In theory, the Yolks’ nothing-new-under-the-sun approach to loud three-chord rock should have been merely good. Yet I couldn’t stop pointing my eyes and ears at the stage. If they’re taking drugs, I want to know what.

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Photos by Walter Sy The Echo sure held it together for such a tight and crazy crowd for King Tuff. Locals Zig Zags &amp and Lovely Bad Things opened the night with their intense sets, setting things up for crazier times ahead.

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Some chick came on stage for a bit and sang with the band—the rumor is that it was one of the McDonald brothers’ daughters, but nay, that must be a misprint. No way these guys could ever be mature enough to take care of another living being, right?

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Monday night blues were cured with good time punkers The Black Lips and rocker King Tuff at The Observatory. Oh, and Happy Birthday Jared! Photos by Matt Draper

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As a somewhat hetero, cisgendered male-identifying dude with proven bisexual tendencies, I was hoping to see a larger smorgasbord of folks whose gender identities and inclinations didn’t fall into the rigid guidelines of gay/lesbian, but it did feel inviting and very friendly. I loved the festival, though I fear for its future. I hope they can keep things going, because I want to come back next year! Even the port-o-potties were pink, decorated, and amazing.

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Tiger High persevered and didn’t miss a beat of their engaging and infectious punk/guitar rock, a feat accomplished by drummer Greg Roberson, even without the full use of his left hand, which had previously been completely severed and reattached following an accident involving a pig and a glass door (you get the idea). Despite having to duct-tape the drumstick in said hand during the band’s set, his drumming was anything but ham-fisted(!), and he provided a rock-steady foundation for the group’s imaginative performance.

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Deschryver’s insistent melee of beats gave the songs a feeling of urgency right out of the gate, as though they’d taken the crescendo at the end of a song by some lame Coldplay-type band and started there, building whole songs around something that felt explosive, hypnotic, and yet grimly final, like watching a tragedy played out over and over again on CNN as you stare, helpless.

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Sam Flax might have been the most impressive new band on the bill, a post-Hawkwind synthy Numan-wave band with two keyboards, a drum machine, and a couple guitars—and they looked as good as they sounded, with a poncho-clad bassist looking like Ariel Pink’s taller brother, and a blond male guitarist/singer wearing a multi-colored windbreaker and Kim Fowley’s cheek makeup. His female co-singer on keys looked pretty bad-assed too, with a futuristic funnel of hair on top of her head …

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King Tuff recorded every song on his new record all by himself in the dead of night. It’s one of the best freak-in-full-freak-mode albums of the decade. Find it, buy it, cook it, eat it. This interview by Chris Ziegler.

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