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As Gary Wrong Group’s set winded down on the first night of Gonerfest 12, Gary Wrong leaned off the side of the stage and vomited. It didn’t really come as a surprise—the prolific Alabama punk was wearing a heavy leather jacket in a hot room and was literally dripping sweat before his set even began. His face slack with the unmistakable look of someone who may puke again, he leaned into the mic and said, “This is our last song.” His loud, sludgy, evil guitar sound filled the Hi Tone with feedback. The crowd visibly approved.
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As soon as the vomit hit the floor, the show became a convenient caricature of what happens at Memphis’ annual celebration: a slurry of beer and smoke and smoked meats (word to Payne’s) and gutter rock. It’s not just the bile that defines Gonerfest’s curatorial bent, though—it’s the people cheering for the dude who chucked. It’s the tiny baby in sunglasses and noise-cancelling headphones being lofted by Ex-Cult’s JB Horrell as his band’s obliterating new songs filled the Cooper-Young intersection. It’s seeing the same people every year and getting asked if you need a ride to Al Green’s church on Sunday morning (just a few short hours after the last afterparty lets out at the Buccaneer). It’s people excitedly dancing into each other as Ty Segall played seemingly unmoshable songs like T. Rex's “Cosmic Dancer”.
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At this point in his career, Segall can work a room without trying. Shortly into the first song of his one-off "Ty Rex" set—beers were flung. Soon, Ex-Cult's Chris Shaw (clad in a cowboy hat) was pouring champagne down Bobby Hussy’s gullet, then he baptized the first few rows in the crowd with what was left in the bottle. A fight broke between two guys, but Segall threw the peace sign in their face, and under his loving glam spell, they stopped tussling and started kissing. Segall and bassist Denée Petracek smashed multiple acoustic guitars, which exploded in a cloud of glitter. Shards of wood got thrown into the audience. Crowd surfers lingered for minutes. There was a Shaw-led Doors cover for some reason. The show felt important—it was inclusive, riotous, fun.
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Of course, people pregamed for Ty Rex by losing their minds during the preceding bands. They witnessed another year of Nots’ thrashing, yawping, all-power domination—added proof that they’re one of the most exciting live bands working. Melbourne’s Cuntz lunged, screaming through their aggro set, including new stuff from their just-released album Force the Zone. (During a full weekend of t-shirt envy, the bassist’s #rare Gutter Gods shirt was the most coveted.) The unstoppable Timmy’s Organism rightfully received a hero’s welcome. As the trio worked through songs off their upcoming Third Man album Heartless Heathen (biggest highlight: “Back in the Dungeon”), Timmy Vulgar lit a fuse on the head of his guitar. As sparks started flying, it became apparent that there was a smoke bomb duct taped there all along, and soon, he was blasting the crowd with green smoke while ripping through a massive solo. By the end of the set, he tossed several more smoke bombs in the audience; the band played “Wounded White Dove” as a haze of multi-colored smoke choked the room.
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Later that night at the Buccaneer afterparty, Buck Biloxi and the Fucks announced that their set would be the band’s last. “Say goodbye to the bad guy,” the frontman said. With the bittersweet promise that this would be the last time to scream along the words “I AIN’T GOING TO CHURCH” (because let’s face it, there was no way I was going to have the energy to see Al Green’s choir that weekend), a tight corridor of people bathed in dark red light screamed and shoved and threw elbows. The next day, after his excellent opening set playing guitar in band-to-watch Black Abba, I asked Robert Watson Craig III (aka Buck Biloxi) if we really had experienced the last Buck show. “No,” he said, laughing. Well, that’s what bad guys do—they tell needless lies. Then, they put on all-black body suits and distort their vocals to become Giorgio Murderer.
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One of the most joyously antagonistic sets of the weekend came courtesy of Pookie and the Poodlez. Trevor Straub immediately stood out with his orange hair, P.U.N.K. T-shirt (a la D.A.R.E.), and high-pitched “Hiiiiii!”. Soon after the trio worked through a couple of their catchy power pop hits, Straub broke two strings. Frustrated, he looked to the audience for their help. “Just give me a fucking guitar, come on,” he said to the crowd before singing two guitar-less songs. A maskless Nobunny (whose set the next night was, as usual, a livewire exercise in working a room) eventually wandered up, plugged in, and finished out the final chorus of “Boy”—a song where Straub sang “I don’t hate boys, I just hate you” while broadly gesturing to the crowd. After expressing to the crowd that people in the Bay Area have each other’s backs unlike this crowd (“the worst guitar techs ever”), he told the audience, “I love you, I hate you, byeeeee” and played his last song.
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While there wasn’t a weak spot on the lineup, Hank Wood and the Hammerheads were, for me, the biggest draw—the reason why a trip to Memphis this year felt like a requirement. When you’re on the outside, you hear murmurs about the current New York punk scene. Mostly, it’s tough guy shit—some approximation of humorless knife-wielding assholes. The Hammerheads definitely have a sense of humor—one of the drummers sold me a shirt by saying, “Trust me, you’re going to love yourself in yellow.” Also, they are a thrilling, tight, and incredible live band. There are six guys on stage, and it’s hard to say exactly which one is the MVP. It could be the guitarist, whose solo on “The Ghost” rips exactly as hard as it does on the album. A strong argument could be made for either of the drummers—the guy behind the kit and the dude going rapidfire on cowbells. The organist certainly rules. But let’s be real—it’s Hank Wood, a true showman and storyteller. The guy never stops moving, and his face fully conveys the passion and torment of his lyrics. Yes, the music was fast, feverish, and responsible for an intense pit. They also knew when to level off, cooling down before firing back up. It wasn’t just power on power on power; there was emotional nuance and room to breathe. The album’s called Stay Home. I’m glad I didn’t.
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Amidst all the drunken rock’n’roll revelry, an important reminder came during Sonny Vincent’s headlining set. The Testors frontman stepped up to the mic, and when he realized his voice was getting muffled by feedback, he stepped over and turned an amp off. Then, for a moment, he offered an important reminder—that innocent people are getting senselessly killed by police. It’s fucked up, and while rock’n’roll is fun, it’s irresponsible to coast through party mode without acknowledging the awful shit that happens all the time all over the country. It’s a truly punk sentiment coming from one of the genre’s godfathers. Backed by an impressive band, the set itself was also a loud reminder that you should be regularly bumping Testors and Vincent records.
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Perhaps the best-curated slot of the weekend was Quintron headlining the final night, the logical culmination of the entire weekend. People partied, drank, and somehow managed to stay upright after three long rock’n’roll-filled days to get to the weekend’s biggest dance party. A Quintron set is a purely joyful thing. Balloons were spilled out of big puffy psychedelic teeth. It was actually the second Quintron set of the night—the first was a masterful (and very funny) opening set by his rock band FIRST. Both sets featured a song with the repeated chorus “teenagers don’t know shit”. It was a longer set, but Quintron is the sort of artist who could go full Springsteen and command a three-hour dance party.
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Of course, writing about Gonerfest means feeling like you can’t possibly cover all the best stuff of the weekend. The Ar-Kaics, a classic garage rock band actively spilling ace Nuggets in 2015, are one of the best party bands in America. There’s a full report’s worth of words to spill about Sweet Knives—a sobering, amazing set where Alicja Trout sang the songs of the Lost Sounds (with zero banter) at dusk. New York punk greats Foster Care came through with an intense late night set that definitely got me further excited for their upcoming Total Punk album. Manhunt impressed with their beefy psychedelia. Ultimate Painting and Salad Boys were vital afternoon cool-down acts whose songs are just as satisfying in person as they are on the records. Choke Chains showcased their unapologetic obsession with the sexually aggressive and Satanic. Aquarian Blood were one of the year’s great breakout bands, transferring their weirdo bedroom tapes into an aggro full-bodied bar show (with a violinist!). Somehow I haven’t even mentioned the masterful sets from Memphis hero Jack Oblivian and Minneapolis wreckers the Blind Shake.
But that’s what Gonerfest is like—three days where it’s hard to pin down the highlights. If you’ve never been and you care at all about any of this music, go. This is music that demands being heard live. Stay up all night in the tiny and smoke-filled Buccaneer, walk in and out of Murphy’s on Saturday to catch all 10 bands (especially the ones you’re not familiar with), drink all the Goner-branded beer you can drink for $5 on Friday, and listen to weird country oddities between sets at the Hi-Tone. Most importantly, you get the opportunity to celebrate this music with people who live for it.