By Ian S. Port
By Tony Ware
By Emma Silvers
By Gary Moskowitz
By Alee Karim
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Derek Opperman
On 4/20 Sean Rawls and his friends gathered in the amphitheater of McLaren Park after dark and performed something like a reverse rain dance, praying and chanting to the God of Outdoor Music Festivals, asking for a miracle. Three days later, on Saturday, 4/23, the forecast predicted showers -- thunderstorms, no less. That morning, swollen gray clouds had amassed over the city. It seemed the God of Outdoor Music Festivals hadn't gotten the message.
Rawls is the lead singer for the 15-member reggae group Still Flyin', which I have written about in this space before and which I look forward to writing about again and again, because Still Flyin' is a sweet-ass band. Over the last two months, Rawls had been diligently making the preparations for the first annual Mind Zap Festival and sending out updates. Mind Zap, Rawls promised, would feature hot tubs and free beer and "spiritual" brownies; it would feature a Mystery Tent and Mind Tokens, whatever those were; there would be a homemade bar shaped like a giant, smoking joint; and there would be music: Erase Errata, Still Flyin', Okay, Je Suis France, Whysp, Weed Wolf, Lil' Flip Scoldjah, and Chicken on a Raft. Who were those bands? We weren't sure about most of them, but Rawls' e-mails made the whole thing hard to pass up:
"Remember the sixties? This is better. ... One outdoor, mind-obliterating show in a park (inter-band jamming welcomed/drum circles circled/ beer helmets flowing/ makeshift hot tubs bubbling/ corndogs frying). The Mind Zap Festival will be an event, a concert, and most importantly, a party -- wild and weird, yet comforting. Will you fly with us?"
"Yes," we answered, looking skyward at the gray nastiness as we parked the car and walked toward the hubbub. A friend who was planning to meet us called to say it was pouring in the Lower Haight.
The McLaren Park amphitheater seems like it could conceivably be the site of a mind zapping. The large stage looks out on row after row of brand-new wooden benches, which creep up a hill and give way to a sloping grassy field, atop which there's a tree, in which climbed hippies, next to which sat the Mystery Tent, a simple brown camping tent that you could stick your hand into for a pleasant or not-so-pleasant surprise (one friend got a handful of shaving cream, another received two Hershey's Kisses). When we arrived at 1 o'clock, half the spiritual brownies had been eaten and about 50 people were watching Chicken on a Raft, whose shtick consisted of the a cappella singing of verses between which the audience sang, "Chicken on a Raft." We were glad we'd arrived late. So far, no rain.
"We don't want you to harsh anyone's mellow," a Mind Zap program informed us, "but the ideal for today is everyone here blowing each other's minds with amazement." Rawls and friends had taken the first well-meaning steps: The hot tub consisted of a tiny kid's pool that someone had poured hot water into; the Mind Tokens, which could be exchanged for beer, were large foam discs covered in tinfoil; the joint-bar puffed with smoke from a smoke machine. It was all quite cute, and the complimentary red headbands reading "Mind Zap" that everyone was wearing, plus the whole "nestled in the woods" thing, gave the event a certain Neverland-ish quality -- and that is always a good thing.
The fairy tale continued when Lil' Flip Scoldjah took the stage. Scoldjah is a band made up of Rawls' friends from Athens, Ga., and it plays what it calls "fantasy rap." Slinking onstage wearing capes and cloaks and hoods, the four members gyrated and bounced as low-budget beats farted out of the speakers. When the lone MC and only musically contributing member of the group took the mike (said MC will heretofore be referred to as "74," for that was the number on the shirt he was wearing), one of his dancing cronies threw open his red cape and revealed that he was wearing nothing but black Jockey shorts.
"This next song is told from the viewpoint of a little elfish lad," 74 informed us as another crony pushed "play" on an iPod. The frontman then rapped with all the rhythm of an English sheepdog, his syllables dribbling out the way your dad's do when he tries to imitate hip hop. Keep in mind that he was flanked by three dancers dressed like they were off to a Dungeons & Dragons convention. A few minutes later we were treated to the tune "Ride Out, Gandalf, Ride Out."
It was, in other words, completely genius. If all of hip hop were like this, rappers would settle disputes not with guns and ammo but with 20-sided die and illustrated playing cards. Lil' Flip Scoldjah embodies that beautiful dream.
Next came Weed Wolf, yet another side project from Erase Errata's Jenny Hoyston, who (for this one) wears a stuffed-animal wolf on her head and sings through effects boxes -- much like her big, bad namesake -- as accordion and silly beats play in the background. It was pretty stupid (this from a guy who just called fantasy rap genius), and since we were informed that Mind Zap marked the final appearance of Weed Wolf, I will simply move on to ...