We Are The World choreographer Ryan Heffington connects the underground to the mainstream pop circuit, the sewing machine to the street and the studio to the wilderness to the screen. His ecstatic dance troupe, Fingered, gave me goosebumps with a genealogy of dance history that seemed to say: “Fuck ballet, fuck ice skating, fuck kung fu, fuck stripping, fuck ballroom, fuck modern …” And not “fuck” as in “forget,” but as in “penetrate with passion.” Like—celebrate them but spank ’em, too. Between touring to Mexico City and finalizing Ke$ha’s “thug dance,” Ryan took a minute to relay a manifesto that outlines dance for the people and drags performers from the stage to public space while scoffing at outdated notions of gender and sexuality—the only concepts this artist can’t choreograph. This interview by Drew Denny.

If you could choose one gesture people had to perform while reading this interview, what would it be?
One wrist attached below your heart, fingers curving upward. The other wrist attached to those fingers, curving to the mouth. Feed it.
How do you cast? What do you look for in a performer?
I look for dancers who embody individuality and don’t lose themselves with given choreography. I’m inspired by ways I can’t move. It’s a pleasure to work with both trained and organic movers if they have the soul.
What are the ways you can’t move?
I’m learning how to let go of rhythm. Years back at a dance party this guy—amazingly passionate—danced with total freedom. His movements had no intelligible pattern while doubling the tempo of any given song. Claps, fist pumps and epileptic thrusts—I was completely transfixed. Since then I’ve been practicing the idea of using my body as another layer to any given rhythm—complimenting repetition with abstract gestures and flow. This man wasn’t rhythmically challenged. He didn’t conform to the belief of what dance should be, according to most people. He was inspired—the dude had had balls.
What’s the first dance you remember doing?
The first dance I recall was my one-child-show at age 6. I gathered all the neighborhood kids, sat them on our couch and improvised for them. As far back as I can recall, dance was always serious for me. It was a great escape from the reality of the small town where I grew up. I would rehearse before and directly after school for hours—I loved it. Until 18 I lived in Yuba City—a small town between Sacramento and Chico. Dance was my passion and means of survival. I was pretty carefree and flamboyant at an early age. I had no sense of shame for being a dancer—or as other people saw it, in being queer. Often we performed at convalescent homes, county fairs and local pageants. You could imagine what life at school was like—plus the shit I got for being on local television in bedazzled unitards. Dance was my curse and safe haven. My reality was so different when I danced—I was accepted, and gay.
How do you perform yourself and your experience?
I like to perform myself in both genders and usually make my experiences into more fantastical pieces—over-the-top characterizations and situations sprinkled with truths.
I felt that Fingered at times performed love, performed sex, performed femininity and masculinity—how do you feel about the concepts of sexuality and gender as performance?
My sexuality from a young age has been a self-realized blur. I think performance is a great platform to reveal, explore and expand sexuality and gender.
If you can perform sexuality and gender, can you choreograph them?
I can’t choreograph sexuality and gender because I cannot define them.
Who are the dancers in Fingered?
Gifted creatures that are connected to their bodies in a way most humans are not. They can translate intellect into physical form with the body as their medium. Like any athlete, they develop the ability to exceed many characteristics of the average human. For instance, they possess the ability to physicalize sound. With a learned technique they acquire an expansive vocabulary of this ‘physicalized sound.’ Also they can do tricks— like the splits, two full rotations in the air, then landing like a tossed cat on its feet—or simply being able to balance on the ball of one foot for minutes.
How did they learn how to do that?
Years or decades of training. They are multidisciplinary movers that are game for just about anything. I’ve worked with most of them for years.
I saw Fingered at the Echo during the We Are The World residency and fell in love. You manage to penetrate the conventions of nearly every dance form.
For that particular Fingered—like when a grizzly feasts on spawning salmon—I seized random aesthetics and ideas to create a show. This show was loosely titled ‘She War’ —rooted in internal struggle/pleasures of cross-dressing men and the idea of housewives of Vietnam soldiers exercising fantastical mental escapades to elude the loss of their lovers. Through movement, music and lighting, it becomes the best afterschool special.
If Fingered were an afterschool special, what would the heavy-handed moral conclusion be?
Reality is fleeting.
If Fingered had a home planet, what would it be like?
A brief description of our last show: it was a used-car parking lot on a heated planet where salesmen’s wives were black-faced and impregnated others with ass darts. Dog-like mechanical humans adorned with leather pubic hair and beards celebrated with spinning tranny triangles when a hairy gladiator stripper gave birth to day-glo gymnastic ribbons. It ended in a trance rave party.
What’s it like to wake up on that planet?
Who said they ever sleep or even meditate? I think it’s one infinite twisted dance party.
I especially loved the part where the men came out in burqa-like robes but quickly revealed pastel vintage dresses, gesturing like bitchy Silver Lake chicks. Were they performing hipsterdom?
Yes. If you believe ‘yes.’ Sometimes friends lend a helping hand, but I make and design most of the costumes.
Do you design for the general public?
As of late I make an occasional piece for a friend or impulsively a garment to go out in, but I don’t have time to design much else. For some reason the Heaven’s Gate cult and the Texas polygamy sect arrest in 2008 inspired these looks. The diseased braided lumps were just an extra flair.
What is it that is so appealing about that kind of cult aesthetic?
I’m drawn to eccentric people. I find it fascinating that these people choose to strip themselves of individualism—become brainwashed. And wear Nikes. Nikes are so modern. Who made that decision? Was it the comfort? Or the need for speed to that place called Hell? I would have suggested Easy Spirits—my choice of footwear for years.
If you designed for a cult, what would the uniform look like and why?
So many possibilities! It’s a bit of an overwhelming question. Currently I don’t have time to cultivate the premise of my future cult.
What compelled you to start teaching class?
It felt like a natural progression. I’ve always possessed the craving to create and share movement. When the opportunity arose I accepted. I believe I was 22. Some people were born gay—I was born a dancer. Luckily I was given the freedom to express this at a very early age. From there, through focus I’ve become an artist. It’s something I never questioned.
How did you get the opportunity to teach?
In Yuba City at Colleen’s Dance Factory! Mid-class my teacher would on the spot ask me to come up with choreography and teach the other students—my first dose of teaching. Years later in L.A., a good friend inquired if I’d sub a class of his. Enough said.
Tell me about your site-specific dance projects. Why is it important to perform in public?
My first true site-specific work came during a mushroom trip. Concept, sound, vision, location and mood came complete in a five-minute span—‘magic,’ they say. I found myself running from room to room re-enacting what was to become ‘House Party,’ a voyeuristic journey through a night of a dance cult. Dance is communicating—to be thrown in a conversation with nature or the city that surrounds us feels right. Add audience, and the definition of dance is altered. Public performance breaks stereotypes that dance is elitist—which is exciting to destroy in my lifetime. It also levels expectation and creates the perfect backdrop for dance on a budget. I’m creating a non-judgmental, cheap, sweaty, fun environment for people to get together and release themselves. Where else can you find this in your adult life? When people voluntarily choose to dance, the possibility of invoking happiness is greater than not. I just provide good music and a bit of instruction—it’s all choice from there on. The decisions you make in class—to go the same way as others or completely opposite of the group, whether conscious or not, are valid and accepted. If you remember to celebrate these choices, your day turns to gold.
What’s it like to work with Ke$ha? What’s the craziest thing you’re making her do with her body?
Ke$ha is amazing. It’s nice to be around a young artist with confidence and vision who doesn’t take herself too seriously. One of my favorite parts of the show is the thug dance jam for her song ‘Take It Off.’ And no, Daddy’s not going on tour—I have to stay home and watch the baby.
What about your work with We Are The World?
I mostly choreograph and make costumes for the band with a bit of backup vox and sleigh bell. Robbie Williamson and I—after an impressive night of drunken improv site-specific dance exploration—decided to make a music/dance project.
Where does drunken dancing rank on the total list of all possible human experiences?
As we all know, when drunk we’re uninhibited. What could be more beautiful? To become a good drunken dancer, simply lift drink to lips, pour and swallow.
I saw We Are The World perform on Guero’s outdoor stage in Texas, and a middle-aged mom came up to me and said, ‘This is scary, but I like it!’ Are you trying to shock people or is that just a side effect?
Shock? No. But I do think that gravitating toward something unrecognizable could be frightening and exciting. Being masked in general makes people wary.
You have such a vast and varied practice–do you ever feel schizophrenic or do all your projects relate to one another some how?
Definitely schizo! But it works for me and my process. I think movement vocabulary and passion is threaded through all my work, but the concept is always new. I hope to be recognized by recreating myself—my work—each time a piece is presented. Most of my life is spent creating. However, I feel my life is completely separate from a performance. But sure—some of my work is autobiographical. I was commissioned by L.A. Contemporary Dance Company where I created a piece called ‘Diary. Entry. Final.’ that was heavily influenced by the occurrence of three events that occurred consecutively: the chance death of an acquaintance, a marriage, and a trip to the rural Mexican coast. My emotions were full-bodied. I’m sure only the closest of friends could possibly recognize these influences.
What’s going to keep you busiest this summer?
I just had a baby: the Sweat Spot. It’s my new dance space and home of my Sweaty Sundays classes. Our mission is to create a cultural mecca of dance, yoga, performance, event and rental space on the Eastside. It’s a studio for the people, and all classes are $10—cheapest in the U.S., I think. ‘Dance for the people’ means that these classes are geared toward a wide cross-section of the public regardless of age, financial means or level of experience. I find most people can relate to dance—whether they took classes as a child or in high school or are familiar with freestyling at a club. Maybe they watch it on television? It’s more mainstream than ever. A lot of people in my age group or adjacent have been left without a means to let go and have a dance party that doesn’t involve aspects of a typical night club. In most workout or yoga classes, rarely do you actually share the high positive vibrations of those around you. My classes bring together elements of dance-floor tomfoolery, positive reinforcement and communalism that is missing in most of our adult lives. My current projects include a music video for Quadron, choreographing Ke$ha’s tour, making an art/fashion video with Moon-spoon Saloon, and starting a night in San Francisco called Singular Sensation where I’ll be teaching class at a club monthly. I should join the circus—I juggle well.
If you were actually in the circus, which of the people from the freak show would become your most special loved one and why?
The bearded lady, of course.

VISIT RYAN HEFFINGTON AT THESWEATSPOTLA.COM OR SIRHEFFINGTON.COM.

We Are the World and Finger Dancers performing at The Echo on April 1, 2010.

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Download: We Are The World “Clay Stones”

(from Clay Stones out now Manimal Vinyl)

Now this is music I can masturbate to! As danceable as it is disturbing, Clay Stones squirms me right from the get-go: “Foot Follows Foot” and “Clay Stones” are coming-of-age ritual music for the last pagan rave. Addictive as fuck, haunting as hell, Clay Stones’ beats compel helpless skeletons to shake and hearts to pump faster with lyrical myth-making. Like a gothic En Vogue, singer Megan Gold stretches and bends guttural glissandos and breathy chants across glassy hooks so hot I’d follow their directions straight to the sacrificing stone. Robbie Williamson pulls sonic bits from synths and voices and maybe even ghosts, creating percussive mysteries that drive Gold’s legends through your body and deep into your genetic memory. Less a band than an interdisciplinary cult led by choreographer Ryan Heffington and dancer Nina McNeely, We Are the World dances and sings and tickles the No-Touch Zones of this generation’s interest in darkness, disguised by costumes seemingly yanked from Julie Taymor’s interpretation of Shogun. As an album of music, then, Clay Stones only represents one facet of the WATW project, yet still captivates: its soundscape is textually intelligent yet primally accessible, and catchy as the Plague. And in the music video for “Clay Stones” (co-directed by the group and Alma Har’el) included with the CD, We Are the World ensures its visual aesthetic is expressed via wall humping, water worship, group self-gratification, and other forms of timeless merry-making. We Are the World performs the demons they discuss in “Goya’s Monsters,” a song that quotes Duchamp by saying, “There’s nothing here.” I’ll bet Duchamp would have loved to participate in the spectacle of We Are the World.

—Drew Denny

On the first night of their residency, We Are the Worlds’ presence at the Echo was nothing less than enchanting.  The group began as dark masked silhouettes and by the end of the show, they had evolved into bright priestly high beings.  These musical pioneers will put a spell on you.—Chris Sanchez

WATW by Daiana Feuer

We Are the World started their set on Monday in flowing white burkas, complete with capes and little square hats like the Shriners wear. I was trying to figure out how to describe their look (KKK-esque? Like whirling dervishes?) when Manimal’s Paul Beahan whispered into my ear: “it’s like Chef Boyardee on acid!” …Of course! Everything Manimal Vinyl does is like something-or-other on acid. Beahan’s label is the bulwark of left-coast psychedelia for the early 21st century—a new psychedelia that seems to be more influenced by raves and millennial tension than by drum circles and love-ins. Accordingly, the byword on this night was “mesmerizing.”

We Are the World might never be able to top their performance at the Manimal Festival in Joshua Tree this October, which was the first time that I saw them. On Monday, the tiny Echo simply couldn’t compete with dusklight, vast backdrops of mountains and sand, a smattering of romantic stars, and yes—a head abuzz with a low dose of LSD. But that’s not the performers’ fault. Less a live band and more a fascist pep rally, We Are the World was harsh and intense, changing out of their flowing Chef Boyardee suits mid-show and settling into ninja uniforms while spinning around feverishly and even hoisting each other up on shoulders like real cheerleaders. Their leader commands the stage like I’d imagine Hitler would if he’d been into Marilyn Manson and had entertainment—rather than the complete annihilation of an ethnic group—as his agenda. Their music is relentless, heavy, and “big beat”—lots of audience chant-alongs, and lots of stuff that’s kind of like hip-hop or Lady Gaga. They’ve affected a cultish image, but with the sound system at the Echo it was impossible to tell what (if any) message they were trying to push other than “pay attention!”  We got that message though, and it was loud and clear. We Are the World makes it very hard to not pay attention.

Earlier in the night, Rainbow Arabia dropped a set dominated by pitch-perfect renditions of songs from their most recent release, Kabukimono. I love that record, and I’m always glad to dip into the duo’s well-defined world of sometimes-menacing, sometimes-celebratory broken record tropicalia. Tonight’s highlights, however, were the handful of new songs generously interspersed throughout the show. When I first saw them sixteen months ago, lead singer Tiffany Preston seemed lost in her guitar and timid at the microphone. She looked totally different on Monday, adopting a true frontwoman swagger (maybe it was the suspenders and haircut, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of Patti Smith) while putting down the guitar and interacting with the audience in a way that I hadn’t previously seen from this band. Having already carved out a niche as a World Cafe electro jam band, Rainbow Arabia now seems to be moving towards less repetitious and more lyrical output. The new songs also seem more personal, although that’s just a hunch—aforementioned sound system issues rendered any serious analysis impossible. In any event, I’m really excited to hear their new record now.

—Geoff Geis

New Arrivals

L.A. Record x Etnies Limited Edition Shoe
The Polyamorous Affair – Bolshevik Disco (CD)
Dak – StandThis (CS)
Michael Nhat – Self Titled (LP)
Luis by Luis Farfan
Outtakes and Interrupted Moments by Dan Monick
Ill Always Be A Sucker For A Sense Of Wonder by Dan Monick
Witch – Self Titled (LP)
Pop Noir – Shirt

Pre-Orders

Voices Voices – Origins (CD)
Voices Voices – Origins (12″)
We Are The World – Clay Stones (CD)
We Are The World – Clay Stones (LP)

Top Sellers

Tweak Bird – Reservations (EP)
Sun Araw – In Orbit (CS)
Arthur Verocai – Arthur Verocai (LP)

We Are They World

We Are They World performed promptly at 9pm. A la coed Blue Man Group, they wore avant-garde kimonos and masks that displayed themselves as unisexual. They throbbed and danced like Cirque du Soleil acrobats. Next up was MEN, with frontwoman JD Samson, Michael O’Neill (guitar), and Ginger Brooks Takahashi (bass). The hours wait energized the crowd even more while they were entertained by the openers, who were also big supporters of the LGBT and feminist community.

MEN

As everyone’s cell phone clocks struck 11 o’clock, the fragments of fog and light beamed on  Nathan Paine (guitarist) and Hannah Billie (drummer) playing beats to “Dimestore Diamond.” However, Beth Ditto (vocalist) was nowhere to be seen. She entered as the lights flickered to the right, amplifying the stage. She was dressed in a black and yellow mummy wrap-printed, off-shoulder dress. Her hair was on fire, and her lips pulsated with pizzazz to every note she reached. Holding the mic gave her voluminous power to belt out her pipes and to crack her jokes. The stage and crowd only reciprocated each other’s electricity throughout the night. “Pop Goes The World” came next, and it only implanted a stronger message about having a say in society. Ditto interacted with the roaring crowd like a gospel punk preacher to the soulful choir. She even apologized for not hitting the notes due to a cold. Their act lasted over an hour, but time went by and “Standing in the Way of Control” ended the night perfectly. Even when the Gossip ended, they were pushed to their limits and played three encores, including Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got to Do With It.” Using Queen’s “We Are The Champions” as a rally for the LGBT to fight for their rights, the night could have not been a better celebration for the victorious community.

The Gossip trio, much like a tripod, is held up with much support from self-loving people. Beth is a force of nature that seldom comes and goes, but is a dominant striking power whether it be with the LGBT community, positive body image campaigners, or indie scenesters. It may be over when the fat lady sings, but when the curvy lesbian sings, it’s only the beginning of a wide awakening for self-empowerment.

—Katrina Guevara

Alex Ebert + Har Mar Superstar

Pizza!, the latest addition to Manimal Vinyl’s roster, opened festivities with upbeat songs about skulls and the recession. “Did that boy just say the N-word?!” exclaimed a leather vested motorcycle man.

Pizza!

Weave’s outfits—surfer dudes on Venus, splattered with braille. The band beamed energy from their instruments that formed a constellation of Siouxie Sioux and tropical animals above people’s heads. A nod goes to Ivory’s commitment to a high bikini line.

Weave

Corridor, aka Michael Quinn, comes on epic—like leaping from a building but not hitting the ground. His music belongs to the ethereal realization you won’t crash. The wind whipped his hair wildly as he drummed on his cello. He shares alternacoustic mystique with Kurt Vile, except Quinn’s more metal. Bill & Ted might arrive and whisk him away to the future.

Corridor

Tiffany Preston beats the cowbell like it’s a drum pad and vice versa. As the biting wind trapped Rainbow Arabia‘s notes in the air for a second, it became appealing to sew a thread passing back and forth between cowbell, pad, Danny’s keys, congas, and back to guitar. The wind disentangled Tiffany’s voice from the mic effects—noticing her natural sound’s ornaments.

Rainbow Arabia

Prolonged exposure to We Are The World nears brain-washing. People think Ed Sharpe has a cultish power? I’m more likely to join We Are The World—their costumes as monk habits, and prayer as a Ryan Heffington dance routine. Beneath the sensory aerobics, I noticed, they all wear different shoes.

We Are The World

Respite from the World’s immaculate vision was found inside Pappy & Harriet’s, hopping and twisting around a shiny ghettoblaster’s pixie stick, midi karaoke beats. Matt Jones has Sonny Bono hair. His Jonesin’ partner, Jen Jones, crosses Debbie Harry and Tifffany—the latter accentuated by shoulder pads. The couple resides in San Francisco, exchanging romantic one-liners with distortion set on 11.

Jonesin’

New band members appear with Fool’s Gold all the time. But here’s hoping a rosy-cheeked preteen playing percussion tonight makes the permanent roster. Six chickens, seventeen marbles, and two helicopters also squeezed in on stage. The intro to “Suprise Hotel” lasted for miles—teasing that tropical guitar line between Lewis Pesacov and Matt Popieluch until the audience fully surrendered—before Luke Top uttered the song’s first word.

Fool’s Gold (*see the kid in the back right!)

With instruments and band members protruding in all directions, Ed Sharpe & Magnetic Zeros swooned on stage like an amoeba. The audience was sucked in. Alex Ebert suggested a volunteer get even closer and suck his ________. I imagined Ebert pulling a bathplug out of his pants and the whole audience slipping into a glowing light between his legs.

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

A fifteen-minute jam during Amanda Jo Williams’ last song put the country butter in psychedelic. Having a full band lay into her songs slowed things down so the rhythms could crack their joints. Amanda’s kooky voice usually whisks the audience away on horse rides after bunnies, but tonight the spread-out sound kept the audience stomping within these four walls.

Amanda Jo Williams

When both members of Hecuba collapsed on the floor, their heads touched the way Lady And The Tramp share a noodle. Fog gathered. Keeping a hand playing the keyboard, Jon Beasley rubbed his face on Isabelle Albuquerque’s cheek while she hunched over her knees. The audience huddled around as its ship reached the heart of outer space.

Hecuba

Laco$te’s X rolled around, climbed tables, and bent backwards during a short, electric set—so high charged it blew some fuses, including the band members’. Most people believed the sound splitting was a deliberate trippy effect. Laco$te could’ve mimed their remaining songs and kept the audience bobbing along.

Laco$te

Cold did not care much that the sun wanted to shine on Sunday. Voice On Tape’s echoing moans and romantic guitar strumming made me want scotch and a gambler’s ring.

Voice On Tape

He’s My Brother She’s My Sister performed when the air was white. You could barely see them when looking at the musicians straight on. This band’s day-after-glamorous-debauchery plus a banjo felt so right—considering the far-out night many people were still living. The audience slapped its knee and sloppily clapped along to what might have been Manimal’s theme song.

He’s My Brother She’s My Sister

Shivering, lacking vitamins and sleep, the audience sat cross-legged on Pappy’s dancefloor during Ariana Delawari. Gentle detailed guitar was punctuated when she struck hard chords or sincere moments—her eyebrows pleated like a sea for rain. Lulled, you forget she might be singing about politics and terrorism.

Adriana Delawari

Voices Voices was the last thing I could see before the boogie-man chased me home. For a finale to the melting rainbow they stirred until dissolved, the girls should have ridden off on motorcycles across the darkening desert—trenchcoats flapping behind them.

Voices Voices

Lips chapped the minute they tasted the air at Pappy & Harriet’s—those allergic to Chapstick have since cracked and ripped every time a smile recollects the Manimal Fest journey.

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—Daiana Feuer (words and photo)

I was anxious to see Weave! because I hadn’t seen them since like their fourth show—they’re fun! They were wearing awesome ’90s tribal hip-hop costumes that left singer Ivory Lee’s bikini line and butt cheeks exposed, much to the crowd’s delight.  Oh yeah, and their music: dancey 70’s pop punk to the max! Rough and tumble parking lot party drums set a creepy groove upon which sexily snarling bass lines and slowly ascending and descending keyboard melodies build off-color scales while a biting guitar and cleverly arranged vocal interplay between Ivory Lee and Jenny Sayaka beg your foot to stomp your hip to twitch your shoulder to twist your jaw to drop as you sham shimmy into the night time.

I went inside to warm up and became utterly entranced by a 10-year-old boy who looked like a girl and played piano like a genius, exuberantly performing the motions of a virtuosic concert clearly with no idea which note was which, resulting in a cacophonous play only a 10-year-old kid in a desert bar could make.  So I didn’t see Corridor but Sarah said he was “epic.”

The first time I heard the name Rainbow Arabia, I imagined a gaggle of lesbians from Yemen—so I was a bit disappointed when I found out that they were a white married couple, a habitus I don’t particularly connect to either of the words in their band name.  But they got a GOOD THING goin on!  Tiffany Preston’s larynx is a trans-Atlantic bridge—she channels at once the post-punk yelper and the Hindustani Taranist as she navigates nonchalance and sargam with enviable ease.  Her guitar transcribes sitar through fuzz and distortion, ripping a cozy hole in the space-time continuum like the guitar-pick-shaped center of a Venn diagram where nostalgic American ’90s, the Islamic Mughal empire, and the Gulf of Guinea intersect.  Danny’s melting pot percussion and micro-tonal synth phrases draft the blueprints and hang the drapes on the house that is Rainbow Arabia—an equatorial palace that Tiffany and Danny erected and deconstructed in under an hour as the Manimal herd tickled tiger whiskers on its tapestried daybeds and gamboled across its onyx balconies only to disperse into the darkness at set’s end, fingering imaginary tassles and humming “Holiday in Congo” into the wind.

Everybody told me not to get too fucked up before We Are the World so I stopped drinking whiskey and got my giggles out before I bundled up to brave the wind.  More costumes—these ones samurai-like and scary in a good way!  We Are the World celebrates the visual as much as the sonic—incorporating into their performance as much dance and design as music with fantastically spooky effects.  We Are the World’s brand of macabre is delightfully eerie!  We ate acid laced sugar cubes about half way through the show and the anticipation mixed with their hypnotic world beat electro-goth itched my feet to jumping and set my eyes to ogling the precision with which this band performs—as aesthetically dynamic and scrupulous as a Julie Taymor production.

We Are the World raised the bar for the rest of the night, then Fool’s Gold picked the party up off the sand where everyone was melting.  I’d heard them described as the “first Afro-Hebrew jam band”—which left me a bit skeptical, worried they’d be just another group of dudes haphazardly co-opting ethnic associations as if thousand year old artistic traditions could be justifiably reduced into a year-long trend like fringy vests or high-waisted jeans or the term “boho chic.”  Ugh, but that’s a different story because Fool’s Gold totally won me over!  The most eccentric family band I’ve ever seen—their bounteous line-up included an exuberant epicene percussionist, a child wearing a shirt that read “I Am On A Boat,” and a mysteriously disheveled guitarist who did not open his eyes once during the entire set.  Fool’s Gold zigzags the globe between and within songs that manage to both honor and experiment with African rhythms and Klezmer consciousness, with Hebrew lyrics that seem to communicate the most joyful celebration of existence that I’ve experienced since seeing Os Mutantes live.

I drank some more sugar water, ate a pot cookie, and settled into an old wooden chair stage-right inside Pappy and Harriet’s to watch my buddies Jonesin’ celebrate their own joyful existence by bouncing around the stage, cheekily relating tales of their meeting, their love, and their propensity to get so stoned that they are unable to fornicate.  Their audience featured a five-year-old kid and a man in a bear suit.  The two seemed unaware of the fact that their mutual presence was causing people on acid to laugh until they peed their pants.  Jonesin’ is almost too adorable, but they save themselves by being downright friendly folks who sincerely believe in extra-terrestrials and make songs that are catchier than the fuckin’ swine flu.  Their song “Bummer Summer” was the only thing that had the power to rouse me from the cozy chair in the corner that later became a part of my body.

I passed up Edward Sharpe to see Amanda Jo Williams, who put on a show that mashed the South and the West into a blissfully psychedelic folk opus that highlighted Amanda’s unbelievable voice—at times a tiny craggly mountain child, and at other times a Goddess—as well as her badass band: Crooked Cowboy, Feather, and 5-track.  There should be an illustration of 5-track next to the word “guitarist” in the dictionary!  His luscious bush of hair, his chillaxed grin, his gnarly licks, and his all around good vibes makes him an absolute pleasure to listen to and watch.  Crooked Cowboy manhandled the bass like a real cowboy rounds up dawgies—courageous but patient, fearlessly meticulous.  And then there’s Feather, the percussive siren.  She hops and shakes and jangles, commanding silver dangling anklets, an assortment of drums, and sometimes two tambourines at once.  Feather’s performance is a modern mating display, and I’m sure she’s credited in the fantasies of many men and ladies who attended Manimal festival.  Amanda Jo Williams’ combination of personalities and skills results in the most compelling roller coaster I’ve ridden in years—from the depths of a miniscule cracking whisper weaving tales of trauma, to the soaring heights of elongated elated instrumental breaks, Amanda Jo Williams will stop your heart, show you the light, then bring you right back again…

So there was light.  And then there was Hecuba. It took approximately 40 years for Hecuba to set up but, as the dense chemical fog filled Pappy and Harriet’s and Isabelle Albuquerque and Jon Beasley rose from the mist like two aliens beaming in from a starship, I knew it was going to be worth the wait.  They had me by the first refrain—Hecuba’s set erupted at the outset with the most ominous pop I’ve ever experienced.  Isabelle squirmed, half-ballerina-half-Kraken, while her voice pierced the fog and filled the room like silken gelatin mix, quickly congealing around and inside each and every audience member, leaving no thought or movement outside her control.  If Isabelle’s voice is the bullet, Jon Beasley’s synthesizer voodoo is the gun.  But it’s the lyrics that killed me—that first refrain found me singing along to a song I’d never heard before, a diabolical catchiness I didn’t question until I realized what I was singing: “I got beat up but I’m laughing now/I got beat up but I’m laughing now”—to the most deviant meter this side of the prime meridian.  Hecuba is like Sparks meets Depeche Mode no wait ’50s R&B no wait, fuck it, Hecuba is like nothing else.  After recently shaving their eyebrows and cropping their locks, Isabelle and Jon became visual synonyms, elevating androgyny from charade to brilliance… Forget trying to figure out which gender you’re attracted to—Hecuba makes you wonder which gender you IS.  Like their mythological namesake, Hecuba begets heroes.  Listen to their songs, and you’ll know what I mean.

And like a miniature pony or a talking camel, Har Mar Superstar was the best surprise a girl on drugs could ask for!  He stomped on top of the speakers and crooned and schmoozed and blubbered, telling two adoring fans, “You don’t exist,” and alerting one overzealous audience member, “You aren’t a part of this.”  Grinding on tables and waltzing ‘cross the floor, Har Mar Superstar does for celebrity sex appeal what Paula Dean does for rich Southern food: shows you all the ingredients so you realize how gross and unhealthy it is but also how easy it can be to make.  Delicious!

Laco$te turned what could have been a bizarre and noisy piece of performance art into the rather uncomfortable realization that it was time to get the fuck out of the bar and wander around the desert for a bit.  After Hecuba, watching Laco$te’s lead singer X writhe on the floor and jump off a chair (hitting her head on the ceiling) was downright anti-climactic (like following Andy Kaufman with amateur strippers).  I mean, I know they are young and that, like the band that opened the festival, they experienced unfortunate technical difficulties—but those are the times to make jokes, not to squabble and literally push each other around.  An ornery static and the fact that the dwindling crowd was coming down off acid probably didn’t help… I mean I do really like their song “La Laitier”!

Anyway, I pried my ass from my dear old chair ready to head home to the Yucca Inn when Jen from Jonesin’ frantically explained that Matt, her band-mate and fiancé, had disappeared to go to a teepee party. We were on a mission!  We re-parked the car for no apparent reason, scarfed and hooded ourselves, and stormed out across the desert, winding between Joshua trees in the bright blue light of the full moon.  Finding the teepee involved receiving intentionally vague directions from two groups of kids, navigating a sudden neighborhood with way too many lawn ornaments, and sneaking into someone’s backyard via a labyrinthine system of wooden gates I opened by tugging on bits of fishing wire tied into little loops.  Inside the teepee we found Matt as well as Ed Sharpe (“Has anyone seen my metal flute?!!  Who took my magical flute?!”) and a pack of orgasmic chickies in face paint.  I realized quickly that I’d rather be howling with my own pack, so we blew kisses to our ecstatic new friends and rambled back through the Joshua trees towards the car—but perhaps not towards it enough because we somehow ended up in a sandy lot of retired farm equipment on the brink of a camp full of guffawing men drinkin’ round a campfire.  “Oh shit,” I thought, “it’s gang rape time”—but then Daiana exclaimed, “We’re in jail!” and led us through a creaky wooden structure that smelled like splinters and ghosts ’til we came out the other side and realized that we had just been on the wrong side of the movie set.  Once oriented in Pioneertown, we found the car and hit the trail snaking our way round the hills to the motel where the party rose and fell like a sine wave whose amplitude could be measured as the distance between a cheerful group jam session and a room full of people who can’t fall asleep even under the influence of codeine cough syrup watching a sharpshooter blast aspirin tablets and split playing cards at thirty paces on the History Channel.  Good night!

—Drew Denny