Me: Hey yo, self.
Self: Yo yo.
Me: Did it really take you all this time before you saw one of your favorite 90s bands live?
Self: Apparently, yes.
Self: Did you really need 6 days to write this review?
Me:
Me:
Me:
Self: Riiiight.

It wasn’t until the Presidents’ “hats-off” to Speed Racer — Mach 5 — that, to me, they went from shtick to legitimately kick ass. I could easily imagine Fear Factory or whomever totally not fucking up a cover version. Volcano demonstrates that they’re really Bill Nye The Science Guy times three, and just as capable of rocking day care center kids right into sleepy time, as they are the brewed-thru rowdies at an HFStival. So, it’s hardly surprising that tonight’s crowd was so fully cross-generational; miles of grizzled been-there-done-thats and their Vans and Hurley swaddled seeds.

First onstage was Ludo from Saint Loowee, Mizzurah.

Lead singer Marshall Crenshaw had plenty of standard rocker-with-guitar poses and other tongue cheekery to share. Not too sure what to say about the suit vest thogh. I mean, suit vest like 80s Bruce Springsteen or something. (Or like Rob Lowe in Saint Elmo’s Butt, minus bandana.) Not-really-subdued Jerry Lee Lewis pounded keys and straddled the monitors, engaging the crowd’s front line while a steady but less hyper bass and drum team held it down in the back. Jeff Spicoli’s kid brother occasionally sang back up and shredded ass on lead guitar. All things considered, trust me, this outfit was tight, and stayed so through a 30-odd minute set of catchy chugger grooves somewhere between Gin Blossoms and The Hooters (yes. The Hooters.). The musicianship was straight solid. Not my personal cup, but someone’s, as they’ve made TRL and MTV2.

Fart and you’d have missed the next set, performed by Joe Jack Talcum formerly of The Dead Milkmen.

He just sort of got up on stage, said hi and dove into a short rep of harmonica and guitar driven songs, ending with the Milkmen’s goofy lurv tome Punk Rock Girl. A handful of giggling teeners made their way to the front just so they could sing along and mild mosh, briefly flashing me back reminding me of what American Punk Rock used to be in the mid 80s — just pure, stupid, unmenacing fun. An inside joke of a poke in the eye of a fuck everything around me, I’ll grow up later type of smiley vibe.

Almost suddenly, Joe Jack waved “bye” and slipped off stage like a straight fugitive. Most of the house barely noticed, like he was playing to the front two or so rows while everyone else was getting their #1’s and #2’s on or re-upping on drinks.

That’s when these gruesome pair of old-timers came upon me and my neighbors in the front.

Troll-like, drunk and raspy voiced, driving through parent and child to get into position for the headliners. They didn’t just push and shove, they turned into wide balls of flesh and roly-polled their way into land ownership. During an early break in the Presidents’ set, I chastised one of them for their behavior, while the other one — I swear to God — kept pinching and rubbing my right nipple.

WHAT?!?!

So after a long-winded, slobbery denial, Troll #1 spent the rest of the show with her arms around the by now shocked and confused girls she displaced, talking their faces off, pointing at and drunksplaining all that was happening on on stage like they were at some sort of rock zoo. Poor girls. Poor moms. Whatever ill wind brought us these critters, I wished would take them back to whatever tail-gate party or episode of “Cops” they fell out of.

With all this going on, it was hard to get in to the show. But as the Guinnesses kicked in and The Presidents got crunk, I forgot everything that just happened. They played all their hits, as well as tracks from the recent “These Are The Good Times, People”. Obvi honcho, Singer/Basitarist Chris Ballew, rocked, hopped, skipped, kneeled, wiggled and then some.

Newbiecruit Andrew McKeag gave that morning’s Washington Post Express a quote about what it took to gel with the already established group. While he wasn’t the hairful twin to Ballew that former basstarist Dave Dederer was, he was his own man, fitting to purpose.

Ballew even sang a cutester called “Ladybug” for his girlfriend who was all up in the wings like Julliet. I mean, could their set’ve gone down any other way? The only thing they didn’t do was release hundreds of stumbly, gleeful winged cherubs upon us, so they could fly into the crowd, hugging at random, and fly away. And hopefully not get eaten by … well …

» Now, find Frodo

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