By Adam Lovinus
By Lilledeshan Bose
By Gabriel San Roman
By Rachel Mattice
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Daniel Kohn
By Nate Jackson
By Mike Seeley
The 6th Annual Fullerton Earth Day Fest
The Hub Cafe
Saturday, April 22
Random thoughts on the passing parade that was Saturday's smashing Earth Day Fest:
• Smooth 'n' dandy rockabillies Billy & the Starliners sounded just poifect, even though they were obviously more used to playing at 11:30 p.m., and to crowds not nearly as indifferent as all the under-21ers who stared at them blankly. The person we'll assume was Billy got back at 'em, blurting, "Just make believe we're Korn!"
• Square, whom we're liking more and more, sound even better when they play outdoors.
• Whenever Earth Day Fest MC King Kukulele whipped his uke out and shimmied around the stage in his grass skirt and Hawaiian kitschwear, who knew his act would also function as a rather effective form of crowd control, driving everyone away from whichever stage he was on?
• A U.S. Army recruiting booth at an Earth Day Fest? Isn't the Defense Department one of the universe's biggest megapolluters?
• When we glimpsed a lone protester waving a sign around and getting some attention for it, we just naturally assumed he was demanding an early release of the upcoming Killingtons CD, All My Friends Are Vampires. Turned out that all his sign read was "Free Elian! Give him back!" Please.
• And what was that superrific song with which the Killingtons started their set? And who's that new guy on second guitar?
• Are the Moseleys getting plaider and plaider or wiggier and wiggier? Or both?
• Zebrahead were really good, sort of the offspring of the Offspring. But when they weren't playing their songs, singer Justin Mauriello annoyed, spending way too much time hamming it up for the audience. Shaddup and play!
• Why was Commie Girl practically the only one shaking her bones to the ultraswank, groove-o-licious sounds of 00 Soul? Was this a sign that Fullerton is just far more rhythmically challenged than Long Beach, Double-0's home base, where they regularly max out the Foothill with hordes of sweaty, gyrating bodies?
• Love Monique Powell's new ass-slappin', crotch-pumpin', pants-wearin', finger-flippin', "muthafukka!"-spoutin', R-rated tuff-chick persona. She's really evolving into a swell R&B belter, like a Ruth Brown or Etta James with colored hair. Ribaldry becomes her: when she wanted everyone in the crowd to jump up and down, she ordered, "I wanna see your balls flappin'!" Someone chucked a water bottle at her head, though, which was not nice. And no, sweet, precious Ferris Army, it wasn't us.
• Was the guy with the MO: WILL YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME? sign the same one who asked that of Gwen Stefani at No Doubt's Triangle Square minishow? And how could Gwen have possibly turned him down, the heartbreaker?
• Overheard: "How many times has Reel Big Fish's trumpet player run his fingers through his hair? I lost count after 72."
• After the Fish finished up and the mob either went home or moved inside, a sea of debris lay in their wake—niiice respect for the planet, people! "Earth Day?!? What Earth Day?!?" But a fleet of workers grabbed some brooms, and within minutes, the parking lot was spotless.
• Now: What'll the Hub folks do next year?
IT CRAWLED FROM THE MAIL BIN
THE FRANK FALUPA TRIO (THREE-SONG DEMO CD) If one band does it, it's innovative; if two bands do it, it's a trend; but if three bands do it, it's The Next Big Thing! The "it" in question would appear to be space rock, for lack of a catchier name, and the Frank Falupa Trio are merely the latest OC band we've caught fornicating in the bushes of this nascent movement. Naturally, any self-respecting space-rock band has to include the required elements: lots of dreamy, otherworldly textures; a pinch of Floydian psychedelic excess; and plenty of moments that make that magical alarm clock inside your head always go off at 4:20. The Trio have these in spades, but they're not just about mindless toking. Rather, they're more interested in producing drama, in forcing mood and beauty on you—hear "Helio," in which the slow, soaring guitar notes and sad, subtle, buried vocals would bring a knowing tear to any emo kid's eye. Halfway through "Maxwell's Demon" and "Thunderbolts," the band switches pace, moving from standard stoner wispiness to waves of humpa-humpa pseudo-funk—music to get high and fuck to. Ultimately, the Trio seems eager to create a new jazz, an innovative, modern bebop in which tape loops and esoteric experimentation reign. 'Course, you could decide to not care about any of that and just merrily light up.
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