
PHOTO: The Mae Shi by Sung. Full F Yeah gallery here.
This year’s F Yeah Fest almost ended in tragedy before it began: Sean Carlson, the festival organizer, was chased down the street and savagely beaten by some security guards at the Hollywood Bowl (while some cops watched) just days before the event. But L.A.’s indomitable spirit being what it is, he lathered up his bruises and managed to get things up and running nonetheless. Come August 30th, kids of all ages still managed to drag their no-speed bikes on down to the Echoplex to see four fantastic stages of muscular music and courageous comedy for hour upon hour, hoping to catch something amazing they’d never heard before.
It was in that spirit that I showed up at the Echo around 4:30 to see the Underground Railroad to Candyland, a highly enthusiastic punk band with two singers who sang all the same lines in tandem, one guy with a headband and beard strumming a guitar while singing, the other guy wearing a Spongebob shirt, shorts and sunglasses indoors, leaping into the air and belting out his words as if they were prophecy. He literally looked and sounded like one of the Kipper Kids, and I mean that as a compliment. With sing-a-long songs about cocaine and “going downtown to see the body of a bird,” they sounded like Hickey meets Sham 69 meets Toni Basil’s “Micky.” And it was pretty awesome. Later, comedian Kyle Kinane on the Rec Center stage would make a joke about Spongebob dude: “Musicians get laid. I saw some guy on stage at the Echo with a Spongebob shirt on, jumping up and down. ‘You got two years of fucking anybody you want. Use it wisely.’”
But back to the crowds—this year saw a new crop of kids who probably just turned fourteen, and it’s refreshing to see new fashions replace the tired hoodies and Mao hats that were festival staples just a few years back. I saw tasteful pompadours, a couple pairs of boat shoes, and some kids so young and fresh, their angelic eyelashes made them look like they were wearing eyeliner when they probably weren’t. There seemed to be some confusion about the proper way to wear jeans—clearly flares were out, but the battles of wrinkly ankles versus cuffs, cut-offs versus full length, and tight asses versus saggy britches raged. And nearly everybody seemed confused about where to lock up their bicycles.
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