Festival overview
Have I been to a festival before?
Sure, yeah, of course.
The nausea inducing smell of kettle corn, sweat and beer, the oppressive heat constantly swirling around you, the pulsating wall of bodies at every turn- what’s not to love?
Fine, you got me. I’m not a festival person. I’m not a fun person, typically. I’m a downer, a hater, a pessimist with an affinity for AC. I haven’t been to a festival before- no. How do I know I hate them? Call it soul searching; call it common sense.
Is some of this negativity because I broke my foot a week before this? Well, that’s up to you to decide. But yeah, it is, if I’m being honest.
Despite all this, I was there (the set list including Jawbreaker and Sleater-Kinney may have had something to do with it but who am I to say). Bumbershoot 2023. The highly anticipated return is also the festival’s fiftieth anniversary. A menagerie of music, art, food, fashion and technology, the festival took place over Labour Day weekend at Seattle Center.
Armed with the trappings of a 65 year old tourist, including a printed-out map of Seattle Center and a bottle of sunscreen, I proceeded to get lost almost immediately. While I’ll readily admit my biggest downfall is my sense of direction, it would have done a world of good if they had labeled the stages. Thankfully I found Fountain Stage in short order (it was, in fact, next to the five meter tall fountain). Morgan and The Organ Donors filed on stage to a sparsely populated audience, due in large part to their early set time. A quintessential Pacific North West band with storied members (catch Tobi Vail on drums) and creamy 60s psychedelic inspired rock, complete with swirling paisley dresses, stirred up a nostalgic welcoming home for Bumbershoot.
One set in and I was dehydrated- thankfully Saturday was the hottest day of the festival and there was a plethora of free water bottle refill stations (presumably so you didn’t feel bad for checking out the multiple types of craft beer).
Next was The Dip. Most of the crowd stayed pretty far back in the shade, although some rushed out at the band’s appearance on stage. Rhythm and blues pumped out across the field as the brass section rang out. I don’t know if I can describe them as groovy but they’re certainly on the cusp; nor am I sure I’m the person who should be deciding what’s groovy and what’s not. They’re funky in the way Hozier is; in both the fact they’re white and playing traditionally African American music and in the way the vocalist’s voice just sounds a lot like Hozier.
Between sets I checked out artist alley in The Armoury. Artist alley mainly consisted of incredibly cool band posters made by local artists. I personally picked up a Jawbreaker print. The Armoury also offered lots of seating in an air conditioned space. There was even a Starbucks if you hate unions or whatever (not to be a left-wing snob, but I’ll stick with local coffee shops, thank you).
After a sound check that sounded vaguely reminiscent of the French alphabet, Slift opened up with a swampy reverberating riff, heavy enough to rattle my chest. After significant research (I googled it) it seems as though the band actually is French. Nine years of French class seems to have had very little effect on me. I think I need to get back on Duolingo. Lightly Moroccan influenced guitar mixed with the thump of French house music christened their second jam-length song. A slow intro full of waning sirens and electric fuzz exploded into a guitar packed frenzy that saw the crowd burst into dance. From slight swaying to ecstatic contortions, the audience took the music in many ways. I have to say- I’m starting to get it. The community in a festival. May the ever present sea of headbangers carry us to peace. Long haired and thrashing around on stage the band painted the picture of disaffected rock stars complete with a smoke machine. If I were being glib I might say they were a cool, French version of The Foo Fighters.
With a bit of time between sets, I wandered around the festival grounds. The Out of Sight Art Pavilion kept Bumbershoots' promise of reviving their art offerings. Video, audio, sculpture and print entwined together for a memorable menagerie of media that I wish I had the depth or patience to understand better. Just know it was cool as hell.
After getting lost in the Fashion District (was I tempted by a ‘vintage’ 2008 Nirvana shirt? Not really. The handmade denim jumpsuit, however, is another story) I arrived late to a band that was definitely not Spirit Award at Vera stage. Looking at the schedule it seems TV Star and Spirit Award traded days as they both had the same set time and stage. Vera is the only indoor stage and feels more intimate and intense for it. TV Star played to a small dark room, awash in purple lights, with bodies packed from wall to wall. Energy buzzed in the limited space between people while psychedelic surf rock washed over us.
Around 5pm the festival crowd swelled to a fever pitch with milling families holding their ear protector clad toddlers, trying to make the most of the remaining daylight, and the first of the evening crowd, many of whom promptly ran over to the beer garden, trickled in.
Thunderpussy took to Mural stage in feathers and sunglasses to beg the question ‘what if Led Zeppelin were feminists’. Their guitarist didn’t break a sweat as solo after solo flew off her fretboard. Did each song need a guitar solo? No. Was it cool enough to bring down the temperature in the Easy Bake Oven that was Seattle Center? Absolutely. The bass player did what every bass player should and looked apathetic while being the backbone of the entire band. The drums rang in bombastic but militaristic in their precision. No space to move, or even really breathe, the crowd got into some subtle headbanging but that was about it for dancing, which is a pity for such a high energy band. They took a quick break to remind the audience to hydrate, before getting back into it with a slower, sludgier number. The slow jams didn’t continue as Thunderpussy lined up a frantic punk track next. Despite the heat and overcrowded audience area Thunderpussy kept attention on them and delivered a fun set.
It was around this point in the day I realized that I should probably issue an official apology to Bumbershoot. You see there’s a press room in a nice air conditioned building filled with snacks, charging outlets and (quite preciously) silence. It's a spot to decompress and get ahead on your work. I was working (this is a disclaimer for my editor, Loren) but mainly I was snacking. I’m Canadian and the one thing I’ll readily admit is that America has much better snacks than us. There’s chips here I’ve never ever heard of. There’s granola bars with organic almonds and cruelty free honey. Before you judge me just remember how tempting the free samples at Costco are. Anyway, I’m sorry to Bumbershoot for eating 30-40% of your snacks in the press room. If you invite me back next year I’ll probably do it again.
Now that that’s out of the way, it’s time to Ride. 90’s shoegazers, Ride, took the stage with a prolonged instrumental jam that set the tone for their hour-long set. If shoegaze can be to the point, then this is it. It’s all there, the gentle textural layering and lush riffs but it’s direct in a way most shoegaze isn’t. I was lost in the back of the crowd but when the chorus hit I felt like I was right up there on stage. Relaxed vocal harmonies intertwined with fuzzed out guitars over snappy drums that leaned heavily on the high-hat. Edging into their harder rock side, distortion took the lead on several tracks. Despite his broken finger Andy Bell’s guitar playing took center stage. Clad in a windbreaker/jumper combo in the summer heat, in a way that screams 90s, their music still feels current in the way something truly original always will. The recently reunited group played a tight set without animosity that shows you really can forgive and forget.
Despite my promise to myself not to buy any overpriced festival food I broke down at 6:45pm and found God in a Dirty Dog. I thought I’d hit it big in my search to find something under $15 when I came across a hotdog stand. It was under $15 but only by $1. For a hotdog. Which is outrageous. Head spinning from hunger, I decided this was a sound financial decision. I ordered a veggie dog and sometime between paying and the 10 minute wait I found God. Maybe. Probably. The backlit receipts glistened in the dying sun and grill flames. Bright red letters made their proclamation across the stand swarming with workers- Dirty Dog. Crisply, cleanly, although preordained, order numbers were called out. Grease splattered the baseball caps of the employees in a circular halo. My number finally came.
The hotdog was fine.
Maybe I didn’t find God, but it was a beautiful moment. Or I was just hungry.
Post enlightenment I headed back to the Fountain Stage with my fellow emos for AFI. While I can’t claim original Emodom (that’s a word, don’t worry about it), I appreciate the art form. Neon hair, ripped fishnets and vans studded the crowd. Opening with ‘Girl’s Not Grey’ the crowd moved more than I’d seen all day. Is it a crime to say Davey Havok sounds scarily similar to Robert Smith? Havok’s vocals sound even better than they did in 2006 despite the two separate half back flips he attempted during the song. In fact, I’d like to take a moment just for Havok’s dancing. The two-step, the twirls, the Axl Rose-esque shimmy, they all put me out of breath just watching him. Energy remained high throughout the set with the crowd singing every song back at the band with twice the intensity. The rhythm section kept in lock-step, encouraging unified headbanging from the audience. I’m starting to understand the fandom; if your drums manage to sound charismatic then you’re doing something right. I think the person in front of me actually started crying during ‘Miss Murder’. The bass chugged along, perfectly in time with the guitar; although, it could’ve stood being turned up a bit. Whether it’s the distinct 2005-ness of their sound, or I’m just getting older, their music is sharply nostalgic in the way few other things can be without sounding desperate. It’s honest, earnest and a little bit bitchy.
On my return to Vera stage I was greeted with a long line. The indoor stage was at capacity. Unfortunately, the line didn’t budge and I missed Screaming Females.
My first visit to the much smaller KEXP stage came during the Destroy Boys set. The almost claustrophobic setting amplified the punk basement show feeling their music already perpetuates. Crunchy, rough guitar raced alongside vocals that passed from sneers to hollers. A small mosh pit started at the front as heads of multi-coloured hair thrashed around not so much to the beat but near it. After an impromptu sing-a-long of happy birthday for one of the band members, the group jumped into another moody tune. The vocals were set a bit too low in the mix leaving some spoken word aspects too quiet to hear over the roaring guitar. Destroy Boys are one of my favourite bands because their music doesn’t just sound punk- it is. After an anti-cop speech, they worked the crowd into a frenzied mess with trashing guitars, took an interlude to encourage the crowd to take action to create a better world, then blazed back into screamed lyrics. The band prompted women and non-binary people to get into the pit in a moment reminiscent of Riot Grrrl’s ‘girls to the front’ mentality. I stopped typing and started moshing at this point. Was this a good decision with a broken foot? Not really- but it was fun.
Hometown heroes Sunny Day Real Estate packed the Mural stage. After limping over from Destroy Boys’ set I took my place on the surrounding hill with all the other late comers. Sunny Day Real Estate grew up with the Seattle grunge gods and although akin in attitude, they couldn’t be more different in sound; soft melodies and power pop, only sometimes crossing over to rock, carried by thoughtful guitar riffs and restrained drums. While they did delve into heavier songs with bombastic drum fills and distorted guitar, Jeremy Enigk’s voice is so pretty, delicate despite his screams into the microphone, that it gives a softer overall impression. The crowd only continued to swell as the set progressed; by the end it was almost impossible to move. At 9pm night had fallen and the stage was cast in a golden yellow light that illuminated the band; behind them the Space Needle cut a striking silhouette.
Sleater-Kinney was my main motivator in coming here. Sleater-Kinney made me write this pitch. Sleater-Kinney made me get out of bed this morning at 5am so I could catch my bus to Seattle. Sleater-Kinney made me buy a $10 beer in the beer garden. What I’m saying is Sleater-Kinney owed me quite a bit at this point. Thankfully- they delivered. Taking the stage way past my bedtime at 940pm they laid into ‘One More Hour’. The crowd was cheering before the first note. Carrie yelled and yipped her way through the next song, with a rolling, almost never ending riff in accompaniment. Corin’s vocals, warm and full, created a perfect contrast to Carrie’s sarcastic sneer. The massive crowd was so big it spilled out of the field and into the gargantuan fountain behind. Honestly, I’m jealous, I can’t imagine a more intense feeling than sitting in a fountain at night while Carrie sings ‘Dance Song 97’. Darker, tenser songs were laced throughout the set- a tie that bound the band together. Tension only cut by a guitar string makes for a great show. ‘What’s Mine is Yours’ raised the temperature by several degrees alone. Guitar solos arched and dwindled in cinematic sprawls as the lights overhead turned red. Carrie gave a heartfelt speech about Low, Mimi’s death, and their cover of one of Sleater-Kinney’s songs. The heaviness came with the optimism that only 300 people standing shoulder to shoulder can share. Carrie ran the length of the stage several times and seemed to take great joy in teasingly picking at Corin. She didn’t leave the comedy set at home, joking the entire way through. The set was energetic and jovial in a way only the best performers can pull off. A Riot Grrrl band that expanded past the genre, with longevity to boot, Sleater-Kinney pelted the city like a Seattle storm. Track after track assaulted the senses in the most pleasant way possible. Their signature guitar tone cut through the crowd and brought even the stragglers to their feet. After all ‘it’s not a new wave, it’s just you and me’.
After the last chord rang out, my fellow festival goers and I made the pilgrimage, like many before us, to the monorail in Seattle Center. A warm feeling followed me on my trek. The community inherent in not just the physical closeness, but the closeness that comes from singing together, dancing together and liking the same bands, worshiping the same bands, ties you to the crowd long after you’ve all dispersed.
As the sun rose on day two of Bumbershoot I had exactly one question- how is everyone doing this? My feet hurt, my head hurt, I was hungry and I was as weary as a Kindergarten teacher on the last day of class. The energy and zeal with which some people operate truly frightens me. To the woman I saw in five inch platforms dancing to AFI on Saturday, I salute you.
The weather was much more ‘Seattle’ so, after engaging in an appropriate number of touristy activities, I headed back to Bumbershoot for day two with my rain poncho in tow.
In need of some sunshine I headed over to see Shannon and The Clams. Garage rock with a healthy dose of whimsy and whiskey on the rocks growl. Bouncing basslines and Telecaster flourishes hung in the air as they performed their set with the kindness and playful attitude of preschool teachers; lightly poking and prodding the crowd to participate past a head nod. The audience paid no mind to the cloudy weather as the band shone. They continued to hop over the fine line between garage and surf rock and back again as the set progressed. The kick drum rode a constant beat that seemed to hit everyone in the chest at once as the dancing finally broke out.
After a much needed snack break (thank you Bumbershoot for the Doritos) I headed over to Mural stage for The Black Tones. While I initially had no expectations going in, their sound check was louder than most other band’s sets, so I was expecting something pretty good. Their set opened with a guitar jam that justified the invention of the wah pedal. Dancing, kicking and laying down heavy riffs, the band moved into hit single ‘Ghetto Spaceship’ before jumping into a Zimbabwean rock cover. From the pounding drums to energetic guitar each band member poured themselves into every song. Perhaps most importantly, lead singer Eva Walker’s mom joined the band on tambourine. That reminds me I should probably call my mom.
Over at Fisher stage there was barely any standing room left as the field flooded with people awaiting Pussy Riot. They cut a striking image in their signature ski masks and lingerie as they took the stage to rambunctious applause. Wasting no time they dove into their first song; while the crowd remained relatively tame, several older festival goers took their leave as a butt plug was projected on screen. Now is probably a good time to mention that Instagram took down my story for ‘suggestive content’. The backing track and live vocals could’ve been better mixed, especially for such a big artist. This left my mind soon after the best hardcore vocals I’ve ever heard started. A scream that could simultaneously shatter glass and rumble the ground. The dance track continued, punctuated by said vocals as bass drops blared. The synchronized dancing was hypnotic as ACAB flashed on the screen to whoops from the crowd. While it was an outstanding set the crowd fell flat.
Debby Friday at Mural stage was a much needed burst of energy. Post Pussy Riot I fell into a stupor in the press room brought on by sheer tiredness and the mimosa flavoured vegan energy drink I bought at Target. She commanded the stage with the confidence of an artist much more experienced than her. The bumptious beats snapped me back to reality and gave everyone a chance to dance (or at least jump up and down).
Twenty minutes before The Rub’s set at Vera stage the line had already snaked around the corner. I headed back to Fountain stage to kill some time watching Uncle Waffles’ set. Shout out to the Uncle Waffles’ crowd for dancing more than any other crowd. By the time I got back, Vera had already reached capacity so I set my sights on a different goal.
I lost my will to fight insane festival food prices, leaving today’s search for dinner much more open. While a light smattering of rain didn’t seem to bother anyone else, I am first and foremost a complainer. I ducked inside The Armoury which had several options ranging from Subway to a Mexican Seafood Grill. I settled on a cheesy pizza which my stomach killed me for later- still worth it.
Back at Vera stage I managed to get in in time for Them. I won’t exhaust you with this one. A local teen girl group reminiscent of Skating Polly (in their quieter moments) and Olivia Rodrigo (in her louder moments). Their set was fun and highly danceable- an opportunity taken advantage of by their young crowd.
A lot of Dead Kennedys, a lot of Mat and Kim, a lot of AFI, but mostly, a lot of Descendents. The simple but distinctive logo, glasses and all, dotted hundreds of t-shirts on both Saturday and Sunday. The field was overflowing 30 minutes before their set even started, people clinging onto the barricades for dear life, as rain pelted down. It’s almost like they’re a cult band or something. At 6:30 Descendents took the stage. Their set started off with a bang and never stopped. A relentless barrage of power-chords and shouting with flawless drums throughout. Milo Aukerman played to the crowd, running to different parts of the stage to perform. There wasn’t a bad seat in the house, the field, whatever. Bashing out back to back tunes with militaristic precision, the band was a well oiled machine. Milo sipped from his metal-studded leather water bottle holster attached to his hip as he spat out lyrics at the moshing crowd and mimed air guitar. After whipping up a circle pit the band plowed through another couple songs with cutting guitar. The crowdsurfing started 20 minutes in but couldn’t sustain itself for long. I guess no one likes crowdsurfing in the rain. Slipping in jokes between songs, the band entertained throughout their entire hour-long set; an impressive feat for a band whose average song is about 30 seconds long.
The Dandy Warhols were playing KEXP, a stage much too small for the turnout. People stood on far off bar benches to try and get a glimpse while the psych-rock washed over the crowd. Shout out to the old people beside me making out the entire time. I never physically saw the band but they sounded great from the tree I was behind.
Band of Horses took Fountain stage at 7:30 while holding out Seattle Supersonics flags which garnered significant applause. After a short but earnestly moving speech about the significance of Bumbershoot to the band they delved into their first song. Lush guitars and crash cymbals carried their enduring sound that works just as well in 2023 as it did in the 2010s.
It’s worth noting that at this point I had become slightly delirious. I was at over 60,000 steps between Saturday and Sunday, I’d forgotten what vegetables tasted like and if I saw a sign for one more $15 beer I was going to lose it. It was in this state that I went to see Jawbreaker. I know it was Jawbreaker because 65% of my notes just say ‘Jawbreaker!’. I guess I was excited. Based on my very shaky recollection, here's how it went down. I think.
Blazing in with whining guitar and emotive lyrics, the group looked every part the (almost independent) rock band. After proclaiming his love for dumplings, Blake Schwarzenbach dove into another track while the group picked up momentum. Fist pumping became jumping and jumping became an almost-mosh-pit. Emo in the traditional sense, the guitar cut harshly across the field while gruff vocals shouted out delicate lyrics. After telling the crowd they hadn’t practiced in nearly a year the festival became the best executed dress rehearsal of all time. The crowd sang along and played air drums in solidarity as the bass chugged along. Joking with the crowd, they’d obviously built a sense of humour after fate played its own cruel joke on them. Speaking of which… The peak obviously came with ‘Boxcar’. What’s better than screaming ‘you’re not punk and I’m telling everyone’ with a group of your 200 closest friends?
I caught Phantogram on my post Jawbreaker high and their mix of vibey electronica and rock kept energy levels up if the jumping crowd was anything to go by.
Rock n’ roll collective The Revivalists brought a stadium rock sound to the festival stage. Their sound was lush and layered thanks to their multitude of members. It was completely dark at this point in the evening, leaving the crowd bathed in the purple stage lights, breath illuminated in the cold night air. While audience participation didn’t exceed past light swaying, the band still played an electric set. R&B influences penetrated the mix along with a tight rhythm section. In unison heads nodded and hands clapped. As the last notes rang out I felt myself become one with the crowd as my claps joined the masses.
The same feeling of festival-fueled closeness hovered over me as I did my closing rounds. I caught a few more snippets of the tail end of bands’ sets before filling my water bottle one last time and grabbing an $11 donut for the road. Ears ringing with hundreds of different sound bites the crowd collectively trudged to the festival’s exit and out into the night.
It is as a newly minted festival lover I am talking to you now.
With one week of clarity I can honestly say Bumbershoot is a love letter to Seattle. From the 60 year old man, in what definitely qualifies as a ‘vintage’ Bumbershoot t-shirt, to the little girl on her dad’s shoulders listening to Jawbreaker- this is a community event. Local artists, designers, businesses and restaurants were celebrated, and elevated, over the weekend; however, it was obviously the bands who call the PNW home who shone brightest. Sleater-Kinney, Sunny Day Real Estate and Band of Horses were welcomed onstage by crowds like returning war heroes. Everything was amplified by the environment. People danced out in the rain as readily as they laid down on the soggy grass for a nap. Every riff, shriek and cymbal crash sounded better in the stifling humidity and wet fields. It was all deeper, richer, louder. There is something sacred about sitting in a field with 300 other sun-dazed, slightly soggy, half tipsy people who want to sing along to Sleater-Kinney just as badly as you do.
