Gwynedd Stuart: I’m impressed that Chicago weather is so predictable. A rainy morning gave way to an incredibly beautiful Saturday. I started my day late with the Damned, who were fucking great. I heard a friend say they were low energy—I’d say they were exactly the right energy for playing a way-too-early slot. The Dead Milkmen agreed. I was walking back toward the press area when I heard Rodney Linderman say what a bummer it was that the Damned had to play so early, because Dave Vanian is a vampire. A vampire who still looks young. He does—even with black lipstick.
Anyway, I love Anthony Civarelli. He still jumps up and down and warms up his arms before the set, like a guy who’s been singing in hardcore bands his entire life or something. The former Gorilla Biscuits front man is no shell of his former self: he stokes the fire just as well as he ever has, whether he’s inviting a crowd of ladies onstage during “Set Your Goals” to kinda-sorta dance and skank or ranting about how he and the band came up in shitbag clubs playing to who fucking knows. “Friendship over everything,” he said at one point. God, I love old hardcore dudes. They’re the best.
Over on the Revolt Stage, local screamers Meat Wave previewed a good slice of the LP they’re putting out next week, Delusion Moon. These three write hard songs with heavy turns that keep things punk, albeit only in texture. They were awed to be playing alongside some of their favorite bands, like the Brokedowns, who followed on the adjacent Radicals Stage. Knotty and encompassing, Meat Wave’s set churned up a good midday burn.
As much as I appreciate Lifetime for their eminence, I headed over to their stage just because I could—thankfully their early-afternoon set was tight, propulsive, and fun.
Like everybody else, though, I’ve got to live in the world as it is, and as a music editor I went to Riot Fest on Saturday. I couldn’t avoid tromping on Douglas Park’s already traumatized turf, but at least I didn’t litter. With the festival’s new layout, it’s easier to get around, and the sound bleed between stages is rarely more annoying than standing next to loud talkers. (If city dwellers are never more than five feet from a rat, then festivalgoers are never more than five feet from a drunk idiot yelling about something.) On Saturday the wind blew from the north—the same direction the four main stages face—and until it died down after dark, its shifts and gusts could make the bands sound oddly underwater.
I barely recognized Rancid front man Tim Armstrong with close-cropped hair and a beard, but his voice has always been so busted that it sounds exactly the same now. I was reminded that the main wonderful thing about Rancid, besides their stirring shout-along choruses, is Matt Freeman’s amazingly nimble, wickedly hooky bass playing. During their encore they played “Radio,” from the 1994 album Let’s Go, whose chorus contains a sentiment I can get behind 100 percent: “When I’ve got the music, I’ve got a place to go.”
