Conceived in 2007, rising from the ashes of its predecessor, Party in the Park, WSUM’s Snake on the Lake Fest showcases the student radio station’s aural acumen, bringing local talent and small touring outfits to play (for free!) for the benefit of the student body.
This year’s fest was no different, bringing together six disparate outfits to rock, roll, shake, pound, heave and otherwise kinetically alter the students who braved the indeterminate weather to attend this year’s Fest at the Sett last Friday.
This year’s Snake appeared to be low on frills at first; the Sett stage was by and large bare save for piles of gear, while the good WSUM folks (and a few other tables) were arranged by the main Sett entrance with merch and pamplets. Gradually Snake on the Lake unfolded, adding layer and layer of sensory complexity with each successive act.
A highlight of this year’s Snake on the Lake came from a video loop curated by WSUM staffers Zack Stafford and Erik Kramer that combined (what I assumed to be) manipulated public television footage and excerpts from “Computer Dreams,” the 1988 documentary about early CGI animation.
It certainly caught the attention of openers Frankie Teardrop, a Minneapolis punk outfit who stopped from time to time to stare in amazement as metallic jaguars ran through fire, dancing compasses brought seahorses to life and (in the words of Frankie Teardrop’s frontman) “[a] space Viking vessel... that’s made of solid gold” sailed through the cosmos. They played hard, fast and funny. One song touched on how hard it is to piss in New York City. And kudos to the bassist, who had his bass slung low and loped about on his long legs like an equine scarecrow throughout the set.
Follow-ups White Mystery, a brother and sister duo out of Chicago, were equally striking, between their mutually pullulating ginger curls and furious playing—Miss Alex White on guitar and Francis Scott Key White on drums. They rolled through song after song after song without break. At one point, Miss White took over the drum stand so her brother could walk the crowd and briefly stand on a chair. And at the end, in a fit of inspiration, Mr. White lanced his snare drum to death.
Moving toward a more contemplative scene, Madison resident and plumber of the mind Julian Lynch brought a host of booming tunes, wrought by a full band (including one dedicated saxophonist and another who also played guitar and sang). Though less fast paced and frenetic than Frankie Teardrop and White Mystery, Lynch and Co. nonetheless compelled.
After a rocking start, the program shifted toward techno, bringing together three performers who subtly built on one another.
Appearing after Lynch, Madison native Golden Donna set the tone with a set that unfolded almost like a sermon, full of shimmering lines and pulses, as he hopped and bopped from his electronic pulpit. Deastro, a Detroit artist, followed with a set that had a quicker beat, a bolder percussive rhythm, which he mirrored in his constant headbanging above his equipment. Deastro’s set was memorable, not only for that, but for the lighting; the play of green and purple, projected simultaneously, made him seem aventurescent.
The climax of Snake on the Lake came in the form of New York artist Saint Pepsi, a man as gifted in personality as he is in productive skill. On the whole, the crowd was responsive, often energetic, toward the acts, but Pepsi drew out something else from them, inciting dances around his station on the floor where snippets of Top 40 hits bloomed from a substratum of repurposed pop and noise. Modified vocals were an especial hook he employed, including Zedd’s “Clarity” rendered glacial and androgynous as it wafted through the Sett. “It’s Saint Pepsi, bitch” was an oft repeated line, song to song.
Besides the music, the genius of Saint Pepsi’s set came in the form of his ostensible hype man, a small, bleached blond lad wearing a Teklife shirt and red shoes. He danced spasmodically for all of Saint Pepsi’s show and also took the microphone to lay down a few lines. The eureka moment came though, when he climbed on stage and after dancing and hopping around on all fours, turned to the crowd and raised his arms high. “The floor is lava!” Blond Teklife cried.
And they heeded his call; people swarmed the stage to dance, and those who didn’t swarm were picked up and thrown on. It had an almost Dionysian spontaneity. It was a perfect way to close out the night: reveling to Saint Pepsi’s vaporous dithyramb.
