Gonerfest 7 was easily, without a doubt, the most extended period of fun I’ve had in life. I was running on an alternate wavelength, bringing forth reserves of energy and stamina never before utilized. I didn’t expect it. I’m already feverishly (literally) awaiting Gonerfest 8 while at the same time wishing the whole damn thing didn’t exist, because I don’t think I can function without its daily presence in my life. Sad? Maybe. I feel like I’m in the movie Same Time, Next Year, except my new mistress is Gonerfest. I’m lame like that.

I’m not going to talk about the Oblivians, New Bomb Turks, or Guitar Wolf. I ashamedly admit I paid little mind to these giants. Maybe I didn’t want to battle the crowd, maybe I’m just lazy. I watched from the far sidelines and in the case of New Bomb Turks, not at all. Probably going to feel those pangs of regret any minute now.

So what was good? In short – LAMPS! I suppose you could consider me more than a little slanted towards adoration. I’ve been waiting to see them ever since I heard the first song on their first record five long years ago. I still listen to it on a regular basis. (My mom, on the other hand, is sure that it’s the worst music she’s ever heard, and in an absolute jerk move, I actually made her cry because I played it on Easter one year. Not proud.) Back on track: the Lamps were worth the wait despite the fact that they were slotted into the Saturday day show, indoors, and I was stone-cold sober. They put forth an ultimate multi-layered wall of noise. Do you ever feel like a band exists purely for your own enjoyment and maybe you just dreamt it into existence? I felt like that. Even with a brief broken string incident mid-way through, they still reached the apex of all that is good and holy aurally.

Other highlights – Haunted George, who bizarrely receives little love, made all the better with the addition of Jimmy Hole (also playing with Lamps now). It hearkened back to their Necessary Evils days in the best possible way. I was in awe.

A few years back my grandmother’s “decorator” (actually hairstylist, decorates on the side), redid the mantle in my grandparents living room to display matching sepia-toned wedding photos of all the family members, starting with great-grandparents and moving down the line to my generation. My unmarried sister and I are the only ones absent from the display, however, the photo of my cousin and his ex-wife (who recently went through an ugly divorce which quite completely ripped our entire family apart) is allowed to remain.

Musical Herstory is a series by women on women and music.

Following The Heat Lightning’s recent Lightning Bolt show review, the heavy debate in the comment stream briefly touched upon the topic of gender in the noise/punk/experimental scene. Let’s explore this issue further, shall we?

I’m a woman. I’ve always preferred my music loud, fast, and a little out of tune; I desire to be in the thick of things at shows – front, center, out of control. I certainly don’t mind being battered about. It didn’t take me long to realize that among my gender this makes me a minority.

Why do I enjoy myself? It’s physical, it’s communal, it’s a release, it’s fun. The music is raw. On rare occasions it’s a little unsafe, I get bruised, I fall down. Things get broken; phones, glasses, teeth. I’m sure that’s enough to dissuade a fair amount of folks – male or female, from venturing too close. But why are women most often relegated to the fringes at such shows – is it by choice or necessity? Did the whole Riot Grrrl thing do nothing for women of the subsequent generations or just create a further gender divide of “his and her” punk rock?

Halfway through my screening of Splice a woman in the audience vomited all over the floor.

This is not the first time I’ve encountered a patron upchucking in a movie theater. Before a showing of the movie The Brave One, a young boy heaved into a garbage can. Incidentally, the plumbing in the entire multi-level movie theater was also on the fritz; picture that mise-en-scene. I still don’t understand why his mother brought him to that movie, and why they remained when the kid was clearly sick as a dog, but I suppose the high cost of movie tickets necessitated that decision, or perhaps she just really loved Jodie Foster.

I digress. Splice, while gory and disgusting, should not make the average viewer puke. It’s less of a horror film than the previews would lead one to believe – the horrors here are mostly ethical, unsettling and bizarre. This is science fiction minus the science. The filmmakers don’t try to provide any explanation about how it’s done or why things turn out the way they do. The pivotal splicing scene is set to the tune of late-90s techno music and a computer screen that simply reads “Human/Animal Splice: Successful.”

How did I feel about the movie Daddy Longlegs? Let’s put it this way: If you had watched me watch this, I doubt I had an expressionless moment throughout. It was a thrill ride of a different sort, one that left me giddy and disturbed.

Directed by brothers Benny and Josh Safdie, Daddy Longlegs is a semi-autobiographical tale surrounding the boys and their yearly two weeks of custody with their loving albeit reckless father, a man evidently devoid of all common sense. Ronald Bronstein, who made the so-good-it-sends-chills-down-my-spine Frownland, stars as Lenny, the ultimate fun dad. In my dream world, Bronstein would win every best actor prize that exists – I can only hope at least an Independent Spirit Award is in the cards.