Overview of Atlanta's IMR Music Festival, which was held at The Five Spot on April 27th and 28th. Originally seen in Target Audience Magazine.
I view Atlanta from the perspective of an outsider. I have no choice but to do so. I am neither a native, nor a transplanted resident. I have, however, been a resident of a number of other cities, including New York, Boston, Asheville and Savannah. My natural inclination is to compare Atlanta to those places with which I’m familiar. I could say that its subculture is akin to Asheville’s; its prolonged summer and hints of lawlessness remind me of Savannah; its firmly rooted, respected history is strikingly Bostonian; and of course, its drive, zest and networking skills deserve a snug seat in the corner of a bar on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Really, what I just did was pretty unfair to the city of Atlanta – depriving it of an independent description and all. I do, however, solemnly swear that I only did it because I don’t yet know enough about the city to properly assess the traits that declare its independence. So, let’s get started with that.
Atlanta is a city of independents. It’s a city of hospitality, style, realism, enthusiasm and more than a little bit of hedonism. Oh, and furnished front porches – it’s full of porches that seem eerily absent of people occupying the decorated spaces. Ruminate as you will. Atlanta is also a city of community, both mainstream and underground. The last weekend in April was a prime example of that such fellowship. That Saturday, the annual, wildly popular (as was evident by the volume of traffic) Inman Park Festival was in full effect. In addition, IMR, or Indie Music Reviewer to the less informed, held their first ever two day festival at The Five Spot on April 27 th & 28th. Though I was unable to attend the former, I was there for portions of the latter, where I socialized to the best of my socially awkward ability, and also took some photographs.
On Friday, I captured performances by Jack of Hearts, Baby Baby, Cusses and Trances Arc. Experience has shown me that a live show by Savannah’s Cusses is generally a slam dunk, and their appearance at the IMR Music Festival was no exception. The lovely Angel Bond ensnared her audience with her gritty, yet sweet, vocals and dynamic movements. I was also truly floored by the power of Jack of Hearts. Drummer Sarah Wilson is the catalyst of that group, taking their well-crafted rock/pop style to visceral, primal extremes. I spent much of Saturday just watching, and getting absorbed in the scene at The Five Spot. Gun Party snapped me out of my trance. They describe themselves on Facebook as being “…an eclectic hornet's nest of melodic mayhem…,” and I’d say that’s right on target. They’re like a wild party in a forgotten industrial warehouse; something out of a graphic novel; the “behind the scenes” footage of an Andy Warhol film.
Jack of Hearts
Baby Baby
It’s hard to gauge the success and overall merit of a music festival’s freshman year. As the event is going on, every precedent is in the process of being set. I refuse to be one of those people who letter grades a festival, so I’ll simply offer a few observations. The IMR Music Festival was nearly as visual as it was musical. Each band’s performance was accompanied by a sort of laser light extravaganza, which enhanced the view for the general audience, as well as the dozen or so photographers and videographers present. Spending two days holed up in a single location full of kinetic lights and roaring music can get a bit redundant. Though a sense of constriction was generated as a result of situating the festival solely at The Five Spot, doing so also had the ability to create a sense of camaraderie; of hunkering down in a fort and planting seeds. As far as business decisions go, I believe the organizers were wise to choose only one location. Start small. Assess when it’s over. Grow over time.
Cusses
Trances Arc
Gun Party
The IMR Music Festival would have been more Boston if conversations about German poetry could be overheard at the bar; more Asheville if groups of train jumpers had been roaming the parking lot with their mutts; more New York if attendees had been darting their heads nervously about, looking for some elusive big break; and more Savannah if the whole sha-bang had ultimately been broken up by the cops. But it was none of that. It was Atlanta – conspiringly creative and neighborly – already energetically building upward from this year’s foundation.
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