Cocofest 2000: The Mini-Series – July 14th, 2000

by Bing Futch

Some of you are curious as to why the “God Jam It!” column was marked ‘out of order’ for the past few days; some of you already know. I won’t get into it too much here, but you can read the review in its new location on the Dark Studios server at: www.darkstudios.com/godjamit.html.<p>

“cocofoxx”

Dish, dish and more dish. Why, if there were any more dishes involved in this week’s column, it would qualify as a Norwegian buffet. Some time ago, I predicted that Orlando would soon become a bay for outsider sharks. Suited slicks with gleaming eyes and a notion to swoop in and gobble the assembled fish before making a swift getaway towards the next feeding ground. Luckily, the local music scene has a number of representative dolphins that are poised to butt heads with the incoming Makos and tail-bitch-slap them until they either go away or die trying.

“cocobing” Now that the first rush of band signings has caught the attention of every would-be A&R scout fresh out of business school, the prevailing bands have proved their mettle and some fringe favorites have ceased the tongue wagging about “flukes” and “lucky shots.” There’s a fever raging within the bowels of musicians from Tallahassee to the Keys and there are more than enough sharks willing to show them Pleasure Island for the price of a hide.

It started a little while ago, festivals, benefits, showdowns, battles, label showcases and cable television tapings. Prizes, recording time, a chance to be seen by “industry insiders” and reps from Sony. More competition in a scene that’s already brimming with backstabbing and the mad rush to climb over the band that’s in front of you. So few channels to hold the masses of talent, and it becomes a race to stand still–it’s either “get a deal” or be a failure, work a real job. Seldom heard is the ideal that the playing of the music is the payoff and anything else is just a bonus.

Cocofest 2000: July 1st

“gal” The general atmosphere at Coco Fest 2000 was one of integrity as an impressive line-up of bands prepared to engage in the first-ever “battle” at Coco’s Bar and Grill on International Drive in Orlando last week. Our good friends BUCK 32 were slated to play two sets on Saturday, July 1st. Gathering some acquaintances together, we headed out in quest of good sushi and an evening of great music. Now first of all–as soon as you start laying out plans, I’ve learned that it’s always good to prepare yourself for something completely different than what you’ve planned. You have to take into account that for every plan you make, there is an equal and contrapuntal reaction to said plan. It’s good to be ambivalent because that way, you always know how you’re going to feel about certain situations popping up on you.

“mimibuck” The crowd was fairly non-existent when we arrived at Coco’s, located on a prime strip of tourist goggle down a pace from Sea World. Melissa Foxx and Mimi Mouse (in da house!) were scampering about madly, getting with bands, getting with management, having eye-brow raising conversations via two-way cel phones. We stayed out of their way and found an empty bar booth to camp out in. The owners had set the stage up in an area that usually served as the main entrance. A hastily-erected barricade re-directed folks through the outdoor patio and into a small, stepped alcove that connected to the restaraunt. Lustily tropical murals splashed across the walls and a large aquarium adorned the path to the dining room where a group of band members lounged expectantly. They were NONE OTHER, come to find out later. Melissa and Mimi spotted our little group and came over to give much love. The girls already looked a little tired, undoubtedly tons of pre-planning had brought them to this point and now the pressure was on. Not counting the people who had to be there, about fifteen faces were accounted for and these few stood around the bar or slightly in front of it, watching the proceedings with great interest. A sound man skittered to and fro, tweaking knobs and adjusting microphone stands. There was no sign of Wes or Mark, any of the guys from BUCK 32 and it was assumed that they would not be going on at seven o’clock. No offense to whomever was next, but it became time for sushi. We knew that all of the bands over the course of three nights would play two sets and our Melbourne buds were performing an hour before midnight which gave us plenty of time to party proper. Maybe we’d catch the other bands too and who knows? Maybe even come back the next day.

Melissa and Mimi were running about as we left, making eating motions with our hands and mouthing “right back.”

Melissa suggested a restaraunt; Mimi shouted “hello?” into one of the two-ways. It began to rain. Luckily, there was a stack of Jam Magazine’s last issue handy. We grabbed some for umbrellas.

Sushi was great, the company; precious.

“doorway” We returned and were irked to find that BUCK 32 had just stepped off-stage, our timing was impeccable. But the crew from Da Beach showed up, including Paulie Gregg and Kelly, add to that Sean and his girlfriend Erin with whom we had just broken sushi and you had a fairly large Melbourne convention. To the bar! That’s where Arik poured the drinks and V got his traditional Grand Marnier. Wes, Mark and John had beer, I joined suit. When Chinesa began hitting the Pucker shots it became clear that the evening would soon be renegotiating plans for all of us. It wasn’t long before Melissa had roped me into strapping some strange basketball game around my waist for the pleasure of the Bacardi girls, who rewarded my sunken hip shot with a free t-shirt.

“noneother” NONE OTHER was incredible. An earnest, likeable, power-pop quartet with major stage presence and energy to spare, the boys brought down the slowly crowding house with an impromptu ‘N Sync satire that preceded a white-hot rock tune. Seemingly surprised by the enthusiastic response, lead singer/guitarist Clint Wiley said “we’re not used to people doing that, clapping.”

TURNPIKE took the stage ably and I had settled into my third beer, a Groelsch that tasted like pine nuts. Sat there on the second step during the band’s entire set just about, smoking a cigarette and watching the lead singer give me long, piercing looks. The music, a sort of Hornsby-meets-Young acoustic rock, was dusky and husky with “turnpike”

lots of soul. The looks though, I’ve seen that look before. It’s the look that looks through you, sees into your deepest darkest corner and pulls you back out through your own skull sockets. Some of the other guys had that look too, but they didn’t look at people directly because they know they have The Look. I was thinking about this as I jammed to the sound, drinking, smoking and getting down. Mimi was taking pictures her ass off, and the lead singer would give her that same Look and smile a bit, posing for the camera. He looked a little worried. I nodded my head and tapped my feet and he Looked over at me and I felt a chill go up my spine. What was it? I couldn’t figure it out until I noticed how short everyone’s hair was.

Come to find out later, some of the members of the band are cops! See that? The radar was going off and I just couldn’t put two and two together, it didn’t seem terribly logical. They did rock tho’.

Suffice it to say that BUCK 32 rocks, because they do, don’t they? Yes, they do, don’t they though? We’ve shared bills and meals and roaches and rooms and V asked me if I’d come up and do the third vocal harmony part on “What It Was” and I said “sure.” They got Mimi up there to sing the lead part with me and John doing Beatle-positions on the mic. Sheer fun, we were there to support the BUCK, and now more beer was flowing and Melissa was talking to me about her college training and background. Dig this, I’ve always thought Melissa was a talented chick–but she’s got musical experience that I had no clue about. Like, perfect pitch and can arrange charts and shit like that. That and gleaned some insights about the radio biz that will remain strictly off-the-record because I’m good like that, but all I can say is that I’ve got a renewed admiration and respect for what Melissa and Mimi have created in the form of “Get A Life!” They are dolphins.

They tail-bitch-slap sharks with playful authority.

By this time, the bar had begun to crowd with other hospitality employees from the strip, recently free from work duties and not wanting to tie one on in their own bar. It’s a longstanding sort of taboo to drink where you work, unless you drink while you work and then you’re walking a different sort of line altogether. Many of them knew nothing about the four-day event and were planning to come back for at least one of the days, hell–the other bars don’t have original music nights.

We vowed to return the next day.

Cocofest 2000: Day 2

“ronperry” Amazing, that we were able to get the exact same parking spot as we returned on Sunday, July 2nd. The PVC tarp had been removed from the entrance and people were entering the restaraunt as normal. Where had the stage gone? Tents for food and beer had been rearranged near the front of the patio to create more of a mall entrance and we discovered that the stage had been set up in the small alcove that had held Jager shots and Groelsch on ice just the previous night. There wasn’t nearly as much of a spread as before. Bands and a few band girlfriends dotted the bleak landscape of empty tables and chairs. We had missed the RON PERRY CONNECTION already and had brought along my friend Ken, who normally can’t stand these sorts of things because he finds so many fake and shallow people. True that in the music biz, you’ll always have the real artists, the sincere folks who just don’t have much say in what they plan–it’s not a question of wanting to make music, you see. Then there are those who learn to become musicians the way you train for a job. These people are serviceable, they have a right to co-exist in the sharing of a language form of tones and melodies, harmonies and rhythms. But the attitudes towards the music will be different, goals will be less tactile, emphasis on the reaction before the action, the sum and not the equation.

And then there are weasels, co-conspirators to the aforementioned sharks. These are the people who don’t know jack shit or know little and pretend to know much.

They buzz around industry events like blue-bottles on a cow carcass, hopin’ for a nip.

“cider” Some of those types began to show their colors as more folks came in to enjoy the beautiful evening of cool breezes, CIDER’s pop-rock, sounding good in the stage’s new location. The now-and-again waft of odoriferous garbage bin fumes from the adjacent Crab House was the only real chink in the chrome as SOL did it up proper with their show. We were sitting in the back, chatting with some folks around our table and nursing a pitcher of Icehouse. The tiki torches cast nappy shadows at our feet and someone from CIDER staggered drunkenly past our table. Natalee, one of the servers whom we’d met the evening prior, was working outside. She’s a good-timing girl, with a wild party streak–wants to make movies. When not getting shots of her belly being licked, she contemplates a career in production. We befriended her and decided that Cocofest was a happy accident, there was a certain sort of vibe here that was making for a good time even if the attendance was kind of low–we decided then and there to show up in support of all four nights, though we had plans to attend Jet Zaleski’s big party on the 4th. We’d work it out somehow, skip some of the bands we’d already seen and could go without seeing again, head off to Jet’s during those sets. I was interested in seeing who won “the battle.” In fact, no-one seemed to know what “the prize” was, but that wasn’t a subject that got much mileage. Most overhead question: “what’s your e-mail?”

The owners had taken it up the ass with Saturday’s decision to close the kitchen. The stage move had been a desperate attempt to draw more revenue with regular dining dollars. Scott, the manager, watched from the back of the patio, his eyes buried in a valley of lines.

Some of the guys in SHRAPNEL were taking pictures next to the Orange County Sherrif’s cruiser parked alongside the curb by the outside deck. They are the result of a confusing bit of detail involving the SUPERVILLAINS, the band that was originally to be booked. From the moment that SHRAPNEL began to load in its own equipment (the backline didn’t come with a double bass kick) there began a conspicuous exodus towards the rear of the patio.

It was damn ass loud.

“shrapnel” These guys poured it on, a sort of metal syrup for razor-thin pancakes. From downbeat one, the entire pop-flavored mood of the evening met a sudden and vicious death. For some of us head-banging freaks, it was a nice break. Melissa walked up to me at one point and asked “so, what did you think of SHRAPNEL?” to which I answered, “they rocked!” I don’t think she was expecting that answer. Not everyone can just switch channels.

Cocofest 2000: Third day’s the charm

We were expecting Monday, July 3rd to be quiet if for no other reason that a) it was a Monday and b) it would be status quo. Upon arriving however, it appeared that we would be happily disappointed. Loud, rowdy rock was blowing through the air towards us and it sounded like GRUMPY* was throwing down their intense mosh. The guy who checks ID’s is Bob, we learn–he also sells beer. He waves us off as we “grumpy”

reach for our wallets and just hands two wristbands over. Of course, our timing is off once again and as the music crashes to a halt and Melissa is on the mic saying something about “blood”, we realize that we’ve missed GRUMPY*’s show. Quite a few more people sitting on the patio, eating, drinking, shooting video and generally getting down to the nitty-gritty of it. Seems that the Reverend P, who always looks pissed in whatever photo you see him in, sliced open his finger while playing and began to bleed profusely all over himself and the guitar. “Absolute rock ‘n’ roll,” said Melissa. “Are they playing again?” I asked. They were.

Had never seen GRUMPY* before, and these were the sort of shenanigans that I was expecting from them. I ended up talking to Buzz and the Reverend P at length later in the evening and they both struck me as well-balanced, well-spoken, well-mannered gentlemen. Perhaps the

band is just an outlet for something blacker that’s internalized. Shadow from SONGS FOR FEY is a very Haight Street Love Beat kind of girl with an infectious giggle and an eyebrow lift that would make Sean Connery blush. She was missing part of her band, which caused a re-arrangement in the schedule–something that had been happening “doorway27”

without fail anyway. Melissa and Mimi stayed on the microphone to keep things rolling, keeping the vibe laid-back and wandering. A good number of tourists had begun popping their heads over the short wall to check out the bands. They were greeted with a friendly, “no cover to get in!” and the masses slowly increased. Natalee found herself stuck working as hostess while the party blew up outside with DOORWAY 27–a very different sort of groove band from West Palm. These guys hold onto notes and colors, jam on it and play with all the tonal possibilities–moving forward in shades and adding a depth to the music that is mature, deliberate and wayward all at the same time. I took to calling Chris the guitarist “Captain Colors” because of his hippie way with a progression. The band had the royal loyal following going on with a great support group of folks who danced and boogied during the set. When lead singer Bryan rapped out “we are Siamese if you please/we are Siamese if you don’t fucking please”, the entire place dissolved into whoops and sorry, cat-calls. This band stroked the party into a fine groove.

“shadow” And still the bands, when asked, showed no knowledge of the prize they were allegedly battling for–most came out simply just to play. SONGS FOR FEY dished out some entrancing psychedelic rock, some of which sounded like soundtracks for James Bond films. Shadow’s cheerful demeanor and a solid band kept the place rockin along and wondering if that was really Eric Clapton on guitar. Mimi never seemed to stop working, except to take a moment to shake her butt a little. Chinesa leaned over and commented that Mimi would stop and take a picture of the band, then she’d go to get a shot but would decide to dance a little before snapping the image. The little digital camera was getting a work-out and so was Mimi.

The guys from FREEFLOW CONSPIRACY were on the scene, another band that I’ve shared bills and bottles with. The out-of-town representation was fairly huge–compared to the relatively fewer Orlando bands. Some groups, like NONE OTHER, had recently relocated to O-Town in order to make life easier for them as a group. I was quick to offer that being in Orlando doesn’t naturally make it easier–if anything, it makes it harder to see you in a crowded room.

Captain Color a.k.a. Chris had written a room number on my wrist–his band had a room at the Wyndham and there would be much partying taking place there after the show tonight. Having professed an interest in rolling a hogleg and smoking with the guys, this was to be my cherry on the evening. Over the past few days, I had hung out with and watched some great bands who were all about the music. It encouraged me about the nature of the scene and the number of dolphins in the water. By the time FREEFLOW CONSPIRACY got back up there and started blowing the place up–the party was in full motion. GRUMPY* didn’t leave me hangin’ either as Paul busted open that finger again and added some instant crimson drama to the proceedings. The veins on his head stand out when he sings, giving him the look of a man who’s about to be killed by a Scanner. Very intense, made even more so by the bloody finger that he holds up in front of his face, dripping and splashing human wine onto the tile. His guitar is spattered across the pickup region. His guitar tech is mildly disgusted.

“natalee” I keep moving, as I tend to do at shows that I’m not playing anyway. Always watching, looking, listening, checking pulses, whatever. Melissa walks up to me and whispers into my ear about needing one more judge for the final day and would I be interested. I’m thinking “sure”, something low-key–everyone who’s been here so far, it’s been mellow, it’s been hippie–some sort of secret ballot and no-one even knows that I was a part of it. See, even writing CD or show reviews makes me uncomfortable–for every sound, there is an audience. What makes a music preferable to you is all a matter of opinion and maybe just a little bit of technical skill.

It’s hard to judge bands against bands when each one has its own way of going about things. Groups like GRUMPY* and CIDER are in two different categories and their respective crowds would probably not be into the cross-over possibilities. Really, it amounts to which band gets the best crowd response overall–which is unfair to guys like SHRAPNEL, whose act would go ever well at THE STATION but not at Border’s Books and Music, you see. Despite all of that aflutter in my head, I agreed to do it, honored that I had been asked. “Well, I trust your opinion,” said Melissa. “It’ll balance out the other judges.” Suddenly, I felt like Indiana Jones.

“Judges? What other judges?”

[Cue soundtrack o’ dread]

Cocofest 2000: Mild Paranoia Sets In

Tuesday, July 4th. Independents Day in my book and the library of other books that assembled together early in the afternoon. Two o’clock and the hazy grey of clouding threatened to dampen the day. Stinky the Dweebish Intern (SDI) greeted me with a handshake that we had developed over the past three nights. A Brutha’s In Da Hood Shake that ended with a gentle knuckling of fists and the “gently” spoken with a Yiddish inflection. Arik, the Shakesperean bartender, had shown up at the Wyndham early in the morning as we burned the splif–he was arriving as we were leaving. Noon was his call-time and he didn’t seem to be lacking enthusiasm for the day.

I noticed with some wariness that a “judge’s table” had been set up. The USGIGTV folks had shown up and one of the prize suppliers organized a quick meeting. None of these folks had been here for the other three days of events and it suddenly sent the atmosphere from relaxed and casual to official. Scott, the manager, came over and talked to the group and there was a tone to the proceedings that came off alien to me. I somehow missed the gist of the meeting except to catch aural glimpses that spoke of free beer for judges and a need to remain at the table while all the bands performed.

“arik” I blanched. I left the assembly and consulted Arik for a beer.

Sitting at a table imperious-like, passing judgement on the folks that I had been hanging out with for the past three days? What would they think? That I was spying or something? And there were little sheets of paper grading the bands on three general areas, crowd response, technical/stage presence and songwriting, rated from one to five. Someone had made the crack, “well–I’m a judge and they’d better keep this pitcher full,” which is not an image that I wanted to be associated with. My original intention was to attend all four days of the event with my unconditional support for all involved–now I was going to be plainly stamped as one of the people responsible for awarding whatever the hell kind of prize they were giving away that no-one still quite knew what it was.

I couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember what it was.

What’s worse–BUCK 32 would be doing “What It Was” and it certainly couldn’t be good judicial etiquette to leap madly upon a stage with a band and start groovin’ with them. This wasn’t fair. But hey–we had been paying for beer all week and now, it was on the house. That softened the impact just a little. I’d simply explain to all the bands what the situation was so that they didn’t feel betrayed. But sitting at that table! That didn’t flow with my character–who wanted to jump up and down, mix with the music. Mix with the crowd. It didn’t help that I was hearing the same old industry spew from people who shouldn’t be involved in the day-to-day operation of anything musical–but these events, they bring them out of the walls and tombs and right into the thick of things. It’s a free country anyway.

“Scott, do I have to stay at that table?” I asked the manager with pleading eyes.

“No, you can wander around,” he said. “We just want the judges to be around for every band.” I promised him I wouldn’t go anywhere and then gently asked for a beer.

Well, Jet’s party was out–and being the sufferer of short-term memory loss–I had forgotten to bring his number along. No matter–the RON PERRY CONNECTION was about to go on and if things went smoothly, the show would be over around ten o’clock in the evening with plenty of time left to party at Jet’s. Melissa got on the mic–I walked out into the gloomy sunshine and took a look at the people starting to wander through, mixing in with the bands and ordering up chicken wings and leafy salads. The wafting stench of rotting seafood was more pungent today, we wondered if that would get better or worse with the impending rains.

The RON PERRY CONNECTION made me feel damn good. Gravel-voiced lead singer Perry used to have a major label deal with CBS and supports himself mainly through the band, so he had the air of someone who has seen a little too much, but it hadn’t scaled his eyes over yet.

Their music told real stories and explored progressive-yet-retro rock alleys–certifiably hippie with Soundgarden as a dreamy influence. They played to a scarce crowd, but needed to pack off for Daytona where they had another gig lined up. CIDER wouldn’t show at all due to a gig downtown, a double-booking that raised a few eyebrows and utterances of “whatever.” Sometimes you go where the money go and sometimes you don’t care but you want the best spot in the line-up. Bands have their reasons for everything they do–it’s just not bodaciously clear to those not in the band, if you follow me. GARDEN GROOVE was supposed to be a part of the four-day event but for some reason (that’s sure to be a piece of future urban legend) cancelled at near the last minute. Some folks weren’t happy ‘bout that.

NONE OTHER and SOL stepped in early to bat for the smallish crowd. It was plenty early in the day and judges were asked to “speculate” about what the crowd response for the bands would be, based on the amount of people present. Well hell–that’s pretty much based on the opinion of the judge, isn’t it? I struggled with the idea of just voting fives on everything for each band and providing a solid curve for what would turn out to be wildly partial judging. I’m not sure that would’ve worked and I let the numbers do the talking with as objective an ear as I could lend.

By the time DOORWAY 27 came on, the sky had ripped opened a hole for which rain was to blow through for a good portion of time. This had the effect of clearing the patio and boosting the crowd directly in front of the band while others filtered into the restaraunt or simply left. The judge table had begun to get soaked and all but one judge retreated for shelter. “These guys took a judge to their room last night,” said Melissa, iron wit sharpening its blade. “Did they know you were a judge?” she asked, giving me a playful look. And what if people thought that I was being bribed by bands? Then that would’ve made every single band suspect since I hung with all of them in one way or another. What did the famous Rolling Stone rock journalist say to the young Cameron Crowe. “Don’t make friends with rock stars,” he said. I argue–“make friends with musicians, the rock stars can’t handle reality anyway.”

While watching SONGS FOR FEY, one of the guys in TURNPIKE said, “hey look–Eric Clapton’s in the group.”

Natalee got off of work early and chose to hang with us for the duration of the afternoon and evening. Jet had instructed me to bring as many people as I could to the party, so plans were to take the leftovers with us when the winners were announced tonight. People began asking me “who do you think’s gonna win?” I hadn’t seen the other numbers, but the curve was going to change again with the addition of a judge from Disney, an older Oriental man who didn’t seem to like any of what he heard. Scott laughed, “Nepotism in the workplace,” he said. I had a feeling that the other judges were of the MTV mindset and were looking for something flashy, marketable and with mainstream appeal. In fact, Tom–who appeared suddenly and took over some serious reins on the final day of the event, pushed for “marketable” which is, I guess–good, when you’re producing the video for the band that wins. Something screamed “conflict of interest” while another something screamed “who cares?!” Chinesa had gotten Chef Paul to throw her a huge half o’ chicken and she was tempting me back towards the rear of the patio. We’ve been flat busted since Jam went belly-up, this little bit sure helped to pass the time until the barbecue later on.

TURNPIKE and SHRAPNEL leapt into the ring while the sky cleared up and the people began returning to the patio.

The cop quotient went up several notches as Orange County police cruisers began showing up as TURNPIKE took the stage. The lead singer looked a little more relaxed during the show and seemed to be relieved that there were more people in the audience.

SHRAPNEL scared the hell out of the crowd, but stirred up a four person mosh pit despite sagging support. “Excuse us,” the lead singer said at one point after a particularly lost-in-space track. The balls-out nature of the Metallica/punk onslaught was infectious this time around and bruisers showed their appreciation.

“free” FREEFLOW CONSPIRACY once again brought the crowd out to do the bounce and raise the hands–one of the judges said, “it’s going to be pretty hard to beat them.”

Having been excused from the table to roam, I stood close by when BUCK 32 started their set. As the opening bars of “What It Was” coursed through the air, V gave me a look and crooked his head just so. Of course I pounced in and sang backup–let politics stand in the way of enjoying the joy and the vibe of that musical language shared? Hell nah!

GRUMPY* finished up the evening, which had started to run long and finished up around midnight or so. Who can really freakin’ tell–because they gave the judges unlimited beer. In reality, I had purposely kept myself from redlining, waiting for the moment that we got to Jet’s before letting myself slide down into the beer rapids attraction. The fourth day had made up for all of the lack of attendance that plagued the event and brought the lion’s share of coverage out as well. Typical though of some folks that they don’t watch regular season but come out for the finals because all of the crappy teams have been weeded through. The votes were taken off to be tabulated, numbers were strictly adhered to and the announcements came. First runner-up, by four tenths of a point, FREEFLOW CONSPIRACY with the winner being SOL. Not mentioned but worthy of note, NONE OTHER placed third by also fractions.

Cocofest 2000: Denouement

“sol” Prizes were awarded, SOL got up to play another set and Melissa and Mimi vanished like Batgirls under cover of night. Needless to say, the guys in the two prize-awarded bands were upbeat and in a celebratory mood. There were some long faces in the ranks, however.

So you don’t win, so what? Next time it’s you–or maybe there is no next time. Perhaps you simply play and are completely unaware of what’s being looked at, appreciated, clung to. Perhaps it’s only the reaction you seek, and when it doesn’t come–you feel no worth–or the doing is the reward and regardless of who claps when you’re done, it’s still golden to you and the other musicians on stage. Like anything else, there are a million ways to approach it–some more effective and edifying than others. In the end though, most of the performers that I bid good night to were glad to have been there, and weren’t just playing the good loser. Their eyes sparkled and they laughed, quaffed beer, packed their stuff and wondered where the party was off to. The event to them was a success–and Scott, just before I left, said that they were definitely looking at having bands at Coco’s as a permanent gig. Depending on who you talk to, Cocofest 2000 was a hit or a bomb, but the majority of those involved were thumbs up about it.

Citing mainly the fellowship as being a saving grace.

That and quality of performances made it a nice deal for those not even tied into the music scene, just looking to siddown, drinkalot and have some grub while enduring the harsh fumes from across the way. Honestly, over the course of four long days and nights of entertainment, the only major complaint had to do with whatever was in that dumpster. Perhaps Coco’s can send on assignment a bin-trooper who can bomb the damn thing with industrial strength Lysol every now and again. It might increase food sales on the patio.

Before it had begun, so many of us were still strangers. By the time it was done, so many of us were acquaintances, sharing stories, tripping back in time, reflecting on the future and enjoying a sweet stretch of Florida summer. Melissa and Mimi’s first major festival went smoothly despite a few sinkholes and the chances are good that it’ll happen again.

Let’s hope the band vibe stays the same–more dolphins and less sharks.<p>

“bfsig”