Day three of Goner Records’ cavalcade of talent was on the toasty side, and the same could have been said for many of the fans milling through the Railgarten grounds. But the sheer sonic appeal of the afternoon, hosted with aplomb by Tim Prudhomme of the band Fuck, did away with any flagging spirits. After a noon opener by Seattle’s Zack Static Sect, things were brought back closer to home with Nashville’s Snooper, Memphis’ Ibex Clone, and Hattiesburg’s MS Paint.
Then Prudhomme took to the stage and announced “I saw these guys in a record store in 2019, and they were great. And it’s really hard to tell great in a record store. From New Orleans, Silver Synthetic!” The band, whose Third Man debut album has received a lot of buzz on the grapevine this year, kicked in with a uniquely upbeat sound that somehow blends the twin guitar attack of Television with the pop sensibilities of the Zombies, or “mid/late ’80s C86/Flying Nun guitar jangle,” as the Goner booklet puts it. And perhaps a bit of Nerves thrown in? A beguiling blend, carried off with precision and a bit of abandon.
The Exbats feature the young drummer and singer Inez McLain, immersed in ’70s punk and ’60s jangle pop, who proudly wore a “Help Me Rhonda” T-shirt. “I dressed up like Brian Wilson,” she deadpanned, “but it was too hot for the bathrobe.” Her father Kenny stood nearby, serving as guitarist, singer, and hype man with vigorous enthusiasm, while he, the bassist, and the second guitarist channeled their inner teens. Their pounding beats, crisscross riffs, and singalong choruses soon had the audience jumping. The highlight: a joyous rendering of their 2018 tune, “I Got The Hots For Charlie Watts.”
And then came an artist who requested that Prudhomme present him only as “a man who needs no introduction.” In the case of Eric Goulden, aka Wreckless Eric, that was probably true, at least within Goner’s orbit. He’s been well loved since his 1978 hit, “Whole Wide World,” which he played with his usual dynamism, but the clincher is how his songwriting has evolved since. He carries off his mini-masterpieces of gritty prose/poetry with naught but an acoustic guitar and a few pedals, which he uses sparingly to great effect, at times conjuring the illusion of a full band behind him, so great is the cacophony.
After the set, none other than Reigning Sound’s Greg Cartwright, shaking his head, expressed his utter admiration for Goulden’s craft as both a songwriter and storyteller, and the minimalism with which he enacts it. A local poet of Memphis also expressed her love of his lyrics. But his artistic zenith may have been his banter.
“The rest of the set’s going to be a story in about 14 halves,” he quipped after the first two songs (it wasn’t). And, echoing the words of Miss Pussycat two days before, he commented, “I can’t believe I’m here, really. I mean, it was so weird. The whole fucking thing was weird. I mean, it still is weird!” Later, he elaborated how a case of Covid-19, mistakenly diagnosed, led to a full-on heart attack last year. Yet now, that seemed a distant memory, as he delivered his songs with a quiet energy that sometimes exploded into a very punk-inspired anger.
Like many festival-goers, your stalwart reporter had to miss Spread Joy from Chicago and G.G. King from Atlanta, though by all accounts, they both rocked. I picked up the thread as Omaha’s Digital Leather hit the stage, and hit it they certainly did, as group founder Shawn Foree led the band through driving, synth-inflected rockers with a dark edge. The guitarist, brandishing a red Flying V axe, literally lept (or dive-bombed) into one solo after another as the rest of the band gyrated sympathetically. No Saddle Creek flavors here — this was not from your mama’s Omaha!
Digital Leather’s power was a perfect appetizer before the tasty main course served up by local heroes Jack Oblivian and the Sheiks. Igniting their set at a pummeling, fast pace is nothing new for this group, but they had an extra fire to them this night. Early on, Jack noted that “Amtrak doesn’t go west! If you’ve been stranded, you know what I mean.” No one doubted that Jack O. has been stranded. Later, he bemoaned the cancellation of one of Detroit’s finest bands. “I really wish we could have seen Negative Approach!” he exclaimed. From then on, the band’s name became a running joke. After a screaming chorus of “Mass Confusion all around!” came to a close, a band member helpfully pointed out the song’s negativity.
But that was but a foreshadowing of the whole world being negated by adolescent ennui, when Jack called friend Abe White of the Manatees up to sing Alice Cooper’s classic “I’m Eighteen.” White delivered the song with manic abandon, gracing the audience with flipped birds and hurtled beer cans as he sang lines like, “I’ve got a baby’s brain and an old man’s heart!” By the end, fellow Oblivian Greg Cartwright had jumped up to join in the chorus. It was a perfect celebration of the coming of age of Gonerfest. “Next year,” Jack pronounced, “Gonerfest is gonna be able to vote!”
After a steamroller version of Television’s “I See No Evil,” Jack and the Sheiks handed the keys to Nots, Memphis’ greatest post-punk synth-and-riff shouters. Seeing them is a rare treat these days, with drummer Charlotte Watson now living in New Orleans, so this was a welcome blast from the past, as she and bassist Meredith Lones pounded on with their trademark finesse behind Natalie Hoffman’s vocals, guitar and synth layers.
Speaking of blasts from the past, the evening’s true exemplars of that were the Spits, nearing their 30th year together. Having cultivated a back-to-basics approach to punk, all rapid-fire verses and singalong choruses, one might easily forget the more theatrical side of these skate-punk legends. That was revealed right out of the gate, as the synthesizer player was led out, landing strip style, in a full-on budget robot suit. He then conjured up the sound of an air raid siren, and the games were off. Once filled out with the rest of the quartet, his synth drones merely added a thickener to the choppy, guitar-driven punk at which they excel. And yet this was no mere oldies act. Sure, old punks were singing along with every song, but from the first downbeat, the mosh pit — populated with fans likely younger than the band itself — lit up as if the ground below was electrified.
It was a fitting end to the final night of the festival, but there was yet more music to come. Aside from the many after parties that carried on well into the wee hours, Sunday afternoon beckoned with the last official performances.
With our brief taste of fall on hold again, the afternoon was brilliant and warm. That, and perhaps the previous three days of responsible hedonism on the crowd’s part, made the set by Aquarian Blood go down like a Bloody Mary. Focusing the quieter recent albums recorded at home by J.B. and Laurel Horrell, Aquarian Blood nonetheless brought a full band to the proceedings, emulating those records’ exquisite, low key arrangements with exactitude and soul. At center stage, beside Laurel, sat J.B., forced to play sitting down due to an injured hand. He nonetheless directed the affair with assurance, occasionally shouting cues, or, if they didn’t quite take, appreciating the chaos that ensued. “That was a good ending right there!” he exclaimed after one breakdown.
And then, after a few words of thanks from Goner’s finest, the Wilkins Sisters stepped up to put a capstone on the four-day event. The appearance of the four singers, all daughters or granddaughters of the late Rev. John Wilkins, was a poignant moment, given the many times the Reverend himself used to close the proceedings in years past.
“As you may know, our dad passed last year from Covid,” said one of the sisters. “We’re trying to keep his legacy going. I don’t sound like my dad, but we do the best that we can with what we’ve got.” Indeed they did, as a fine band that included Al Gamble on organ delivered tracks of thumping, blues-infused gospel to back the sisters’ soaring four part harmonies.
“Y’all give it up for my daddy!” they exclaimed after one number, and the people did. Noise-hardened punks, skate brats, and rockers all accepted a bit of Mississippi into their souls, raising their hands in the air as if they’d seen the light. More so than ever, the sacred soul captured that almost holy sense of communion that so many expressed throughout the weekend, often using a phrase heard many times: Gonerfest 18 was no less than a family reunion.
