Not in Kansas Anymore.... A Folkie Goes to Ozz
Two days after Falcon Ridge, I was packing for another festival - rain gear, binoculars, fresh fruit, ear plugs.... and the next morning my good friend Chris and I drove out to Saratoga Springs for the Ozzfest. Ozzy Osbourne, founder of the ground-breaking group Black Sabbath, holds roughly the same position in the world of heavy metal as Dylan does in folk - just short of godhead. Now I don't listen to metal music, but Chris took me to a mind-bending Metallica concert two summers ago and how could I resist playing anthropologist again, especially now that I get to report back to you all?
Of course at first you notice the surface differences. Folkies prefer bright colors - metal fans wear black. Folkies sing literate songs of a harmonious world where we all get along - Metal bands scream out unintelligible nightmarish visions of hell on earth. Folkies come to festivals in vans and Volvos full of food, potables, portable kitchens, lawn chairs - At the Ozzfest, everyone had to park their pickups outside and we were frisked at the gate; I wasn't even allowed to bring in my shopping bag of bananas and had to empty my water bottle on the ground, just in case I was trying to smuggle in vodka...
In every way, the Heavy Metal scene appears to be the polar opposite of folk. So, logic suggests that they must be more closely related than we imagine. Both see themselves as counter-culture movements stemming from a dissatisfaction with the mainstream. Both have grassroots followings (you can't hear any metal on commercial radio either). Both musics are ideological, message driven - as opposed to mainstream rock and country which are one long lobotomy that commercials don't even interrupt. And maybe both are in danger of succumbing to their success. Once Chris and I strolled under the inflatable simulated-stone arch festooned with snakes and flames, we found ourselves on a midway packed with all the familiar crafts people selling cheap jewelry, counterculture clothing, decals and bumper stickers.
The grounds of the park reminded me of the Woodstock County Fair more than anything else. You could test your strength with a sledgehammer, shoot out the red paper star with a semi-automatic BB gun, or pop balloons with darts. Of course, you have to ignore the little idiosyncracies - the sign at the rifle range said: "Go f**king crazy with Ozzy's machine guns" and "show us your t**s and get a free CD." The balloons for the dart-game were paired underneath t-shirts with a sign that rhymed "Hit the T**s." The crowd, mostly male, sported t-shirts with logos for bands like Six Feet Under, Slayer, Sepultura and Slipknot. I wish I could show you pictures, but they didn't allow any cameras inside either.
The satanic icons, the misogynist slogans, the suicidal volume, all had a kitschy, self-parodic flair. One could appreciate it on some level for its rebelliousness and irony - at least from the outside. But I got the feeling that all the kids with doorknockers in their noses and maps of their subconscious tatooed across their bodies were not a parody of evil on purpose. Satan, as they say, has no horns - he's just a guy in a business suit. And as I watched the girl band Kittie thrashing and screaming in a kind of mini-Linda-Blair-fest, I found myself wondering which was more Satanic - the imposing gothic "OZZFEST" looming in crooked iron-like letters over the stage, the fanged demons in hellfire that leered from the backdrop, or the everpresent corporate sponsor's logo, in its neat, Helvetica typeface:
Dreamcast ®
As for the music - you think Moxy Früvous is funny? How about these knock-offs of Motley Crüe. Three mainstage groups - Incubus, Godsmack, Pantera - were virtually indistinguishable without binoculars: three guys (bass, guitar, vocal) stalking around the stage with another guy flailing madly behind a drum kit the size of a small industrial park. To this folk fan, the songs were indistinguishable too - hoarse screaming, wailing unmelodic guitar riffs, and drum-bass combos simulating non-stop thunder. It was a ritual designed to help members of the audience lose their individual identities, even their humanity, and merge to become a pure, unrelenting force of nature. Folkies may be apt to hug trees and save whales, but these people are even greener - they want to be Nature. Whirlwind, volcano, leviathan - this music digs down and down and down. It tries to grab hold of the pure chthonic demiurge that stirs deep in the bowels of the earth, the supernatural force at the core of physical existence itself. Unfortunately, the lack of alcohol inhibited this process a good deal. Each band leader tried to whip us into hysteria by hurling the vilest obscenities at us (virtually the only words I understood from the stage all day - but see below) and urging us to trash the place. But nothing worked. It was kind of sad. Still, I held my breath (and my ears) eager for my first experience of Ozzy Osbourne....
Hugh Blumenfeld, Editor
hugh@balladtree.com
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