WE ONLY GOT TO GO to two days’ worth of Bumbershoot this year, but will stretch our pix of the weekend out to three days, just to extend the joy.

We begin with Mass Productions, who turned the Space Needle into a giant harp last year. This year’s production was somewhat more modest.

Also back this year: Flatstock, the art show and sale by rock poster designers from across North America.

Claudia Mauro, who runs the local indie publisher Whit Press, introduced contributors from her poetry anthology In Praise of Fertile Land.

I love fertile land. I’m just not all that fond of nature poetry, particularly in the ’70s Port Townsend/La Conner style, which Mauro’s book includes much of. All that sanctimonious worship of a selectively-described “nature” in which farms never smell like manure and in which human beings other than the poet are never mentioned.

I used to dislike nature poetry because its sensibility was at odds with my young-adult cantankerousness. Now, I dislike it because it posits a Rousseau-esque romantic longing for a “simpler time” that never was.

In the real world, farmers have always been out to make a buck, have always been pressured by corporate and/or governmental powers, and have always bent and shaped the land to suit their ambitions. Rural life has always been frustrating and/or lonely. Young adults have longed to get the heck outta there since the age of Playboy of the Western World, and likely before.

I won’t even get into the PoMo philosophical construct that “nature,” as nature poets imagine it, doesn’t even exist except as a theoretical opposite to “civilization,” whatever that is.

Liz Phair, as you may have heard, has reinvented her look, from indie-rock bad girl into blonde quasi-waif. As long as she still plays and sings great, I don’t care.

In other apparel topics, fashion shows were held at regular intervals next to the “Fashion Alley” concession booths.

At one such show, we finally learned what’s worn underneath a Utilikilt—another Utilikilt.

The Bumbrella Stage, again this year, held a pair of strange banner-fellows on its sponsor flags. Last year, America’s most widely read lefty magazine shared the stage with Captain Morgan rum. This year, its logo appeared beneath that of Miller Beer, which was recently sold from Philip Morris to South African Breweries.

On the left, James Brown-esque vocalist Bobby Rush. I’ve seen James Brown impersonators on stage before, but they were always white.

…has hewed to the old Holiday Inn slogan, “The best surprise is no surprise.” It’s been a safe, demographically-targeted program thus far.

The only oddities in the spectacle: The relative lack of suburban “country” singers (just about the only celebrity performers at Bush pere‘s conventions), and the prominence of show tunes and disco music at a convention whose official platform endorses homophobia.

The verbal gaffes thus far have been predictable ones. Laura Bush deliberately mistook the Iraqi puppet state for a “democracy.” And Schwarzenneger tried to rehabilitate the spirit and tactics of Richard Nixon.

Meanwhile, the protests in the Manhattan streets may have topped 0.75 million participants, but attract almost no corporate-media attention.

…why there haven’t been more great female rock guitarists, neglecting to mention most of the ones there’ve been. (Among the missing in action: Poison Ivy Rorschach of the Cramps, the first non-singing guitarist in an otherwise all-male band.)

…of the many things we saw and did last weekend.

First, our friends in the band Lushy played the last night of Eastlake’s Bandoleone restaurant. (The building’s coming down; the management has found a new site in Fremont.)

When filming a Ford SUV commercial downtown at night, be sure your camera’s mounted on something rugged and sturdy—like a Mercedes SUV.

Seahawks Stadium hosted a big England-vs.-Scotland soccer exhibition. So, of course, the George and Dragon Pub in Fremont hosted a huge postgame party. The joint was filled with raucous singing, replica team jerseys, and dudes with accents boasting to me about their love of drinking until passing out.

And our ol’ friends Elaine Bonow and Harry Pierce debuted their funky li’l soul band Stupid Boy at the new intimate Blue Button cabaret space.

WE SHOT A LOTTA PIX this past weekend. Today, the Capitol Hill Block Party. Tomorrow, other scenes.

If there was an unofficial theme to this year’s heat-drenched Block Party, it was woman-power, in the retro-burlesque and other interpretations. Between the Rat City Rollergirls, the naughty T-shirts for sale, some righteous lady slam poets, and some slammin’ rock bands, the party offered a cornucopia of saucy, sassy femme-empowerment visions.

The party’s chief expression of masculine energy was the closing set by those 20-year veterans of slow metal, the Melvins. I didn’t get any good pictures of their set, partly because these three young aggressive stoners kept stalking me. (Note to our older readers: “Aggressive stoner” ceased to be an oxymoron several years ago.) They insisted that I’d taken pictures of them, which I hadn’t. They semi-incoherently threatened violence, even after I showed them I had no pictures of them.

…I can truthfully say I admire Linda Ronstadt— she sacrificed a high-paying Vegas gig by praising Fahrenheit 9/11 on stage.

…or at leat I didn’t use to be. But I’m a wee bit perturbed by the Republican partisans’ media leaks of supposed “terror threats” to the Presidential election, which maybe, just maybe, would give the Bushies an excuse to try to cancel or postpone the vote. That would be the end of the World’s Oldest Democracy. Period. Don’t let the GOP even imagine they could get away with it.

…how TV news will survive in a postmodern world; implying that American journalism as we know it has been embedded in an old-style “modern” zeitgeist.

…is a pair of Johns.

The downside: The wannabe-Veep’s another Southern moderate beloved by the Democratic Leadership Council corporate wimps.

The good news: He reads great speeches.

On the weekend of Ladyfest Seattle, Friday’s Wall St. Journal has a cute feature story (available online only to paid subscribers) about “mom bands,” punk groups not only fronted but entirely operated by women who’ve got kids. One of the groups profiled even has a song called “Eat Your Damn Spaghetti,” vaguely reminiscent of the 1983 Seattle stage musical Angry Housewives and its signature song “Eat Your Fucking Cornflakes.”

A conspiracy theorist claims the Olympia riot grrrl bands were all devised by one women’s-studies prof at Evergreen, as an experiment in “estrogen therapy” designed to counter the effects of media/government psy-ops drives “to turn impulsive reactions to sexual stimuli into increased consumption.”

• Leonard Pitts asserts that the news media “have embarrassed themselves this week. They have rewritten history and slapped on a happy face.”
• William Greider, expectedly, calls Reagan “a fabulist” who “launched the great era of false triumphalism that continues to this day among American leadership.”
• In These Times quotes historian Wakter Karp describing Reagan as “Like Death not knowing itself”: “Yet what brutal truncation, what cutting back of the plant, produces that splendid bosom! What lopping away of knowledge, of curiosity, of truthfulness, to produce that public aura of candor and confidence. What lopping away of realism, foresight, even the very capacity to govern. Reagan is ignorant, deliberately, willfully ignorant, scarcely knows who works for him, rarely asks a penetrating question.”
• Randolph T. Holhut remembers the Reagan era as “an exercise in horror and frustration, but it turned out to just a warm-up to a presidency that is even worse.”
• Gary Dretzka insists that the also recently-deceased Ray Charles “probably did as much for lifting the veil of tyranny on imprisoned nations as Reagan….”
• And theater critic Frank Rich likens Bush to Reagan’s “Stunt Double”—”But unlike Reagan, Mr. Bush is so inured to the prerogatives of his life of soft landings that his attempts to affect a jus’ folks geniality are invariably betrayed by nastiness whenever someone threatens to keep him from getting his own way.”

In the end, the corporate media’s Reagan hagiography, in which the smiling countenance was lauded and the cruel policies ignored, could be interpreted as little more than the corporate media’s (and even the “alternative” media’s) business as usual, in regard to dead famous people. The media tend to act as if someone’s media image was someone’s whole being. They don’t care what you did, just “who” you superficially were. Hence, Ken Kesey was principally described in most obits as a “sixties icon,” not as a novelist.

I began this thread a week ago by mentioning that I’d been reading a lot in self-help books about the importance of maintaining a positive attitude. I’ll end the thread by mentioning another concept in some of these books—the duality between “doing” (masculine/yang/western) and “being” (feminine/yin/eastern).

Some of the books’ authors claim modern society has overemphasized the “doing” aspect of human lives, and ignored the “being” aspect.

I’d say certain parts of modern society overemphasize a shallow slice of the “being” aspect, and always have. The current White House occupant didn’t get there due to anything he did (other than schmooze big campaign contributors), but because of what he “was”—his daddy’s boy. Over the centuries, too many incompetent people have attained too much power due to such trivial criteria.

In Reagan’s case, he worked and clawed his way up from Illinois radio and into the easy life. This self-made status made him a good figurehead spokesman for the silver-spoon set, a more effective one than either of the George Bushes. He attained the power to do good things for many people, but instead helped create the sleaze machine that’s still trashing this country and this planet.

We are all “doings” as well as “beings.” And both count.

I really, really want light entertainment programming to be a permanent part of the local Seattle TV scene, which it hasn’t been for more than two years.

So I wanted KIRO’s Star Search Seattle to be a smash.

Alas, it’s a dud.

The original Star Search format, as you may recall from the old Ed McMahon series, would be a natural for a talent-rich town such as ours. It mixed singers, dancers, comedians, “spokesmodels,” and other performance categories, in simple one-on-one competitions before celebrity judges. The recent CBS network revival featured four categories.

Instead, Star Search Seattle depicted only one performance genre—karaoke singing.

In six one-hour episodes, a total of 36 amateur and semipro vocalists belted their way through various ’70s-soul moldies and office-radio-station ballads, to the accompaniment of canned backing tracks. In one nod to the original, the singers were judged two at a time. The pairings weren’t the fairest—decent song-stylists often faced off against one another, and pathetic wannabes often competed against other pathetic wannabes.

To their credit, the judges (Mr. President Chris Ballew, record producer Glenn Lorbiecki, and local DJs Lisa Foster and Mitch Elliott) never insulted the contestants, but gave kind and constructive criticism. (I still don’t know why Ballew and Lorbiecki each had one vote in the judging, while Foster and Elliott had to split a vote.)

Anyhoo, you’ve one more chance to see the show, such as it is. The big season finale will be telecast live at 8 p.m. this Friday (6/18/04), originating from the Clearwater Casino (the series’ main sponsor, as noted, ’50s-game-show style, by logos decorating the studio set of the preliminary episodes).

And the station’s promising a second season sometime. I hope next time they’ll dump the American Idol aping and embrace the something-for-everyone format of the original Star Search.

Indeed, I could envision new genre categories for a Seattle talent competition. Slam poetry, of course, but also DJ-ing (in turntable and laptop divisions), conceptual/performance art, and even musical performances that include the playing of actual instruments.

…who wished the well wishes on my recent birthday. It was indeed pleasurable and memorable.

One of the things I did that day was to visit Chateau Ste. Michelle, the modern factory (hidden behind a pseudo-French facade on an old dairy farm) that, as much as any other outfit, spurred the Washington wine biz to its current lofty heights.

The winery tour was brief and efficiently laid-out. The guide told a little bit about the many different wines made here and at a satellite facility in Eastern Washington, and about some of the awards the company’s received over the years.

He didn’t mention Ste. Michelle’s origin as Pomerelle, a little plant on the Sea-Tac strip that had made cheap screw-top wines since the end of Prohibition. In the late ’60s, it started making “real” wines under the Ste. Michelle name. Under master marketer Charles Finkel (who went on to start the beer importer/distributor Merchant du Vin and the Pike Pub and Brewery), Ste. Michelle became prominent enough to get bought out by U.S. Tobacco, the “smokeless tobacco” guys. With this corporate backing, the company built the “Chateau,” added subsidiary brands and branch plants, and became the grape-crushin’ colossus we know n’ love today.

Back in Bothell, one drive-up espresso stand embraces an epithet that’s apparently become beyond-passe in the big city.

LAST FRIDAY, the mercilessly-hyped new arena rock band Velvet Revolver came to the Moore. The group, and its audience, were welcomed by no fewer than three radio-station promo tents.

All three tents boasted mega sound systems, each blasting a different yet identical mix of generic dirtboy metal. Two of the tents proclaimed the word “alternative” as part of their respective stations’ slogans.

Once upon a time, generic dirtboy metal was the definition of what “alternative” music was an alternative to.

…to ex-Seattleite and pop legend Ray Charles, and to Tacoma jazz musician, nightclub owner, and political satirist Red Kelly.