The problem with big music festivals is that they're, for the most part, shitty places to hear music. All the distractions–the heat, the dust, the crowd–always get in the way of fully appreciating even the bands you really love. (Unless, of course, you're drunk enough to no longer notice those things.) Really, the best you can hope for is one truly great performance per day, something memorable to make up for all the time spent waiting, sweating, and getting annoyed. Friday I had David Byrne. Yesterday it was Sharon Jones And The Dap-Kings (and Spiritualized, although I missed most of it thanks to that sucker bet on MGMT.) But today doesn't look so promising: The Raconteurs, Gnarls Barkley, and Foo Fighters feels like a B-list roster to me.
I mean, I realize that technically it's not. All of those bands have sold millions of albums between them, and each one definitely knows how to put on a good arena show by now. It's just that I can't see myself still talking about seeing any of them 10 years (or even months) from now. The Raconteurs seems like a consolation prize for The White Stripes canceling last year. Gnarls Barkley have already had their ACL moment, back when they were the MGMT of their day. And as much as I like Dave Grohl, and I truly think it's remarkable how he's turned the scrappy little project I first saw in 1995 into one of the biggest rock bands in the world, to me Foo Fighters hit a creative plateau around There Is Nothing Left To Lose and then coasted, becoming an efficient but undistinguished machine–the compact sedan of rock 'n' roll, if you will. Hell, Grohl might even agree with me; he's been quoted as saying Foo Fighters will probably be taking a long break after tonight's performance to recharge the creative batteries.
To me the whole lineup feels slightly… recycled. Like Xeroxes of things I'd rather be seeing, or holdovers from years they more readily belong to. So when I open my e-mail to find an offer to attend an Austin City Limits taping tonight instead–which would mean leaving the festival much earlier than normal–I take it without hesitation. Yes, I know it means missing what could be Foo Fighters' last show for quite a while, and those kinds of "grand finales" usually end up being spontaneous and fun. Similarly, I know Gnarls Barkley is bound to do something big and flashy. I know this means not giving ACL one more chance to surprise me. Most of all, I know it means letting my two-dozen readers down with abbreviated coverage. But something tells me you'll get over it.
Anyway, for those of you who stuck around, I am honestly interested to hear about what happened, so please leave your own reports in the comments. Did I totally miss out?
1:35pm: I spent most of the morning blowing out alarmingly black snot-wads forged from the ACL air. My wife has it worse: She's officially caught festival pneumonia, so she's skipping today entirely. The dust and dirt has really been a major problem this year–which is ironic, because ACL is probably the cleanest it's ever been. The "Rock & Recycle" volunteer program that has concertgoers collecting bottles and cans is working like gangbusters. Who knew so many people would willingly perform the same community service we regularly task our criminals with in exchange for a free T-shirt? Anyway, I guess in years past the litter was holding down all those nasty allergens. Don't know what you got until it's gone.
I'm dropped off and sent to meet up with our "festi-pals" alone. We're just in time to catch hot-and-heavy blues-punk duo The Kills, who make a whole lot of something out of their nothing. The minimalist snarls of guitar and sparse electronic drums act as a bed of nails for Alison Mosshart and Jamie Hince to lay their heavy-petting vocals on. The songs don't always go somewhere, and ultimately it's all just a big tease–but then, sometimes just getting to third base is enough.
Of course, songs like this aren't really meant to be played in the middle of the day, something the duo complains about repeatedly. "We're going to publish the phone number of our agent on our website," Hince says. "Please phone him up and tell him about the heat." Mosshart concurs with, "I don't do sun," and retreats to the shadows at the back of the stage. Granted, Hince is British; I'm surprised his skin hasn't gone completely translucent by now. But Mosshart is from Florida. Are we supposed to believe she spent her whole life hanging out in dimly lit Vero Beach nightclubs? Suck it up, Drusilla. You don't hear these blood-soaked vampires complaining, and they're bona fide creatures of the night.
1:55pm: Apparently fooled by Mosshart's shaggy black locks, pasty complexion, and floppy fedora, a passerby exclaims, "Whoa, is that Jack White?"
2:05pm: Unless she's completely out of it, Kate Moss must be seething with jealousy at every Kills show. How could she not be? The hungry way these two gaze at each other during "Kissy Kissy" makes even me a little uncomfortable, and I'm not fucking either one of them.
2:10pm: Walking by the Austin Ventures stage I'm completely blown away by how small formerly curvy British torch singer Adele is now–especially considering she vehemently said she would never slim down just to please her record company. Yet here she is looking tiny and slender and wearing a slinky little sundress… and she even dyed her hair black! What happened?!
2:10:30pm: After talking smugly about the commercial implications of Adele's radical makeover for a solid 30 seconds, it suddenly dawns on me that, oh yeah, Adele dropped out of ACL at the last minute only to be replaced by Priscilla Ahn. Duh. That's what I get for believing the official guide over my own eyes and ears.
2:15pm: Austin's party-poppers The Octopus Project are bringing their usual joyful noise to an appreciative and properly undulating audience. Full disclosure: A couple of years ago, I came very close to playing guitar for The Octopus Project. Strange the way life works out sometimes… Had I not backed out at the last minute, odds are pretty good that I'd be on that stage right now while some other guy makes snarky comments about me for The A.V. Club. (But then, I probably would have been forced to smile all the time, so maybe I would have already quit by now.)
2:25pm: The official ACL guide's description of Flyleaf says that the Texas band "trades in brooding, heavily aggressive nu-metal shot through with a uniquely positive message about overcoming adversity." Trust me, it's even worse than that sounds.
3:35pm: I'm one of those Against Me! fans who didn't jump on the bandwagon until it pulled right up to my house in a copy of Spin, so I'm not going to put on the usual rock critic airs and talk about how much they've "sold out" or marvel at the fact that they're playing such a large venue to so many people. I actually find it heartening to see a good, solid rock band make it these days without any discernible gimmick and no image to speak of. Sure, I've been told by hardcore former fans that New Wave is "dumbed-down," "pandering," and even "pussified," but I don't buy it. (And yes, I also own Reinventing Axl Rose, okay?) To me it's just a timeless collection of smartly written tunes, and after so many trite and meaningless lyrics spewed from all corners this weekend, pithy, pessimistic screeds like "White People For Peace," "Miami," and even the ironically crowd-pleasing "Stop!" are like watching an episode of Mad Men after an I Love Money marathon.
4:05pm: Okay, here's one advantage to the multi-stage music festival: Having so many people from the scene in the same place increases the chance of seeing a surprise walk-on duet. Here Tegan Quin (of "& Sara") drops by to do her backing vocals on "Borne On The FM Waves Of The Heart." I'm not sure how rare of an occurrence this is, but it feels very much like one of those "had to be there" special moments. I'm glad I am.
4:30pm: The crowd has been streaming steadily toward the AT&T; stage for at least the last hour or so–staking out their small patch of ground for the 1-2-3 punch of Silversun Pickups, Gnarls Barkley, and Foo Fighters, I suppose. Everyone seems so much younger today. Or maybe it's just that the last 48 hours have aged me horribly.
4:35pm: 101X's kinda-obnoxious morning DJ "Deb" comes on to introduce a band that she declares needs no introduction (or perhaps there's just not much to say about them): Silversun Pickups, who have fulfilled this nation's need for vintage Smashing Pumpkins in much the same way cabbage got us through the Great Depression. The further away you get from the stage the worse Brian Aubert's voice gets; his affected, Corgan-schooled whine only grows more and more pronounced, and he has a tendency to scream the last two words of every lyric as if he's not sure we fully understand how much he means it, man. In keeping with today's theme, if we're still talking about this band in five years I'll be very, very surprised.
Sadly, this is the last set I'll be able to catch today if I want to get to the studio on time. See you next year, ACL. (Maybe.)
8pm-9:30pm: It's my first-ever Austin City Limits taping (told you I was a piss-poor Austinite), and I think I've chosen a good one in The Swell Season. They're not really a band meant for outdoor festivals anyway, as evidenced by their getting swallowed whole by Alejandro Escovedo last night. The surprisingly tiny ACL studio is a much more appropriate venue, where every little note can hang in the air and Glen Hansard can over-explain the various metaphors, aphorisms, and hidden meanings of his songs to his bleeding heart's content. Plus, it's air-conditioned.
Producer Terry Lickona warms up the crowd by talking about Once, which he notes is "probably the best music film of this generation." "I mean, it's no Mamma Mia!" he says. Hansard then comes out solo, with no microphones even, and starts off with "Say It To Me Now" delivered just as passionately as it is in the film (or anywhere else, for that matter). His adorably elfin partner Markéta Irglóva comes out to join him on "Lies," followed by members of Hansard's increasingly irregular gig The Frames, who fill out "The Moon" with layers of bass, drums, and violin.
From here it only gets grander. We're treated to a soaring version of "When Your Mind's Made Up"–after a false start where Hansard has to retune his famously beaten-up guitar–and glimpses of new songs "Loved You Wrong" and "Low Rising," which Hansard explains in his charmingly rambling, Irish way is all about "when you have to sit your girl down and have a good talk, and tell her you'll quit drinking." Hansard also performs a ripping solo version of Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks" that's just for us in the studio audience. "There's no way we'll ever get clearance to use this," he says, "But I want to play it anyway." It's a shame that more people won't see it, because it's truly amazing–a testament to the possibilities of what one man and a guitar can accomplish.
For "Falling Slowly," the band brings out members of the local Conspirare Youth Choir, talented kids who are just shy of puberty and all the self-consciousness that brings. When they join in on the chorus, it's all so earnest and sweet that there are lots of teary eyes in the audience. Including mine. I'm not made of stone, people.
But even that doesn't prepare me for the evening's true had-to-be-there highlight: Hansard tells us about coming across Daniel Johnston's tapes back in 1995 and–as the story goes for a lot of his fans–slowly becoming obsessed with him. Anyway, you see where this is going… Hansard brings out Johnston himself for a duet on "Life In Vain," backed once again by the children's choir. As always, Johnston is a ball of nervous energy, and his hands are shaking uncontrollably as he holds his lyric sheet, but despite the distraction, the obvious love Hansard and his band have for the song and the simple sincerity of Johnston's words coalesces into one of the most magical, purest musical experiences I've had in years. Maybe ever.
Just in time, too. You know, I've spent so much of the last three days processing bands through the prism of hype and expectation, questioning motives and sniffing out pretense–which I think is a common affliction of modern-day music journalism, where every band is slowly torn to shreds in an effort to keep column inches filled and readers entertained. In that rush to be clever you forget what it's really all about: a song, a moment, a chorus, a feeling. I was reminded tonight why I love music in the first place. It felt good to remember. And not surprisingly, it happened miles away from any festival.