Even though I didn’t actually do any of the work, watching Hobosexual’s

Even though I didn’t actually do any of the work, watching Hobosexual’s Ben Harwood shred like an axe-wielding Cousin It made me hungry — both he and drummer Jeff Silva were glistening with sweat from the exertion of playing those ridiculously long bluesy metal songs of theirs. Toward the end of the set, Harwood thanked the audience for sticking around even though half the amps on the right side of the stage were not functional and the vocals were fading in and out. I’d argue that the audience’s continued enthusiasm says more about the skill of the band than anything else, but hey. I followed my hunger pangs to the Salmon Bay Eagles Club, where my lovely friends were kind enough to let me pick at the massive eight-dollar Oktoberfest platters. They were truly monstrous: heaps of vinegary potatoes, carrots, baked beans and sausage came served on a king-sized bed of sauerkraut. The highlight of the whole thing, though, was the peach cobbler, which came topped with a fluffy dollop of whipped cream. We feasted in the corner while the club’s salty regulars eyed the invading masses of indie kids with varying degrees of bemusement and suspicion. After watching Hobosexual slay, however, I was not in the mood for M. Bison’s relatively subdued pop. I made my way to the Sunset and listened to Virgin from outside the club, which was at capacity. At first I was very bummed out about this, but lurking outside the door turned out to be better than it sounded: I’m short and wouldn’t have been able to see anyway, plus it was muggy in there from all the damp, sweating people. And Virgin’s trippy psych-metal was so loud that it sounded just fine from a distance. I did manage to make it back in the actual venue for Whalebones, who took more of a ’70s stoner rock approach to things. It was still hot as Hades in August, but it was worth suffering for some of the most fascinating guitar work of the evening.In between those two bands, I stopped by the Tractor for part of Lindsay Fuller’s set. Fuller’s songs are cloying and sorrowful like sweet tea spiked with bourbon, and even though I hadn’t seen a schedule in hours — newspaper disintegrates quickly — I recognized her warm, throaty voice before I even made it indoors. On my way back, I followed a friend into Volterra and was greeted by the Jason Parker Quartet. I do not listen to much jazz. I’ve always felt a little guilty because I don’t especially care for the genre, as if it makes me some sort of culture-less boor. Apparently, though, I’m not that much of a culture-less boor, because the Jason Parker Quartet’s combo of trumpet, keys, upright bass and drums completely sucked me in. During the show, the Curious Mystery’s Nic Gonzalez told me that bassist Evan Flory-Barnes pretty much always plays with top-notch musicians; I believed it.I reached my evening’s final destination, the Tractor, just in time for Wild Orchid Children, whose set was awesome once they finally got the American flags they always tie around their mic stands to stay put. This task took longer than you might imagine. The show was worth waiting for, though: These guys’ percussive psychedelic screamers rip through the room like banshees of the Blood Brothers channeling Akron/Family. By the time the band was winding down their last song, the lights had been unceremoniously flipped on and off several times. It was clearly too close to closing time for the venue’s comfort. Though I was more interested in seeing live music last night (for me, karaoke is a dull Monday night sort of activity), I couldn’t resist popping into the Ballard Loft to see how many people would be interested in singing karaoke at a music festival. The answer: quite a few more than I thought. And I’m glad I stuck around long enough to watch the most hilarious (and listenable) rendition of “Loser” I’ve ever witnessed. If you’re reading this, Loser, you should make yourself known ’cause I totally want to tag along on your next karaoke outing. Yours was easily one of the top five best karaoke performances I’ve ever seen, rivaled only by Seely’s “Purple Rain.” Can we make this happen? Soon? Maybe once I’ve recovered from this cold I got after spending my Saturday in the Seattle equivalent of monsoon season? Awesome. Let me know.


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