ATTACK OF THE TECHNO-TRIBES

ATTACK OF THE TECHNO-TRIBES

HOW I (SORT OF) SURVIVED THE US FESTIVAL

Toby Goldstein

by

Day 1: Welcome to Woz Land." Its 9 a.m., the temperature is 75 degrees and climbing as the Unuson shuttle bus winds its way into the dust-clogged, smog-ridden expanse of Glen Helen Regional Park, just outside the town of Devore, California. For at least five miles before pulling into the crewonly access road that leads to backstage, weve seen cars, vans, RVs, campers, tents and teepees sprawled throughout the impromptu parking lots. The scene looks so placid, jolly and time-warped that transient echoes of by the time we got to Woodstock, etc." strum through my naive little brain. These idyllic images will soon cease, replaced in the two following days with something a lot closer to the Pretenders Back On The Chain Gang." Oh no, not again, we will think, lungs choking and heads pounding.

But on Saturday morning, having snidely brushed off some L.A. publicists jokes about youre going to the Dust Festival, haha," our spirits are still elevated. A stagehandler points out one solitary ranch house overlooking the bowl-like valley. Thats Steve Wozniaks house, he says. The story goes that 32-year-old Woz, having earned mucho millions as the inventor of Apple computers, actually bought this whole park, then leased it back to the county in return for permission to hold yearly concerts on the site. Wozs home is equipped with closedcircuit television, so that he can leisurely watch all the days events whenever he chooses to leave the site. Maybe hed like some company, 1 wistfully speculate, growing less enamored by the minute with these acres of scrubby grass.

Optimistically clutching a Press pass, I walk past several city blocks worth of international-type food stands, around typical cute" festivally things like 10-foothigh inflatable beer bottles, party-goers with painted faces propped on stilts, and tiers of ubiquitous portable toilets. Gilligans Islandstyle, painted wooden signs point the way to Press Island," a reasonably wooded, pastoral site with only two disadvantages as a working facility. Its at least a half-mile away from the stage with absolutely no provision made for journalists to see any of the acts, and its effectively isolated from the artists trailers by three banks of guardposts, staffed by dull-witted, humorless graduates of some local gestapo. Take it from one who knows—logic, tears, illness and finally, verbal abuse are useless in communicating with these charmers. Dirty tricks; however, they understand, and are helpless to resist. The golden rule of Festival reporting becomes: Dont do what youre supposed to do.

By 11, when the Divinyls launched the US Festival exactly on time to a crowd of about 40,000, over 100 journalists and photographers are dejectedly winding through the only pathway between Press Island and the vast expanse in front of the stage, wisely avoiding blocking the view of the paying crowd, some of whom had camped out for days to secure their desirable spots, we have to stand so far away that Divinyls vocalist Christina Amphlett is an energetic blur. At night, when two large video projection screens amplify the stage action, viewing is better—but do you really want to wade into an overheated, welllubricated crowd and risk having your pass stolen? Catch-22. One grew adept at watching the videos backwards from the relative safety behind the stage.

For New Wave Day, nine bands, evenly split between the U.S., England and Australia, have been slotted into neatlytimed sets, culminating with a performance by the Clash. That appearance has already engendered a lot of controversy, like whether the group will dare to take their $500,000 and not show up. Of course theyll play, we wager, but not without a good measure of verbal fireworks, and this turns out to be the case.

When INXS, Wall Of Voodoo, Oingo Boingo, the English Beat and A Flock Of Seagulls all perform sets that sound just fine but are invisible to us, little mutinies start cropping up. Its now over 90 degrees and the smog is clearly visible, hanging over the entire basin. Periodically, the public, which must be more used to this than I am, is sprayed,with water cannons. Adding to the aggravation is the dawning awareness that, without a personal escort by Unusons runner" system, many prearranged interviews are never going to happen. So this is why US is doing a land-office business in selling $2.00 margaritas and daquiris to the less aggressive writers. Theyve given up, figuring they might as well spend the weekend working on their tans.

Growing increasingly appalled by the situation, a few diligent publicists arrange press conferences on or near Fantasy—I mean Press—Island (Its a fantasy to have thought wed actually get to see or do anything remotely related to our jobs...). First, INXS settles into a tent, practically engulfed by the hum of tape recorders, microphones and flashbulbs. Except for the anticipated heat jokes and no, its not an Australian invasion" routines, nothing of import occurs. I.R.S.s representative, Betsy Alexander, manages to cajole both of her bands, Wall Of Voodoo and the English Beat, to leave their air-conditioned trailers and come out to the Island. Voodoos Stan Ridgway, who nearly passed out from the blinding heat and bright stage lights, makes one of the more appropriate comments about how some of the artists view US: If I thought Id be doing things like this for the next six months, Id get out of the business."

Arriving for their conference about two hours later, the English Beats saxophonist Wesley Magoogan points out another difficulty faced in these circumstances. You have to work twice as hard to get a decent sound to the audience." However, Wesley does volunteer that the Beat are being paid about four times their usual fee to play at US. Considering the $1V2 million Wozniak laid out for Bowie and Van Halen apiece, and the half-million to the Clash, it appears that a band would be committing financial suicide to refuse such generous offers. Those fees may also be why people are having their food (including baby food) confiscated at the festival gates to force their use of Wozniaks concessions—a despicable rule that is not lifted until it was embarrassingly broadcast on the nightly TV news.

With all the pompous fervor of a Presidential arrival, Wozniak himself turns up to meet the press, quite a few of whom are by now showing their teeth. A smallish, bearded, pot-bellied man wearing an US festival T-shirt, shorts and sneakers, Woz" has obviously been taking speech lessons. If he doesnt like a question he puts the blame elsewhere or neatly side-steps it. Proudly relating how hed controlled merchandise bootleggers and ticket counterfeiters—the bane of last years festival—Wozniak deems his lineup of talent the finest in the world" at least a dozen times within 15 minutes. Why no black acts, unless you count the tapes of Prince and Michael Jackson played between sets? They didnt fit the format." What about the Clashs charges of sell out"? They made a bad mistake," he says blithely, confident that the group will go on. Dont be surprised if this man—who seems so ready to buy recognition with cash—runs for office someday.

Around the time when people are beginning to realize they hadnt eaten all day, except for some pretzels and a piece of cheese (you couldnt even buy food within a halfmile of our enclosure), a great ruckus is heard on the Island as the Clashs inimitable spokesman, Kosmo Vinyl, makes an appearance. Calling the Unuson directors motherfuckers," screaming get your hotdogs—two dollars!" Kosmo provides the excuse to ventilate our anger wed been needing all day. Hell take us backstage to the land of milk and honey," Vinyl crows, as a raft of guards watches, terrified to lay a finger on him. Then, realistically considering the blockades, Kosmo promises that the Clash will hold a press conference that evening. He marches off, dust rising at his heels.

Meanwhile, the photographers are not -§ having an easy time of things, either. Having to shoot from under a bank of bleachers which afford the only good view of the stage—reserved, naturally, for friends of Woz—they are periodically pelted with empty cans, fruit rinds and other garbage. When the Stray Cats refuse to allow any photographs without signature on an ironclad contract, one group of outraged shutterbugs surrounds Brian Setzer after he comes offstage, releasing their flashbulbs into his sweat-drenched face. Tempers fray.

Finally, incensed that Id been kept from seeing A Flock Of Seagulls or even saying hello to the group, Aristas feisty publicist Barbara Shelley, who would become the Pirate Queen of Press Island for her Robin Hood-like activities on our behalf, extorts an all-access pass for me, 10 hours after Id arrived. This is a lesson to be remembered. On subsequent days, 1 arrange for similar illegal documents early on, and feel like a prisoner on parole. With an all-access pass, you can collect the circular colored dots that lead onto the stage balconies—and get to see the bands.

US bills itself as a festival of technological harmony as much as music, and to that point, features a satellite exchange between the U.S. and Russia. With great fanfare, the MTV announcer who is the onstage host, introduces Arsenal, a stodgy jazz-rock unit that presumably is the Russkies best at satisfying its teens black-market music dreams. Their videoscreened message of comradely greeting to America is abruptly switched off as, in return, two songs by Men At Work are aired over Soviet TV.

While the audience quite rightly enjoys the lavish harmonies and syncopated rhythms of the Australian multi-million sellers, we are insatiably curious about what the Clash will say. Kosmos stunts are growing more intense by the hour. Politely asking us to clear the aisle—thanks, Kos—he loudly throws a chair across the production office. Why, the man simply wants some attention...

Accompanied by Kosmo and manager Bernard Rhodes, the Clash, looking quite striking in minimal outfits of white or black, agreeably pose as people fall all over each other to catch their every word. They are quite willing to let their spokesmen handle the exchange, as Vinyl relates such crowdpleasers as The press have been treated like shit all day." To no ones surprise, the group announces their intention to perform, even though, as Kosmo repeats, the contracts still havent been signed. If we dont play, Van Halen will call us Commies and the kids will wreck the place." Demanding that Wozniak donate 10 % of his revenues to organizations for the poor, the group announces their intent to fund a future L.A.-area concert at lower prices with the huge sum they d been paid. Who cares whether we get paid," a band member strategically calls out.

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Proving that hes certainly not interested in running for office, Kosmo neatly denounces Sting with his dyed hair, Stevie Nicks who wont drink anything but champagne, Van Halen and his moron music" and David Bowie, who says ËœI have money now, so fuck you. " Of course, its all unsportsmanlike and childish, but so is the day weve just had, and the band receives a hearty cheer. Later, Id hear that Eddie Van Halen had asked Joe Strummer to explain the above comment, and the two musicians had a heart-to-heart conversation which ended quite pleasantly.

To be sure, certain of the US organization are not as willing to forgive the Clash its transgressions. The group refuses to play in front of the peace n love US Festival banner, substituting their own black background, which sarcastically contains a reference to their sell out." The Clashs performance is a vibrant manifestation of that classic slogan, youre beautiful when youre angry." Theyre angry, and show it in an uncompromising 80-minute set. They preface London Calling" by references to being in the capital of the decadent USA." They issue a warning to the privileged sons and daughters here that Those people in East Los Angeles arent gonna stay there forever." And when the groups visible rage shows signs of not penetrating the determinedly good-time audience, Strummer shrieks, I need some hostility here! I need feeling of some form," before he can continue.

As Wozs friends pour off the balcony in droves, disturbed and uncomprehending of the days most meaningful presentation, Strummer carries on, Arent you sick of hearing Ëœits so groovy for the last 150 years?" Apparently not, as one MTV announcer got so offended by the groups attitude that, before the Clash can do their final encore, he intones, The Clash have left the building; wasnt that a blistering set?" in a drawled, pseudo-English accent. Upon finding their power cut, Strummer and Kosmo get into a behind the scenes brawl with their latest adversary, bringing the day to an appropriately political conclusion. More relevant to photographer Ebet Roberts and I is the black gunk were extracting from our breathing passages when we finally get back to our hotel.

Day 2:1 have learned my lessons wisely since arriving on this unholy soil. Even though the temperature has dropped to the mid-80s, its still pretty inferno-like out there, and today is Heavy Metal Day. There must be something about HM music that makes its followers more willing to fry in the sun—booze and drugs?—but this day has outsold the other two put together. Estimates are that 300,000 souls, two of whom would die in drug-related incidents, are happily headbanging to the sounds of Ozzy Osbourne, as I arrive about 2 p.m.

Id spent the previous hour catching up on old times with Judas Priest, who arent at all uneasy about breaking a three-month performing hiatus in front of such huge numbers. Instead, Rob Halford, who really must have been schvitzing under all those chains and leather, responds joyfully to the sea of bare chests and upraised fists. This is the largest collection of heavy metal maniacs in the history of the world!" he declares, and a vast churning wave comes back in reply.

As Priest performs an abbreviated 70-minute set (with seven bands scheduled, almost all have at least an hour), various members of other bands dot the stage. Osbournes people, in typically subtle fashion, wear personalized T-shirts stamped Ozzy makes US crazy!" Looking a bit overwhelmed, or maybe envious of the betterknown bands, Motley Crue periodically meander around. Suddenly, the balcony denizens attention shifts away from Judas Priest and onto David Lee Roth who, accompanied by a bikini-girl, is grandly posing for his loyal subjects. Like it or not, with their own private compound allotted them for all three days, Van Halen rules this particular roost, and Roth has no doubts that he is king of the forest.

Once Rob Halford has emerged on his motorcycle to do Priests encore and the ponderous orchestral strains of Triumph fill the stage, I decide to see just what all this Van Halen folderol is about. Screened off from the other trailers by yards of wire mesh, Van Halen really do have an entire territory. A sign forbidding virgins and sheep marks the start of its uphill entry way. The groups long-suffering publicist, good-natured Steve Mandel, deftly leads the way on this overgrown trail, until we reach a clearing unlike anything Id ever imagined possible for a short-term event. The back wall is lined with a bar, dining tables and video games. Most tables are lined with women in various states of undress. Before I get the chance to notice anything particularly disgusting, Mandel propels me into a trailer, where David Lee Roth has been turning out a stream of witticisms all day long.

Leonine behind his sun-bleached hair and well furred chest that peeks through a string vest, Roth is man who likes to laugh. Maybe thats because hes a man who likes to drink. Jovially, he toasts each comment from a beer glass close at hand and only scolds me once, when I preface a question, but seriously." The only serious thing that is happening here is the business of making money, and of that, Roth concludes, God decided to pay us off in one game." Throwing honey," darlin " and sugar" into every other sentence, Roth, in a steady blur, outlines his philosophy of life: Its not whether you win or lose in the game of life, its how good you look," Van Halens integrity is that we never cared what anybody thought about anything—well sail down our merry little path, and youre all invited, but Im driving," Weve been one of the first bands to truly confuse business with pleasure." Mandel pokes his face through the trailer door as David Lee puts the wrap on a double-time Twilight Zone monologue, and the next sucker—a serious-looking sort, poor guy—gets ready to enter. Though it made me burst into tears at the time, I now think that its morbidly appropriate I have to walk through a path of spillover from the Porto Sans to return to civilization."

Unless Roths continual bravadod exhortations to party, get wasted, or show them some real violence" are your idea of entertainment, the heavy metal days greatest moments are during the high-energy set by Scorpions. What they offer is the basic premise of HM—lethally charged-up rhythm music, played with flash and volume, but in the Scorpions case, overlaid with wellstructured solos and attractive melodies. After the purity of the Scorpions musical thrills, Van Halens laser displays and cartoons seem little more than bought-andpaid-for tricks. Ignoring the hucksterish blared announcements to buy a sun hat or T-shirt and take a piece of the US Festival home with you," we decide they should be paying us instead, and grope toward clean sheets.

Day 3: Now fully realizing just how unhealthy this place can be—Ive since learned that many of the bands who appeared were also sickened by ingesting clay dust—Intrepid Photographer and I are wishing we hadnt been suckered into coming along. Still, duty—and Bowie and Pretenders—calls, so its another enormous hotel breakfast (remember, no food all day), a liberal schmear of sunblock, and back to the shuttle bus. The massive, fierce audience which had dominated heavy metal day is thankfully gone, replaced by smaller, more peaceable attendees, who arent out to trample one another or topple the stage—which almost occurred during Ozzys set.

Unlike the precise timing of the first two days events, the nine acts scheduled for today are running over two hours late. Ultimately, this will mean that David Bowie begins at 11:15 instead of 8, forcing quite a few who paid $25 for the day to forego seeing his show. The temperatures have moderated a bit more, but the constant exposure to this weather has frayed everyones nerves. However, when Wozniak obliviously careens through backstage on a dirt bike accompanied by Berlins Terri Nunn, and raises a huge cloud of choking fumes, everyone bites their tongues.

Despite our diminished enthusiasm, we are heartened by a brilliantly physical and charismatic set by Irelands U2. Declaring, nobody twisted my arm—I wanted to be here," possibly as a refutation of the Clash, lead singer Bono proves himself a fearless master of the stage. Before everyones astonished eyes, Bono caps his performance by climbing unassisted to the top of the scaffolding—a good 25 feet high—and waving the bands flag. U2s sheer enthusiasm and dedication wins respect from the seenit-all crew as well as the audience. Missing Persons do not have an enviable job in following them.

Curious about the technological displays that are supposed to be such a big part of this deal, Barbara Shelley and I cruise through one of the sparsely-attended display tents. Disappointingly, except for two small robots, most of the exhibits either hustle instruments and amplifiers, or recruit computer students. We do spend a buck for a Computer Personality Profile" based on color choice, which indicates that I am faced with threats and opposition, that interfere with my usual perfectionist high standards. For a machine, it was pretty perceptive.

Returning in time to see the Pretenders, I am pleased that Id given this group one more chance to prove they can play live. Although its a terrible shame that the groups two unfortunate members did themselves in, newcomers Malcolm Foster and Robbie Macintosh give the Pretenders a healthy, confident glow. Similarly, motherhood seems to suit Chrissie Hynde, who appears relaxed, smiling and radiantly slim in an all-white outfit. Even when she forgets the words to Talk Of The Town," Hynde easily jokes about her lapse and simply starts over again. Lightly dedicating a rousing rendition of Money" to all the bands who did the US Festival and the ones who didnt cause they werent getting paid enough," Chrissie and the boys have shaken forever that sullen, inflexible image that used to compromise ones enjoyment of this band.

Rather than wade through the old-style California routines of Joe Walsh and Stevie Nicks, I cadge a crew-only meal ticket— another favor called in—and exchange greetings with Go-Go Gina Schock and exBlondie bassist Nigel Harrison, who has just gotten his new band, Chequered Past, signed to EMI. In contrast to almost everyone elses sleeveless casual clothes, Devos Mark Mothersbaugh strolls around in a three piece red suit. Hes here to check out this years Bowie show so Devo can do it next year," unmercifully jibes a long-standing L.A. scene watcher.

But if that really is the case, Devo didnt find anything specific to lift from their former mentor. Although David Bowies show is comprehensive, stretching from the Space Oddity" days to his newest material, it isnt deliberately shocking, the way it used to be. David, in good color and no longer malnourished, is more stylish than stunning. His intent is consolidation rather than another great leap forward. Assisted by an ethnically diverse 10-member lineup, his two hour set is studiedly at ease, as if, after all those years of having to live up to peoples expectations, Bowie doesnt have to satisfy anyones except his own.

By 1 a.m., it was all over, except for the hours-long exodus of the faithful onto the highway. And except for a residue of dust thats resulted in this saga being written from a sickbed, there are no lasting effects. US wasnt Three Days of Peace, Love and Music," and US wasnt Sympathy for the Devil" either. US was, in the end, a wellpublicized, sometimes efficiently and sometimes abominably-run enterprise that will help keep Steve Wozniaks name in the news. Personally, I hope what US-Two ultimately means is that Woz will go back to designing computers and forget about putting together an US-Three. If this weekend was all about US, Id rather be one of THEM. %