By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
I was people-watching at the Icehouse during Discotheque, the "official U2 after party," and I kept tripping on the transgender aesthetic to rave culture. That and Discotheque's unfortunately low turnout. There were maybe 500 people inside at the party's peak. The promoter's break-even point was 1,000. Ouch. So what happened? Well, 30 bucks at the door must have turned a few people away. Plus, I didn't see the party promoted at the concert in any way. And, two days before, Phoenix cops told promoters they would enforce curfew and shut down the party if it wasn't strictly 18 and over, which meant Euphoric Entertainment had to refund more than $10,000 in presale tickets. The party ended early--well, early is relative when you're talking four in the morning--when Will from the Icehouse announced, "We're sorry, the promoter didn't pay security. Security has walked out, so the event is now over." Bummer. Double bummer for U2 fans who threw down $30 thinking they'd meet the band, and refused to give up hope until the bitter end.
Ads for the party promised "U2 will make an appearance." Well, here's a head's up: "U2 will make an appearance" means that contractually/legally, all that had to happen was for one member of the band, any member, to pull up in a limo, make a three-minute lap through the party, and bail. However, no one I asked had seen or heard any member of U2--or even a good look-alike--making the rounds. Disappointing. But not more so than Florida live techno act Rabbit in the Moon's prime-time set. The much-hyped act's music was flat, and the whole show was based around gimmick props and costumes. Sure, it was orb candy for psychedelic cosmonauts, but artistically speaking? Please, Mr. Emperor, clothe thyself.
Despite all that, I had a fine time. I liked the psychotic mechanical clown that greeted everyone in the cathedral room, and the chill-out room was close to perfect--silver-sheened drapes over plentiful couches, and ambient music low enough to allow conversation. Outside, R.C. Lair spun a warm, fuzzy set, and Markus Schulz got high marks from everyone in the main room (I arrived just after his set). The giant mobile of multimedia screens hanging in that room was incredible. So were the roving belly dancers. I'm sure a lot of promoters in the Valley were happy to see Euphoric aim high and hit low, but it was nice to see someone do more with a space than throw up strobe lights and a slide show and call it a rave.
Scottsdale pop/punk band Chronic Future got yanked from the bill for May 3's Rally in the Sun music festival in Tucson after state park rangers demanded lead singer Mike Busse refrain from using naughty language. The festival, held in Rillito Park, was headlined by Fountains of Wayne and Big Head Todd and the Monsters. According to the band's manager, William "The Willobeast" Carlan, rangers threatened to stick a bar of soap in Busse's mouth (just kidding) and fine the band $2,500 (that part's serious) for each profane utterance. Rangers provided Carlan with a "partial list" of banned words that included "piss," "hell," "damn" and the f word. Carlan told them the well-funded group would just pay the fines (which would have totaled at least $12,500 if Chronic had played the same set as its performance at the New Times Music Awards Showcase). Then, Carlan says, the rangers turned the screws on festival promoter Brad Nozicka, who cut the band from the bill. Nozicka played dodge ball with phone messages.
"We don't believe there are good words and bad words," CF lead guitarist Ben Collins wrote in a band statement. "I can't believe park rangers have the jurisdiction or competence to make such judgments. They should stick to keeping Yogi Bear from stealing pic-a-nick baskets."