Just as Phillip enjoyed Hum more than the day's other bands, so, too, did his photos favor Hum. We've included a selection of his best shots of Matt Talbott et al.

New management always changes things. It can salvage a restaurant from almost being shut down by the health inspector, it can turn a struggling car dealership into a thriving enterprise, it can transform a church from a quaint little circle of families into a sprawling mini-mall replete with Jesus-endorsed Starbucks... and it can turn Furnace Fest into a blissfully unaware self-parody. After a rollicking 2002, which featured outstanding performances by Pedro the Lion, Elliott, Roadside Monument, Twothirtyeight, Stretch Arm Strong and a myriad of other acts, 2003 seemed a little pale. The annual bash at Birmingham's expansive, historic seat of industry was transformed from a predominantly emo/punk/hardcore festival with some truly exciting, more widely-appealing acts into a predominantly emo/punk/hardcore festival with nothing but the most bloated bands the genres have to offer. I can't help but feel that the change came when Tooth And Nail, whose roster has always been a fair balance of brilliant, creative rock acts and the cash cows that finance them, abandoned the event and Anxiety Records, an up-and-coming and decidedly one-dimensional label, took the reins. Of course, it's not all the organizers' fault; some of last year's best bands called it quits (Twothirtyeight, Roadside), some of them were victims of the been there, done that effect because they'd already played the fest numerous times (Shai Hulud), and some of them turned into not-so-good bands, releasing less than stellar albums since their last Furnace Fest performances (Further Seems Forever, here's looking at you).

Even the staunchest critic can admit that Furnace Fest 2003 did one thing right: it brought in the almighty Hum for a one-time reunion show/final space rock extravaganza. For this single reason, I jumped at the chance to spend a day at the furnace, fighting off the heat, the noise and the men in thongs -- it was worth it all for the opportunity to see the band I've always wanted to see. It certainly was a brilliant financial move on the organizers' part, as the trucker-capped masses had no problem shelling out the cash to sample the endless buffet of violently emotive buzz bands and soon-to-be buzz bands, and Hum's cult-like following would have probably paid three times the admission price (and donated vital organs if so asked) to see their heroes reunite. In the end, a good time was had by both factions.

And so, without further ado, let the recounting of Saturday, August 16, 2003's momentous and deplorable moments begin. I arrived mid-afternoon and was greeted by the melodic hardcore slash and burn of Rise Against. Don't let their position on the Fat Wreck roster fool you -- these boys are not another Good Riddance rip-off, and their crisp, pounding sound was accented by energetic but tasteful stage antics. Their music doesn't demand constant rotation, but it's extremely solid for what it is and brutally poignant in a live setting. So far, so good.

Shai Hulud came next, and though That Within Blood Ill-Tempered is easily the best straight-ahead hardcore album to come out in the last couple of years, their set was severely lacking. A drum-heavy mix overpowered their epic guitar sections -- and even when the sound is right on, the band's progressive stylings sound haphazard if you're unable to hear every detail. Despite the sloppiness, the visceral punch was there, and the moderately large crowd certainly seemed to love every minute of it. Unfortunately, anyone who hasn't experienced Shai Hulud's smart, artful studio work probably came away thinking of them as yet another bunch of angry, musically-challenged white guys.

At this point, a lull in my show-watching began. Perhaps it was the redundancy of it all that struck me, or maybe the fact that things like conducting interviews and eating dinner had to be attended to, but for about four hours, nothing from either stage sounded noteworthy aside from a few surges of brilliance on intellectual metallurgists Mastodon's part. The Red Chord was tepidly noisy, and a couple of other nameless hardcore acts were similarly mundane. Hatebreed was in typical form, calling a massive pit into order and using their immense brawn to compensate for their lack of musical brains; their jockish sensibilities shone through in the fact that there were more injuries during their set than any other of the afternoon. Unbridled testosterone is a dangerous thing, ya know. I, for one, found exploring the old furnace and delving into its sundry nooks and crannies much more fun than sacrificing my eardrums to tuneless moshcore.

After a torrential downpour and a fierce bout of lightning, Andrew WK assaulted the stage with his hard-partying diatribes, proving to be the fest's most popular act for the second year in a row. Flying bottles, crowd surfing in trash cans, a stage full of dancers, a thonged throng of guys in the pit, blow up dolls -- all were present, and all were quite amusing... for the first fifteen minutes. Unless you were on the stage dancing it up, Andrew WK offered nothing of note -- all of his songs sounded the same and flaunted banal lyrics. To his band's credit, they sounded crisp and hit every note the entire time -- remarkable, considering the horde of dancers literally engulfing them as they played. A sizeable chunk of the crowd made their exit after WK's set finally ended, leaving me to wonder why he wasn't simply slotted as the closing act for another night.

More mindless fun ensued in the form of Taking Back Sunday, though this time the target audience was teenage girls rather than hyperactive fratboys. TBS have many things going for them -- namely strong choruses and a good sense of harmony -- but their hooks are overshadowed by their horrid, melodramatic vocals, which unfortunately dominated the mix. The lead singer, who played no instruments and didn't even sing half of the time, pranced about like a gratuitous accessory to his band's Saves the Day-meets-311 sound, trying to make up for his flat notes with lots of "emotion". I wasn't touched, but judging from the thunderous sing-alongs, others were.

Fellow pop screamo poster boys Finch followed, though the crowd was practically oblivious to their blank, made-for-radio alternarock. Interestingly enough, both Finch and TBS featured an, ahem, slightly effeminate member, leading me to believe that this whole "yelling in pop music" fad is an outlet for namby-pamby guys who want to put up a masculine front but don't want to back it up with truly masculine music. Then again, maybe it's just a case of bad music for bad music's sake. Whatever.

Then, at last, came the band that most of the audience sat through Finch to see. For those of you who skipped down to this paragraph because you don't care about the emo and hardcore, the point of this article is that the other bands were not particularly special but Hum blew the furnace to smithereens. Looking like a bunch of engineering school dropouts, they did their own sound check and received great applause for things as simple as mic checks. The rock commenced a little after midnight, and once they began playing, you'd never have known it was their first show in three years. Concentrating mostly on their more energetic material, they played a lengthy set that drew evenly from Downward is Heavenward, You'd Prefer an Astronaut and Electra2000. Though I'd rather have heard them play more cuts from Downward, the Electra songs proved that Matt Talbott can still scream when he has to, and provided good pogo-jumping fodder for the crowd members who wished to do so (apparently, these guys hadn't been to a show since Hum called it quits). The band hit all the high points, including "Stars", "If You Are to Bloom" and "I Hate It Too"; every guitar effect was executed to perfection. There were no noticeable gaffes, and the guys pulled a few nifty tricks here and there, incorporating a trippy strum into "Little Dipper" and dousing the opening blast of "Stars" in an immense wall of squalling noise. Many fans were excited to hear closing B-side "Boy With Stick". All in all, it was everything I could have asked for and then some -- and if you ask me, it was well worth suffering through heat, rain, and a slew of lousy hardcore bands. Even without fancy lights or choreographed guitar flailing, Hum captured the nuances of their sound perfectly, and in the end, it was as if they were simply four guys doing their jobs rather than cult legends reunited for an epic rock show. They probably wouldn't have had it any other way.

Article and photos by Phillip Buchan.