Lobsterfest 2014 / April 24 - 26, 2014 / Casa Cantina, The Union, Central Venue & The Smiling Skull

By: Ross Lockhart, Contributor

I wrote a Scene and Heard post about Lobsterfest last year, but it turned out to be about me fighting with my old girlfriend. Upon reading it again, the piece overtly reflects a distinct indecisiveness characteristic of most music and sex-obsessed 21-year-olds exploring the perpetual conflict between obligation and desire. My favorite passage, for example, reads: “Everything was a little hazy so I sat down and drank some more cheap beer on a porch. From the view on the porch I watched my girlfriend climb a fence. At home we fought viciously but made peace to order more pizza. A half an hour later she was crying again while I stared at the rebirthed pizza in the toilet bowl.” It was a good weekend, but it was also a bad weekend. It was heaven and hell, yin and yang, pain and pleasure indistinguishable.

My younger brother is 18-years-old and I barely know him. It's unfortunate, but my relationship with my family has suffered since the day I left for college. I always told myself that there would be time to mend things later on, but with my brother graduating from high school and my grandparents moving into assisted living, it feels like time is running out.

My brother, Craig, has hardly been anywhere or done anything on his own. He's stays close to home because of his friendship with our youngest brother, Wyatt, and from being coddled by our admirable, yet unknowable parents. Craig says he's sick of high school and small town suburban life. Since his spring break coincided with this year's Lobsterfest, I invited him down to Athens to escape the pressures of adolescence for the weekend.

When Craig arrived, I switched into cool-guy-older-brother-mode and took him to the dining hall. He seemed completely overwhelmed but excited. After that we went to see Aaron Carter even though Craig had no idea who he was. AC’s visit to Athens quickly became a dead horse. It was a humbling reminder of the dehumanizing effect of celebrities. The most profound assessment I've heard about the spectacle was this: “He's up there in front of everybody doing his thing, but when it's over he's just going to go back to wherever he's from and be alone again.” Needless to say, Craig was unimpressed.

We then decided to splurge on party supplies using the substantial amount of pocket money my parents had given him for the weekend and went back to the house. That night he said he wasn't feeling well, so I headed to Casa solo. Ghost Stories played a solid set that further established them as the hunkiest band in Athens. With Slam Stansfield as an official member, the group's sound has evolved without sacrificing any of their goofy boy-band charm. Eric Bishop sang “If it's meant to be it will happen” and wiggled his hips. Everyone cheered. After that, dust from 1000 yrs played an insanely loud set that provoked plenty of “Yeah, I wasn't really into that” reactions.

Craig was feeling better the next day and was able to partake in our house's ice cream social. While we had a decent turnout in spite of the rain, we barely put a dent in the cream. Harold's mother, a poised and elegant woman, came down to visit for the night. When it was her turn to do charades she threw herself onto the floor and waved her arms and legs while doing so. Everybody lost it and Harold guessed the word: Bodysurfing.

Frankie Teardrop had already finished playing by the time we got to The Union. “I'm not upset that you missed it,” Shane Riley told me. “But that was probably the best set we've ever played.” Distraught, I bought a beer for myself and a Rum & Coke for Craig. Moltar played fifteen minutes of undulating electronic noise that mostly confused the attendees. Craig was fascinated. “Is this music?” he asked.

After Moltar came Horse Lords, who were amazing. Their music is a combination of uptempo math and progressive instrumental rock with one of the members switching between auxiliary percussion and saxophone. When he first blew on that sax, the crowd lost their minds. They played three 10+ minute songs, and every movement was highly dynamic and exciting, which made for one of the best sets of the whole weekend. Craig was thrilled. He had never seen live music before. “Wow,” he said. “Those guys killed it.” He had a big, goofy smile on his face.

Saturday was a long, hazy day. We spent most of it on the porch drinking beer and killing time until the show. At Central Venue, Giant Claw performed. Craig said he was “pretty cool.” Hyrrokkin ripped it. Craig said they were also “pretty cool.” We skipped out on the rest of the bands until it was time for Deerhoof to play. They put on a great show, especially the drummer, Greg Saunier. “I Swear to God, dude,” Sam said to me. “That's the best drummer in the world.” Saunier gave a short and moving, if not slightly abstract, speech describing life on tour as “repetition and variety both in the extreme” as he dripped sweat all over the stage. Lead singer Satomi Matsuzaki played the bass and kicked her little legs from side to side. Deerhoof has been around for ten years and they still look thrilled to be playing music together.

Everything was a blur at The Smiling Skull. (New England) Patriots are the best band ever. Toupee was amazing. I went upstairs and found Craig surrounded by my friends. They were teasing him, asking him if he knew what a spank bank was. “I mean... I know what it is, but it's not like I have one,” he said, blushing with a blissful, drunken grin on his face. Small Steps (or Stepping Stones, as Craig called them) played their last set ever to an especially rowdy crowd. My beer got knocked out of my hand and spilled all over the stage. With his hair dangling in his face, Grant held his guitar over his head and punched it until the feedback sounded like a demonic scream. It was a truly primal moment. He looked like a neanderthal wielding a giant bone with all the under-evolved apes losing their shit in awe of his power. I've seen Small Steps play tons of times, but this was something special.

I wanted to stick around and give out sloppy hugs, so Craig walked back to my house by himself. When I got home he was asleep under the glow of the porch lights, his head propped in his hand. He woke up and stretched. “Tonight was so fun,” he said. “I think I should go to sleep.” I said goodnight and sat by myself listening to the quiet. My ears were ringing. Sam came and sat next to me. “Today was the best day of my life,” he told me. “It's so sad and beautiful. When you play music together, that's an unbreakable friendship. It's something you can never give up.” Harold joined us and we all sat reflecting on the glorious day.

In the morning I asked Craig if he wanted to get some food before he left but his head and stomach hurt. I hugged him and said goodbye. As he drove away I felt really sad, like there was something missing. Maybe I should have been more considerate. Maybe I should take myself more seriously and be a better role model and brother. Four hours later he sent me a text. It read:

“Made it home. Thanks for having me man. I had such a blast. Have to do it again sometime.”

This made everything okay. I feel as though I understand Craig now, or better anyway. We still have a lot of things to learn about each other, more than could ever be learned in a single weekend, but we finally have some memories to share just between the two of us. It feels good. Being a big brother is a responsibility I never wanted until now, but Craig is cool. We had fun.

P.S. This Lobsterfest and sibling bonding would not have been possible without Shane Riley and ACRN with help from the Student Activity Commission. Thanks!

Method Air, Busy Busy, Night Stalker, & Slut Castle / August 31, 2013 / The Union

By: Ross Lockhart, Staff Writer

Once upon a time, I worked at summer camp, and while working at this summer camp, I wore a decrepit pair of moccasins that were probably never intended to be worn outside. I liked them despite their impracticality and wore them on the walk to the waterfront every day. Inevitably, a huge hole appeared in the right and shortly after, the left. The day the first hole materialized, another counselor named Bret, undeniably the biggest tool I have ever met in my life, suddenly surprised me with a moment of profound sincerity. As I raised my defeated shoe in mourning, he rested his hand on my shoulder and looked at me.

"All good things must come to an end, man," he said.

While I never wish to see Bret again, his corny pseudo-philosophical instance of empathy has stayed with me to this day. I still have the moccasins somewhere. They're wearable, but remain embalmed in a kind of stasis, preserved in a bubble of fond memories. To take them out again would be a violation of their retirement, a breach of the unwritten code of old shoes. Extracting any more use from them would only result in their needless destruction. It's best to leave them in a nice dry spot, out of view, simply for the thrill of discovering them years later. I remember these shoes. I had a lot of fun in these shoes.

All good things must come to an end.

Walking into The Union, I felt like Keanu Reeves after waking up from the Matrix. Dripping umbilical fluid across the black and white floor, all my friends were there and I felt really good about that night. Drinking some beers with the boys. Everything was great. Busy Busy, a noisy, mostly instrumental band made up of a bunch of my good buddies, started off the music with a short but ear-splitting performance. Forgoing their usual sprawling sound for a tighter, more concise set, they sounded great and I couldn't stop smiling. They'll hopefully be playing the odd show now and then, so be sure to catch them if you get the chance.

After that, I went across the street and ate my first chicken waffle. While it was certainly unlike anything I've ever eaten before, I can't say I enjoyed it the whole way through. The bizarre honey mustard/maple syrup sauce they drench those things in kept me coming back for more, but when it was all over, I immediately regretted touching my lips to that evil nectar. It felt like I just eaten a brick of fiberglass insulation. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was going to vomit and the beer didn't help much, either. In spite of this, both Slut Castle and Night Stalker were great. They are both relatively new local bands you'll probably see a lot of this year. There was an older lady wearing a pink cowboy hat who was really loving it. She would dance nonstop around the bar, get another drink and be back on the floor, ass shaking and waving her hands in the air.

When Method Air finally went on, everyone was ecstatic. I felt so proud seeing Sam and Danny up there. We all became good friends over the summer and they have remained one of my favorite bands, period. They opened with a new song, “Noise Violation,” which was inspired by the fun-hating, party-ruining, cop-calling lady who lives up the street from us. I looked around and the crowd was an ocean of smiles. Instant magic. Ripping into a Guided by Voices cover, Sam played his guitar and sang with the care and finesse of a father quieting a crying baby. When Shower Beers' Jon Gordon joined the band on stage for a rendition of the Smashing Pumpkins' “Starla,” IT happened.

IT is when everyone is perfectly in tune with the music, when the separation between audience and performer completely disappears. IT is when every component of the experience becomes important, which is a fragile thing, but there comes a realization that everything is perfect--a visceral connection with the music and the people around you. Each person in the room becomes essential to the moment and everything falls into place. My face started to hurt and I realized I had been smiling like a fucking goofball from the second they took the stage.

They finished the song and the crowd immediately screamed, "ENCORE!" Sam looked like such a rock star as he strummed the opening to “Election Day.” “Every morning I forget the night before / Emptiness is swept up off the kitchen floor,” he sang. Everyone joined in. “What's the deal with everyone? / Why do they look that way?” To see my friends up there, playing music that means so much to them surrounded by people with unwavering love and support for their art, suddenly brought from me such a tide of emotion that I felt like crying. This is IT, I thought. This is fucking IT. Sam wailed on his guitar until his face was red, Grant's hat flew off, and when the song ended everyone screamed and cheered and hugged. It was the most beautiful thing I've seen in a very long time. I left the bar last night in a strange euphoria, intoxicated by the energy of the show and my friends around me, feeling like anything is possible with a clear head and a chicken waffle bubbling in my tortured stomach.  

ACRN Presents: Jonathan Hape, Frankie Teardrop and Small Steps / December 6, 2012 / The Smiling Skull

By: Ross Lockhart, Staff Writer

I feel like I don’t go out that much. This is probably an exaggeration, but with all the shows that happen around Athens, it seems like I see very few of them. I wasn’t about to miss this one, though. For whatever reason, I had hyped this show up to myself a great deal. I felt a strong sense of culmination, like everything was coming together. It was one of those nights where everything just felt right.

My friends and I showed up at the perfect time. Frankie Teardrop was just about to go on. The humble threesome assembled behind their respective instruments and got right to it. Dudes were shredding. There was a notable difference from the last time I had seen them perform. Everyone in the crowd was completely engrossed immediately. It seems that the group has finally closed in on a sound and how they want to play. The audience huddled around the band intently, too interested in the music to thrash around. They played fast songs, heavy songs and closed it out with a distinct, mostly instrumental, ridiculously groovy banger. Just like that, Frankie Teardrop became my new favorite band. Tonight, The Skull. Tomorrow, the world.

Obviously, Frankie T was going to be a hard act to follow, but I was stoked to see visiting artist Jonathan Hape perform as well. He had a unique one-man-band setup with a guitar, custom rigged kick and snare drums and plenty of pedals and fancy-looking gear. Unfortunately, there were some issues with the setting up of said gear. My guess is he felt rushed and certain plugs didn’t make it into the correct holes. He started playing, and the mix was low and uneven. Everyone just looked at each other nervously. The sound guys tried to crank it up, but to no avail. It was a shame because he was really going for it, oblivious to the confused looks on everyone’s faces. I don’t think fingers should be pointed at anyone specifically, though. Shit happens. Despite the technical issues, he played well from what I could hear and everyone stuck around to give him a courteous applause when he finished. I thought that was swell. Ain’t no scene like the Athens scene.

Small Steps were last to go and, as expected, incited some good-natured ultra-violence. As the group furiously ripped through their set, combatants flailed about and tossed each other around mercilessly. Patrons became gladiators in a sinister beer-drenched arena. Even the tiniest of girls weren’t safe from the mayhem. Buckets of sweat splashed everywhere as Grant Engstrom and the gang beat the living shit out of their instruments. Some dudes lifted their friend onto their shoulders and slammed him into the disco ball above. I couldn’t help imagining how cool it would be if his head were sliced off by a ceiling fan.

All too quickly, Small Steps were finished. Handshakes and good jobs were exchanged. People poured out of the bar to smoke and pursue more adventures. It’s always funny to see a place that was in complete chaos just a moment ago return to normal like nothing ever happened. I think it can be safely said that everyone had a blast last night. The best part is, it’s only a matter of time before we do it all over again. 

Killer Mike / November 12, 2012 / The Union

By: Ross Lockhart, Staff Writer

Tickets were 12 bucks, and despite my honest recommendations, no one could be persuaded to go with me. Fuck it, I thought. I never ride solo. It’ll be a character-building exercise. I bought my ticket ahead of time, which I thought would ensure an opportunity to buy drinks at the bar. Doors were at eight, so I rolled up to The Union at a quarter past nine thinking that the action would be starting relatively soon. All my preemptive measures proved to be for nothing. The guys at the door asked for my ID, and I gravely told them I was underage. No 21+ wristband. All wasn’t lost, I hoped. Maybe the dude working the bar wouldn’t notice.

I walked up to the counter, two dollars in my hand and a fat “how’s it going, man?” look on my face. The bartender reciprocated my warm greeting and asked me what I would like. 

"One PBR please."

"Can I see your wristband?" he asked kindly. My heart sank. 

"Oh, uh… I didn’t get one." He was nice about it, and politely told me that he couldn’t sell me drinks if I didn’t bear the mark of a 21-year-old. I was embarrassed. This was basically my worst nightmare turned reality. I thanked him anyway and retreated to the back of the bar, where I sat and thought angry thoughts about the government for a few minutes. When my internal hissy fit was over, I decided that if I wasn’t going to get drunk, I may as well take advantage of my forced sobriety and drain every little detail out of my surroundings.

I’m groomed to believe that liking hip-hop involves a certain amount of nerdiness, but looking around, I felt like the biggest goober in the room. I desperately scanned for someone lamer than me so I could displace my self-consciousness onto them. The bartender came over and asked if I wanted a soda. Fuck no I don’t want a soda. I don’t drink soda, thanks. I’m not fucking 12. How degrading. I had hit an emotional rock bottom. Some other nerdy dudes walked in. Thank God. Like any normal human being, I judged the shit out of them to make myself feel better.

After an eternity of sitting alone at the bar, eavesdropping on everyone’s conversations like an asshole, the Dysfunktional Family took the stage to get the crowd pumped up. I was impressed. They had commanding stage presence and energy. The ladies were digging it. Looking up at those dudes, surrounded by a mob of goofy-looking white people steadily bouncing their middle fingers up and down, I came to a realization. The hip-hop scene in Athens, small as it may seem, reaches out far beyond the walls of a small-town bar. The Dysfunktional Family is made up of people who, like in a real family, support and love each other unconditionally. It’s all about community and brotherhood. They truly could give a shit about what people on the outside think about them and their scene. It’s the people inside it that matter. At that moment I stopped feeling like such an alien and more like a privileged guest. Everything was going to be okay. I was a part of something special, even if just for a night.  

Of course, once the music stopped and The Dysfunkt Fam wrapped its set, the familiar pangs of isolation returned. This time, though, it was kind of funny. I laughed it off. A beaming Hil Hackworth stepped off stage. I gave him a tearfully limp handshake and a “that was sick, man.” He thanked me and continued to the bar, leaving me alone with myself. I walked in little circles pretending to have a purpose for about 10 minutes.

There was one more guy to perform before Killer Mike. He was wearing an Atlanta Falcons beanie. I forget his real name, so I’ll just call him Mr. Meanie Beanie. He was alright, but I’ll say that his flow was weak compared to Hil and Schwartz. Those dudes set the bar pretty damn high. By then the crowd had grown to a decent size and everyone could barely keep their anticipatory boners down. Mr. Meanie Beanie knew the score. He wrapped it up before everyone got too bored. Without further intermission, Killer Mike burst on stage.

He was a big motherfucker. Even bigger than I had expected. He immediately set it off with his explosive verse from R.A.P. Music opener, “Big Beast.” Fuck yes! Everyone went nuts. He was rapping so fast and so hard I couldn’t believe it. His eyes were red. I felt his anger. His passion. I stood frozen to the spot, too terrified to move. This was only the first song. Holy shit! The song came to an abrupt end. A toothy grin emerged from beneath his jungle of a beard. Suddenly he wasn’t so scary after all. He gave a heartfelt monologue honoring the people of Ohio.

“I’m in the Midwest now, where people work their asses off. For six years I worked MY ass off to get here. There’s no place I’d rather be.”

He couldn’t have chosen his words any better. The crowd went berserk and he unleashed a volley of songs like a fucking machine gun. Each was more intense than the last. I was dumbstruck. It felt like I was being physically attacked and I was loving every minute of it. He gracefully wiggled across the stage like a circus elephant. Someone passed him a blunt and it disappeared after one mighty puff. When he stoically invited us to join the political party of “I don’t give a fuck” to segue into his government-bashing hit “Reagan,” I found myself joining a sinister chorus of “Fuck Ronald Reagan!” To hear that song on the album is one thing, but to experience it first-hand and feel the hatred and damnation in his words was nothing short of visceral. Had I died and gone to heaven? I may or may not have came in my pants.

Unfortunately, contrary to what everyone in attendance (including myself) may have thought, Killer Mike is only a man. After a scathing a cappella rendition of “Go!” there was a crack in his voice. A collective gasp echoed through the room. The big guy had gone and overdone it. Wounded, but far from dead, he kept on going, even harder than before. This brought the crowd into even more of a frenzy. I winced as his vocal cords strained and splintered. Sweat ejaculated from his big chocolatey brow. Never before had I been witness to such conviction. At last, he just couldn’t go any longer. He wiped his soggy face with a towel and swung it over his shoulders like a heavyweight boxer. This was a knockout victory, not a defeat. His shirt was soaked through save for a lonely spot on his belly. I felt as though I should bow or something . He was Jesus, but better.  

It was all over. I floated to the stage. He knelt down and took my trembling hand in his. I was a child. “Thank you,” I whispered. Through his sunglasses his eyes sparkled and said, “Thank YOU, Ross Lockhart.” I blushed. He disappeared. I stumbled out of The Union in a daze. The people who had been my brothers and sisters for the brevity of the show stood around, smoking. I took a drag of the night air. It was pure and clean. I walked home in the dark, listening to the streets of Athens sing their old songs as the stars smiled down at me.  

Big Freedia / May 24, 2012 / The Union

By: Ross Lockhart, Staff Writer


Having just turned 21, I knew this was going to be a legendary night.


I started out the night by crushing a flask of Seagram's gin with an OJ chaser. Yum. We listened to "The Bad Touch" and "Love In This Club." Need some help finishing that bottle of Southern Comfort, Jess? No problem. Hand it over. After an impromptu class on proper booty bouncing technique, it was time to go. We walked outside. Emi puked already? Game on.

It took every ounce of restraint in our bodies to keep ourselves from sprinting to The Union. Once inside, I was graced with a coveted 21+ wristband. Yes! B-Funk was playing. Beer #1 went down so smooth. DJ Barticus showed up and killed it. He played "Hot in Here" by Nelly and set it off. My heathens and I proceeded to get our sweat on to various tunes. Diplo's bounce track "Express Yourself" featuring Nicky da B came on and I was so psyched.

I almost forgot to mention that I was wearing super small blue shorts with my keyboard cat T-shirt tucked into it. This outfit was designed for maximum azz shaking performance, although I was a little worried at first that my nuts would fly out and maim someone. As I was re-upping on brews at the bar, a guy complimented me on my shirt. Sweet. Thanks, brother. Okay, bring on Big Freedia. Barticus was killing it, but I wasn't there to stare at his frizzy ponytail all night.

After grueling anticipation, she appeared. The mere sight of Big Freedia brought the crowd into a frenzy. Standing up on stage before her army of wasted dance floor warriors, she was more magnificent than I ever could have imagined. Tears streamed from my eyes and I decided right there and then that I would die for Big Freedia.

From here, I don't remember much. The beat dropped and the room exploded. Everyone went fucking berserk. Azz everywhere. So much azz shaking. Everyone was instantly soaked with sweat. A certain drummer from Cop Hugger had his cheeks all over me. I slapped a random girl's azz. She was into it. I climbed on stage. This was my show now. Some dude kept smacking my azz but whatever. It's all love. I kissed someone and touched Freedia's huge biceps. She was in total control, a stoic conductor before an orchestra of chaos. Y'all get back now. Best night of my life.

Then, as soon as it had begun, it was over. The Queen Diva stepped off stage and I touched her one last time. The music ceased and the crowd abated. It was then I realized I was missing my azz. I looked everywhere and couldn't find it. Did someone steal it? It must have come loose from all that shaking. At the time of this writing, I still do not have a bottom. If anyone finds an azz, size medium, anywhere around Athens, please contact me at 734-347-6659 as soon as possible. Thanks.