Garage Shock Memorial Day weekend 1999

There are a lot of adjectives one might employ in describing Garage Shock ’99. Deafening, dizzying, drunk and disorderly are a few that come to mind. I don’t know that I would call it shocking, however.

I kind of knew what to expect, after all. I was keenly aware of what Garage Shock was all about and what it could mean to a man’s liver. I’d also seen most of the 18 scheduled bands at one point or another over the years. But the beauty of an event like Garage Shock is that it’s all there at one time, just daring you to take it all, like that ill-advised late night double shot of Jaegermiester.

It was a fine, sunny, late spring Friday afternoon, and I rode from Seattle in the open back of a pick-up truck, landing in Bellingham in time to pitch my tent in the backyard of Garage Shock mastermind Dave Crider’s home in the Lettered Streets. Offering me a cold can of Budweiser beer, Dave Crider appeared remarkably calm as he relayed news of the kook perched on top of a rolled motor home on I-5, shooting into rush hour traffic with an assault rifle, wearing nothing but a pair of bath slippers and a flesh-colored moneybelt. Well, you know how stories get exaggerated as they’re passed, but in the end the guy had at least stolen a car and driven it wildly on the interstate, shooting at other motorists before abandoning the car and fleeing into a residential neighborhood to break into an elderly couple’s home and hold them hostage. Accurate details were difficult to come by in the calm Bellingham afternoon, but one thing was certain— holiday weekend traffic was stopped dead, and only two of the evening’s six bands had yet arrived.

Unnerving calm from Dave Crider: “Maybe the Coyote Men will have to learn some covers,” he said.

What sense was there in struggling? By this time, the work was done and matters were in the merciful hands of the Garage Gods. Plenty of people were here already—the band entourages alone numbered almost 100, and that didn’t include the zealots from parts flung who would sooner lose a digit than miss Garage Shock. From here on out, it was nothing but a furious gauntlet of handshaking and high-fiving, bearhugs and heart punches for Dave Crider and his Garage Shock partner, Aaron Roeder, owner of the 3B.

In the end, of course, traffic cleared and everyone was present and accounted for when the festival officially kicked off at 9pm sharp with France’s Thundercrack. Bassless and blue, the trio set a fine tone for the weekend, giving way to the Von Zippers, from Calgary. Hard to tell which was sharper—their big hooks or the pointy hats. But they rocked. 

Having worked up a powerful thirst during the first two bands, I missed a portion of the Coyote Men’s set in favor of a taste of alcohol at the Ranch Room. When you feature six bands in a night-- even with a shared backline-- sets have to be short, and changes quick, and forty minutes is barely enough time to cross Holly for two doubles. I got back in time to absorb the essence of the Coyote Men—Mexican wrestling masks on British dudes playing straightforward funnyguy punk.

The two doubles came in handy in the next forty minutes when the Monkey Wrench fucking brought their heels down on the toe and broke the bone. If there was a theme to this Garage Shock, it would have to be the Tim Kerr angle. With two of his own bands performing and a third with which he had long-standing spiritual ties, His stamp was pressed deeply into the palm of this weekend, starting with the last-minute addition of the dusty Monkey Wrench project, subbing for the awol Makers. Comprised of veterans from Mudhoney, Gas Huffer and Lubricated Goat, the Wrench needed only an impromptu rehearsal to get tight enough. Slinging their greasy brand of contemporized delta blooze around the 3B, they seemed like a touring band just playin’ another shit hot show.

It takes a tough act to follow the proverbial tough act to follow, but San Francisco’s Zen Guerrilla was up to it. I’d seen these noisepushers on a number of occasions, but this night they really brought it all to the hardwoods, ending with a totally ridiculous version of “Mob Rules” that made me goddamned thirsty.

Having only one double at the Ranch Room allowed me to catch the last half of Man or Astroman’s set. What can you say about MoAM? They’re like the Grateful Dead of garage rock. Shock veterans, they dialed and laid it down, leaving a panting throng to ponder Saturday’s promise.

That promise was fulfilled the next night with the Northern European spotlight of the weekend. Garage Shocks of the past had often featured geographical themes of one kind or another, and Saturday’s flair was decidedly Scandinavian, right down to the bottle of absinthe Dave Crider kept deep in his coat pocket. He poured me a tall green one upon my arrival at the venue, just prior to the start of the Flaming Sideburns set. These guys killed me—tough glitter punk from Finland, the singer Eduardo could be seen frequently throughout the weekend, elbow upon the paper towel dispenser in the men’s room of the 3-B in sunglasses and a pimpy leopard skin hat. Next were the Sewergrooves, the dark Swedish trio featuring Robert, the drummer of the Hellacopters.

What I needed right now after a tall glass of absinthe and several beers was some mushrooms. Luckily Bob & Tammy from Stanwood were holding, so we crossed State Street to their room at the Bellingham Inn for a chaw. Fortunately, they also had a bottle of Patron and a big bag of weed, and by the time we got back to the bar for the last couple of songs of the Insomniac’s modpop set, I had forgotten I’d ever stolen that car in the first place. The infinitely-fun and Tim Kerr-produced Sugar Shack, from Houston, was next and they were terrific. Just ask me. The dancefloor was vertical and the temperature was rising rapidly.

What happened for the next 200 minutes was a blur of pure rock. Dave Crider stumbled to the mic at center stage for an introduction.

“This is the band that changed my life and saved my life!” he shouted, and Stockholm’s Nomads launched into a set that proved why they’ve been such an important act over the course of the past 25 years. If MoAM is like the Grateful Dead of garage rock, these guys are like the Replacements of garage rock, so rock, godDAMN! What a gratifying performance!

In a perfect world, the Nomads set and the Hellacopters set would have been reversed, since the Nomads basically are the Hellacopters’mother, and since on this night the grizzled vets overshined the upstarts. The Copters’ sets the last time they were through the northwest, the previous April (their first time in the States) were more inspired than at Garage Shock ’99. But for anyone who might’ve missed those early gigs, the show at Garage Shock was still pretty hot, and the throngs poured into the warm spring night on State Street.  

The party afterward in the Fireballs of Freedom suite at the Bellingham Inn was a lot like the show itself, with beer and bodies flying. Lurching north on James Street just before dawn, I was delighted to be picked up by none other than Dave Crider, and we heartily proceeded to the 24-hour Taco Bell drive-in for some deferred Mexisludge. I came up early the next afternoon in a twist of taco wrappers, the interior of my tent its own weather system of toxic condensation. For the past month, I’d been concealing a poison tooth beneath a blanket of ibuprofen, and this particular “morning” the pain was excruciating, overshadowing a headache that in its own right was quite profound. I grabbed the cigarette cellophane containing the last of my 222s and stumbled up the back porch, through the kitchen and into the bathroom, just in time to find Bekki Crider standing up in the bathtub, reaching for her towel. Confused, embarrassed, dizzy and thirsty, I excused myself and stumbled back into the kitchen. A tall glass of water and some coffee later, I was ready for a beer and some rays before settling down for a long pre-show nap.

The crowd at Sunday night’s show was a little lighter than the previous two nights, as a few dozen lame fuckin’ pussies had taken road to get a jump on their recoveries. But that only left more oxygen and shorter beer lines for the healthy and hungry crowd that remained, and both came in handy during the glorious finale.

Dave Crider and Aaron’s band Watts kicked things off, filing an imperfect yet passionate set. This was the first Garage Shock at which their former band the Mono Men had not played, and the Watts set was clearly a release of energy for the two who had worked so hard putting this historic event together. Brian Teasly of MoAM gave Aaron the last few songs off, and the Garage Gods smiled.

Estrella 20/20 followed, kicking up the fuzz a notch, lonely in their representation of the Far East. Next came the Gimmicks from Seattle with their sassy junk rock act, singer Mark Starr thrashing about the stage like a goldfish in a dry handsink.

Despite my afternoon snooze, I realized toward the end of the Gimmick’s set that I was starting to wear down just a little. Fifteen bands in, I was beginning to feel the effects of the various cruel tricks I had subjected my innocent self to over the course of the preceding 48 hours. My legs ached, my eyes burned and my tooth was fucking killing me. There was a steady drip of grey paste coming from my left ear. But there was no turning back now. Indeed, with the end in sight, I resolved to stare unflinching into the yellow eyes of the balance of the weekend and endure whatever it had to dish out. Right after two shots of tequila and a Budweiser at the Ranch Room.

Good goddamned thing, too. The Fireballs of Freedom were that and more, stomping through their unique, whacked out brand of freedom fusion, setting a perfect tone for the certifiably-insane guitar army from Alabama, the Quadrajets. Sporting new members since their last visit to Bellingham, the Jets cranked up their spicy orange-and-blues machine well past its recommended capacity and let ‘er rip. The Quadrajets live on any ordinary Tuesday night are more than your pedestrian rock fan can handle, and at midnight on the last night of Garage Shock, they were pretty much out of their bodies.

Everyone was, really. It had been an amazing weekend. The distinction between old and new friends had become blurred, and it was like one big, drunken family. That’s the way it is at Garage Shock—bands generally leave their egos at home and come for the party. Instruments are shared, all door proceeds are split evenly and completely between all participating bands, and the hospitality of the bar is unmatched. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em and start reserving a sofa for next year, that’s the idea.

But first, Tim Kerr had a little business to take care of. Swinging dreads and grinnin’ broadly, he countered perfectly the crazed vocals of Mike Carrol, coaxing sounds unnatural from his guitar as he led the Lord High Fixers through a beery set of skwak rawk to the Promised Land of Garage Shock Heaven. The crowd called out for more, and they got more, until there was no more to give by either side. And then my lips fell off.

                                                                                           --Callous French