Festival Season and Memories of Ronnie Spector

If you look closely you can see gold balloons spelling out the phrase “Be My Baby”

Yessir, festival season is upon us. And my manager Daniel asked me to put some words out. You don’t have to ask me twice to “express myself.” Stay tuned for station hopping without notice.

Once again, I’m curating a music festival in Guerneville, California. (Resistance was futile! Especially when you’re as naturally festive as I am. I mean, who could resist booking some of their favorite acts to share a stage with?)

Chuck Prophet’s Summertime Thing Festival 2025 is ready to announce itself. We still have a few details left to iron out. But I have authorized myself to tell you this much: for the third year running, there will be legends joining me and The Mission Express. And pioneers. Next-generation weirdos, too. Plus a couple acts you’ve never heard of.

I’ve been thinking about festivals a lot recently. (Like you do when you’ve entered the curatorial ranks. I almost wish I smoked cigars.) Through the years. And the ones I have fond memories of.

Now, historically I haven’t had skin in the game, and I’m hardly a tastemaker or an influencer. But one festival jumps out for special mention: the Mosswood Meltdown (formerly known as Burger Boogaloo. Long story!). Footnote below. (A cursory search tells me they’ve got tickets on sale for 2025). So. Get. Your. Tickets. Now.

When Mosswood Meltdown (formerly known as...) started out, it was pretty scrappy—extremely low to the ground. But they got our attention because Ronnie Spector was appearing. Ronnie Spector under a freeway overpass in broad daylight. In Oakland? Is that a typo? It happened. And it was a pretty dramatic evening of music.

Speaking of drama. Mosswood Park is kind of hard to describe. But it’s got a little amphitheater. I’m thinking that back in Shakespeare’s day, his plays would have gone down in a place like this. And would have probably looked a lot like Mosswood Meltdown (nothing goes in these parentheses).

There wouldn’t have been much in the way of scenery or props—or lights for that matter. The audience would have stood down front. And the plays would have taken place in the afternoon under natural light. And like a great gig, the audience would have been part of the show. Hurling insults and ham sandwiches up at the stage from the equivalent of a giant mosh pit: “You cockney wanker! You fat lard muffin!” “Take a bath, why don’t you?!” (You can’t come up with anything the denizens of the Angry Island haven’t already worked out to a stinging burn in a public setting. And that fat lard muffin had to stay in character, all the while on the lookout for a sharp stick of a prop to contribute to the debate after the curtain fell.)

The plays were like two to three hours long. And you’d get transported to another world. All for the price of a penny.

Cool! But I regress.

I remember the first Mosswood Meltdown (formerly…). It was not without incident.

We rolled up and parked under the freeway overpass. Sure it was kind of sketchy. But whatever… I’m sketchy too. Then we walked around the perimeter of the park and got to the gate. The “entry gate” wasn’t exactly a barrier, it was really more of a suggestion, as there really wasn’t a fence per se. Tons of people just kind of meandered into the park without tickets. It was loose. Our friend Linda was volunteering and working the gate and just kind of shrugged at the lack of organization.

But the festival on the whole was the place to be for sure. It wasn’t overly crowded. They had vendors. Food, clothing, record store booths. A mess of great bands like Shannon and the Clams—and a gold ticket opportunity to anticipate a taste of heaven: gazing up and and listening to Ronnie Spector from down in the pit. It was kind of unbelievable.

After an afternoon of cool bands, there was some time setting up for Ronnie. The changeover seemed to go on a bit. Yeah, it felt like a while. I began to speculate that being a savvy New Yorker, Ronnie Spector may not have wanted to go on until the sun went down. One thing you learn about being on the lower rung of festivals half your life is that everything gets more rock and roll when the sun goes down and the lights come on.

In fact, I remember The Kinks doing the stalling thing at Glastonbury one year when Green on Red were playing. They had a designated time slot, but when the promoter came to their trailer to gather them and bring them on, Ray had made himself scarce.

I don’t know if this is something I imagined. So I’m looking it up. Oh, look here: Wikipedia says the year was 1993 and look at this lineup! (The Kinks, the Black Crowes, Robert Plant, the Velvet Underground, Green on Red). I can see Lou now. Standing on the steps of the Velvet Underground’s backstage trailer. Smoking a fat cigar after their set. (Maybe I will have to cultivate the habit after all.)

Meanwhile, in another galaxy, the promoters at Mosswood Meltdown (once upon a time in a previous cultural climate known as…) were definitely enthusiastic. But also a little young and inexperienced. They couldn’t figure out why Ronnie wouldn’t come out of her makeshift dressing room. She was in there with her manager, opening and snapping shut her compact, powdering her face as she checked herself in the mirror. (No, I didn’t see this with my own wide eyes. But I know it happened that way and so do you.)

Eventually they coaxed her onstage. Yeah, and by the time she got up there, it was dark. And as it turns out, there were no lights. The festival was meant to wind up before sundown. No one planned on it being dark (see: Shakespeare, back in the day). So, in true DIY fashion, someone crouched down in the pit, held a flashlight, and pointed it up to Ronnie’s face. With her Kabuki makeup, she looked like a French mime. Her face glowing in the dark. Her big eyes. And then there was the voice. Sweet Jesus! That unmistakable vibrato. She played the hits (“Walking in the Rain”, “Baby, I Love You”, “Be My Baby”) plus Johnny Thunders’ “Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory” was one of too many highlights. In that little Amphitheater at Mosswood Park. And she had a crack NYC band. Killer. With our old friend Jenni Muldaur singing with her. Unreal!

A couple years back my beloved Rubinoos played the Mosswood Meltdown in Oakland. There was drama there too. I was completely thrilled that they were playing. It was a little distracting to see Kim Gordon’s crew stacking up anvil cases at the side of the stage while the Rubinoos were performing. But, after a while, I tuned that out, I guess.

As for Summertime Thing? Guerneville, CA is where it’s all going down. (Rio Nido to be more precise.) And Guerneville is downright happening these days. You can find trendy coffee and scratch-made pastries, even a spa or two where you can get a rubdown and detox. (Be sure to drink a lot of water! There may be some bruising.)

And friends, if you’ve ever been to a festival where you didn’t exactly enjoy feeling like a hostage to loud music, this may be the place for you. Because there’s a whole mess of other fun stuff to do on the Russian River! So, bring the whole “fam dam.”

If you’re looking to get out of the house this summer without crossing any international borders (if you know what I mean), we’re here to help.

Yours,

—CP

Burger Boogaloo circa 2014. If you look closely you can see gold balloons spelling out the phrase “Be My Baby”.