Mosswood Meltdown Day Two: Farewell to the Republic of Punk
Featuring photos by Reeve Garrett, itsartwithwords, John Greenwood, Buckshot Photography, Dee Ratchet; with photos and captions by Dick Slaughter
Edward Stres, aka "Photon," is a retired Berkeley physicist, the unofficial mascot of Mosswood Meltdown and the winner of Dee Ratchet’s Dick Slaughter look-alike spotting contest
By Day Two, the merch situation had become dire. (Buy the shirt when you see the shirt.)
My partner's coveted John Waters-in-a-trash-can T-shirt never made it into my backpack because I thought, The line is long; I'll wait. Rookie mistake. Sold out. Dammit.
Glad I picked up that rainbow Punisher shirt while I still could.
The crowd, meanwhile, had become seasoned veterans (though none so seasoned as Photon!). The fledgling Gen Z mosh pit crew had noticeably improved their crowd-surfing technique, and faces I'd been spotting since Friday were now familiar festival cousins. Not everyone sticks around for all three days, but enough people do that Mosswood starts feeling less like an event and more like a temporary village where every front yard comes with a picnic blanket.
Don't hate them because they're young. Hate them because they're beautiful. Is that a Dick I spot? behind them.
It's an astonishing amount of music packed into one weekend. Equal parts exhilarating and physically questionable.
Once again, we enthusiastically welcomed John Waters to his podium, complete with the Desperate Living rat-on-a-plate centerpiece and obligatory wine glasses. He is both filthy maître d' and punk pastor, and every single time, he served up introductions that somehow made every band feel like the headliner.
This is the only photo we took that sort of shows the wine glass. See it hiding under the roses? We have failed you as photographers
Las Nubes wasted no time waking up the park.
Their songs arrive with purpose, balancing melody and muscle in a way that makes "socially conscious" feel less homeworky and more like a reason to throw yourself into the pit. Iggy Pop once described them as "fierce, loud, and socially relevant." No notes.
Some people lift weights to stay in shape.
The Sacramento trio The Bananas followed with surf-kissed pop punk that felt tailor-made for a sunny Oakland morning. The amphitheater was awake, smiling, and bouncing before noon. Thankfully, not a banana costume in sight.
Over at the field stage, Frightwig reminded everyone why they've remained legends for more than four decades.
Where did she find an orange microphone?
To me, they've never gotten the credit they deserve, which somehow feels rather punk. Their blend of ferocity, feminism, and mischievous humor hasn't mellowed with time; if anything, it's become more potent. They carry themselves with the confidence of women who know their shit.
Watching them tear through a set with that much joy is a testament to the fact that punk doesn't diminish with time; its themes remain relevant, the message just expands its reach.
These two people didn’t know each other.
Before launching into the music, Deanna Ashley shared a touching reflection about Jennifer Finch and the early days when women in punk were building one another up. It wasn't just a story; it was a reminder that scenes survive because people show up for each other. She led the audience through three booming rounds of "Hail Jennifer!" and the tribute echoed across Mosswood. Fans of both Frightwig and L7 couldn't have asked for a sweeter moment.
John Waters, always filthy yet eloquent, put it best: "I love how they invited men on stage and then made fun of their dancing. Don't fuck with these dangerous dynamos or they'll rip you a new vagina. There's only one thing wrong with this group: everything. They're my kind of gals."
For the finale, Go-Go's Gina Schock and Jane Wiedlin bounced onto the stage alongside other go-go dancing punks, glitter creatures, and one tiny unicorn wearing pasties and a bikini. Bay Area punk photographer and filmmaker Barbara Liu couldn't stop smiling. Neither could I.
Peace Is Punk. Compassion Is Hardcore
There are songs you quietly accept you'll probably never hear performed live again. Dead Moon occupies that space for a lot of people. So when Toody Cole and her band launched into classics like "Walking on My Grave" and "54/40 or Fight," it landed somewhere deeper than nostalgia. It felt like recovering something you'd convinced yourself was gone forever. The audience wasn't just cheering; they were grateful.
Then it was time for her holiness, Peaches Christ, reminding everyone that drag and punk have always shared the same DNA: theatrical, confrontational, and gloriously impossible to ignore.
Electrified hair, a Vivienne Westwood-inspired style, and a blistering rendition of the Sex Pistols' "God Save the Queen" sent the field into a frenzy.
Bow down to her motherfucking majesty.
I tried to recreate the Pee-Wee Darby dance. They are all different shoots. Think tequila. Then explosion!
Every performer in the Punk Pride revue brought something uniquely dazzling or delightfully demented, but Kochina Rude crowd-surfing in platform heels while dressed as Pee-wee Herman and singing The Germs' "Lexicon Devil" is going to live rent-free in my head for a very long time.
The lineup of Peaches’ Punk Pride showcase included co-host and conductor extraordinaire Edwin Outwater. Trixxie Carr slayed "Institutionalized" by Suicidal Tendencies. Vinsantos DeFonte masterfully performed "New Rose" by the legendary The Damned. Mama Celeste was a triumph, singing the Violent Femmes classic, "Add It Up," and H.P. Mendoza belting out "Glad to be Gay" by the Tom Robinson Band was perfection.
We promised a less family-friendly version than the LA Times. Mission accomplished.
Let it be known that my In Spite colleagues, the two old hardcore punks from the '70s, now probably in their 70s themselves, ran like little girls to get selfies with Peaches after the set at her merch stand. So, if you follow those two on social media, you'll probably see the photographic evidence. It's no accident In Spite Magazine dubbed Peaches the Queen of Mosswood, a title well deserved that, sadly, currently comes with nothing more than a proverbial tiara. But it will probably earn her an In Spite Magazine trading card, which is arguably even better.
Our intrepid photojournalists, John Greenwood and Dick Slaughter, would like me to write several more paragraphs about this over-the-top showcase so they can add all ten thousand of their pictures in, but I do have more to share about the final day of Mosswood…
Some pretty close calls with that Sharpie, Mr. Cuntor.
I was on a mission, so after all of that, I hustled back to the amphitheater for Dead Milkmen!
Somehow I managed to wedge my way into a decent spot with my festival family. Standing in the middle on a ramp where we had exactly enough room to exhale and almost enough room to inhale. Sadly, the only photo evidence I got was this “proof of life” photo of the positively packed amphitheater (not pictured, people literally climbed the surrounding trees behind me to get a good view!).
Packed Dead Milkmen fans that are as feral as they are sexy.
After another perfectly deranged John Waters introduction…
Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
Rodney Linderman opened with, "Just like in Desperate Living, you're about to see a singing asshole!"
The crowd exploded.
"Punk Rock Girl," "Life Is Shit," and "Smokin' Banana Peels" became giant singalongs as microphones were pointed toward fans on the lawn, in the pit, and even up in those aforementioned trees. The whole amphitheater became part of the band. I walked away with one important note to myself: go see Dead Milkmen again, preferably somewhere small yet with enough room for everyone to breathe.
I stopped trying to categorize Frankie and the Witch Fingers about thirty seconds into their set.
This is my guitar. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
Psychedelic garage rock? Sci-fi punk? Fuzzed-out fever dream? All of the above.
They felt more like some wonderfully feral mutation, synthetic slime with heavy grooves, all stitched together with impossible riffs and zero concern for genre boundaries. The songs came screaming out at breakneck speed, but somehow, Dylan Sizemore, Josh Menashe, and Nikki Pickle made it look like they were having a grand time of it. Behind me, a pack of ecstatic Gen Z girls had fully entered swooning territory while I stood there wondering how anyone could play that fast without spontaneously combusting.
Earlier that morning I'd accidentally been sent to the wrong gate and was escorted diagonally across the park by one of Mosswood's endlessly kind volunteers. Along the way I caught The Return of Jackie and Judy warming up.
Looks good with Marky's hair.
Before that moment, I wasn't sure what to make of a Ramones tribute fronted by Carrie Brownstein with Fred Armisen quietly (he didn’t say a word as Marky Ramone) keeping time behind the drums. Was it a bit? Was Portlandia leaking into real life? Within about ten seconds, I'd realized I loved it.
She’s got the Joey stance down.
By showtime I was genuinely excited. Standing at the rail, I couldn't always see the crowd, but I didn't need to.
The security guards were dancing their asses off, singing every word along with everyone else. That's the pure joy of Ramones songs.
They just recruit you.
It wasn't imitation for imitation's sake. It was an act of love, performed with exactly the right amount of reverence and joyful stupidity.
As evidenced by our friend, Photon. Not all old punks stand at the back, but this the back.
By the time Bikini Kill was ready to take the stage, the energy from The Return of Jackie and Judy hadn't faded…it had multiplied.
This is the front. there sure are a lot of young people
The young women behind me had started debating whether they wanted to marry Kathleen Hanna or Iggy Pop, despite being young enough to be their daughters—or granddaughters. By showtime, they were basically rabid.
I think this is team Iggy.
One thing about Bikini Kill: these songs don't belong to one generation anymore. They keep getting handed down, shouted back, and rediscovered by new audiences who somehow react with exactly the same urgency.
Team Kathleen
When members of Sleater-Kinney joined them for "Rebel Girl," I wasn’t sure if the Gen Z girls behind me would survive, but they were thankfully, still conscious.
For three days, an Oakland park stopped being a park and became the friendliest little punk city on Earth. Then it was time to go home; blankets were folded, and last hugs were exchanged. New friends connected, made plans, and, in many cases, had already bought tickets for next year.
Just in case anyone did pass out, Generation Alpha was there in front of you, ready to render CPR if needed. —Photo courtesy of ©dickslaughter.com
The Republic of Punk dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. Mosswood returned to being a quiet, little, unassuming park again for a little while.
Melters come back year after year, it just keeps getting better.
Please check out the work of these fine contributing photographers on their respective Instagram accounts.
Photos by Reeve Garrett, itsartwithwords, Buckshot Photography, John Greenwood. photos and captions by Dick Slaughter, Photos and Article by Dee Ratchet
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