Jimmy Pitts
Now in its ninth year, Seattle’s Freakout Festival has become a fall tradition for Freakout Records and its collective of community-minded artists. Taking place in the Ballard neighborhood – a former maritime community turned hipster enclave – the eclecticism of the festival is a point of pride for the local music scene. Over the course of Freakout’s four nights, you’ll see country-fried rock, 80’s flavored power-pop, stoner metal, Mississippi blues, garage rock icons, and their acid-eating acolytes. Not to mention, a clutch of artists from South America, curated by Mexico City’s Festival NRML.
It’s a testament to Seattle’s arts community that this type of musical diversity can be sustained in a single festival. For much of the country, Seattle’s claim to fame is flannel-flavored-coffee grunge. The reality is much more fun. As a result, Freakout Festival is Seattle’s best-kept secret – a slice of Monterey Pop in an increasingly Coachella’d world.
From the dusty boots that hang in the Americana inclined Tractor Tavern to the framed black and white photos of former members in the Salmon Bay Fraternal Order of Eagles building, every space in Freakout Festival has its own story and charm. Bopping between stages made each new venue feel like you’d arrived at a psychedelic shelter from the storm – the swirls of a live, liquid light show welcoming you with projections upon cowboy hats, animal masks, and sequined guitar straps.
The following took place over four nights under the liquid lights.
Thursday
Wild Powwers
Drummer Lupe Flores opened Seattle trio Wild Powwers set by announcing, “I’m not on any drugs, so I’m kind of a poser.” Dead-center on stage, Lupe proceeded to pound her kit while perfectly positioned in front of projected blue swirls. The effect of a fan blowing gusts of wind through her dark hair and flecks of stage light beaming from her large hoop earrings was that of a heavy metal goddess drumming at the foot of a tsunami on Jupiter. Reverb drenched verses and chaotic guitar crescendos crested high above the Tractor’s crowd. We all nodded along, our heads dipping deeper as the heaviness of Wild Powwers crashed over us.
Spirit Mother
In rooms typically littered with Fender headstocks, it felt subversive to see the silhouette of a violin swaying on stage with the heavy, stoner-rock of Spirit Mother. The violin provides a great alternative to a traditional lead guitar, giving the band’s sprawling epics a natural timbre often missing in the muddy waters of modern psychedelia. Each bowed melody floats ethereally above the stage, hanging as smoke. The insouciant demeanor of violinist SJ makes the performance even more haunting. The black-clad performer is never outdone or provoked by rock and roll — instead, her violin courses through its silver-faced Fender amplifier in cold blood.
Kate Clover
Kate Clover takes the stage in square shades and a tiger-striped skirt, flanked by a band in skinny black suits. Blondie immediately comes to mind, and while that is the classic vein of punk that Clover mines, her band has more in common with the raw energy of an Ork Records single than Debby Harry. With a three-guitar attack, Clover’s sound is incredibly full. It makes her ragged pop-punk snarl through the long hall. Tucked away in the corner of the stage is an American flag on a heavy, metal pedestal. I notice the psychedelic patterns floating past the white stripes long enough to remember that it’s Veterans Day – only to be pulled back to reality by Clover’s guitarist ripping through a solo with a mic stand.
The Schizophonics
The rhythm section of The Schizophonics took special care to set up across the stage from singer-guitarist Pat Beers. Seeming impatient to get the show started, Beers declared, “I’m just gonna sound check as I go.” He never stopped again. Becoming a tornado of long hair, vintage pearl snaps, and electric guitar, Beers tested every way to play the guitar. Impossibly, he never missed the fretboard. The proto-punk boogie of The Schizophonics is pure MC5, and along with the histrionics of Pete Townsend windmills and James Brown spins, you cannot get any closer to kicking out the jams this side of the 21st century.
Friday
Cedric Burnside
Cedric Burnside took the stage clad in a t-shirt for Memphis, TN conservative Christian College radio station 100.3 WVZM. Sitting on an old wooden chair brought out before soundcheck, the grandson of blues legend R.L. Burnside picked up his acoustic guitar and humbly introduced himself and his music. “Mississippi Hill Country Blues,” he called it. As Burnside’s fingers began their masterful blend of flat-thumbed strums and fingertip popping melodies, a young man three rows back raised his right hand in the air, palm open like he was at a praise and worship service. This hand would stay up throughout the acoustic and electric sets. At first, I thought the fan may not have realized just what he was worshipping. With Burnside singing lyrics like, “You got to pray to God/For a way to go,” it’s clear that this man found religion in the blues. But then I thought about it again and realized maybe they both had the same idea, after all.
Karoshi
Alright, I’m already Freaking Out – what I thought to be an acoustic indie show is punk band Karoshi. Every time I try typing the name into my phone it autocorrects to Kardashians. Please don’t tell Karoshi that – they might legitimately punch me in the eye. Their brand of brawling, hardcore punk sounds like the Dead Boys if they had moved to D.C. instead of New York. I should have guessed once I saw their guitarist wearing a shirt boasting, “I Hate Every Cop” that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I was too busy making a note about the “intimacy” of Conor Byrne to notice I had crossed my scheduling wires, but I accepted this sign from the gods of rock and roll. I downed a PBR watching the bass player punctuate his gut-punching rhythms with a stiff kick to the wooden stool on stage. Under a gold stemmed, 19th-century chandelier, I watch it violently fall to the floor. I feel love.
Triptides
Armed with a 12 string Rickenbacker and a cream-colored Gibson SG adorned by a Grateful Dead sticker, the Triptides closed out Friday night with an expansive set of jangly ‘60s psych-rock. Singer and guitarist Glenn Brigman’s shock of curly hair looked pulled straight from the cover of Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits, and the singer obliged by covering the legend’s “Walkin’ Down the Line.” With a slight Elephant 6 vibe, the band shined while playing their newer tracks, the Byrds-y “Free Fall” and the Brubeck-esque 5/4 time of “Another Dream.” For a weekend washed out in Acid Test lighting, this was the most psychedelic set of the festival.
Saturday
Terror/Cactus
Terror/Cactus’ warm, Latin-electro-pop was a stark contrast to the weather outside. Wearing white, geometric animal masks with hoodies drawn up, the Squid Game evoking duo split the stage surrounded by guitars, drum machines, keyboards, and all forms of percussion. The band’s hypnotic, shoulder-pulling draw was given a visual manifestation by the belly dancer holding court center stage, putting the traditionally stiff Seattle crowd in a trance with her white mask, gold skirt, and purple boa. Every head-bopping wallflower in the room felt like she was dancing with them. As Terror/Cactus dug deeper into their bag, so too did the dancer. The belly sways soon gave way to twerking as she revealed her face. With her anonymity stripped away, Terror/Cactus’ accordion loops and field recordings ushered us from an erotic moment of vulnerability at the Tractor to a Latin Burlesque performance on Mars.
Levitation Room
As Los Angeles quartet Levitation Room began fiddling with wires and twisting knobs in anticipation of their set, the house DJ threw on the Rolling Stones’ “Honkey Tonk Women.” Every person in the Tractor, from the band and audience alike, began grooving along. Not that you would ever imagine Levitation Room, a ‘60s inspired rock band, wouldn’t like the Stones. Hell, the singer was wearing a Rolling Stones tour shirt. It’s just that in a moment where the line between a band and an audience becomes erased, and everyone purely tunes into music, you feel the power of a shared connection. The band took this vibe and projected it back through their set, with their soupy psychedelia taking on a CCR styled boogie live. Their nostalgic aesthetic is a proverbial crate-dig through 1967, punctuated by the feel-good stand-out, “Ooh Child,” their nod to floor stomping soul. It all felt like AM radio gold.
The Seeds
There is an argument to be made for The Seeds being the very reason why a festival like Freakout exists in the first place. With their song “Pushin’ Too Hard” appearing on the legendary Lenny Kaye curated Nuggets compilation, The Seeds helped create the proto-punk blueprint that reverberates throughout music to this day. Shades of the Seeds echo throughout the weekend, but here before me lies the original. The raw energy of the band is undeniable. Songs like “Evil Hoodoo” and “Mr. Farmer” sound downright menacing, especially in a club that holds 500 on a good night. The singer snarls his way around the stage in a military-issued jacket, showing their progeny how it’s done as a red-dressed go-go dancer gyrates around him. The crowd is as old as it is young, everyone paying their respects by dancing and singing along. Closer “Up in Her Room” is the high point of a set full of highs, with the band playing the song like they’re mad at it, letting its groovy sway dissolve into a chaotic swirl until the bass and kick drum lock into one solid beat. The set is a master class in the genre that has brought us all here.
Federale
Have you ever whistled into a microphone? Did it make a sound other than that of a weak breeze blowing a tumbleweed? Portland’s Federale has, and though the tumbleweed is still at play, the results are much more powerful. The seven-piece, led by Brian Jonestown Massacre bassist Collin Hegna, plays a brand of spooky spaghetti country-western. Their sound is less “high-noon” and more “the campfire has died and the ghosts have come out to play.” Unleashing Ennio Morricone fashioned melodies through all types of instrumentation, Federale’s secret weapon is vocalist Maria Karlin. Her operatic force stunned the late-night Freakout crowd, eliciting wild cheers from those stunned by her powerful soprano.
Sunday
Biblioteka
Peering through star-shaped, rose-colored sunglasses, Biblioteka singer and bassist Mary Robins strikes a balance between flipping a riot grrl middle finger and flipping her hair to the beat. Lest their sparkling guitar straps and cool, unaffected energy fool you, Biblioteka’s early new wave sound has a bite. Equal parts the Cars and Sleater-Kinney, Biblioteka’s set is a shot in the arm for the Sunday crowd packed into the FOE’s lower stage. By the time the band covers ‘80s synth-wave pioneers Los Microwaves’ “TV In My Eye,” I’m convinced I’ve just witnessed an alternate reality’s acid-washed reboot of Josie and The Pussycats.
Pearl Charles
Country-tinged, ‘70s pop-influenced singer-songwriter Pearl Charles takes the stage in tight, blue and white striped pants, practically dwarfed by her Gibson acoustic guitar. After a string of would-be seventies radio classics, Pearl announces the band is going to play a ballad. It’s one of those moments where you hear a performer lose an audience — where the volume knob on the crowd seems to twist to 11. Over clinking drinks and buzzed chatter, Charles sings, “Take Your time, you’re alright.” I imagine it’s a mantra for the singer, one that reminds her to trust in the power of the song. While dedicating her verses to the stars, clouds, and moon, “Take Your Time” develops around her, and over its four minutes and two incredible guitar solos, the crowd is hushed. The song ends in an eruption of cheers. Pearl Charles wins.
Smokey Brights
Smokey Brights’ keyboardist Kim West takes the stage looking like Suzi Quatro in her black, leather jumpsuit. “Did anyone hydrate at any point this weekend,” she asks. Several plastic cups of mezcal shoot up in response. It’s late and the last night of the festival, but West and her husband, singer-guitarist Ryan Devlin, are determined to bring the house down. As mainstays of the Freakout Records family, the Tractor is full of fellow musicians and festival employees excited to see their friends take their turn as rock stars. For the next hour, the Smokey Brights command the stage. West recklessly flips her strawberry blonde hair while Devlin falls about and strikes rock poses atop a monitor. Injecting showmanship into what can often be a dour indie rock scene, the band has managed to turn the long bridge they’ve built between Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours and Tango in the Night into fist-pumping anthems.
Sugar Candy Mountain
It wasn’t until the swooning, festival-closing set of psychedelic indie group Sugar Candy Mountain that I noticed a small analog clock nailed to the wall above the Salmon Bay FOE stage. Stuck in time, the hands of the clock read 5:43 the entire weekend. I frantically type this note into my phone while the drunk, tired, and freshly in love crowd slow dance around me. I feel like I’m at the end of the movie and that this is the last song of our psychedelic prom. Though the clock has stopped, there is a difference between being stuck in time and being timeless. I spend my last few minutes under the liquid lights, happy to be in it.
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