Huggabroomstock  
By Phoebe Kreutz
Urban Folk    

For those of you who live under a rock, Huggabroomstock is the brand-new and hopefully-annual 
music festival that was held at Maria Hernandez Park in Bushwick on August 11th. Organized by 
Toby Goodshank, Peter Dizozza and some other likely lads, the ‘stock boasted a full roster of 
some of AntiFolk’s most beloved acts. I was smart enough to get the day off from work so that 
I didn’t miss a goddamn thing.     

Like all good endeavors, my day at Huggabroomstock began with a hearty home-cooked meal of 
scrambled eggs and champagne. So I was already a little buzzed and mildly hung-over by the 
time I headed off to the park with my breakfast buddies. On the way over I spotted that dude 
from TV on the Radio coming out of a bodega wearing a very natty suit. I waved at him and he 
waved back. I took it as a good sign.   The Huggabroomstik boys were busily setting up the 
stage. There was some concern about the best way to hang up the beautiful banner that Neil 
Kelly’s mom had quilted for the occasion. Luckily, Nan Turner had some extra Schwervon pins 
that served quite MacGyverly.     It was a hot day, and the performance space afforded no 
shade. Maybe our baking brains made the show better. But must the show go on? Yes. It must.   

First on the bill was the new band Kung Fu Crime Wave. Fronted by Luke Kelly, the band features 
Deenah Moffie, Joanna Kelly and some dude in goggles that Angela Carlucci and I found to be 
particularly entrancing. There was a lot to like about this band. Really catchy. Mostly, I was 
just grateful that someone finally had the courage to speak out about David Blaine.    

Daniel Bernstein (as we are calling him at the moment) was next and was awesome as usual. That 
guy is just really good at writing songs. And his jock drummer makes some of the best drumming 
faces around. In one of the most action packed sequences of the day, the bass drum started moving 
across the stage. Then the drum’s owner, Mr. Johnny Dydo, leapt up and tried it secure it 
mid-song. The drummer either didn’t notice that Johnny’s head was under the ride cymbal or he 
just couldn’t stop the rock. Either way, he just kept on banging it. We were all a little 
concerned that Johnny would come out in some kind of Looney-Tune-style daze but he was unscathed. 
(His scathing came later when that very same drum kit attacked him and cut his hand open during 
the Huggabroomstik set).   

I suspected that Schwervon! was going to kick ass, and kick ass they did. That’s what they do. 
And, like all good celebrity couples, they've adopted a third-world son in the form of Preston 
Spurlock (if you count Florida as third-world). I was concerned that he would get hurt in the 
crossfire once Matt and Nan started their traditional sparring. But it never happened. Maybe having 
a child DOES make everything better. The sun seemed to be at its peak during the Schwervon set so 
there wasn’t quite as much thrash dancing as one usually sees, but I know that I was dancing in my 
brain.   

There was a lot of talk all day about what the local Bushwickers were going to make of The Purple 
Organ. The guy cuts an imposing figure even before he plugs in his magical guitar. And then you can 
usually count of him to sing some material that makes even a worldly gal like me blush (I refer you 
to the poochiepussy number). Was this family-style park ready for the Organ? Fuck yeah. No one seemed 
to bat an eye. I guess Bushwick is just a little more sophisticated than other parts of the world. Or 
maybe there’s just something about hearing “I shit my pants in the garden of the Luxembourg” outside. 
You just feel like you’re there. And you feel just like a tiny bird.   

You know who likes The Babyskins? Cops. The minute those girls got on stage that cruiser showed up to 
check out the scene. Coincidence? Hardly. We imagined the fuzz issuing tickets for stealing hearts. I 
know I would have done the same, were it in my jurisdiction. This was about the time the sun started 
to relent a bit. The dulcet tones of Crystal and Angela wafted over on a soothing breeze and I 
started to fade into a contented little bundle of peace. It was so tranquil, so lovely, so gentle. 
It was time for Huggabroomstik to ruin it all.

But who can complain about a loss of tranquility when this seemed to be the moment for which 
Huggabroomstik was created? The band has gone through so many phases and and members that some may 
have wondered where they were headed. Apparently, they were headed here: fulfilling their destiny as 
an eleven-piece mob in matching red-and-yellow basketball jerseys playing in the bright August sunshine. 
They looked like the love children of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and one of those Warriors gangs. And 
they sounded like a broken time-machine, shifting between tight, danceable pop and drug-induced Nordic 
battle hymns.   

Bringing up the rear on this run-away party train was the ever-delightful Peter Dizozza. Now, Peter was 
supposed to be the penultimate act of the afternoon. However, the guy didn’t show up until Huggabroomstik 
was almost over due to either A) traffic or B) his own naked desire to go last (depending on who you 
talk to). It’s a shame, really, because I think after the titular band of the day finished, everyone had 
a feeling of completion and a hunger for tacos. But Peter’s songs are always fun to hear and he’s so 
different from the rest of the acts. It actually ended up being a nice way to come down from the day.   

So were the tacos. Whew. Those were good, man.