Mosswood Meltdown Day 1: Festival Family
Photos by John Greenwood, Photos and captions Dick Slaughter
Mosswood Melter - Photo courtesy of John Greenwood
By opening day you might find your “festival family."
If you want to make something better, put a Bubble Kim on it—Photo courtesy of John Greenwood.
It happens. You meet people in line for the preshow; somebody has sunscreen, somebody else has mints, and another person volunteers to guard the blankets while everyone rotates through food lines or merch booths. Suddenly you've got a crew. We bounced between stages, traded recommendations, split snacks and water runs, debated which band was about to steal the weekend, and generally existed in this temporary little village built out of music, sweat, and excellent decision-making.
Melters are one of the friendliest crowds you'll ever meet. Everyone's welcome, except fascists. They can piss right off—Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
Primitive Ring got things rolling with a sound that felt both familiar and freshly dangerous. Charles Moothart's "side project" has clearly escaped the garage where it started. This isn't garage rock anymore; walls were knocked down and replaced with something much bigger. Heavy without becoming sludge and loud without becoming noise, they found that sweet spot where your head involuntarily starts nodding. Big fan.
It's all fun in the photo pit until—Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
The Drags followed like finding the perfect mixtape jammed in the glove compartment. Their horror-soaked, B-movie garage rock has the kind of cult appeal that makes total sense once you see it live. It feels like the soundtrack to getting picked up by Joe Bob Briggs somewhere on a lonely New Mexico highway. The amphitheater offered precious patches of shade, but the pit remained a full-time salad spinner. Nobody seemed interested in conserving energy.
John Waters is proof that debauchery keeps you young and good-looking. —Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
Across the park, John Waters delivered another sermon before introducing Tokyo's own The Fadeaways. Matching striped shirts, matching black vests, absolutely unmatched enthusiasm.
The Fadaways proved that you can still force your way on to the line up if you've got the chops—Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
Where do these guys keep that much energy?
The trio attacked every song like they had somewhere else to be immediately afterward. Equal parts Ramones worship and Japanese punk precision, they hit hard, played harder and looked like they were having the time of their lives doing it. "Burst onto the stage" is a cliché, but every now and then a cliché exists because it's exactly what happened.
The Dirtbombs' Mick Collins proved that every masterpiece needs a signature. In his case, it's two long, wild beard hairs.
The Dirtbombs reminded everyone that Detroit has its own musical DNA. Soul, garage rock, and enough swagger to make the whole thing nonchalant. Their take on "Sharevari" absolutely ripped, and an ESG cover somehow made perfect sense. Few bands make "unpolished" sound so intentional.
Snooper happened.
Oh shit, it’s a bedbug— Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
Calling Snooper a concert almost feels inaccurate. It's controlled chaos, an immersive sensory experiment parading as a punk show. Giant DIY puppets bounced through the crowd with “Puppet Intimacy Coordinators” helping them along (you cannot see well from inside a giant sunshine made of papermache, chickenwire, and other mixed materials). Oversized stuffed animals crowd-surfed overhead. Fans already knew the choreography: high-five the puppet, toss the plush monster, lose your marbles accordingly.
It was wonderfully ridiculous.
Their frantic lo-fi punk collided with twitchy new-wave weirdness until the whole field looked like a Saturday morning cartoon that had developed an unidentified addiction.
Does whatever a spider can—Photo courtesy of John Greenwood
And there it stayed—Photo courtesy of John Greenwood
Meanwhile, over at the amphitheater, The Spits crashed the little pink game show stage. People packed themselves into every available inch. Their sci-fi flavored garage punk remains gloriously inelegant in all the right ways, all Ramones riffs, cheap synths and enough attitude to power a small city.
Punk Hunk Alert!!! with The Spits—Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
Mannequin Pussy took the field stage and filled that field right up. Reminding everyone that punk has always, ALWAYS been political since its inception. Missy Dabice minced no words before leaving the audience with one final reminder:
Mannequin Pussy played, and no one died—Photo courtesy of John Greenwood
"Don't forget to celebrate the beauty of life while, in every breath, fighting against fascism in every section of this country."
Everyone is recovering in local hospitals —Photo courtesy of John Greenwood
Then came the set I didn’t know I’d been waiting for. Otoboke Beaver.
Sorry, my beaver is a little fuzzy; it was flying through the air— Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
John Waters introduced them with, "We've got the fever for Otoboke Beaver!" and, as usual, the man knew exactly what he was talking about.
Their coordinated outfits and impossibly precious appearance lull newcomers into thinking they're about to witness something sweet.
Incorrect.
I know this look; it means there's going to be trouble, but sometimes good trouble. — Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
Within seconds they were unleashing one of the fiercest, fastest and most technically ridiculous sets of the weekend. They don't simply play songs, they attack them. Every stop-start, every scream, every tempo change landed with adroit precision. One minute I was laughing, the next my jaw was hanging open watching musicians operating at an almost superhuman level. Their screams set off car alarms, it was just part of the ovation.
One of my favorite sets of the entire festival.
Then there was Iggy Pop.
Iggy Pop 79, and he can still steal your girlfriend if he wants— Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
Look, we all love Iggy. That's not the question. The question was, can a 79-year-old man still command a festival stage the way the legend in our heads always had?
He answered in about ten seconds.
The Terminator's an infiltration unit. Part man, part machine. Underneath, it's a hyperalloy combat chassis. — Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
Forever shirtless, wiry, and somehow powered by forces science has yet to explain, he exploded through a career-spanning set that felt like nostalgia and yet remained fresh and raw, polished yet powerful. It was a reminder that he invented half the moves everyone else has been borrowing for fifty years.
Nick Zinner seemed just happy to be there—Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
When Nick Zinner (Yeah Yeah Yeahs) joined him for "I Wanna Be Your Dog," the crowd erupted. Teenage girls screamed that they were ready to be his dog. By the time Iggy climbed into a rolling steel cage during "Real Wild Child," thousands of us were riveted, focused.
I much prefer this to the coffin he was in at Coachella—Photo courtesy of John Greenwood
Not because it was ridiculous. Because of course! Perfectly Iggy Pop.
How these shows keep getting better is a mystery. You can still catch Iggy with My Chemical Romance in Detroit or at Riot Fest in September—Photo courtesy of John Greenwood
Just when you think you've seen everything, somebody wheels out a metal cage and reminds you rock and roll is supposed to be a little dangerous and it knows no age and no boundaries.
That's Mosswood.
The futures open wide—Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
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