The Dave Matthews Caravan--three stages, three days, dozens of bands-- makes four stops this summer, and the first was Bader Field, Atlantic City's empty ballpark/former airport. The sky stretched wide with overcast New Jersey haze all weekend (June 24-26), while the strip of casinos served as one large air-conditioned base camp: the Caravan’s five buses were parked at the Borgota’s swanky Water Club for most of the week, literally getting its act together. At $85 for a day pass, and over $350 for the complete weekend, I saved my resources for the third and final night of the Caravan in AC.
The crowd was young but not reckless, hot but not bothered. The Jersey shore is one big party in the summer—especially between Memorial Day and July 4th—and Atlantic City as a whole appeared grateful for the business: from show-your-ticket drink specials at the bars to a lavishly-promoted after party at the attempting-upscale Chelsea Hotel ($500 bottles of “ultra premieum” vodka were available). There was an interesting and wide selection of booze on the inside of the gate as well, and though re-entry was available to concertgoers, dealing with the scrutinous security checkpoints made staying at the show most efficient. Quality (highbrow?) IPA was eight or nine dollars, depending on the bartender; frozen margaritas and whiskey shots were each over ten bucks apiece. I was glad to see the Caravan specifically endorse patrons’ hydration: empty, reuseable bottles were allowed in, and water filling stations were free to all—which was important, even in the humid New Jersey heat.
Big Gigantic: Electronics Riddled with Sax
If the defunct Benevento/Russo Duo mastered cacophony through keys, electronics, and drums, the Colorado-based pair known as Big Gigantic are making new sense of laptop computers, drums, and bari sax. They were inventive enough that I’d probably enjoy the pair as an opener for most any act—and only as an opener, because I can’t ‘Trance’ for more than a quarter hour or so before getting bored, no matter how many cool stops and starts are built into the electronic backing track (and there were many). Props to Dominic Lalli and Jeremy Salken of Big Gigantic for grinding up new Rocky Mountain Hip Hop for all the teenyboppers at the Caravan.
Festival Organization 101: a poster inside the media area notes twelve unique levels of security; all became null at the start of each Dave Matthews Band set. 
Former schoolteacher and Cherry Hill, NJ native Amos Lee celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday only a few days before taking over the main Caravan stage on Sunday afternoon, leading his Steely-Dan-inclined funk band through what appeared to be his favorite songs: I thought it was between-acts-filler music, as I heard near-perfect strains of Ween’s stratospheric “Spirit of ’76.” It was, in fact, Amos Lee and company, and their well-chosen cover wholly captured the crowd. Amos’ band includes at least two guitars besides himself, a keyboardist (Nord seems the brand of choice among the Caravan acts), drums, freaky/funky bass, and much stage antics besides. More local than even some of the vendors in the farmers’ market (Dave Matthews’ vision of an official Shakedown Street included a south Jersey bakery, a free gallery of Jerry Garcia art, and, among others, a funky little booth from Relix). Through the second half of his set, Amos Lee called up two special guest vocalists, both of whom he had met on the Boardwalk, and both of whom sang Philly soul that summoned the ghost of some long-ago Harold Melvin seaside funk show from decades past. Lee ended his show with perhaps the funkiest, best cover of Neil Young's "Are You Ready for the Country?," a phenomenal closer to an excellent and jubilant set.
Amos Lee takes a drink as "Angel" wails
Another band on the Caravan roster that started around Philly during the last decade is Dr. Dog. If they had looked somewhat baffled by the heat and sweat of Bonnaroo last year, they were completely in their element at the Jersey shore, with home only a jaunt up the AC Expressway to West Chester: fast, tight, and something less like Green Day and more country-fried than perhaps they know. Even complimented by a host of weird electronics and aux percussion, and presenting as diligent of vocal harmonies as any given night of Phish (2010 manifestation; this year, anything is possible, it seems)-- even with these remarkable and thoughtful choices, Dr. Dog still rocks, and not carelessly. A wonderfully gritty drone tone made the vocals sound like a Dylan whine until a Deftones-sized band kicked in and the organ got louder and more swirly. If the Flaming Lips' Steven Drozd gave anyone a lesson in male falsetto singing techniques backstage on Friday night, it was surely Dr. Dog's bassist and lead vocal Toby Leaman. Leaman is getting especially good at playing the bass and leading the show, which helps because the other members of Dr. Dog follow his lead thoroughly (thank you Mr. Sting!). If any band in the Caravan deserves to be whisked away to Nashville for an all-expense-paid residency, it’s Dr. Dog. 
View from the Artists' Lounge to the Media Tent, and the Bud Light beyond
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals: Forthright Rock from Up North
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals are this century’s Big Brother and the Holding Company, without needing horn charts—a few steps away from the mellow that is Norah Jones, yet carefully distanced from the passive rage vocals of rock goddesses like Patti Smith. Grace is not interested in being Stevie Nicks, and the Nocturnals are no Fleetwood Mac: thunder may still happen when it’s raining, but there is a fun and inexplicable mystery to Grace’s stage presence, one that clearly delineates top-40 female pop-rock from her jazzy abandon and energy onstage. From a flying-V electric guitar opener to her Hammond and back again, Grace shook herself and a tambourine, trailing pieces of her heart all across the stage. The Nocturnals are especially good at communicating with each other, knowing where the song is headed, and how the chord changes may evolve. This led to a few very cool moments of what would be listed on a Grateful Dead setlist as “space,” but was taken by the crowd to be glimmering examples of musical prowess: the near-messiness ended in perfect time, resonating across the asphalt expanse of the venue. The songs themselves, all original, invoked a white blues-rock catalog that would include Steve Forbert’s heaviest strumming, the power-pop and drive of earliest Chicago, and the lovely and unique showiness that was Grace striding between her guitar and her Hammond organ. 
Nocturnals guitarist Scott Tournet won the Humility-in-Rock-Solos prize hands down Sunday afternoon in Atlantic City
Q: Who else can sing like Grace? A: No one.
Vermont’s Finest: Grace Potter and the Nocturnals enjoy themselves thoroughly
David Grey: UK Master of Non-Surprise
David Gray drove down to AC following his appearance on Regis and Kelly, and brought to the main Caravan stage a legion of keyboards. I became less interested in what he was playing and more engrossed in his vocal style, because he seems to be approaching Rod Stewart-level status, as a British sex icon and balladeer that made the crowd swoon. He played his tender and upbeat hits expectedly, though employed a digital piano over the real upright he had hauled onstage. Noticeably synthesized, Grey’s dramatic Dylanesque guitar riffs were featured in his mega-hit, “Babylon…” which is probably what he played on Regis and Kelly the morning previous, piped into mid-morning living rooms across the country. 
Michael Franti embraces a fan following his two-hour set at the Dave Matthews Caravan in Atlantic City
Be it for a litigious and lawful climate in New Jersey, or for the comprehensive pat-down situations at the gate, or for simple youthful affinity for beer: the Caravan smelled almost nothing like a reggae festival. This made Michael Franti and Spearhead an excellent representation of the evolved head-boppin’ genre: Franti is too fast to be stoner rock, too energetic, and almost exactly what you’d want to see if you’ve spent too much on a ticket, got drunk too fast, and found yourself standing around in the sun at an abandoned airport in Atlantic City wondering what’s going to happen next.
They call it the “fourth wall” in theater: the line between the performers on stage and the location of the audience. If the Flaming Lips are masters of destruction in this (see 6/25/11, House of Blues), Michael Franti may aim for closeness-for-closeness’ sake during his performances. On Sunday in Atlantic City, massive inflatable plastic balls—big ones, heavy enough to knock your beer from your unsuspecting hand!-- were tossed into the crowd during the opening number. Within twenty minutes, Franti himself was among the crowd, rallying with high-fives as he carried a cordless mic and wore an earpiece: I have never seen anyone call for a crowd to “jump in the air” as much as Franti, and he seemed to be having fun ending each song, looking over to his female backup vocalist and laughing as he told the crowd to “make some noise!”
One may only make such a call if the band is tight, ready, willing, able: all of these describe Carl Young’s bass playing. Not unlike thumpmaster and Flecktone Victor Wooten, Young stood with attitude in the center of the stage, directly in front of the drums, and held down the beat with style. Guitarist J Bowman was an interesting cat, whose attitude may not have exactly matched the “Sound of the Sunshine” vibe wrought by Franti’s antics and the feelgood pop beats, to which the crowd shuffled and sloshed around. Bowman played well, though by the end of the long set his pride appeared to get the best of him, making a too-classic rock guitarist face during the final thunderous chord (see pic below). Spearhead is: Nigerian drummer Mana Itiene, Raliegh Neal on keyboards (does everyone in the Dave Caravan make use of a swirly Hammond sound?), and vocalist Jolene Rust; they provided all the aural backing that an ebullient and charismatic frontman needs, to get the crowd’s arms in the air like they just don’t care. The band sure did care, but Franti himself compensated for almost all of their moments of egoism, morphing into something of a show host over a band’s frontman—turning from a chicken-walkin’ Mick Jagger into a Johnny Carson character who prompted us all to join the party. Franti’s parents watched the first half of the show from the sound booth, before he called them onstage and sang his mother’s praises—and, took the opportunity to express support for New York’s legislation regarding marriage equality. Michael saw his audience as one social group, a convergence of individuals united beneath a positive message conveyed by music: a lofty goal. Franti appeared suddenly from different platforms placed within the crowd, called up two audience members to ‘play’ the guitar (for which the band adoringly teased Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” riff), and, to close their show, invited over a dozen ecstatic fans, to bounce around, facing the crowd.
Ecstatic fan leaves the stage after playing guitar with Spearhead
High fives after appearing on stage with Michael Franti and Spearhead
During Franti's set, harmony and calm
From the middle of the crowd, Franti rallies his troops
‘I’m Awesome’: Spearhead guitarist J Bowman brings a Jersey attitude to the reggae riffs 
Bassnectar controls a thunderous electronica show via a platform of digital gear
Bassnectar-- note promotional paper fans distributed to the crowd prior to his set
Local bakery Fred Bread was invited by the Caravan to participate, selling an excellent $5 Broccoli Raabe and cheddar pastry
Inside the Artists' Lounge at the DMB Caravan
"Front row for Dave"
No matter what happened across all of the other stages, much of the crowd was there to see Doctor Dave churn up his tricky beats and familiar lyrics; who better than a Jersey crowd may understand the repetivitve action of “Drive In/Drive Out/I’m Leaving?” The setlist—built of hits I bought on CD in the early 1990s—tells the tale, of crowdpleasers and useful jams, of Dave’s familiar jet black acoustic strummed against the double-kick drum beats.
Seek Up
Warehouse
What Would You Say
Kill The King
Granny
Lying In the Hands of God
Digging a Ditch
One Sweet World
Tripping Billies
Dive In
Raven
So Much To Say
Sweet Emotion
Too Much
All Along The Watchtower
What, indeed, would you say to such a set? Of what use was the Aerosmith cover “Sweet Emotion?” (ask Mike Gordon). What did the song “Too Much” mean, to a crowd who had been fried like Oreos and chicken wings in the Jersey heat over a long weekend, and had now exhausted all resources possible, in attaining some musical (and perhaps alcoholic) nirvana on a Sunday night? The lyrics “I eat too much/drink too much/want too much” were extra important to all of us in Atlantic City that night, as we spilled out onto the closed and crowded streets, out into establishments where buffets of food and drink awaited us—a town where immediacy has its price, and the house usually wins.
What, indeed, would you say to such a set? Of what use was the Aerosmith cover “Sweet Emotion?” (ask Mike Gordon). What did the song “Too Much” mean, to a crowd who had been fried like Oreos and chicken wings in the Jersey heat over a long weekend, and had now exhausted all resources possible, in attaining some musical (and perhaps alcoholic) nirvana on a Sunday night? The lyrics “I eat too much/drink too much/want too much” were extra important to all of us in Atlantic City that night, as we spilled out onto the closed and crowded streets, out into establishments where buffets of food and drink awaited us—a town where immediacy has its price, and the house usually wins.
Between the set’s end and the encore, a friend nearby suggested the DMB release an “eight-disc-set” of their Caravan performances. “I’d buy it,” he proclaimed; I guessed much of the crowd around us would as well. Given the ample video cameras at work during Dave’s show, I think my friend was on target—even before the extraordinary encore commenced. Yes, it included the fan favorite “Halloween” that led to the adolescent rebellion anthem “Ants Marching,” but what’ll be worth seeing—no matter the size of your television—will be Dave’s good finale choices. Sly and the Family Stone wrote “Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)” in 1969, and I can think of no more gracious a closer—what Dave didn’t have to do was truly enjoin the crowd in singing, letting the band get its full due, before, amid handclaps and the warm, small breezes of night at the Jersey shore, shouting thanks to those in attendance. Falenttinme, Dave Matthews; Falenttinme Be Mice Elf Again, at Governor’s Island, Chicago, and beyond.
