It Crawled Through the South

AthFest: A journey in stages

by M.J. Fine

The Methodists are here in Athens, Ga. Not the Method Actors, the drums-and-guitar duo that came up in the early '80s scene which also spawned R.E.M. The North Georgia Methodists are having their annual conference in town. They go about their business, most of them paying no attention to the weekend's other event: AthFest.

It's not like the music festival is hidden -- that would be hard to do in a town of 100,000. (About a third of the population attends the University of Georgia.) Given that just six streets house the 18 venues that host more than 150 bands this weekend, it's almost like the Methodists are oblivious to those about to rock.

AthFest starts Thursday night with just two options. Flagpole, the local music weekly, is presenting awards at the Morton Theatre, but we go to the 40 Watt Club to see Great Lakes and Summer Hymns. The 40 Watt has what Philadelphians have been missing since the Upstage closed: comfy sofas with a good view of the stage. Great Lakes released The Distance Between (Orange Twin) last year, but the eight people on stage haven't played together in two years. From the sound of it, you'd never guess they don't all live in one big house. Some still live in town; others have followed their psych-pop muses to San Francisco and New York. Only a cover of "Is Anyone Going to San Antone?" suggests someone needs a hitch further west than the boulevard. Summer Hymns is cover-happy, slipping snippets of "Thriller" and "Dear God" between songs from their new Clemency (Misra). (We like to think this is a reaction to the controversy over Flagpole's new award for best cover band.) We're partial to "Pete Rose Affinity," but "Wet Mess" works, too. Fifteen hours on the road has made us hungry and tired, so we skip out on The Late B.P. Helium.

Friday's a beautiful day, it feels good to not be in rainy Philly anymore. At the outdoor stage, Mayor Heidi Davison kicks it off for real for real, introducing New York's Freeloader by reading their bio straight from the program. Good thing it wasn't one of the snarkier ones. Frontman Scott Sinclair takes issue with the "amiable sort of rock" tag but it fits Freeloader's chugging lite-alt-country-blues-rock. Brandy Wood from Cracker helps out on "Lemonade." A 70ish woman boogies alone in front of the barricade.

Asphalt Blaster is fronted by a former Black Crowe who isn't a Robinson, and they sound like it. You can imagine Johnny Colt coming up with the idea for the band name: "Asphalt's kind of like stone, right? And blaster, like rocker? Stone rocker, get it? Like stoner rock, get it?"). The single-entendres of "Latina Love Machine" aren't just offensive ("I love the flavor of a Hispanic girl /Down south the vato pearl /I like to watch as her flags unfurl /My white skin in her olive world"), they are also bad rhymes ("She's like the goddess from an Aztec myth /Large breasted with a sword in the fist /Hot tamale cooked all night /Ghetto girl who gives it to me right").

Flat Duo Jets are prominently figured in the mid-'80s documentary Athens, Ga.: Inside/Out (which Secret Cinema is screening for free tonight, Thursday, at 9 p.m., outdoors at 40th Street Field between Walnut and Locust sts.). Scenesters still argue about whether the band had any legitimate claim to the town. Now that Crow's gone, Dexter Romweber is doing his garage-rockabilly thing as the Dexter Romweber Duo and recently opened for the White Stripes. They rock, but all I can think is: Brother Dex got fat!

By the time Brandy Wood comes back to the stage with Cracker, she's drunk. That doesn't matter until she drops her guitar, and even that doesn't matter much. David Lowery may be the brains behind the band, but Wood and Johnny Hickman just look like the embodiment of rock. They sound like it too, playing the hits ("Eurotrash Girl," "Teen Angst," "Low") and the best off last year's underrated Forever ("Brides of Neptune," "Guarded By Monkeys").

At the Georgia Theatre, The Emma Gibbs Band's bluegrass fits right in at Paste magazine's Americana showcase. But why do bands insist on naming themselves after people who aren't in the band? And why, if you don't have a female singer, give yourself a woman's name? Sugarland doesn't have that problem. Or any problems, really. Singer-songwriters Kristen Hall, Kristian Bush and Jennifer Nettles have it together as a straight-up country band with sassy lyrics and catchy tunes like "Down in Mississippi (And Up to to No Good)" and "50 Cent Lovin'." They appeal to our inner Dixie Chicks fans. Y'all need to stop hating on the Dixie Chicks.

Over at Kindercore's Birthday Brannigan at the 40 Watt Club, I Am the World Trade Center -- who won awards for best pop group, best experimental electronic group and, as Twin Powers, best DJ -- rock our asses off. We couldn't stop dancing if we tried. Dan Gellar and Amy Dykes are like The Red Shoes, without the death. It's just impossible to resist a theremin and Vocoder twofer. They end the night with a cover -- "Don't You Want Me" -- and the crowd is singing as much as Gellar and Dykes.

Saturday's the perfect day for exploring Athens' musical history. To the woman working at the welcome center, R.E.M. and Ryan Adams are interchangeable.

The bus tour takes us past the grave of the B-52's Ricky Wilson, to various R.E.M. and Widespread Panic landmarks and, finally, to the home of tour guide Paul Butchart, where the B-52's played their first party in 1977.

The Cindy Wilson Band plays outside as night falls. We give the band credit for not sounding anything like the B-52's. Wilson's voice is still lovely, but we miss Kate Pierson's harmonies. Two borrowed songs from Wilson's old band have opposite results: a slow "Roam" is a bad idea, but "Ain't It a Shame" is a beautiful resurrection. The band is solid but dull, playing blues and funk without getting too blue or funky. The earnest lyrics don't probe to deeply, and the most you can say of "Ricky," Wilson's ode to her brother, is that it's heartfelt and sweet. One of the keyboard players looks like he's about to go Hulk on the drummer.

At Tasty World, the crowd sings every word of best punk band honoree Carrie Nations' cute pop-punk set. Some kids clamber onstage and share microphones through the set; others hurl themselves into a respectful pit.

Upstairs at Backdraft, frat boys dance to Lynyrd Skynyrd. Downstairs, singer/songwriter Nathan Sheppard struggles to be heard.

Roots-rockers Lona send us home with a strong set of pedal-steel-sweetened songs at Caledonia Lounge. Too bad their chatty crowd, all elbows and knees, wasn't as courteous as Carrie Nations'.

We have a long ride home Sunday, so we leave town before anyone should have to wake up. On the way north, we listen to Sugarland's CD and wonder about some of the bands we wanted to see: fitness rockers Rump Posse, Yugoslavian string duo Viktor & Andrej, redneck cut-ups Drunk & Furious, skate-metal band Music Hates You, ex-Macha guys Tenderness and lady singer The Kitty Snyder Broadcast. But at least we saw more bands than the Methodists did.