Dave Lake
Jeff Pinkus of The Butthole Surfers
Sunday's eclectic Bumbershoot lineup seemed to mirror what is always great about the annual festival, the sight


Old Weirdoes and Young Preppies Intermingle at Sunday's Bumbershoot

Dave Lake
Jeff Pinkus of The Butthole Surfers
Sunday's eclectic Bumbershoot lineup seemed to mirror what is always great about the annual festival, the sight of gaggles of college girls in short shorts queuing up behind drunk dads in vintage Gas Huffer tees. And my viewing experience was largely the same on Sunday.

I started my day off at the KEXP music lounge with a set from Tennis, the preppy indie darlings featuring married couple Alaina Moore and Patrick Riley, who met while studying philosophy in college. The duo's music was fine, but I was mostly distracted with the density of Moore's hair and the impeccable style of Riley, who seemed to walk off the pages of a Brooks Brothers catalog.

I spent more time indoors listening to groupie queen Pamela Des Barres read from her best-seller I'm With the Band. "It's not all about who I fucked," she said of the memoir. She also said she was pleased to see more than 17 people in the crowd, the sum total of her previous appearance at the Yonkers library.

I was impressed to see the three fellows from No Means No still rocking like young punks after all these years, even if they've all gone gray. Despite their age, the band's quirky, progressive punk arrangements, which predate both Primus and The Minutemen, got the crowd excited, and the got the first pit of the day going.

London's Jim Jones Revue were exceptionally well-coiffed, but when you're playing souped-up '50s rock & roll like some kind of punk rock Jerry Lee Lewis, that's just as important as your guitar licks. My favorite moment of their set happened before it even started, when guitarist Rupert Orton got pissed at the photogs who were snapping away during their soundcheck, presumably because they thought the show had begun. In his defense, his guitar poses were much better five minutes later when they actually started.

Atari Teenage Riot had lasers. Lots of lasers.

Having missed The Lonely Forest's opening set on the mainstage, I was pleased to take in a few acoustic songs on the Toyota Free Yr Radio stage, where the band played to about 100 fans.

Then it was time for activist-punks Anti-Flag, who rage against the world's problems with four chords, spiky hair, and plenty of woah-woahs. "Hi, we're Wiz Khalifa from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania," said bassist Chris #2, before kicking into an hour's worth of anthemic sing-along punk. The stage in the exhibition hall was plagued with delays most of Sunday, which made fans who had been queuing up for long stretches all the more eager to let loose, which they did once the band's opening chords erupted.

I concluded my day by taking in a set from The Butthole Surfers, who, like No Means No, are a veteran pack of weirdoes, and who are just as trippy and wonderful as ever. Playing in front their trademarked wall of mind-bending video projections, main Butthole Gibby Haynes smoked and drank throughout the set, picking up a saxophone, and later a megaphone, which he used to manipulate his voice along with a with a multi-knobbed contraption that transposed the sound of it from a child-like helium thing to the menacing growl favored by grindcore bands everywhere. The band's bass player, Jeff Pinkus, sported the day's best T-shirt: I ? butt drugs. Half-baked from the potent pot being smoked on every side of me, and figuring the remaining bands likely wouldn't top the wonderfully weird Buttholes (or their T-shirts), I called it a long and eclectic day.

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