Preface: Many of you might have wondered what had become of Lipstick Communism, it’s dormancy leaving a harsh cry in the ears of its several dozen readers, its absence a bitter aftertaste of those who reveled in the opinions of a small few. Never mind our MIA status, we’re back with sincere apologies and I myself have returned after a bitter bout of writer’s block which lead to the dark annals of alcoholism, only to emerge with a tragic and besmirched worldview. And that just makes for better reading.
New York based dance-punk trio The Rapture played a major role in the whole post punk revival that was oh so popular in the early “aughts,” a scene that took a raw propensity and married it to the more electronic and dance elements that took hold of the 80’s and early 90’s and nearly strangled them. Whether this is something to be admired or cursed, The Rapture helped form a sound that was ruthlessly beaten like a horse just out on to the tracks, barely even able to consider a suitable place to die. But The Rapture did it in absence of conviction and with a desire to hold every instrument hostage until they got as much fun as they wanted out of it, lest we forget the all-too-important free jazz sax solos. In the Grace of Your Love, the third LP release from the band and a heart-warming return to the James Murphy DFA Empire Inc. should mark a union of the scratchy, rambunctious scatter shots that Echoes made you swoon over with the almost-too-polished-shoe-shined-dance-floor romps of Pieces of the People We Love. What ends up coming from five years of work and a brutal cowbell neglection is a band in an identity crisis, an album that the late Annie Lennox, were she alive, would probably soil her knickers over (RIP Annie Lennox, who is definitely, indisputably no longer alive.)
For many considering themselves relevant in the art of music blogging, bro to bro discussion and pressing ‘like’ buttons as a form of communication, Fuck Yeah Fest has only recently streamed through the thousands of psyches that attended. While FYF is essentially a collective of bands pushing through performance glitches and playing good fucking music, individuals coping with rising temperatures and even a few displays of unnecessary physical violence, it has the potential to house an absolute emotional response, certain factors considered.
The notions of a “music festival” can be agreed, by the general populous, as a gathering; an outlet for a large mass of people to share an experience. This agreement, albeit positive, is inherently flawed. Sure, every thing would be all fine and dandy if we could slap five with every member of the human race because “Wavves may be a dick but he can totally kill it when he wants to.” but the reality is this is not possible. For reality is relative .
This is a hard concept to grasp, so I understand if this answer appears shocking to you. Let me show you how, through synchronicity of desirable sanctions in matter and place, one can attain a zen of festival proportions. I shall use Fuck Yeah Fest as my buffer. Consider this the ideal fest.
I. The Point of Insertion: Time Approximated at 1:53 pm
You must forget everything that you find necessary. You must not be bounded by tickets or sunblock. You must remove yourself from daily rationale. The wave of people and the high heat that occupy this realm are integral to the first step. You must wait, and if necessary, refer to the nearby ice cream truck for occasional grounding.
During your wait, start tempting your mind with the absolute IMPROBABLE.
This line is futile. In fact, even this being will call, those without tickets shall get in much faster.
Even more so, this line shall prove an exercise in futility, as staff will simply hand you a ticket with no information necessary.
The rift has begun.
II. A Push Beyond Boundaries: Time Approximated at 4:15
You have entered the festival and, without knowing, begun to slip through dimensions. You reconvene with your small collective of like minded brethren. While you witness AA Bondy, they know something is adrift, but what it is they know not.
III. A Seam Unsealed: Time Approximated at 6:30
THINGS ARE DIFFERENT. You are beginning to see. You are no longer bounded by the effects of others and you must prove it. YOU NEED BEER.
This may seem like an insignificant detour, but rest assured this is necessary. This beer will be god’s elixer running through you, a wake up call to your mind’s eye, it’s a god damn golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory, the untouchable entity, every 36 spices in Dr. Pepper, it’s your happiness SkyNet, threatening to eradicate any bummer technology. Sure, you’re going to miss Dead Man’s Bones for this, but your mind has expanded beyond the concept of missing or witnessing. In this state Unbroken is the end all, be all because any sound is good if you make it so.
If all of this has been successful, your day should look like this:
Congratulations on incepting yourself the perfect fest. For every future festival, please repeat steps accordingly.
PS: Be safe out there, guys. Always remember to drink an abundance of water, bring your totem, and never faint, despite how tingly Delorean may make you. Also, be aware of your surroundings. If FYF has shown me anything it’s that, at any moment, you can be tackled or severely stomach slapped for dancing/walking/observing.
*Pictures sniped from varying sources, band pics by P-fork, other pics by beautiful individuals.