Summerfest

Fig.1: IfIHadAHiFi triumphantly smacks down the Cascio Groove Garage (all photos by Brian Jacobson)

Let’s see…Summerfest ended over two weeks ago, and since then I’ve occasionally sat in front of my computer, eyes dilating as they soak in the photons, trying (and failing) to encapsulate my experience as a Summerfest performer in a way that won’t be completely boring. Because as it happens, the experience of being a local ‘fest performer isn’t all that removed from being a spectator, except that you get in free and at some point you have a microphone stuck in front of you.

Still, it was a big deal for me to go from simple entertainment consumer to entertainment provider (and consumer for the rest of the day in most cases). Because as loathe as we local musician types are to admit it, Summerfest is a big deal for many of us, despite all its flaws.

I had gotten to a point where I was comfortable with the thought that my band would never play Summerfest. Oh, we’d tried in the past—we played the game, sent an application through SonicBids and paid the $15 a couple times before we realized that the fest’s SonicBids partnership is an easy way to scam money off of naïve starry-eyed hopefuls and help defray the cost of Kid Rock’s hookers. Every story I heard of a local band gracing a Summerfest stage began with the phrase “they’re friends with…” because as with everything else in rock ‘n’ roll, it’s all about whom you know.

However, this year apparently it was our turn to know someone—namely, Shane Olivo from The New Loud, who apparently recommended us to the folks behind the Cascio Interstate Groove Garage when the boys from Juniper Tar either dropped out, never confirmed, or whatever that was all about (Ryan Schleicher to me at Summerfest on the opening Thursday: “you’re getting our sloppy seconds!”). And of course, for all my annual griping about how Summerfest has no idea who we are and probably isn’t interested anyway and blah blah these grapes are sour, we immediately said yes. Because sure, Summerfest is a big corporate money grab full of uninteresting, played-out music, but…it’s still Summerfest. There’s a feeling that if you’re a Milwaukee band, you should do it at some point, or else you don’t really feel like a part of the city. What local musician hasn’t had a co-worker who asks “so, you playing Summerfest this year?” not realizing that since you don’t play in a cover band, your chances are slim? Who doesn’t want to wave a Summerfest slot in their parents’ face so they leave you alone about that damn hobby of yours that will never go anywhere?

As it turned out, our experience was overwhelmingly positive, of course, and any bitterness toward Summerfest I previously felt was, naturally, born from the cold sting of exclusion. But at least I can admit that, right?

From the moment we arrived in Lot E and were greeted with not one blinked eye when we said we had eight people in our group (netting us re-entry wristbands for four of our friends, two of whom were filming us), to the “get a load of us, we’re somebody” shuttle ride to the stage, to the free beers and Red Bulls stageside, it felt like Christmas in Late June. My impression of the local stage attendance all week long was that of a non-stop crowd of appreciative festival-goers, either fully embracing the “original” spirit of the local talent or forgiving innovation as “amateurism” and thus, lowering their expectations in kind; I’m not sure. I do know that I never saw the bleacher area in front of the stage empty…er, that is, until it rained on the set of the band playing before us, Time Since Western, and everyone scattered. Gulp.

Fortunately, the rain didn’t last long, although I had a great time telling our friends that we were going to die on stage from electrocution. “Last HiFi show ever! Here it comes!” Instead, we managed to churn out a pretty great one. Old and new songs played with reckless abandon, as per usual, kicked off with our new Mudhoney cover (our pal Thom told me a week later that it would have been great if we had played a set of nothing but covers as a Summerfest middle finger). Apparently at one point Yale stuck his guitar neck down the sewer grating in front of the stage. I climbed the Cascio drums and stood atop the bass drum, starting a clap-along during our party jam “(The HiFi vs.) Potential Energy.” And no one at the stage pitched a fit about our antics at all! It was fun for the whole family, as evidenced by the footage my friend Bill captured of this little girl rocking out to us.

Fig.2: You know what they say about drummer face, right?

(I suppose it would have taken on-stage nudity to really cheese off the folks in charge, as was proven by the lead singer of Curb at the end of the week. I have to hand it to the guy—the stunt was as formulaic and simple-minded as his band’s music, but it takes balls to do even some elementary “fuck shit up” hijinks in a supposedly family environment. And from what I could see, I could sort of make out some balls up there on stage. The real joke of this incident, though, is that the people running the stage were the only people mad about the whole stunt—just about everyone who wandered past the stage while the Curb singer was waving his stuff around stopped, pointed, and laughed. Kids giggled, and their parents sniggered along. My friend John yelled “Oh come on now, you’re not G.G. Allin. No one is fooled here!”)

But playing Rock Star for a night would not be my only role in providing entertainment to the Cudahites, Westallicans, and WhiteFolks Bay Folks of Summerfest. Two days later I found myself in the Sentry SportsZone announcing my first ever roller derby bout—an expo for our own local Brewcity Bruisers.

Fig.3: The Black Pearls vs. the Betty Whites!

A local derby fan for each of the last three Bruiser seasons, I had found myself harking back to my old radio days and my pro wrestling fandom, thinking, “jeez, I could announce this stuff.” So at some point midway through the last season I approached my friend and BCB announcer Gloria Hole and asked her what I needed to do to get a foot in the door. Next thing I knew, she was dragging me to Summerfest as her broadcast colleague for the expo bouts between the two teams pieced together to showcase derby for those who hadn’t seen it yet—the Black Pearls and the Betty Whites.

No fancy shuttle treatment for the rollergirls—as Summerfest performers, all they’re given is a stack of free tickets in order to get in (but to be fair, they also don’t have a bunch of guitars and synths and such, so I’m sure the bands would get that same treatment were it not for their gear). I met Gloria at the picnic tables behind the SportsZone and commenced to last-second strategizin’.

Fig.4: Gloria: “We’ve got a helluva contest today, folks, go grab a beer, grab a seat, and get ready for some girl-on-girl derby action.” DrAwkward: “Bluh-bluh-bla-durr”

Once we were handed our wireless microphones and Gloria started effortlessly working the crowd, I immediately was struck by the following thought: “Holy god, announcing is way harder than I thought it would be.” I’m used to bullshitting on a mic before a show starts—heck, it could be argued that bullshitting on a mic is all my band consists of—but I was out of my comfort zone here, despite being paired up with a friend. I just let her roll with playing to the crowd and let myself ease into things, getting started by responding to her “who all has a beer?” (response: cheers) with a “ya know, the beers should be obvious. Who’s drunk?” (response: louder cheers). Sweet, I can do this.

Once the action got going, things got much easier because there was something right in front of us to talk about, and it was slam-bang action from start to finish. The girls were instructed to take it easy on each other since it was only an expo (on friggin’ asphalt, of all things), but once a few dozen people started bailing out of Wednesday’s bout, the hits were turned up with a quickness. For my part, I immediately realized on Wednesday that A) I had a bad habit of watching only the jammers and not following the action in the pack at all, and B) I had no idea what the hell any of the refs’ signals meant. After some cramming over the next few days I was more prepared on Sunday.

Fig.5: Minnie Crush and High D. Voltage close in on Melba Tostya and Servin’ Justice (I know this because I can read their backs in this photo)

As the girls slammed into each other on Sunday, I took a little bit of pride in helping make charismatic jammer Rejected Seoul into an instant Summerfest star. She was on fire that day, racking up loads of points for her team and already getting some pops from the crowd, so it struck me to say “I’ll bet that all I have to do is say her name and this audience will go nuts. Watch. Rejected Seoul!” *crowd pops huge* From then on, whenever she lined up to jam, I’d make a point of saying her name and pointing the mic at the audience, which would then respond with noise. Nice! Doing my job!

Back at my day job, a co-worker who knew I was announcing told me that her friend had told her that the male roller derby announcer was hilarious. I suppose that right there was the biggest difference between Summerfest spectator and Summerfest performer—both have the potential for being recognized outside the grounds for something they did, but the performer’s exploits are probably much less embarrassing. At least, unless you’re the singer of Curb.