Mosswood Meltdown PreShow: The Calm Before The Chaos
Photography by John Greenwood
Crowd Surfing during Memo PST—Photo by John Greenwood
Out of the Garage, into the park
I arrived early at Mosswood Park because, between my excitement and repeated warnings that it would be packed, I figured my best shot at merch and food with the fewest lines was early entry. Good call. Standing in line also meant making new friends. Everyone's excited to be there. You overhear conversations about which bands people can't wait to see while enjoying some top-notch people-watching. The fashion does not disappoint.
The diversity of the crowd is another welcome element. This isn't your grandma's music festival... or maybe it is? As a Gen Xer, I was thrilled to see my peers alongside Gen Z-ers who so deeply need the IRL experiences they were robbed of during their formative years. Here they were alongside crusty old punks, fabulous queens, and a dash of Gen Alpha kids who are obviously being raised by parents eager to give them their first glimpse of mosh pits and the electricity of live music.
The calm before the chaos.
If you've never been, Mosswood Park is sprawling, with large grassy areas, paved paths, and trees providing much-needed shade, not to mention a beautiful backdrop. This year, the two stages — the amphitheater and the field stage — anchored the grounds between the bars and vendor booths.
Everyone's in a great mood because an Oakland park has been transformed into a space for punk, community, and, of course, the absolute perfect emcee to lead the charge: the raucus rascal of cult cinema, John Waters.
He's a poet of such illustrious magnitude that I find myself wanting to skip the "Pope of Trash" label he so often gets. The man is truly brilliant.
His spoken-word sermons between bands were beautifully bedazzled with raunchy wordplay and deeper meaning. Every introduction was masterfully written from a place of sincere love, or at least admiration, for the artists he was presenting. There was care and intention. Every message was unique but had an essential throughline: Be different. Love your weird self. Don't let these trying times get you down. You are wonderful, you filthy monster.
I want transcripts of every one of those introductions. They were moving, hilarious, and exciting, perfectly ushering in each act in a way that made the performers roar onto the stage with the same enthusiasm the crowd greeted them with.
Christina's Trip kicked off the festival with lovely shoegaze, a soft local opening that let you settle into your seat while admiring the cheeky pink "Price Is Right"-style stage decor. Their songs were evocative of a forgotten '90s band you'd suddenly remember you loved.
Just as you got comfortably lost in nostalgia…
Memo PST took the stage and immediately shifted gears, delivering kick-ass garage punk and the kind of energy that gets people on their feet and into the pit. The band never stood still for a second, and it was infectious. These are skilled fellas. Vocalist Chris Shaw (Ex-Cult) and guitarist Orville Neeley (OBN III's, Bad Sports) delivered the kind of set that felt like your favorite house show, only with sharper edges and better sound. I can't wait to catch them again.
Chris Shaw, Memo PST—Photo by John Greenwood
Then it was over to the field stage for Vivian Girls. Their noise-pop melodies, sweet vocal harmonies and, let's not forget, the fuzz created a symphony of distortion that gave an otherwise cotton-candy experience some grit, ear candy with Pop Rocks in it.
Wednesday, straight out of North Carolina, followed with walls of guitar noise layered with country-rock textures and pedal steel, taking the stage just before the evening's headliner.
Wednesday — Photo by John Greenwood
Bringing On Pavement, Summer Slacker Sounds.
Stephen Malkmus of Pavement—Photo by John Greenwood
It was what I'd put on during those in-between moments. I wasn't battling depression or burning with rage, I wasn't flying particularly high or crashing & burning, ready, steady. Pavement just fit the car ride. This isn't exactly a hot take: They're dubbed indie-rock royalty, pioneers of the slacker sound. They created something enormously influential while somehow making it all seem effortless, sloppy and masterful at the same time. Or as John Waters put it ever so eloquently, “This band has often been called ‘the cock and balls’ of indie rock,'” Adding, “…they practically invented the term alternative.” Despite always loving them and carrying deep nostalgia for those early records, I'd never managed to see them live. This was finally it.
Stephen Malkmus looked like he always does, and there was something comforting in that, the illusion like no time had passed. They played the songs everyone, myself included, knew by heart, and the audience sang along enthusiastically. Hopefully that sense of community flows both ways, reaching the performers as much as the fans.
Bob Nastanovich punctuated songs with heartfelt ad-libs before dedicating "Summer Babe" to Gary Young, their dearly departed drummer that they lost in 2023. The crowd erupted. They still sounded like worn-in Converse and a cold drink on a hot day.
This was the band’s first tour in a minute (2023) and Nastanovich reflected a lot on the greatly missed Young.
"He changed all of our lives and we loved him every second."
He encouraged fans to seek out the 2023 documentary Louder Than You Think.
"If I were a musicologist," Malkmus added, "I'd study him. The stuff he did on drums for 'Summer Babe' was unrepeatable."
Closing out the pre-show with equal parts wistfulness and joy, the band slipped in "Stairway to Heaven," prompting the entire audience to collectively ask, "Wait... is that... It is!"
It was a fitting tribute to the drummer whose wonderfully unhinged style helped make Pavement sound like no one else, and a subtle perfect way to end the first day of Mosswood Meltdown.
