Lollapasomething – Great Woods Is Watching You – Review

Lollapasomething

Great Woods Is Watching You

by Cunt Rock Girl

So I’m watching TV, and that ultra-conservative cheerleader, Kennedy, won’t stop screeching in my ear – Courtney punched Kathleen, shit there goes sisterhood, will Jello Biafra be asked to stud on “Singled Out,” if MTV doesn’t cover a trend, does it exist?…

Time to go already? Soon, I’m in a rollicking, rickety van driven by my friend April’s hippie dad. He flicks his joint and grooves to my mixed tape. April and my sister roll their eyes at April’s lame younger brother in his crisp NIN tee. Skimming an Anne Rice novel, I try to force open the cocoons of anticipation in my jaded stomach, but it’s not happening. Am I just attempting to accumulate brownie points by going to this thing?

[For those lit wussies who need plot flow, we go to Wendy’s, eat, leave Wendy’s, get in the van, and motor to Great Woods.]

I skip out of the van, bullocks to leg cramps! April, my sis, and I giddily tramp half a football field to the Land of Happy Tree’s entrance, gleefully flipping off bemuscled beerheads, while we wait in a line that the DMV would frown on.

Finally the place takes my fucking ticket and we have arrived in the land of all that is alternative. Due to an over-zealous security guard, I have no food or beverage. The little shopping stalls set up call to me like sirens. I am trapped in this freak-culture hell for 10 hours. Perry Farrell, where are you?

We wander to second stage. Reasonably priced band tees and music abound. A chick on stage tells groping guys in the pit to fuck off. Good show, my lass.

I regroup with the other two-thirds of my troupe and on we prowl for excitement (or at least a soda under $1.58). We stare at idiot chicks in black (in the summertime, fer crying out loud), and I’m beginning to think the ‘looza businesses are like traveling salesmen who have the key to your house. You can’t get away from them.

There… near the restrooms. It’s the third stage. I didn’t even know there was a third stage. We observe the act currently onstage through some birches. A black-wigged drag queen with green eyeshadow is yelling into a mic, “I can count on every show for at least one suburban mall-bitch to shout, ‘Queer!’ I’m a man in a dress, what do you expect?”

I look at my companions and I know they’re thinking, “This queen’s the shit!” We run down to the stage without discussion.

The queen has purged his anger and sits down. [OK, I’m writing this piece several weeks after the fact, not as it happens. The deadline’s today and my mother’s screaming at me that I can’t do anything right and what do I want to do with my life? I can hardly see the computer screen through my tears. I have no ride so I can’t do a show or hand in this fucking piece on time. I look like hell and I don’t care. I could really bond with Beck right now. And my story’s not done yet.] Our attention is directed to a man in bondage. A female audience participant whips the subject who embodies all bigotry and hate. The participant and the stage MC urge other girls in the audience to join. I don’t need much encouragement to make a moron of myself so I scramble onstage.

The “whip” is harmless, but it sings in the air as I bring it down on the tied-up male. My sister and April climb aboard and take turns being the mistress. As a climax, all the girls onstage pour mustard, ketchup, and other ungodly substances on the helpless boy. We all take a bow and skip off the stage.

Some mindless hours later…
“What time is it?” I ask.

“Time for Moby!” Off to second stage!

The most famed name in the often faceless world of techno, bleached-haired Moby held me enraptured. I generally hate techno because most of it feels soulless. Moby fuses with his music.

“Iiiiiiii’m feelin’ so reeeeeal!” falsettos the electric choirboy/girl.

I’m a dancing angel in a heavenly disco and Moby’s Jesus.

“Iiiiiiiii’m feelin’ so reeeeeeal!”

Another indeterminate amount of time later…

It’s the Courtney Love Show!

Actually, it’s Hole, but Ms. Love-Cobain’s presence overwhelms Eric, Patty, and Melissa (who are they?) all put together. I wait for Courtney to offend someone. She won’t disappoint.

You can say anything you want about Love, but you can’t say she’s not entertaining. She’ll shriek (not speak) her mind, bang a kid with her guitar, and smoke a cancer stick, sometimes all at once. She sings “Happy Birthday” to Thurston Moore, bellows (I’ve run out of synonyms for scream) at sexist bastards, and croons a response (I think) to Kathleen Hanna’s assault suit (I’m fast-forwarding this bit). By the way, I’m a Hole fan.

Odd, all these boys are yelling, “I love you, Courtney!” Hmmm.

Hole’s set ends. Sonic Youth, the coolest indie band ever, plugs in and starts to (not) tune. I know I will lose every drop of my credibility, but I don’t dig Sonic Youth. They’re just not my cup of tea. OK?

I walk around the grounds. A gaggle of drunk guards ask me to do something lewd with a hot dog and shine a flashlight on my crusty Doc Martens.

I know I should feel changed at this point, or should have had a revelation, or found God or something. All I feel is the need for a shower and some chocolate. And a little techno. Techno? What am I saying!?!