I, however, do not share this enthusiasm or opinion. No, I cannot. Sadly, strawberry shortcake has come to represent all that I despise about Seattle's woefully beloved Bumbershoot, ever since I stupidly attempted to make my way against an army of stroller-pushing, strawberry shortcake-sloshing festival goers en route to see Sleater-Kinney's set at the blasted BumberClub. By the time I made it through the infernal gridlock, I was covered in stinkeye and syrup, and an oily, PERMANENT stroller-wheel mark -- the kind left by those throne-like, SUV-type baby hoopties -- was ground into the top of my right shoe. It wasn't a pretty picture, believe me, and the sheer memory of it has etched an indelible black mark on my soul. Frankly, I've got a pocketful of black eyes for Bumbershoot.
To be fair, most Seattleites don't spend the better part of their lives in a rock club like I do, and it is for these folks that Bumbershoot's Super Mall of musical offerings exists. It's a place you can take the entire family to see buttloads of bands from all kinds of genres in one giant, arms-and-elbows-flailing explosion of humanity. And it can be done cheaply and with little to no risk of life and limb. No secondhand smoke to fan from perturbed and stinging eyes, no obnoxious drunks to navigate strollers around, and plenty of oozy, dripping strawberry shortcake and lots of fried food on sticks for the kids. And at one unforgettable Bumbershoot, a drunken fat guy laid on the fountain's blowhole and blew himself sky high, the video of which you'll be able to see on any blooper show throughout eternity. And this year R.E.M. is headlining!
All grousing aside, Bumbershoot is one of the finest events this city has to offer, an arts showcase few other cities in the nation can even begin to match. Musically speaking, Bumbershoot bursts with diversity, versatility, and pride, putting together amazing artists ranging from the maverick to the surreal (Patti Smith and Tiny Tim, respectively), in one convenient site. Where else, outside of Lollapalooza, could you see Sleater-Kinney, Built to Spill, Sonic Youth, and Beck, all in one long afternoon? And then come back the next day and see Spearhead and Sheryl Crow perform in the same stadium?
But that said, for the love of Christ, what about the rest of us?
We, the cranky, jaded vampires who prefer to see music within the walls of a darkened club, who don't particularly like strawberry shortcake or food upon which one might impale oneself -- or, for that matter, those of us who don't like walking -- can find respite this year in Blundershoot. Taking place at the Showbox and the Crocodile -- and with a handy shuttle bus running the measly five blocks between the clubs to boot -- Blundershoot is a three-day festival featuring several of the bands also performing at Bumbershoot, and a lot of the ones that didn't make the cut but should have. It's also for the people who'd cross Hell while wearing gasoline underwear rather than hang out at the BumberClub, the Bumbrella Stage, or go anywhere even remotely near the Domino's Pizza Innovation Station. Please, by all means, take a few seconds to snort about that last one.
The tricky part about Blundershoot is that -- even though The Stranger is sponsoring it -- we can't tell you exactly who some of the bands playing are going to be, because of a pesky agreement made with the Big Cheeses down at the Bumbershoot headquarters. So aside from Harvey Danger, Grace, C Average, Deathray, Dorkweed, The Band that Made Milwaukee Famous, Gerald Collier, Alien Crime Syndicate, Hafa Cat, Peter Parker, Sycophant, OtherStarPeople, Pleaseeasaur, Subminute:Radio, and Chokebore (impressive, that), you can also expect to see a band that sounds like You Know?, another that was once offered as an option to the Squareback, someone singing in your Bathtub, and a few people not really interested in Bee Keeping who recently moved to New York. There'll be plenty more secret names to add to that list, both "the chosen" and "the overlooked," but frankly, I'm sick and tired of covering everyone's asses.
So those of us who want to rule out any chance of having strawberry shortcake spilled on our calves or baby-stroller-tread ground into the top of our shoes -- fuck therapy -- should probably just plan on attending Blundershoot and leave the whole Bumbershoot nightmare to the Microsoft crowd, out on the curb with the rest of the garbage. And if you're worried about missing R.E.M. because you still like to refer back to that well-worn vinyl copy of Reckoning, or you're friends with Ken Stringfellow, just remember that Peter Buck's wife owns the freakin' Crocodile. Hint, hint.
We're not trying to run your life or be the boss of Seattle or anything....
