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K-Rock's Dysfunctional Family Picnic
Jones Beach, Wantagh, New York
Filter Grade: 73%
by Tom Birner | 01.01.2007

Saturday started wonderfully. For last night’s merriment I was struck with a terrible hangover and savored its accompanying ‘lost time is the best time’ sense of accomplishment into the afternoon. Dehydration begot an early rise and God had lent greater New York a temperate sun; a mighty cat licking a small wound. I could afford a hangover in New York City, and so syllogized independence into importance. Plus, it was concert day! And what a lineup! The Strokes! Love ‘em. Yeah Yeah Yeahs! - exactly.

But by night’s end I wasn’t so much disenchanted as I was torn between the innateness and simplicity of my fanaticism and the probably illusory sense of judiciousness that’s a requisite of being ‘published.’ I’m twenty-three, I’ve been doing this for under a year and it’s still very hard to eloquently combine impulse with examination. Like any other immature writer, I’ll take cover in the overpopulated citadel of confusion. The weather was perfect and the lineup was strong. The bands played well and the day was good-natured, memorable and completely disappointing.

Jones Beach is a venue that resembles the Long Island it belongs to - pretty on the outside, ugly and greedy on the inside. There’s beauty behind it but it’s hard to see, and the outlining beach is only the remnants of something once divine. City people are smart and pale, Long Islanders are tan and here to see Cypress Hill.

Bad Punk Band played the second stage during the afternoon so teenagers could exchange mid-fives and blow uppers, get their angst on and go home. After the harmonic chorus thing mercifully ended, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs took main stage.

“Rich” and “Pin” had their usual amplified spunk, but “Man” and “Bang” (doesn’t their catalogue sound like an old Batman fight?) were jerky and halfhearted. Karen O pranced and howled confidently on “Black Tongue” and Nick Zinner’s bleating guitar reached a sensational climax to end “Maps.” Unfortunately they played too early to leave an imprint, and their set was over faster then Pete Townsend can open his Hotmail account.

Then Brand New somehow snuck onto the stage implicitly reserved for bands with individual sound, and Cypress Hill addressed the crowd on the calamitous effects of social injustice and how to use a bong.

And then came the Darkness (band and gloaming) - love ‘em or hate ‘em, I seem to be Switzerland. They’re fun but certainly not exquisite. Justin Hawkins disrupts and almost ruins his squealing riffs with irritating crowd banter (in a festival of course, ‘banter’ turns into ‘begging’) but “I Believe In A Thing Called Love” got the Lolitas bopping condescendingly and myriads of uncomfortable men muttering “fags.” The band was tight. Thankfully there were no real power ballads. But Hawkins isn’t as big as Plant.

The Beastie Boys followed and drew the best reception of the night. Their albums are good - full of hooks and swagger - but live they come across as… well, forty-year old Jewish guys trying to rap. Twenty to thirty-year olds are bad enough. Wearing blue janitors outfits, they only fucked up one or two songs, and though most of the lyrics to “Paul Revere” failed Ad Rock, “Ch Check It Out” sounded fresh and “Pass The Mic” had that riotous abandon left over from Check Your Head.

After a surprise appearance by Jay-Z (phew, more live hip-hop), the Strokes came out to the incidental applause of half a crowd, bursting into the impeccable weave of “Reptilia.” The crowd strained – it had been so long without sitting in a couch or convertible- and despite the self-loathing charm of “Whatever Happened” and the friendly swing of “Someday,” the band seemed like they might be going through the motions, and the crowd seemed to be waiting to leave. Just to affirm the innocuous misgiving and punctuate the awkwardness, Julian keeled over and possibly threw up with his back to us on closer “Hard To Explain,” and drummer Fab Moretti grabbed the mic from K-Rock DJ Ben Harvey and muttered something to the effect of “shut the fuck up” before tossing the mic into the crowd. There’s just something hackneyed about these festivals. I think we would all be much happier under specific ownership.