A Day of 99+ : Independent’s Day Measured Up--in the Number of Punk Bands and the Temperature

IRVINE--As numbers go, 99 has earned at least a little bit of musical distinction.

Ninety-nine is how many Luftballoons, whatever those might be, went aloft in the 1984 New Wave pop hit by the German chanteuse Nena. Ninety-nine is three more than the number of tears that ? & the Mysterians said they were going to cry. For Wilson Pickett, 99 1/2 wouldn’t do. And, as anyone who has endured a sing-along during a youth-group bus trip knows, 99 is the number of bottles of beer on the wall before they start to fall, one by one by one by one.

With Saturday’s Independent’s Day ’95 festival at Irvine Meadows, 99 now goes down in a footnote to Southern California rock history as the crazily quixotic number of little-known, grass-roots bands that two young Orange County promoters packed into a single day’s entertainment, hoping to make a mark by doing something attention-grabbing that hadn’t been done before.

As the very long, very hot day ended, Jaime Munoz and Bill Hardie sounded as if they had just finished tilting at a particularly unforgiving windmill.

Through much of the afternoon, it had felt as if 99 were the temperature. Munoz, who reported losing $8,000 on the inaugural Independent’s Day last October (which featured a mere 75 bands), partly blamed the heat for keeping paid attendance to about 2,300 this year--about half of what he had hoped to draw and far less than he needed to break even.

Furthermore, Munoz said, the heat had wrought “huge problems” on the production end. A power outage permanently silenced one of the 10 stages midway through the day. (The show took place not in the main amphitheater but on Irvine Meadows’ outer walkways, grassy concessions concourse and backstage loading area.)

Amplifiers, provided by the promoters and used communally, frequently gave out, and some musicians could be heard grousing during and after performances about their inability to hear themselves as they played. The technical problems were less apparent in the audience, where most of the bands sounded at least as good as they do in the clubs that are their normal haunts. Nearly all the bands (except for a handful with travel expenses and/or unyielding agents) played without pay out of allegiance to the local rock scene, and to be part of a high-profile event.

Munoz, who had wanted to make Independent’s Day an annual event, said he would be “reviewing my options” as to whether there will be a third show next year, adding “I hope there is.”

Hardie, whose idea it was to raise the ante to 10 stages and 100 bands (the advertised roster size, which was one more than the number of bands actually scheduled), mustered a chuckle and a grin in the face of what he declared a “production nightmare” and an economic failure.

“This is the ‘Waterworld’ of concerts, and I’m Kevin Costner,” he said. “I’m glad I did it. I would never do it again.”

*

Perhaps the defining image of Independent’s Day was that of Spike Xavier of the punk band Humble Gods, passed out flat on his face onstage, having collapsed moments after the band’s lively, humorously rebellious set. For a few worrisome minutes, the well-traveled veteran of the alternative-rock wars (as singer with O.C.’s Mind Over 4 and briefly as bassist for Mindfunk) lay atop his bass guitar like a Spartan fallen on his spear. He eventually came to, was checked by medics and walked away under his own power, saying he had made the mistake of not getting anything to drink all day.

For concert-goers, the heat compounded the festival’s already considerable strategic challenge: how to go about spectating an event with 10 stages, half of which were in use at any given moment.

Some, like Monica Prado and Chuck Gray, a couple in their early 20s from Mission Viejo, took the cafeteria (or was it the singles bar?) approach: “I like walking around [from stage to stage],” Prado said. “This way, if you don’t like somebody, go walk around and find somebody else.”

Others came with a well-defined idea of the musical menu they aimed to sample.

“We want to see some fast ska bands and punk bands our age,” said Kevin Day, who had come from Mission Viejo with his buddy, J. C. Timmons. At that moment, however, the two 18-year-olds were sitting on the grass under a tree, taking in Atomic Boy, an aggressive but pop-leaning band.

Were these two kids in baggy shorts trying to broaden their horizons with a band that was neither ska nor exactly punk, and well past their own age? No, Day answered. “It was hot, and there’s shade here. We’re just hanging out till it gets good.”

The two stayed through Atomic Boy’s set and pronounced it good. Denny Lake, the band’s leathery-looking singer, may be nearing or past the bend of 30, but Atomic Boy’s hard-revving performance backed up the sentiments he yowled tunefully near the end:

*

You and I are misfits.

We won’t grow up. We just wanna rock ‘n’ roll.

*

The two teen-agers from Mission Viejo no doubt found a lot to like at Independent’s Day: Like last year’s event, it was heavily skewed toward punk, the staple product of the Orange County rock scene, with an ample helping of punk-influenced ska bands tossed in. But the Southern California music scene is more varied than that, and with 99 slots open, more variety should have been available.

Still, there were delicacies on tap:

* Joyride and One Hit Wonder were on hand, representing the cream of the Orange County-Long Beach grass-roots scene with their blends of punk brawn, pop buoyancy and intelligent, emotionally vivid songwriting that doesn’t stop them from exuding a sense of fun on stage.

* John Easdale, the veteran singer and masterful pop-rock songwriter from Dramarama, was there launching a new electric band that includes his old Dramarama sidekick, guitarist Mark Englert.

* Fans could get two helpings of the always entertaining Mike (Gabby) Gaborno, the former Cadillac Tramps front man who played old punk cover songs with Manic Hispanic and new originals with his recently launched hard-core punk band, X-Members.

* Mystery Train, the day’s lone roots-leaning band, Burnin’ Groove, and Psychic Rain, one of the few entries playing pure pop, were other proven pleasers on the bill.

But your reviewer had vowed not to repeat the foolhardy attempt at comprehensiveness he made last Independent’s Day, when he scurried from stage to stage, sampling songs by 57 bands. That gluttonous experience left musical impressions shloshing murkily in the brain like so much runny ketchup; the impression made on the legs and feet had been more distinct.

No, the plan this year was to forgo the many familiar pleasures available on the bill and to search for new ones instead. With the day divided into 20 time-slots of 25 minutes each (a schedule that got somewhat jumbled because of the technical glitches), I managed to catch 19 bands.

One is worth a critical “Yahoo!” and its name is Yakoo. The trio from the L.A. suburb of La Crescenta has just signed with O.C.’s leading independent label, Doctor Dream Records, and it could be the big breakthrough band that label boss Dave Hayes has been trolling for these 10 years.

Yakoo plays poppy punk rock that has the drive and liftoff of the old Adolescents and the catchiness of Green Day. “Do It For Yourself” showcased the band’s knack for hooky melody writing and savvy, varied song construction. The harmonies between the lead-singing bassist and the good, slashing guitar player were sharp. The drummer pummeled and drove the band through the songs’ interest-holding shifts in dynamics and rhythm.

The kicker is that the bassist, Max Collins, and the guitarist, John Siebels, just finished the 10th grade. The kids look like choirboys, especially Siebels, a cherubic little fellow, but at ages 16 and 15 they play with the confidence and aplomb of seasoned veterans. Drummer Nick Meyers is the graybeard at 19. The future’s so bright that Yakoo would have to wear shades even without that Independent’s Day sun.

Also impressive was the old-line punk band 7 Seconds, which has been going since 1979, when one of the Yakoo kids hadn’t yet been born. The band, which originated in Reno, Nev., whipped up some of the hottest mosh-pit action on a day when only a die-hard would mosh, but its varied program also included strong, melodic fare played at more reasonable tempos. Whether in honor of the 99-band bill or simply by coincidence, 7 Seconds’ show included a snappy, punked-up sing-along version of the aforementioned hit by Nena.

The day’s award for grit went to its only all-female act, 4-Gasm. Playing at the peak of the afternoon heat in the sweltering, shadeless paved area behind the amphitheater’s main stage, the foursome from Huntington Beach and Long Beach didn’t wilt as it churned out tough, punky garage rock akin to L7.

“If I faint, it’s part of the show,” joked the lead singer, Pamela (just Pamela). Anyone who knew him/herself to be the intended object of Pamela’s authoritatively barked salvos of antagonism and disdain might have fainted for other reasons. Based on this brief introduction, achieving more variation in tone and greater melodic development is 4-Gasm’s challenge.

Toward the end of a day of overwhelming heat and almost omnipresent punk, Supernovice’s brief set at dusk was like a dip into a cool, eddying stream. The band from Orange County played well-wrought, ‘80-style college-rock, recalling the more structured, pop side of Pavement.

“Out on the Grass” was a highlight with its dark, coursing folk-rock jangle, insinuating melody and David Turbow’s soft, murmuring vocal. Supernovice got an early hook, a victim of squeezed scheduling brought on by the sound failure elsewhere. “Twenty-five minutes--that was the deal,” protested an unhappy Turbow, whose band played only about half that. He noted that he had canceled a trip to Chicago to play the gig. Still, for those few minutes, any punk-wearied onlookers had to be glad Turbow had stayed in town.

Supernova ended the long day on its usual note of fun, playing bubbly, bouncing, catchy punk tunes about a bunch of lighthearted nonsense. After a long day’s hard campaigning among the grass roots, the refrain “Chewbacca! What a Wookie!,” yelled gleefully over a crunchy, mock-heavy beat by three guys dressed in shiny space suits, was a tonic to the remaining troops.

As Irvine Meadows, Orange County’s temple to mass-market rock, closed shop on what may be its last experiment with unsung local bands, Supernova carried on--in the dark, after the sound had been switched off, relying on its pogoing, playfully slamming fans to shout along to complete the last number. It was a wonderfully Independent way to go.