The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

DAY ONE

The warnings start off nicely enough, with the Basilica Block Party MC kindly asking people to stand further away from the stage, you know, for fear of electrocution or something.

Then it is, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you're worried about getting wet, you can go in the parking lot or go in the church. If you go in the church, you better say a prayer." That quickly morphs into the pleasantly shouted, "Head into the parking lot!" Then, essentially, "RUN FOR YOUR LIIIIIIVES!"

The clouds had been broadcasting impending doom the whole afternoon. They dimmed the sky as Augustana took the stage to spout their pop-infused pick-me-uppers. The Californian quintet clearly doesn't partake in the Minnesota tradition of the "summer haircut." All five don shaggy do's and unwashed jeans, though it's possible they paid for them to look that way. Augustana is your typical rock-by-numbers band. The music is not particularly inspired, an apt summary of the entire festival, but it's easy listening. The band is all about earth tones, from their clothing to the color of their guitars, to their inoffensive piano-fuelled ballads. Still, on the side of the stage a gaggle of girls are enjoying themselves, slapping their thighs in time to the music.

As a solid mass of gray eclipses the skies of downtown Minneapolis, concertgoers flood to cover inside the basilica and under a soon-to-be drenched highway overpass. The nearby parking deck turns into a five-level beer-drinking fiesta, as festival attendees hoot at every clapping thunder and bolt of lightning. They swoon under the force of 80-mile-per-hour winds rushing through and cause a general ruckus, stopping only to snap cell-phone photos of the monstrous purple cloud hanging over the highly embellished cathedral dome. The scene could only be more appropriate if snarling gargoyles hanged from the edge of the building, laughing frightfully at the weather.

One woman takes things in stride: a professionally trained ballerina who leaps and dips and twirls on the outside deck of the parking garage, with not a centimeter of dry skin left. "My shoes are wet," the rain dancer says after sufficiently exhausting herself. By this time, her lack of dryness is a moot point. She smiles, "That was awesome."

Outside, the festival looks like a deserted and wrecked movie set. Tents are overturned. A light inside the basilica is silently flickering. A tree split by the wind lays desecrated on the lawn. Everything is soaked, and the only thing not in danger of blowing away is a Brinks truck quietly lumbering down a nearby street.

But the show must go on, even if it is an hour late. As lightning hushes the distance and the rain dies down, a beer-thirsty herd emerges from hiding. Those who don't head for their cars become a mass of wet diehards, eagerly waiting for reggae all-star Ziggy Marley to begin. Bathed in blue light, the be-dreaded Marley's only comment about the storm is a simple "Yeeeeaaaahhh!" shouted before he and his band fill the air with their uplifting, poppy reggae. In response to the reverberating wah-wah and the sight of a legitimate member of the legendary Marley clan, the audience is awash with high fives and handclaps. One man feels compelled to do jumping jacks. Why not?


DAY TWO

A gigantic piss cup is standing next to the Twin Cities' mayors. Let's be proper here. The piss cup has a name: Petey P. Cup. Petey P. Cup and Pokey the syringe, health insurance company Health Partners' mascots, are just a small sampling of the infectious throng of corporate advertising at the Basilica Block Party. There's Verizon with its free mini backpacks, Starbucks with its free samples, and Chevy with a small armada of show cars and its very own stage, on which two not nearly drunk enough women are yelping their way through Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll," and many more.

St. Paul Mayor Chris Coleman and Minneapolis Mayor R.T. Rybak are standing next to the six foot tall piss cup in what, let's hope, is a low moment in their respective careers. Mayor Coleman steps up to the mic and hollers, "You do this every night over here? Is that true?" Next, mayor Rybak gives "shout outs" to his children in the audience and loudly reminds them he is in charge of the police force, before flinging t-shirts into the crowd.

Missy Higgins' set is a sigh of relief. The Australian songbird is one of the only salvageable acts of the festival, joining local rockers White Light Riot on the shortlist. Higgins alternates between acoustic guitar and keyboard. Wearing a summer dress and appropriately rosy cheeks, her soulful, swooning alto hangs in the air like a thick, velvet curtain. Tunes like "Peachy" are rolling, spirited romps, while others sound more rustic and befitting of coffee shop showcases. Her songs of being in love, angry at love, missing love and love in general transfix the sunned audience.

This cannot be said about either headliners. For reasons of mystery and poor planning, festival organizers chose the Gin Blossoms and Gavin Rossdale as the main acts. Maybe this would have passed a decade ago, but definitely not now.

The Gin Blossoms' music is as sagging as their skin. The half-hearted harmonies flounder, as does the band's approach. They play like it is the thousandth time they've plunked the notes. The technical musicianship is apparent, but their enthusiasm died with Y2K. The saving grace of the Gin Blossoms' set is singer Robin Wilson's penchant for shooting devil horns. Devil horns. At a church-sponsored music festival. Granted, the money earned from the two-day event goes into the restoration of the undeniably gorgeous basilica and not to the J-man, but still. The whole evening has this "smoking in the boys' room" vibe. People are sloshed on $5 beer with cigarettes hanging from their lips. Wafts of pot smoke float by. Who knew Catholics could be so cool?

Gavin Rossdale's set is negligibly better. He has faired better with time, though his long, curly locks are sorely missed. Rossdale pairs piano melodies with his trademark epic guitars that are full enough to slip into every nook and cranny of the city. He is still able to serve up upbeat thumpers with dashes of atonality, though his new music could easily be considered "Bush-lite." The lyrics are at times ghastly: "She started a fire/I was the wood." But Rossdale sings well, as long as he doesn't try to get too creative with his vocal range. His stage presence is a different story. Rossdale often saunters across the stage like an ape in a confusing white room. Gone, also, is that "tortured rock star" aesthetic that was so pivotal to Bush's success. Rossdale even sings a song called, "Happiness." Being married to Gwen Stefani, the guy can't have much to complain about-which is, unfortunately, less than can be said about Basilica Block Party.