COYOTE Scene Report: Resisting Psychic Death at Mosswood Meltdown

I’ve never felt as safe in a very large crowd as I did in the front row for Bikini Kill last night.

I know this isn’t the coolest nor most punk rock thing to say about a punk festival, but I cannot overemphasize how rare the feeling was. To be up against the rails in a sea of thousands of people at 8pm, awaiting a very punk rock headliner, and have every person around you saying things like “Can you see? I can move over here!” and “I love your shirt,” and generally exuding pure rock ‘n’ roll adrenaline without a hint of physical aggressiveness or competitiveness? Just camaraderie and shared delight? I did not realize how much I usually have my guard up in these scenarios until I didn’t have one at all.

And then Bikini Kill played, and a girl who looked about nine years old was next to me, sitting on the railing and supported by her dad, and she appeared to know the words to more songs than I did. I caught her eye at one point, and we grinned, and then I fought back tears for the next two minutes. A portal had opened. It had to close at the end of the night, but I am hereby stating, for the record, that I would like to exist permanently in the universe as it organizes itself around Bikini Kill.

But let’s back up for a moment: I rolled into the festival at 2:30pm, just in time to see Frightwig (one of San Francisco’s OG punk bands) do a new 37-second song called “Aging Sucks.” Then they brought out Jane Wiedlin and Gina Schock from the Go-Go’s for a few numbers, and then Kathleen Hanna casually emerged from side stage just to sit up near the front and take videos, bobbing along like the rest of us. 

“Everyone’s just a fan of someone else,” I remarked to a guy near me, who responded merrily that he’d only gotten to see Pavement on Friday night because a fan of his band had given him a free ticket. (He was the bass player for Middle-Aged Queers.)

People point to 79-year-old Iggy Pop — who was, by all accounts, typically amazing on Saturday — as an example of punk rock immortality; I don't find this particularly inspiring because he is clearly a freak of nature. Frightwig, on the other hand — and I mean this in the best possible way — are relatable. Anytime I am feeling old, I'm going to remember this set, and the fact that Frightwig’s members are in their 50s and 60s and sounded incredible and have been singing about gender inequality and the war on women for nearly 45 years and see no reason to stop now. The band is currently working on a new album, which they are producing themselves.

Also, this guy who crowdsurfed.

Around 3:30 I bopped over to see Oakland’s own teenage riot grrls Bitchfit play a 15-minute set at The Complex’s livestreamed mini-stage that included singer Ailish, who is a fucking tour de force of a human being, literally bitching out a random dude audience member on the mic for kicking her the day before (!?). He said, “I apologize.”

Next I caught a bit of Punk Pride, hosted by Peaches Christ. Drag performer Trixie Carr killed a cover of Suicidal Tendencies’ classic “Institutionalized,” tweaking the final line to “Doesn’t matter, I’ll probably get hit by a robotaxi anyway.”

Then it was time to see Dead Milkmen, but it turned out I could not see a damn thing at the Dead Milkmen set, because naturally every other person in the world really wanted to see Dead Milkmen. The sound also wasn’t great in that amphitheater, the smaller of the two stages — I would have swapped that set with Punk Pride, which was happening on the field stage — but it was still af damn good time.

“How many people do you think have gotten engaged to this?” wondered my friend during “Punk Rock Girl.” Above us, some sang from the trees. It was a giddy thrill to hear a massive crowd of people shout, “The waitress said, ‘Well no, we only have it iced!’” 

Now obviously, I love Carrie Brownstein and Fred Armisen (who doesn’t?), but I didn’t know what to expect from the Return of Jackie and Judy, a Ramones cover band featuring Armisen playing drums while wearing a black wig. I thought it might be too gimmicky to be good, but then they ripped, answering the question: What if the Ramones had fantastic guitarists, and every so often, in between the three-chord progressions, there was a sick guitar solo? (“That’s what the Ramones were known for — guitar solos,” Brownstein acknowledged cheekily after one of her own.)

Brownstein also did a subtle yet surprisingly effective physical Joey Ramone impression, with a little hunch in her back and hair hanging in her face. It made me want to revisit Joey Ramone’s incredible acting in Rock ‘n’ Roll High School, the title track of which Brownstein and Armisen sadly did not play.

We did, however, get an emotional tribute to Jennifer Finch of L7, who died July 18 from an aggressive form of brain cancer.

My working theory about why the vibe is so good at Mosswood has a lot to do with much of the staff being volunteers. I ran into a friend who was working a five-hour shift at the VIP table, just handing out wristbands and tote bags, which she described as a fair trade for free entry. This means that, for the most part, the people working the festival actually want to be there and are people who enjoy music.

It also means there are enough staff. One may note here that the bar is very low, but given the state of the music festival industry over the last decade — and the way major corporate promoters cut corners to maximize profits — the difference in the overall experience is notable.

The festival atmosphere, at least on Sunday, was also purposefully, determinedly shaped by women. Shout out to the picnic table full of lady friends near the bathrooms who took it upon themselves to cheerfully yell “don’t go in there!” when people approached a port-a-potty that had become a biohazard until a staff member came over with an “out of order” sign.

Another shout for the legendary Toody Coole (below), and yet another for Allison Wolfe from Bratmobile DJing sidestage (including this banger).  

And on that note, step with me once more into the Bikini Kill portal, where, to close out the night, Kathleen Hanna brought out Sleater-Kinney’s Brownstein and Corin Tucker for the encore (“Rebel Girl,” obviously). But before that, she made a little speech about how important it is to work up the nerve to just talk to each other, because if her bandmates Tobi Vail and Kathi Wilcox hadn’t finally talked to each other about music while they were both working at a sandwich shop in Olympia:

“...I wouldn’t be here playing with two of my favorite people of all time. I think about that a lot. And I just wanted to leave you all with that, because there’s so many amazing people here tonight. If there’s someone you guys wanted to say hi to ... do it. You might be a part of the next poster campaign that like makes a kid be like, 'Wait, I don’t have to live this way? I can fight back?’ You and your friends might make the best band in the world. You might become all different kinds of political organizations. You might do all kinds of things. We need to make our friendship circles bigger, not smaller ... and on that note, I want to invite our friends Carrie and Corin out. I mean, what if they never walked over to each other?”

Coda: Exterior, the parking lot of Carl’s Jr. on 38th and Telegraph, 10pm, waiting for a friend who was inside ordering cheeseburgers (with no lettuce).

Two girls approached who I recognized from the first few rows of the Bikini Kill set. “Hey!” said one brightly, handing me a flier for her band. “I play music, and like Kathleen said back there, I’m trying to find more people to play music with, so just wanted to give you this.” She’s looking for girls to start a new band with, she said, because right now she only plays with boys.

I stupidly lost the flier, of course, otherwise I would link to her music here. But I hope she gave them out to so many people that she finds her girl band. I’ll let you know when I see them on stage.