Photos by Sylvia Ansley & Grant Kerber
Have you ever wanted to dress up head-to-toe in fishnets, grab your girlfriends, and thrash around to some grimy, grungy, gorgeous music for three days straight? Well, I dare you to go to Oakland’s premier freak fest, Mosswood Meltdown. In fact, I Double Dare Ya.
It’s almost embarrassing to admit to you that as an Oakland native and a lover of “loud girl music,” I have never been to Mosswood Meltdown. In the aftermath of last weekend, my eyes have been opened. This is a must-see event. Despite running for more than 15 years, it is evident that time has not diluted the atmosphere of rage and riot that founded this event long ago. With 20+ acts, dozens of local vendors, and two stages, we all unite under one doctrine of radical acceptance and rebellion.
Strolling in with a sense of regret that I didn’t spring for Friday’s pre-party, my mind was quickly distracted by the excitement of a whole fairground of fun. My initial impression: everyone looked fabulous. Adorned in pink, blue, suede, leather, cheetah, and even cockroaches. You could not be overdressed if you tried. Everything goes at Mosswood. Elements of rockabilly, punk, 60’s glamor, and just plain debauchery were worn to perfection. If you suddenly found yourself underdressed, “vendorville” sat on the north side of the fairground with everything you might need. Funky doesn’t even begin to describe it. Have you ever wanted a pink parasol with cockroaches printed all over it? What about a pair of 60s gogo boots? Not interested in shopping? Let’s dive into the music.
Saturday 07/18
From vendorville, I picked my way towards the amphitheater. Hundreds of people sprawled out under sunshine and redwoods. Just as I settled into my spot and started sipping on my pink paloma, John Waters himself waltzed up to the mic. The festival’s beloved Pope of Trash seized every opportunity to spread his grimey gospel and wrote a personalized introductory speech for every band that weekend. Every speech was crafted with such mastery that sleaze began to sound sacred. First to claim the stage were the Dirtbombs, who blended satire and social discourse seamlessly. In one breath they were rocking through their iconic “Ode to a Black Man” and in the next, lead singer Mick Collins was yelling into the crowd “even the Dirtbombs can’t stand the Dirtbombs for very long.” My favorite from their set was the hypnotic “Sharivari.”
Migrating over to the field stage for the next act revealed another example of Mosswood’s resistance to the norm. No overlapping set times; everyone gets to be appreciated by the entire crowd. No compromises, screw that. As I approached the explosion of sound coming from LA band Snõõper, I felt as if I had just walked into an episode of Interdimensional Cable from Rick and Morty. I highly recommend going into this experience blind and just letting the chaos wash over you. Snõõper is genre-defying, with rapid electronic drum breaks, harsh industrial noise, and an aggressive hardcore snare that demands a moshpit. Breakbeat and egg punk had a baby? Does that mean anything to you? As both guitarists simultaneously climbed the 40ft high scaffolding, a barrage of papier-mache creatures infiltrated the crowd and took it from weird to weirder. But that’s what Mosswood is all about. Switch off that part of your brain that clings to the norms of society and dance with the giant tomato…goblin…mutant thingy. Check out their live album if you lean more classic punk, but for those interested in the stranger electronic side of things, my favorite was “RECESS.”
Mannequin Pussy is more than just pretty in punk. They are sonically shoving you on your ass and making you see the world from below the skirt. Lead singer Marisa Dabice’s unique vocals remind me a lot of Kathleen Hanna’s mastery of the confrontational feminine divine. Pairing breathy, raunchy moans with bone-rattling screams, no attempt is made to downplay the femininity in her voice because why the hell should she? Embracing it through fashion, vocals, and dance, Mannequin Pussy exemplifies the riot grrl mantra that women and rock are not mutually exclusive, OK?! This band made me reflect internally about how the male-centered view of rock music has influenced my thinking. The moaning and the fem-aligned onstage antics often make me draw inward away from the music. But it forced me to explore that feeling and think, “Why am I so reluctant to accept this into punk music? Why do I feel this way? What experiences have taught me what is and isn’t the right way to express through punk music?” This is what punk music is all about. Make people uncomfortable, change their mind, do it while being unrelentingly yourself.
Another secret for you. On top of never having gone to Mosswood Meltdown before this magical weekend, I’ve never been to a festival period (EEK!). I just didn’t think I would enjoy it. Here’s what converted me. Have you ever heard of Otoboke Beaver? Me neither. Now I don’t think I could forget them if I tried. Four Japanese women in flower-power print dresses politely walked onto stage and proceeded to rip us a new one. Formed in 2009 in Kyoto, Japan, Otoboke Beaver pairs comedic, shrieking vocals with confrontational guitar riffs, topped off with mind-bending tempo changes. Their music sounds like running through a mirror maze and smacking into what you thought was the exit, only to realize it’s a different direction entirely. Experiencing their set made me realize festivals expose you to so much music that you otherwise would have never found. Seemingly the entire crowd felt the same way I did, because all around me people were screaming “Holy crap these girls rock!”
As the sun set over the treetops, I made my way through the crowd towards the back. This was gonna be a rough one. John Waters strolled out and quipped about being the oldest person at the festival, including the legendary headliner. In my opinion, Mosswood’s diverse age range was its standout quality. There is an eternal battle within rock music that claims that old school authenticity and new school innovation are mutually exclusive things that should be compared. Mosswood isn’t about petty stuff like that; forget the compromises and let’s just enjoy all of it. With a performing age range from 14 to 80 years old, the lust for life is unyielding. As John Waters concluded his speech, he gave the crowd one last chance to run for their lives: “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST IT’S IGGY POP!”
Clambering to the stage, he was shirtless, long-haired, and snarling. He was Iggy Pop. With a full brass band behind him, he wasted no time on conversation. The crowd howled along with him to hits like “Lust for Life” and “The Passenger.” The mob reached up their hands and leaned in for more. In a moment of overwhelming chaos, Iggy launched himself off the stage into the crowd, which is fair considering he’s credited as the inventor of the stage dive. Within the first note of the sleazy intro riff to “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” the crowd had turned inside out. The sound of that jangly tambourine made me close my eyes and imagine I’m standing in front of the CBGB stage. Writhing, spitting, and gyrating around the stage, my appreciation for his impact on alternative culture surged. What’s more punk than being a vulgar, confrontational, death-defying young person in today’s world? It’s ripping your shirt off at 80 years old and never saying die. Iggy Pop continues to point the way.
Sunday 07/19
The big day had arrived. No disrespect to the Godfather of Punk, but I had been waiting for Bikini Kill since I was 15 years old. However, I had some important stops to make along the way before I got to my destination. First, OG San Francisco icons Frightwig. The four-piece girl group formed in 1982 and lit a fire in the hearts of members of Hole, Babes in Toyland, L7, and countless others, inspiring them to start their own bands. As the godmothers of Riot Grrl, I knew this was a must-see. Starting with a tribute to L7’s fallen angel Jennifer Finch, whose death the day before had shocked the community, Frightwig aptly started with their song “Crazy World.” Staring down at the crowd like the three fates, Frightwig rocked the stage with songs about corrupt politicians, riding your bike, and simply just being a girl. I teared up beneath my cat-eye sunglasses as Deanna Mitchell sang “War on Women.” To think you could be making music for the last 40 years and still have your songs be more relevant than ever is both inspiring and heartbreaking. Mosswood felt like a space where women could both celebrate and cry together. My favorite song in their set was their unforgettable “Ride Your Bike.”
As I made my way towards Toddy Cole and her band of the enigmatic Dead Moon, I was suddenly swept off course by a secret performance. A vintage suitcase lay open on a table with screenprinted shirts reading Bitchfit snuggled in between mutilated punked-out baby dolls. Screaming into her pink megaphone, lead singer Ailish Leamy whipped together a crowd and threw down. This was an interactive experience; watching passively on the sidelines was not an option. Fem members of the crowd cursed the names of men who had put them down, and an American flag adorned with a message reading “Fuck ICE” made its way around the mosh pit. It doesn’t get any more Oakland than a riot grrl punk band calling for the dissolution of Donald Trump’s fascist regime under the bows of an oak tree. The performance drew a crowd that quickly became converts to Bitchfit’s infectious rebellious energy. These girls were so fierce that they even received a shoutout from Bikini Kill later that day. I felt proud of my hometown, and a smile crept onto my face that stuck around for the rest of the day.
That smile didn’t disappear, but it definitely dimmed when I saw how crowded the amphitheater was in anticipation of The Dead Milkmen. Why these legends had been cast to the smaller stage was beyond me; the area was PACKED a whopping 45 minutes before their set. There was no way I was missing this. I mustered up the courage to do what was necessary, and I wrangled my way up the massive tree that loomed over the amphitheater. A small collection of die-hard fans were waiting for me within the branches. From this canopy view, I could see just how far the crowd extended. The Dead Milkmen’s songs unite punks young and old. Satirical in nature, two of punk’s most annoying voices (much love Joe and Rodney) spin fantastical and often nonlinear narratives that are as timeless as they are hysterical. Images of poorly behaved large lizards, punk girls jumping on tables, and Jesus mysteriously being trapped in a bottle swirled around in my head. The Dead Milkmen are a reminder that sometimes revolt is simply just having fun in the face of it all. Security decided they had had enough of our arboreal antics, and as “Big Lizard” played in the background, I not so gracefully leaped from the branches and made my escape.
I had one goal for the rest of the night. I was not leaving this festival without getting barricade for Bikini Kill. I was ready to do whatever it took. Weaving my way through the crowd, I found my opportunity and took it. Latching both hands onto the railing, I thought to myself, “That was easy. Now I just have to stay here for 3 hours.” I wasn’t anticipating the tornado that was about to touchdown right beside me. Psych-punk band Frankie and the Witchfingers played a whirlwind of bluesy, Sabbath-esque songs that had a never-ending drive almost akin to gospel music. The crowd responded with fanatic enthusiasm; shaking, screaming, and swirling around in the pit. A fog of weed smoke settled among the crowd. At points I almost relinquished my coveted spot, but I endured. As I attempted to catch my breath, it was snatched right out of me again when Fred Armisen strolled out on stage in a wig. As if this could not get weirder, Sleater-Kinney members Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker joined him on stage. Carrie snatched the mic and shouted, “ I hope you like the Ramones, because that’s all we’re playing!” The mystery of who The Return of Jack and Judy were had been solved, and the answer practically slapped me in the face. Charging into the iconic “Blitzkrieg Pop,” I felt my brain and body separate as one locked up in fear of being crushed by the oncoming tsunami of crowdsurfers and the other simply could not resist dancing. If Frankie and the Witchfinger’s set was a tornado, this was a class 5 hurricane. The crowdsurfing escalated to such a level that security attempted to ban the act entirely, which quickly proved futile. Tossing leather jackets to the ground, the band gave a rowdy and thrilling performance. I wondered if Iggy was somewhere reminiscing at the sound of the dawn of punk.
I had earned this spot at the barricade. I had endured for the last three hours. I had done my time. As the sun set for the final time over the festival grounds, the energy only got higher. As I looked around, a sea of pink, purple, blonde, and black hair stretched out on all sides of me. The girls had conquered the front. John Waters echoed this reality in his final speech of the weekend, stating, “They [Bikini Kill] don’t need to tell women to get in the front anymore; they’re already here,” and that the band is “female trouble personified” as he relinquished the stage to the queens of riot grrl. Queen Kathleen Hanna sprinted out in her pink tulle dress and impossibly high beehive hairdo and launched straight into “New Radio.” Riot Grrl is a genre that self-selects. Either you get it, or you don’t. Mainstream America hears Kathleen Hanna’s piercing voice and winces in pain. An individual enlightened along the path of riot grrl liberation thinks, “She doesn’t give a fuck what people think; she’s making herself loud, unforgettable, and speaking her mind. And holy crap it sounds amazing.” Her unique choice to retain the femininity in her vocals while still being loud and angry exemplifies Bikini Kill’s message as a whole. Smashing through my personal favorites, “Double Dare Ya,” “Carnival,” and others, I was consistently impressed with how much the members of the band switched instruments. One minute the adorable Tobi Vail was on bass, next she was singing, and three songs later she was playing drums. Kathleen Hanna and OG member Kathi Wilcox followed a similar trend. They worked as a unit, and I was thoroughly impressed by this display of musicianship. The set raged on with the band constantly using their stage time to uplift others; mentioning Frightwig, Bitchfit, and thanking the organizers and staff countless times. Like every band before them at Mosswood, Bikini Kill were vocal about the many injustices currently occurring around the country. They were vocal about their dissent for how our government was behaving and praised the organizers and attendees of Mosswood Meltdown for contributing to a space where freedom could be enjoyed to its fullest. Looking out over the crowd, the queen mother of riot grrl encouraged us to woman up, turn to your girlfriend, and start that band you two have been dreaming about. “I can’t wait,” she said, “to open for you in 10 years.”
Now please bear with me and read this to the tune of “Carnival” by Bikini Kill:
This is an article about the fabulous underbelly of the festival. The part that only the girls know about. This is an article about thousands of punks, getting all together, for fashion filth and riot grrl rock. You wanna go…I wanna go…We wanna go…We wanna go to Mosswood Meltdown!!!!!
