I was first introduced to Muir College by my big sister, who graduated from UCSD in 1988. ‘Celebrating the independent spirit?’ she said, pausing on my unofficial college-hunt tour to read the Muir mantra aloud. ‘I’d say more just celebrating, period.’ Having lived as a jealous Warren prisoner for four torturous years, she made it clear there was only one college to choose from if I was in it for a good time.
This year’s Muirstock bands may have yet to find their independence from soundalikes on the college-radio top 40, but all in a row (beginning 3 p.m.), they amount to the perfect party cover band: If you yell loud enough and thrash hard enough, they’ll almost sound like the real thing.Plus, seeing as the Muir activity-fee referendum didn’t pass for next year, we’ll get even crappier bands than Rooney at Muirstock 2010 ‘mdash; so celebrate while you can.
Justin James (aka Jack Johnson)
What to do for spare change in the shit-rich state of California when you’re just a free-wheelin’, fun-lovin’ dude who likes to feel the sand between his toes and ride a chill swell here and there? Break out the trusty ol’ Taylor, of course, and woo stoned weekend passersby with your kiddie-surf life lessons until no campfire circle-spot remains. ‘Sun drenched and lovin it!’ James winks out from his MySpace, going for Jack Johnson but washing up mercilessly Jesse McCartney. Pick up some free BBQ (veggie options!) at a nearby booth before passing out from over-radiation of good vibes.
Rooney (aka Weezer)
Quick ‘mdash; listen to all Rooney’s songs. If not, come sunset, you’ll be denying yourself the kind of chest-cavity butterflies one only feels in those precious few cheap, beautiful boy-band moments life brings along. Plus, their entire cache of uber-catchy, boom-box-on-the-beach hooks can be devoured in a mere (ecstatic) hour and a half, over two tightly wound full-lengths that’ve already gathered a fair crowd of screaming 13-year-olds.
Can you imagine hearing ‘The Sweater Song’ for the first time live, and not being able to sing along? Yeah ‘mdash; so get out your Walkman and Spongebob dance-party underwear, and get to ‘I’m Shakin’,’ guaranteed to make you feel like the star of your very own high-school musical. On the big night, don’t forget to refill your free tub of popcorn right before they play ‘Popstars,’ then throw the buttery mess all over the masses when Robert Schwartzman screams ‘Unsophisticated money machines!’ like he’ll never warm up to Beverly Hills. Speaking of, he might be stuffing a few butt-white ankle socks in his mouth in the near future, and would be lucky to ‘mdash; I mean, it’s not like Rooney’s gooey Beach Boys imitations are gonna make it in the art circuit.
Katie Costello (aka Regina Spektor)
Even the Tenaya nerds retiring early F
riday evening to prepare for a long weekend of midterm grindstone will get some pleasure out of 17-year-old Katie Costello’s unapologetic lisp. ‘Songbird, I don’t care if you’re an old kazoo/ Sing to me and I will sing to you,’ she warbles girlishly on track two of her debut LP, a little too proud of her darling honk-strument reference considering she pulled a blatant Taylor Swift (slash Keane) on track one. Then again, don’t listen to me: iTunes reviewer k8r calls Kaleidoscope Machine ‘arguably one of the best albums ever made.’ Take that, Regina.
Technicolor Wolves (aka the Strokes)
OK, so the Strokes is a stretch. But these restless Palm Desert rebels will die trying. They may only have one EP and possibly the gayest band name ever, but their delayed, love-drunk beats ‘mdash; giddyupped by handclaps and a nasal Casablancas drone ‘mdash; could certainly give you Strokes-style bass pedals to the heart when muffled through the walls of the 52-foot inflatable obstacle course that’ll be killing the Muir lawn. ‘Hearts break in the corners of eyes’ is sung in a round over ‘It’s all right, it’s OK, you can do what you want’ on ‘Dark Room Cold Air,’ giving us some unsolicited insight into what happens at little-boy sleepovers. But so what if they’ve still got some living to do ‘mdash; so do we. Watch out, face-painting booth.
DevOcean (aka Sublime)
Hailing from that road shoulder called Temecula you irritatingly had to speed through to get to Coachella, DevOcean can’t really be blamed for setting their MySpace to Comic Sans and masturbating daily to their R.I.P. Brad Nowell posters. And it appears reggae’s resident weird uncle ‘mdash; the somehow still alive Eek-A-Mouse (must have been all that medicinal Mary Jane) ‘mdash; sees something special in the little rascals: They opened a Long Beach show of his earlier this month. Well, kids ‘mdash; the only place of residence more stifling than Temecula is your freshman suite, and you won’t find a more opportune soundtrack than DevOcean to hotbox the nerd box, so get to it: Break out your Sublime paraphernalia shoebox and roll a fatty for that fatty you never talk to in the single down the way. One love, right?