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An
audience member takes off with Gang Wizard’s electronic toy
ball. *
* * * * * * |
One wizard runs back and forth, blasts a melodica, jumps up and down, while the random spontaneity gets louder and faster. The group, whose members hail from various points in California and Oregon, descend into a relatively peaceful mode. Serene flutes and slide whistles float above an abstract, slightly creepy loop. A thumb piano twinkles. A guy in a white t-shirt leans over his mic and announces, "Hi, we’re Superchunk!" – and they careen back into beating on objects and playing with toys. Soon, a smiling young man in a skirt takes the mic and leads the audience in a round of applause. It’s "Agent" Aerick Duckhugger, ringleader of this circus and member of the group Wood Paneling. What’s a nice guy like Aerick doing in a place like this? Blame radio. "A lot of strange and experimental musics were exposed to me via a radio show that was once on KCMU in Seattle, Washington, called Hank's International House of Noise," he explains. Eventually Olympia station KAOS, a sponsor of the festival, joined the conspiracy to convert Duckhugger. The local library system acted as a subversive influence, too, exposing him to groups like the Residents. Duckhugger named himself after a duck decoy originally belonging to his Norwegian grandfather, and adopted the title "Agent" when he joined an Olympia arts group called Ace Investigations. He’s booked the last several festivals, after attending early on as an audience member. "He does such a good job with booking that I moved into a more advisory role," says McAdams, adding, "Whew." Creepy-Crawly Creatures Video screens fill the room with the periwinkle glow of cathode rays, and a banner in heavy metal red stretches above stage left. "Sponsored by satanosphere.com," it reads. The two Dead Air Fresheners, disguised behind their ski masks, begin an ever-ascending aural assault of noise and rhythm. One takes his seat behind a drum kit. The guy in the tasteful polyester leopard dress – could it be Jim McAdams? – lofts himself to a table and slowly, gratingly uncoils his body, as though he’ll bash his head into the skylight, where pale dusk is rapidly giving way to dark. Then he coils back around some sort of ancient synthesizer, and begins again. |
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