Mark Teppo:  I woke about 4am to the sound of rain pounding on the roof of my apartment. I love the sound of rain, especially rain that is really falling. That morning, snuggling down under my blankets, listening to the rain and realizing that I could stay home today, I really loved the rain.

Four hours later, the sun was out, drying my roof and shining right into my face. Welcome to Seattle.

Welcome to the last day of 60,000 people trying to find enough room to swing a drum stick. Okay, not everyone was banging a drum, but I was starting to think I was the only one who hadn't sat down with a stick and a spot of cow hide to demonstrate to the world at large that the basic concept of "2" and "4" were not properly covered during my stint in elementary education. Come on, people! If you want to make noise, stay home and smack rocks together in your basement; if you're looking to experience the transcendence of a rhythmic pulse so great that it supersedes your natural inclination to breathe erratically, then take a moment to pick up the rudiments of the quarter note phrase. Or at the very least, watch the guy who is perched atop the fifteen foot drum. It's called the stroke, kids, and it's what made the trireme such a terror on the Aegean Sea about 2500 years ago. Principle hasn't changed.

I am such an elitist. But before you fire off a nasty-gram to my illustrious-out-at-Maktub-while-the-writers-are-home-slaving-away editor [mark, did i mention the played the sickest version of "no quarter" at the show? --ed.], let me tell you a story. Flashback to 1985. Glenn Johnston, the trombone instructor at Montana State University is trying to instill some sense of rhythm into his first year jazz band students. "Play on the back side of the beat," he instructs. A trumpet player in the back row raises his hand and inquires, "You mean, you want us to drag?" True story.

Ducking into the darkness of Bumberclub to hide the infectious grin on my face, I wandered into the sonic distortion that is Hovercraft. From the back, you can't believe the whirlwind of sound which is shearing past you and, trying to see over the swaying stalks of heads between me and the stage, I attempted to fathom how many instruments and bodies were required to make that kind of noise. Only three. Lost in front of the stroboscopic flare of their movie screen, the members of Hovercraft curled around their respective instruments (drums, bass, and guitar only) and drew forth an unholy wail of sound and fury. Billed as being highly improvisational, I have to disagree after watching. The film running behind them was a jump cut montage of lava flows, scientific films on the ant, and extreme close-ups of bees and wasps. And, after a while, you realized that the film wasn't totally random, nor was the sound of the band in front. They were a little too tightly tuned to the visual impact of the film to be just "winging it." There was an underlying method to their sizzling disturbance, one that worked its magic on you with a subtlety that belied the force of the music. You realize suddenly that you've been standing in one spot for an hour, swaying back and forth in response to psychic breeze generated by the thick screeches and wails and sub-bass rumblings coming out of the sound system. You're entranced, rooted to one spot. Bumbershoot staff was going through the house after that show and prying people off the floor with pitchforks and plucking them down from the walls where the sonic thrust of the music had planted them. Protected by the eP mantra of "must see everything," I escaped with only a crack addict's burning desire to return for just one more hit in the back of my throat.

Somehow I ended up in the Northwest conference rooms by the PCC stage, checking out the Visual Arts displays. Shows just how disoriented I was. Bumbershoot is more than just music and, cultural philistines that we are at eP, we--well, I--hadn't caught any of the other "arts" this weekend. There are entire stages devoted to classical music, spoken word and literary readings, theater, and dance companies. Not to mention enough kid-oriented activities that if they hadn't been checking size requirements I would have gotten in on some of the fun. Always wanted a Pikachu mask. Could have made one. If I had been eight, and I haven't been mistaken for eight for a long time. So I tried to atone instead by checking out the Visual Arts showcases.

Wandering through the other galleries which highlighted American Consumption as well as a "Phresh" look at Northwest Art, I saw a couple of things which caught my eye. Mark Abramson's "Sweet Tea," an orange and red Cibachrome print which drew me into a muddy red delta with a forlorn houseboat permanently ensconced in a pool of brackish water. Elizabeth Jansen's charcoal print entitled "Clock of Secrecy" not only spoke of a Dark Crystal puppet which had been left abandoned by the side of the road, but also of enough longing and despair that it was named "Best of Show" by the PNWAC. Ellen Ziegler built a giant pearl that gurgled and splashed with an internal water engine and Jesse Paul Miller responded with a glowing green "Seeding Device" that contained the echo of rushing water. Great things to have in your house. The "Sculpture: 40000 Years Later" show had some interesting pieces, though Brandon Zebold's "Pinnacle," "Gateway," and "Pilaster" transcended their surroundings with their graceful arches and carved surfaces, reminding me of religious landmarks from a lost civilization that marked the spot of discarded cities and pinnacles of human achievement long forgotten.

I didn't say much about Trilok Gurtu earlier because it wasn't until Bumberdrum that I was fully astounded by his rhythmic ability. Not really understanding the purpose of Bumberdrum, I went and discovered that it really is just an extended showcase for all the percussionists who have been a part of Bumbershoot. Not a bad way to spend an evening, but I had been hoping more for an exploration of the melding of disparate rhythms and not so much an episodic soloing of each drummer. But Trilok was a sight to see. Curling himself around his tablas, he proceeded to create such a mesmerizing rhythmic environment that included the passing of a thunderstorm and the spatter of rain down the drain spout as well as the percussive equivalent of hail bouncing and chattering on the top of your house that the audience became transfixed. Until he was finished and then they were all on their feet, cheering and clapping. Rhythm always seems to be put separate from melody, but that was not the case with Trilok Gurtu. Rhythm became melody and what we heard was an elemental force moving across the surface of the instruments.

The Final Spectacle of Bumbershoot '99 was the burning of the Bovinasaurus Con Leche. A giant statue that is part cow, part dinosaur, but mostly just freakin' weird to look at, the cow is the Bumbershoot version of the Burning Man. Okay, for those reviewers who didn't get it: this is a ritualized burn of what you have to offer--either the objects which you wish to have removed from your life, or the wishes upon which you desire to build your future. It's slightly pagan, so it might seem a little strange to those who haven't considered any religious possibilities beyond FatherSonHolyGhost, but it is just like making a wish on your birthday and then blowing out the candles, though in this case, the Seattle Fire Department is standing by and your candle is a 20' cow. It has nothing to do with Woodstock '99! That was Rene Girard's worst-case scenario come true. This is the hopeful gathering of a society which is present at the ending of one cycle and their transition as a community into the future. You burn the past because it is no longer accessible to you, and, as that circuit is closed, you move forward, cleansed and complete. It is a ritual meant to bring us together and, that night on the lawn as Bumbershoot ended and the cow burned, the crowd clustered close together and cheered.

For a few minutes, the rest of the world didn't exist. It was just us, the cow, and the four-day experience still coursing through our bodies--these were the only constants in the world. And this light we made, pillaring high into the sky, this was our passion and our regeneration made real. This was our rebirth brought about by a weekend of music and theater and art and dancing. Bumbershoot is exhausting and there is too much spectacle for one man, woman, or child to fabricate a complete panorama. But you aren't really supposed to try to consume it all. You are just meant to be reminded that art--any art--is integral to your life and those who suffer without it, do suffer indeed. And, as the cow was consumed into fine ash, sparking and twisting into the air, we hoped that each wish--each smile, laugh, and joyous instant--which had suffused our hearts over the weekend was going up with those ashes and would blanket the earth.

Cornucopia, 6:15 pm Bumbrella Stage. If you're in the know within the local soul/funk/jazz scene, you know who Chris Littlefield is. He's the talented trumpeter/composer who has worked with many locals such as Phatsidy Smokehouse, etc. You can usually catch his awesome playing at the 700 Club Friday nights at Jambalaya which features some of Seattle's well known musicians jamming together. Well, today at Bumbershoot, Littlefield's debut of his '70s-inspired soul/jazz Big Band appropriately called Cornucopia. An over-the-top ambitious effort, Littlefield's compositions and arrangements for the entire band came across beautifully. Vocals by Plush's Whitney James were a plus.

The Roots with Macy Gray. I found Macy Gray as an opener a surprise and at the same time, quite a disappointment. Not ragging on Macy entirely, I am aware of her star quality but having been moved earlier in the day by Saul Williams, it was hard for me to switch gears. Anyway, I heard that her performance at the Bumbrella stage earlier that day was amazing, so perhaps those kids who checked that out got the real deal.

I'm not sure what happened to The Roots but they never showed up. Seeing them at the Fenix earlier this year, I wasn't too hyped to see them in such a large arena as Memorial Stadium but at the same time, I felt like a majority of the crowd didn't realize that the main crew of Rahzel, Black Thought, ?uestlove , Scratch, Hub, etc. weren't the MCs onstage. The MCs' version of "You Got Me" didn't carry well but I give props to those guys for their effort to keep the show on. I've been checking the Official Roots website for details why the guys didn't show but an answer still hasn't been posted. I'd be curious to know what happened...Anyway, I think I was more concerned during this set about the fire on the other side of Memorial Stadium...

We stop by the press room to treat the staff to Joel's homemade cookies. They've been great to us and bust ass with little reward. The only time they get noticed is when something is amiss, and with their hard work Bumbershoot '99 was a success from all sides.

First on the hit list today is Chan Marshall's one person musical outlet, Cat Power. The Opera House is packed, but it's so quiet that I can hear the zoom on my camera scroll back and forth. In fact, its loudness is disconcerting enough that I put it away after only a few shots. Chan starts out at the grand piano ("I can't believe I'm playing a Steinway," she remarks) and softly begins her simple, deceptive melodies. Her simple phrasing builds repetition and her melancholic voice floats throughout the theater. After a few songs she stands up and dons her guitar, again to repeat the sparse chord phrasing and hushed lyrics. It's quite beautiful, really. But it's also lulling me to sleep. It's 1pm and I need to stay awake so I quietly make my way out the backdoor and out onto the fountain lawn in time to feel the raindrops from a quick afternoon shower.

Shortly thereafter it's over to the Rock Arena, Death Cab for Cutie take stage to a near full house. This foursome from Bellingham craft intelligent pop songs in the emo-core vein. It was my first time seeing the band and I was quite impressed by both the music and the musicianship. A large number of fans had turned out, several even going so far as to hold aloft "I Love Death Cab for Cutie" signs. Johnny Renton was rumored to have been waving to the band, but in the midst of so many cheering fans I couldn't make him out. Perhaps he and Patrick McDonald were off trying to figure out how to report on bands they probably didn't even see.

After Death Cab for Cutie it's back across the festival grounds to the Bumberclub for Hovercraft's set. The best explanation of this noise trio comes directly from the band: "Music, like all language, is drawn from observation...Hovercraft is language, specifically the communication between three individuals, each in a hyper focused state of mental and physical struggle, filtering into music the world around them." To the unknowing, a Hovercraft performance like an experiment in disorganized noise. But if you follow the music, there is definition and purpose. And if you aren't getting it, then you're not looking in the right places. As with all their shows, behind the band a film plays; a collage of old NASA and government footage and the only light source on or off stage. As the film starts the band slowly release their immensely loud musical assault. Both music and film build for several minutes, each feeling the other out. And then, as if on cue, the band dives into their arsenal and as a loud kaboom blows the crowd off its feet, the film jumps into a hyperactive collage of visual and mental distress. Standing next to the main speakers is like trying to walk upright on a ship in a storm. Over the next 40 minutes both the aural and visual dynamics rise and fall together. The drumming sounds like the bellows of Hell, with the bass the strong arm pushing the air out and feeding the fires. Campbell 2000's guitar histrionics seep into the brain like a thousand nails across a chalkboard. You feel your psyche slowly being picked apart, you start to regress into early childhood memories; fractured associations and blurred memories. You want to curl up in a ball and hide and cry, but your eyes are fixated on the band and the images being splayed on the screen behind them. And just when you feel like Hovercraft are going to make you a certifiable drooling loon, both band and film stop on a dime--performance over. Finished. When you gather your senses back up and ponder what you just experienced it dawns on you that the band and film were perfectly synched, and that there were no tip-offs onstage on when or how the band should follow the film. It then becomes painfully obvious that Hovercraft have spent a lot of time honing their music (not the structure so much as the dynamics) to fit the film, and vice-versa. Each communicate with the other without conscious thought, each are an inseparable, together they form from the formless.

After the Elvises is a race back over to the Rock Arena for everybody's favorite indie sons, Built To Spill. The Key Arena was packed and it was very nice to see the band play such a large venue to a receptive audience with a spectacular light show. Opening up with "Carry the Zero" from this year's Keep It Like a Secret, Martsch and company spent their set drifting across the band's catalog, and were even joined onstage by Caustic Resin's Brett Netson, who played one of his songs with the band and stuck around for several more. eP corrections dept. to the nice people at Wall of Sound: Brett Netson (not Nelson) is the singer/guitarist for Caustic Resin. Brett Nelson is Built to Spill's bassist and longtime friend and musical companion of Doug Martsch (anyone remember Farm Days?). Just thought we'd clear that up for you.

Inhaling the bliss of Built to Spill, it was off to the Bumberclub again for Scottish synth-pop band Bis. Consisting of two guitarists and the lovely Manda Ran on keyboards (who pogoed enthusiastically throughout their set--so much so that I kept looking for a trampoline under her feet), their sound was The Cars meet Devo on the disco dance floor. For me, it was "okay." Most of their sound was being kicked out via samplers, and you could not really make out any of their own instruments, which makes the band look a bit silly as they're jumping around stage playing air guitar. Ah well. It was a nice close to a fantastic musical weekend, and surly Bumberclub employees aside, a good time all around.

The fat lady finishes singing and we know the end must be near now. A lightning bolt descends from the platform and strikes the mad jalapeņo pepper, who has stood next to the cow all weekend, match in hand, waiting for the appointed hour. Smoke curls out from inside the cow and in short order it is on fire and burning "mightily" (damn, I wrote that down twice?!). The fire rises to engulf the beast and as the flames climb into the night sky the several thousand audience members are lit up with its glow. Every one cheers and I can't help but hear the words of Jello Biafra ringing in my ears: "Burn baby burn! Burn baby burn!" The 10,000 plus wishes are sent skyward on the smoke and ash of the fire and Bumbershoot slowly comes to a close. After feeling worn and exhausted earlier in the day from 4 days of being on the front lines of the festival, I suddenly feel rejuvenated. I find Mark at the press gate to the Roots and, having missing their performance, we head home, blathering incessantly the whole way about the performances we saw; wondering just how the hell we're going to get it all down on paper...