Above: Das Damen. Photo by Mike Shanley
On Sunday morning, August 31, I was sitting outside of the Avalon Lounge in Catskill, New York, eating a breakfast sandwich. There were 15 minutes to go before the club hosted a screening of Chris Wilcha’s documentary Flipside. While soaking up the morning sun (and breakfast), I nearly jumped a couple feet when a huge roar emanated through the walls of the Avalon. Someone was rocking hard – an impressive feat at 10:15 in the goddam morning. What kind of hoodlums can do that so early on the day of rest, I wondered. And furthermore – who sounds so awesome doing it?
It turns out it was Phantom Tollbooth, doing their soundcheck for a set that would happen later that evening. I should have known. That trio rocked my world harder than almost anyone on the planet back in 1988. If they could kick out the jams that early in the morning, it was clear, to use the old industry saw, that they’ve still got it. (More about their actual set later.)
Dromfest ’25, the three-day event assembled by Dromedary Records’ Al Crisafulli, overflowed with bands like this, many of whom left their mark over 35 years ago. Some, like guitarist Roger Clark Miller, have kept playing, evolving as a solo artist, before and after his band Mission of Burma came back to life. Thalia Zedek and Yo La Tengo have also continued to amass a catalog of music that continues to move in new directions. Others, like Phantom Tollbooth or Salem 66’s Beth Kaplan fell off the radar, remembered by a loyal coterie who thought they’d never see they’d hear the songs performed live.
Yet, here they were, back in front of an audience. Hearing Kaplan play “Bell Jar” and the dramatic “Lost and Found,” from the album that came out right as the band broke up (Down the Primrose Path), almost made this Salem 66 fan a little teary-eyed. This experience wasn’t supposed to ever happen. But there, in a gravel lot outside of the Return Outpost brewery and lounge, stood Kaplan, accompanied by guitarist Chris Brokaw and keyboardist Franklin Bruno, . Along with several of her Salem 66 tunes, the set also included a few choice covers, including David Bowie’s “It’s No Game” (sung by Corsano), which proved to be pretty relevant again.
To be clear, Dromfest was not merely about the past coming back to life. The weekend was very much about now, with new bands creating some equally exciting stuff alongside the veterans. But speaking as someone who has been reflecting on those bygone days recently, for personal reasons, hearing and socializing with these musicians and watching a documentary about a filmmaker coming to grips with letting go of big things, Dromfest offered a big realization: Things were great in those days before indie rock was a viable term. And all this music still packs a pretty serious punch.
Next to Al Crisafulli, Chris Brokaw was likely one of the busiest people at the festival. In addition to playing with Kaplan, he also tore it up with the moody, catchy trio Lupo Citta’, played a solo set and joined Yo La Tengo for a tune. His solo set happened on opening Friday night at the Avalon, falling between Roger Miller’s Solo Electriidic Guitar Ensemble (which I missed, sadly, due to the long commute) and Sunburned Hand of the Man. Brokaw’s command of the guitar meant that even with just six strings and some pedals, he created a rich sound that fills the room, moving at a deliberate pace that feels energizing.
Sunburned Hand of the Man managed to cram seven musicians onto the intimate stage with vocalist/saxophonist/vibraphonist John Moloney presiding from just off of stage left. Two guitars, two drummers (including free jazz whiz Chris Corsano), bass, keys and turntables all created a swirling sound where no one treading into anyone’s sonic territory. The guitars resided more in the middle of the sound, with a steady rhythm flowing underneath and the electronics moving to the top. Hypnotic in its relentlessness, the grooves never got old.
On Saturday morning, I strolled down Main Street admiring all the artistic cat sculptures in front of the storefronts. What initially seemed like a typical street design turned out to be part of Cat’s Meow Auction, where the artistic renditions of felines were eventually auctioned off. Near one of those kitties, Spike’s Record Shop, owned by onetime Dumptruck bassist Spike Priggen, got Saturday afternoon going by hosting poets Annie Christain, Bel Simek and Karen Schoemer. Poetry inspired, and accompanied, by music, can be a slippery slope but these three scribes each revealed depth as both writers and presenters.
One of the many cat statues on Catskill's Main Street. Photo by Mike Shanley
With an event like Dromfest, it’s important to investigate the unfamiliar names on the bill at these events. A big payoff came on Saturday with the afternoon’s opening set at Return Outpost by $500. The trio includes Crisafulli’s son Jonathan on drums, making a solid point about good musical genes getting passed onto the next generation. Completed by guitarist Ian Donohue and bassist/vocalist Kaitlyn Flanagan, they created some twangy pop, building one tune on what felt like a raga created by a bass loop and, at one point, tricked us all into thinking they were attempting “Marquee Moon,” only to go into another tune once all the onlookers had exchanged glances. Depth and wry humor were on display.
The afternoon sets alternated between the Outpost’s outdoor lot and the Avalon, located about a two-minute walk away. In addition to Kaplan, outdoor players included Pittsburgh’s Vehicle Flips, which technically was the Ekphrastics, the current project fronted by VF’s vocalist/tenor guitarist Frank Boscoe. (Though drummer John Lancia also played in both bands too.) Regardless of name, Boscoe donned a Pirates baseball cap and dug into the songbook he dreamed up during his days in the Steel City like “Potomac.” He removed the cap for a few Ekphrastics songs, mid-set. A closing over of the dB’s tune “Black and White” showed off the band’s chops and proved that Boscoe still has some range in those pipes.
Frank Boscoe of Vehicle Flips. Photo by Mike Shanley
Part of the personal challenge at an event like Dromfest is maintaining stamina in order to check out as much as possible. The pacing between the sets was ideal for those bouncing between venues: 45 minutes of music, 15 minutes to walk to and get situated at the next spot. But coffee and food breaks are important points on the day’s agenda as well. Earlier in the day, my coffee run cut into the set by New Radiant Storm King, though I caught enough to realize what a powerhouse band they still are. But unfortunately sets by Bunnygrunt and Moviola came during dinnertime.
Saturday evening was filled with anticipation, with the return of Scrawl, who very rarely are heard outside the confines of Columbus these days, and Yo La Tengo, who could bring a myriad of approaches to the stage. This marks Scrawl’s second year in a row at Dromfest and before they started, bassist Sue Harshe promised the trio (with recent Tsunami drummer Luther Gray guesting behind the kit) wouldn’t simply repeat their 2024 set. From the opening charge of “Good Under Pressure” through to the raucous “He Cleaned Up,” with a cover of Magazine’s “A Song From Under the Floorboards” in between for added bliss, the group did not disappoint. Harshe spent much of the set grinning from ear to ear. When she commented, “That was fucking FUN,” she spoke for all of us.
Marcy Mays of Scrawl. Photo by Mike Shanley
Harshe and Scrawl guitarist Marcy Mays were just two of the guests who joined The Freewheeling Yo La Tengo, as the bill described the trio that night. Their sound was stripped down for the evening, with Georgia Hubley playing only snare and cymbals rather than a whole kit. Ira Kaplan wasn’t in the mood for ear-shreading feedback solos or Farfisa drones either. Instead their mellow set dug into the band’s 1986 debut Ride the Tiger for a few tunes. They also invited several longtime friends to join them, making the whole set feel almost like a back porch reunion. Beth Kaplan, Madder Rose’s Mary Lorson (who had played just before YLT), Phantom Tollbooth’s Dave Rick (YLT’s one-time bassist) and the ever-present Chris Brokaw all got into the act. The room felt like a sweatbox at the end of the night but with a set like this – which included Scrawl’s heartstring-grabbing harmonies on Neil Young’s “Comes A Time” – you can’t just walk away. Cool air will be there after the set.
Chris Wilcha’s 2023 film Flipside isn’t exactly a tragedy (it’s not about the famed Los Angeles punk zine either). But there are tragic elements to it – the likes of which can hit hard for folks in their 50s or early 60s who have spent a lifetime amassing stuff devoted to music and start wondering where it’s all supposed to go. A filmmaker all his life, we see Wilcha swear he will never sell out as he slowly works within the system to support himself and his family. As he does, various documentary projects begin with full steam and grind to a halt. Along with numerous deep conversations with the late jazz photographer Herman Leonard, Wilcha attempts to use his powers to save Flipside, the used record store in Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, where the filmmaker worked as a teen. It’s a story of time moving ahead and the realization that holding onto the past isn’t going to make it stay. At the same time, Wilcha seems to tell viewers that you don’t have to forget about why the past was so important to you.
In a big way, the film became a cornerstone of the whole weekend to me. At the risk of sharing too much information, I spent the weeks prior to Dromfest cleaning out my late mom’s house with four siblings — sorting through over six decades of family history — and sending my only offspring off to college. Now I was making reconnections with old acquaintances, making new ones and rocking like we were in our 20s again. The realization of time moving on was something that felt really personal. It was probably good that the film was silenced during the credits to get the room ready for a set by Dromedary artists King In Yellow. Knowing in advance that the Replacements’ “Unsatisfied” was playing in the final reel had me ready to bawl like an old sap. Luckily no one had to see that.
Sunday’s outdoor shows moved from Return Outpost to the equally adjacent Left Bank Ciders which had an outdoor deck. The afternoon kicked off with Fly Ashtray, who have been making brilliant weird pop since the late 1980s, flying (no pun intended) under the radars of all but a few enthusiastic folks. As I pointed out in a Big Takeover piece on them earlier this year, the band has not ventured beyond their Manhattan/Brooklyn base once during the 21st century. So their appearance felt like an event for this fan. The band’s set drew on their massive catalog, going back a few decades for “hits” like “Soft Pack” and “Ostrich Atmosphere,” while also leaning into tracks from their new album Most of All, Have Fun. Former vocalist/sometimes bassist John Beekman joined them for a few songs, proving he can still tear it up too.
James Kavoussi and Chris Thomas of Fly Ashtray. Photo by Mike Shanley
The only setback with Left Bank’s set up was the day’s blazing sun got to be a bit much during sets by Mark Robinson and Rebecca Gates. Heatstroke felt like a possibility when the former artist — who brought us bands like Unrest and his great Teen Beat imprint— admirably summed up his whole career in 45 minutes by playing 52 songs (according to the setlist) with no breaks between them. There was more of a breeze during the set by the former Spinanes member Gates who also segued many of her songs together, singing in a hushed voice that was perfect for mid-day. An extra treat came when Ida’s Elizabeth Mitchell joined her at toward the end of the set.
The movement from the bright outside stage to the dark inside walls of the Avalon could be a shock but the cool air and burning intensity of the Thalia Zedek Band made the transition smoother. Zedek performed between Robinson and Gates, laying down a sound that felt heavy and extremely beautiful at the same time. Later that evening, Cathedral Ceilings felt like a second coming of Hüsker Dü, cranking out a set that was fast, melodic and incredibly tight.
After hearing Phantom Tollbooth’s piledriving soundcheck this morning, it was clear I needed a front-of-stage spot for their set. The band’s self-titled 1986 EP out-thrashed the current wave of hardcore at that time and predicted what screamo bands would try to do over the next 15 years, without really coming close. Their lyrics were funny in a dry sort of way too. And nobody but nobody coaxed a full-bodied roar out of his axe like Dave Rick.
The question I pondered was whether they could conjure that same collision of brutality and melody after all this time. Bassist Gerard Smith might not have ravaged his lungs the same way during “Jack of All Phobias” during their set, but if he had, he would have nothing left. “The Fuck,” another fave, which resembled a cut-up of two alternating grooves, sounded a tad smoother than the original, possibly due to drummer Paul Andrew taking the spot of original member Jon Coates. But these are minor quibbles that are reserved for obsessives like me. (While chatting with Smith after the set and mentioning the arrangements, he laughed, “You’re the guy,” as if he knew someone was going to notice.) In short, these guys still shred like no others.
But the night still wasn’t over. The weekend ended with a healthy dose of solid rock, courtesy of Das Damen. No one else could take it over the top like these cats, swaggering all over the stage, leaning into each other during guitar solos and whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Having seen so many bands over the years attempt to put on an act like this, it was a revelation seeing it done by a band that played this way because their very lives seem to depend on it.
Das Damen. Photo by Mike Shanley
The only time Al Crisafulli stepped onstage and formally addressed the audience came right before Das Damen’s set. A generous guy who seemed committed to making personally sure we all had a good time, he observed in passing that there are a lot of bad things going on in the world at this time, which doesn’t make him happy. That might have been the first time that weekend that I remembered the sorry state of the world out there. For 48 hours, this sleepy town, its residents and its visitors had been the most welcoming crew, nearly luring me into some sort of indie rock Twilight Zone.
Dromfest organizer Al Crisafulli. Photo by Mike Shanley
Rather than taking his aside as a cold dose of reality, and a reminder of the seven-hour drive I faced the next day, his sense of enthusiasm summed up the whole experience, leaving me energized and motivated to keep being creative.
Thanks, Al. See you next year.
