the audience. It's fun to see Chuck Barris and Edd Byrnes. Van Zandt also brings in some Sopranos castmates-most notably Tony "Paulie Walnuts" Sirico, who basically comes out to imply that we have lousy taste in music.

Heading into the evening, there have only been two real disappointments in the entire bill. The Pete Best Band is a disaster, incapable of getting through two songs without committing the oldies sin of asking the crowd to sing along. The Electric Prunes take us all to the State Fair with a geriatric take on "I Had Too Much to Dream (Last Night)." Everyone else effortlessly fills their limited timeslots.

Yet nobody finds a way to fill the time between bands. Things finally hit rock bottom when Martin Lewis attempts to interview go-go dancers. He forgets that these dotbrains are paid to keep their mouths shut-as best illustrated when one ditz breathlessly refers to Martin as "Steven."

Then the extended sets begin with an impressive turn by the Romantics, who could've gotten away without playing "What I Like About You." Nobody's expecting much from Nancy Sinatra nowadays, but she's looking great and sounding better. She caps some well-chosen classics with a fine new Morrissey song from her upcoming album. Then she's almost derailed by an awful Thurston Moore song that's more appropriate for Siouxsie Sioux. That's fortunately forgotten with the big finish of "These Boots Are Made for Walkin'," as an army of go-go dancers is unleashed behind Nancy. It's like somebody just got a valuable Hint from Heloise about what to do with unsightly stains.

The overcast day has added up to fleeting seconds of light rain, and I decide that it's going to be hard to improve on fine sets by Big Star and Bo Diddley. Besides, I've already got fond memories of seeing Iggy & the Stooges. I head out as the Raveonettes take the stage, and quite likely pass the New York Times critic Kelefa Sanneh as he's entering.

I've certainly had to endure disappointed concertgoers complaining that I must've seen a different show after I've written a bad review. Judging from Sanneh's resultant write-up in the Times, however, I'm perfectly comfortable with accusing Sanneh of covering most of Garage Fest in the Jayson Blair tradition. (You can also safely assume the same of Dan Aquilante at the Post.) Anyway, it's not as if the editors at the Times will be offended. Sanneh isn't burning down his master's house, and he slavishly inserts a cultural concern that Diddley's set "included the only rapping heard all day." Oh, de humanity. o