[Thanks to Sarah Cochran for most of these photos.]
The annual Pitchfork Music Festival has earned its place in
Chicago in just a couple of years—no surprise given the far-reaching
influence of the site that launched it, Pitchfork Media. This year's fest offered
plenty of bands, from willfully obscure to nostalgia fodder. It also offered,
as it has in years past, probably the best festival-going experience of the
summer overall—mellow crowds of manageable size, easy access to all three
stages, limited corporate intrusion, and a great setting, Union Park. A.V.
Club staffers from around the country
descended on the city to attend; here are their minute-by-minute observations.
FRIDAY JULY 18
6:05 pm, Sean:
Perhaps it's merely a happy coincidence, but Mission Of Burma drummer Peter Prescott's outfit is perfectly color
coordinated with his red and white drum set. More bands should do that. As my
grandmother would say, it looks snappy, like you're really putting on a show.
6:10pm, Kyle: The
same music snobs (like, uh, me) who turn up their noses at groups like REO
Speedwagon, Styx, and a gaggle of shitty hair-metal bands for milking the
nostalgia circuit mostly don't have a problem with the thoroughly
nostalgic opening night of the Pitchfork Music Festival. Whereas hearing
Speedwagon go through "Take It On The Run" for the 2,439,891st time is the wrong kind of nostalgia, watching legendary or
semi-legendary bands from our scene play their seminal records start to finish
is the right kind. What's the
difference? Well, you can't buy a deep-fried Snickers on the Pitchfork fest
grounds. The Chicago Tribune's M.
David Nichols slammed
this new phenomenon of playing albums start to finish, but I have to
say I was thrilled by the possibility of seeing Public Enemy
perform It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back. I was almost as thrilled to watch Mission Of Burma
tackle Vs—and mostly
indifferent to Sebadoh playing Bubble And Scrape—though Signals, Calls And Marches has my favorite jams. Still, when Roger Miller began
playing the opening notes to "Secrets," my heart skipped a beat. Just before
the song, drummer Peter Prescott bellowed, "Welcome to the Burmadome!"
6:17pm, Kyle:
Happily, I notice a row of teenage boys at the very front of Burma, singing
along to every line of the songs. And the band doesn't even have a song in Guitar
Hero or Rock Band!
6:30pm, Genevieve:
My plan for tonight was to spend Mission Of Burma and Sebadoh's sets standing in line for beer and drinking a lot of said beer
before Public Enemy, as my
knowledge/appreciation of the first two bands' music is pretty infinitesimal,
while my knowledge/appreciation of drinking beer is immense. But my perfunctory
stop over at the Connector stage to catch a glimpse of Mission Of Burma ends up
lasting the entire set. I don't believe I've heard a note of anything by the
band prior to tonight, but I find the set to be engaging and good-natured; the
members all seemed humbly surprised and tickled pink to be playing for such a
receptive crowd. I don't know if it was mind-blowing enough to warrant a
conversion to Mission Of Burma fanship, but I'll definitely be checking out Vs.
in the near future.
6:31pm, Steven:
Because I've never heard this incredibly important and historic Mission
Of Burma album before, the main thing that
interests me is the fortysomething guitarist's passing resemblance to Chris
Noth of Law & Order and Sex & The City fame. MOB does sound pretty great, though, and the
only way its performance could be improved is with the addition of a Jerry
Orbach doppelganger, or possibly Cynthia Nixon.
6:35pm, Sean: In the
middle of "Learn How," Prescott slips in the "All I wanted was a Pepsi!" lyric
from Suicidal Tendencies' "Institutionalized." Smug, knowing laughter ripples
through the smarty-pants record collector crowd.
6:48pm, Scott:
Mission Of Burma's Roger Miller and Peter Prescott almost start into the wrong
tune before Clint Conley stops them. After they play the right song, Conley
notes that getting the order of one's own album wrong "takes a certain
ability." This is still the strongest of the night's three full-album
sets: Miller's guitar spews out jagged, articulate excitement, and Conley sings
like a nastier Mick Jones.
6:57pm, Kyle:
Mission Of Burma closes its set, once again providing a lesson in how to age
gracefully in rock 'n' roll. For them, the night doesn't feel like a rote
recitation of past glory, but a celebration of a band that's still vital,
unlike what would follow the rest of the night. For Sebadoh and Public Enemy, it was painfully obvious that the glory days have
long since passed. With Mission Of Burma, it felt like they hadn't ended. And
that's goddamn inspiring.
7:17pm, Scott: "I
don't know why the fuck we're playing after Mission Of Burma," Sebadoh's Lou Barlow says. Yep.
7:18pm, Nathan: Sebadoh's
shambling, rambling set—Bubble & Scrape performed front
to back—was distinguished by the sheer quantity of Lou Barlow's onstage
banter. There are stand-up comedians who talk less during their sets. Would it
kill the guys to maybe put on a suit and tie? People paid good money to see
professionals put on a tightly rehearsed show, not a bunch of slackazoids with
shaggy hair.
7:19pm, Steven: I
last saw Sebadoh in 1999 at First Avenue in Minneapolis. I remember standing
very still in a room with other still, serious, young men while Lou Barlow sang
a song called "Love Is Stronger Than The Truth." I stopped listening to Sebadoh
soon after.
7:25pm, Sean:
Backstage in the line for free Chipotle burritos, Spoon's Britt Daniel uses the
old "Just wanted to say hi—not trying to cut the line!" trick on me to
cut the line. He tells the Chipotle rep how he used to be a stockholder in the
company, but sold it when it dropped below 80 points. "Oh, but we just closed
at 89!" she says. "No, I'm pretty sure you closed at 72," he says, as they play
an uncomfortable round of "respectfully disagree." Then he pulls out his
Blackberry to check. This is perhaps the least rock 'n' roll thing I have ever
witnessed.
7:31pm, David: After
finishing "Soul And Fire," consummate showman Lou Barlow sheepishly announces,
"All right, track two." Instead, there's just silence onstage due to an unannounced
delay. Jason Loewenstein, Lou, and Eric Gaffney of Sebadoh all trade instruments. Barlow smooths another
holdup over by making small talk: "Yeah, we switch around a lot." Whoops!
Barlow tuned to the wrong song, but attempts to charm the crowd with a one-liner:
"We're the same Old-adoh."
7:32pm, Scott: In
the first instance of weird stage banter that'll only get worse between solid,
if unexciting, renditions of Bubble & Scrape's songs, Barlow
fills up an instrument-switching delay by belting out the chorus of Tom Petty's
"The Waiting," ending with an unpleasant shriek. "That's my
vocal range, motherfucker!" he says, in a failed attempt to laugh off the
awkwardness.
7:37pm, Steven: So,
Sebadoh is doing Bubble & Scrape because it was the last
record Eric Gaffney played on, right? Nope, still not a good enough reason to
not do Bakesale instead. And I'm not
just saying that because I'm a shameless Bob Fay apologist.
7:45pm, Sean: A guy
trying to meet up with his friend over cell phone says, "Just look for the only
black person here." Now, now… Let's not resort to easy stereotypes. There are
plenty of black people here. It's just that most of them are in Flavor Flav's
entourage.
8pm, Genevieve: Two
beers later, I've set up shop in front of the mixing board for the Aluminum
stage, where Public Enemy is set
to play It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back in its
entirety. It's a good spot, dead center and not too far back; but as the crowd
fills in, it's looking less and less likely that I'll be able to reclaim it
after another trip to the beer line. Happily, Kyle magically appears with a
free 312 he smuggled out of the VIP area for me. (We're not all VIPs in The A.V.
Club; I have to pay for much of my food and
drink throughout the weekend, though Kyle is a champ about sneaking beers.)
8:15pm, Steven: Lou
Barlow looks perturbed that most of Sebadoh's audience has left to get a good
spot for Public Enemy. "I'm not going to stop playing," he mutters. First J.
Mascis ignores his songs, now this.
8:20pm, Genevieve:
The Bomb Squad, which is warming up the crowd prior to PE's set, promises mad
bass and delivers; I can feel my cheeks vibrating, as well as my beer-filled
bladder. Meanwhile, the guy in front of me is freaking out because his earplug
is stuck in his ear. His friend attempts to extract it with a set of keys, an
endeavor that would surely otherwise hold my attention were PE not finally
taking the stage.
8:32pm, Kyle: Public
Enemy is scheduled to begin at 8:30, but here's Flavor Flav and entourage
strolling idly down neighboring Randolph Street, which is closed to traffic.
8:40pm, Scott: After
an ominously throbbing warm-up heavy on dub-inspired bass attacks, The Bomb
Squad takes off. So is this a transition or an awkward mini-soundcheck before
Public Enemy begins? Momentary suspension of grooves and awe…
8:40pm, Genevieve: I
thought Chuck D was rapping into two mics at the same time during "Bring The
Noise" because it looked cool; turns out it's because Flava Flav, who misses
the opening number, has his mic—at least if I'm understanding their
onstage bickering correctly. An inauspicious beginning. Even more troubling is
the fact that I have to bail shortly after Flav arrives in order to run for the
bathroom. As I weave through a solid mass that reaches halfway back to the
porta-potty lineup, I kiss my chances of reclaiming my awesome spot goodbye.
8:41pm, Steven: Is
that Professor Griff in the house? Isn't this only the 19th anniversary of the
whole "Jews are responsible for the majority of the wickedness in the world"
flap? I predict PE skips that classic cut.
8:50pm, Kyle: PE
performs with a live band and DJ Lord filling in for the retired Terminator X,
but "Bring The Noise" sounds off. Chuck D's vocals are significantly quieter
than Flavor Flav's. From my vantage point, I can't see Flav anywhere, but his
voice comes through perfectly—too perfectly, actually. Chuck D keeps
switching microphones to find a better one, but nothing works. When the song
finally ends, Chuck is frustrated. "Where the fuck is Flavor Flav?" he asks the
crowd. Turns out Flav wasn't even on stage.
8:52pm, David: A
really stoned white dude in blue plaid shorts knowingly remarks, "Everyone up
there is dancing." During Public Enemy's set, a burly-looking man proudly says
to his friend, "I played the shit out of this cassette."
[pagebreak]
8:55pm, Kyle: In the
hands of PE 2008, It Takes A Nation Of Millions sounds
dispiritingly sluggish. I have absolute faith that Chuck D can still bring it,
but it's not happening right now. Even worse: Flav raps over a vocal backing
track, so listeners are treated to his recorded voice and his live voice. Chuck D has one too, though it doesn't seem
constant like Flav's. And despite Flav's passionate declarations that PE
doesn't lip-synch, it sure sounds like he is. Standing where we are, we can
hear the stage-monitor mix and the PA mix; when Flav is actually rapping, you
can hear his voice through the monitors and the PA. When he isn't, it's
noticeably quieter. I could be—and I really hope that—I'm mistaken,
but it doesn't look that way. Man, what I would do to be able to see PE on the Fear
Of A Black Planet tour right now.
8:58pm, Nathan:
Chuck D is definitely looking like somebody's pot-bellied 48-year-old dad, but
hot damn does he bring it as a live performer. Public Enemy's set was nothing
less than transcendent, at once ear-shattering, nostalgic, futuristic,
passionate, engaged, and gloriously theatrical. You know you're getting old when the SW1s are doing military
gyrations in full camouflage regalia and all you can think is, "God, they must
be shvitzing like crazy up there…"
Does the fact that Flavor Flav remains an electric performer and the
greatest hypeman in history make his tragic descent into TV über-hackdom more
or less sad? Chuck D clearly has powerfully conflicted feelings about Flavor
Flav's second career as a national embarrassment. He's undoubtedly grateful for
all the publicity and exposure but he also obviously wishes it was for some
something a little more noble and dignified—like getting caught running a
tri-state child pornography ring.
When Flavor Flav pimps his unspeakably awful new show, Under One
Roof, a smattering of boos breaks out. An
indignant Flav objects that the audience should be calling their wives "boo"
instead of booing him, which is a joke so terrible it's probably pilfered from
an upcoming Under One Roof teleplay. You can cut the irony with a steak
knife when Public Enemy raps about the mindless tyranny of television,
especially when it's Mr. Surreal Life, Strange Love, Flavor of Love,
Under One Roof doing the indicting.
9:06pm, David:
"You're writing something?" An observant woman asks. "I'll tell you a story."
This drunken woman then proceeds to explain at great length that, as an artist,
she can see that Pitchfork's ideals are good, and she was only here to see
Public Enemy, but she almost left out of embarrassment at Public Enemy playing
to a crowd of The Man (a.k.a. white people). Then she decided to stay anyway.
9:08pm, Kyle: Flavor
Flav has had a shockingly successful career as reality-show clown, and you have
to wonder how Chuck D feels about that. Not only is Flav probably more famous
than Chuck, but it's for the lowest form of television. "1988 was way before
the TV show!" Chuck says during a break in the songs. "I know all y'all like,
'He does records too?'" A few minutes later, the group plays "She Watch Channel
Zero?!", where Flav raps "Why you watching that garbage? It's garbage baby!"
Sean O'Neal says to me, "I'm pretty sure all irony is lost on Flavor Flav."
9:15pm, Genevieve:
Here's a tip for all you smaller-framed festival-goers who wish to move to the
front of the crowd, but lack the physical mass to shove people out of your way:
Find a person with a large, official-looking camera, and follow him or her
right up to the front of the stage. Leaving my carefully staked-out spot turns
out to be a good idea, as I'm soon standing close enough to pick out the second
hand on Flav's clock. Though I have to exert a good amount of energy avoiding
getting crushed during the remainder of the show, there's a crazy energy up
here that I definitely wasn't getting from the cross-armed, head-bobbing hoards
I was previously surrounded by. However, it starts to ebb a bit around 10, as
an amped-up Flav drags out the set past curfew, offering up a drum solo and a
few rambling speeches despite Chuck D's very obvious hints to wrap it up.
10:01pm, Kyle:
There's a strict 10pm curfew, but because PE started late and spent a lot of
time talking between songs, the group is way behind its intended plan: to play
a medley of hits after the album was finished. A "medley" sounds like a
terrible idea, but when PE launches into a fiery version of "Welcome To The
Terrordome," it sounds undeniably badass. The crowd goes ballistic. After that
comes "Shut Em Down" from Apocalypse 91…The Enemy Strikes Black,
then "He Got Game," from the soundtrack of the same name. "911 Is A Joke"
follows, then "Harder Than You Think," a surprisingly good song from last
year's How Do You Sell Soul To A Soulless People Who Sold Their Soul?. "Can't Truss It," "Yo! Bum Rush The Show," then
"Fight The Power" ends the night. Goddamn, why couldn't the PE that played that
last 36 minutes have played all night?
10:10pm, Scott:
Chuck D brings a little kid on stage and introduces him as Flavor Flav's
godson, explaining that he's going to do some sort of "magic." Instead, he just
looks really uncomfortable, up on the huge screen beside the stage, as Chuck
instructs him to "touch your godfather's clock."
11:15pm, David:
Overheard on the subway in a thick southern accent: "There were blonde girls
rapping along in their white V-neck T-shirts not a day over 20. Not old enough
to drink. I tell you, it was a vision. What are they doing here? Alright, yeah, we're gonna go
hit the strip club and stretch our legs."
SATURDAY JULY 19
1:13pm, Steven: Titus
Andronicus plays the grinding "My Time
Outside The Womb," my favorite song off The Airing Of Grievances. A
good band with the potential to be great, TA needs to figure out what to do
with the three—sometimes four!—guitarists on stage. Step No. 1 to
greatness: Listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd's Second Helping.
1:50pm, Steven: Each Jay Reatard song sounds exactly
like that last, and he's melting my brain a little more each minute. Which, in
turn, makes me dumber and makes me love him even more.
2:13pm, David: Les
Savy Fav's Tim Harrington is spotted
making his way through the crowd in a neon green shirt with matching neon green
socks. He's holding a mysterious grocery bag full of who-knows-what.
2:18pm, Kyle: A guy
passes me wearing a tan corduroy kilt. At last someone has tapped into that
culturally minded hipster demographic! That said, irony is a popular fashion
choice: Later, I see a guy wearing blue-green preppie short shorts, a pink
T-shirt, fanny pack, glasses with Blue Blocker clip-on shades, and a cheesy
thin mustache.
2:27pm, Kyle:
Today's weird tattoo: A woman has "I ♥ FUGAZI" on top of her left foot.
2:30pm, Genevieve:
Being the possessor of one of the worst senses of direction ever, I panic a bit
during the El ride to Union park, unsure which stop I'm supposed to get off at
despite having checked several times. Turns out I needn't have worried; the
mass of headbands, keffiyehs, and irony that flooded off the Green line at the
Ashland stop was all the indication I needed.
2:42pm, Scott:
Picking up where last year's Grizzly Bear set left off, Caribou mastermind Dan Snaith breaks out a recorder solo.
Though the sound gets washed out a bit in the outdoor setting, it's clear the
live-band version of Caribou is actually playing a pretty fun set, with bonus
points for instrument-switching. Snaith jumps around between guitar,
glockenspiel, and a second drumkit. Caribou's moods and atmospherics compete
with a bass-heavy mix and a bunch of goddamn 312 Beer beach balls floating
through the crowd.
3pm, Scott: A
morning rain, and subsequent sun, threaten to turn the festival into a whore's
bath of mud and stagnant humidity. It's the perfect setting for the unwashed
hippie harmonies of Fleet Foxes.
It's still really weird to see so many people crowding in for this band, but
they're getting strong word-of-mouth, and they've got a sonic balance that's
rare here: A delicate, diffuse sound that actually travels well across a big
open field.
3pm, Kyle: I'm
determined to give Fleet Foxes a
shot because everyone's freaking out about them, even though Sean O'Neal's
review of their new record could not have made it sound more like
something I'd hate. They open with "Sun Giant," from their new self-titled
album. While I'm impressed by their vocal harmonies, I'm still kinda bored. The
rise of indie-rock easy-listening music annoys me: Easy listening, whether it's
Dan Fogelberg or Midlake, is easy listening. Time to head over to Fuck
Buttons.
3:07pm, Steven: I
like Fleet Foxes, but their
impeccable multi-part harmonies and meticulous finger picking on a variety of
stringed instruments don't go well with sore knees and sweat-stained pits.
3:30pm, Genevieve:
Fleet Foxes strike me as better suited for background music for Sunday-morning
chores than an outdoor festival. It's all very pleasant, and I'm a sucker for a
nice vocal harmony, but I can't imagine standing in a sweaty, smelly cluster of
people to see it performed up close. However, from where I'm sitting, propped
up against the fence with a cold beverage and plenty of room to stretch out,
it's downright enjoyable. The lower end of the sound is pretty muddy this far
back, but the vocals sound just as bright and sunny as ever, and indeed, the
rain clouds that have been looming since I arrived start to break up a bit.
3:37pm, Kyle:
Behold, the post-modern band, in the form of Fuck Buttons: a couple shitty, cheap keyboards, laptops, effects
pedals, a share drum, and a toy cassette recorder with a microphone. The group
opens with an exceedingly long song built on three notes that builds and builds
and builds…to nothing. This becomes a recurring theme with Fuck Buttons: sounds
that sound like they're going somewhere, but ultimately don't. There's little
craft in what they do; really, Fuck Buttons just look like they're fucking
around onstage in front of a rapt audience. Time to go elsewhere.
3:45pm, Scott: This
year, the festival has wisely moved its "Balance Stage" from last year's small
street spot to a bigger space across the park. This allows a lot more people to
crowd in for acts like Fuck Buttons.
The British duo's in the middle of smacking some drums and making some inhuman
squawks into a microphone. Someone inevitably comments that it "sounds like a
parrot." The music itself is still even more frustrating and conflicted as The A.V. Club may have led
you to believe, though seeing the process behind it makes it a little
easier to admire.
4:05pm, Genevieve:
Thoroughly relaxed after Fleet Foxes, I manage to summon the wherewithal to
join the cluster of humanity awaiting Dizzee Rascal. I don't know if it's the juxtaposition of the
unrelenting mellowness of Fleet Foxes, or the free beer that magically appears
(again, courtesy of Kyle) just as the set begins, but this is the first
performance that I've been legitimately pumped about right out of the gate.
Though he seems displeased with the sound at first and starts the opening
number over, Dizzee is bringing it, and my head-bobbing quickly turns to
ass-shaking. The girl in front of me is doing the Lawnmower and the Cabbage
Patch, seemingly only half-ironically.
[pagebreak]
4:05pm, Sean: Signs
o' the backlash: Even though today it feels like the festival has been moved to
just inside a cow's anus, I spy several concertgoers turning down offers of
free fans once they realize they say "Vampire Weekend" on them.
4:30pm, Steven: I
buy an impossible-to-find Paul Duncan record at the record swap tent and make
myself promise not to leave before The Hold Steady's 7 p.m. performance. Union
Park was officially declared a third world country 10 minutes ago, and I've
been here for four hours, two hours past my ideal length for a live music
experience. Jesus Christ, I feel old. Did this used to be fun?
5:01pm, Kyle: The Vampire
Weekend bubble has burst, and now we can
all truly assess the group's musical abilities without deafening hype or
backlash to the backlash. In the sober light of morning, the band isn't
anything special. The songs don't sound especially clever or catchy, and the
overall sound is thin. Maybe that's the soundman's problem, but Vampire Weekend
isn't exciting on stage, either.
5:15pm, Genevieve:
I've avoided Vampire Weekend
until now for whatever reason—I'm not adamantly hype-averse or anything,
but I've never felt the inclination to see what all the fuss is about—and
I can't say I regret that now. Fifteen minutes into the band's set I realize
I'm not even sure how many songs it's played; it's all blending together into
an never-ending jaunty rhythm that seems pretty anemic after the Dizzee
Rascal's driving set. Kyle, Andy, and I decide to bail, splintering off on our
own endeavors. There's not much on the schedule that interests me before !!!
goes on around 6, so I make my way over to the shopping area, where I buy some
vinyl. (Okay, so it's actually a ring made out of a melted shard of a record,
but seeing as I don't even own a turntable, this seemed like a better way for
me to go.) On my way there, I overhear a guy asking, "Is this ska?" in response
to the muffled up-down-up-down beat of Vampire Weekend that's wafting over the
park.
5:22pm, Nathan: Overheard—"Keep
on rocking! I love The Jonas Brothers!" Vampire Weekend are disconcertingly upbeat. A drinking game seems to
have broken out amongst the crowd where cynical souls took a swig every time
the lead singer said "positive." That would explain the ubiquity of shiny
silver flasks and the deeply wasted. What is this, a fucking Matisyahu concert?
Vampire Weekend are all about handsome young people playing catchy songs for
drunken people. That's what pop music is all about. But is it what Pitchfork is
all about? The drummer's Phish tee-shirt: ironic or not? I'm guessing no.
5:33pm, David: Looks
like Tim Harrington's mysterious
bag was filled with haircut supplies: He's giving $2 haircuts to all takers.
Already deeply into cutting a fan's hair, Harrington tells a story that goes
nowhere about how he got home from work late last night and his wife wants him
to clean out the gutters. "He better not touch my beard," one guy worriedly
says aloud. Harrington's got hand sanitizer, electric-razor accessories, and a
comb waiting on an upside-down UPS box at his makeshift station. "I'm gonna
protect that part like it's an endangered species," Harrington tells a laughing
client. He wraps up another haircut, saying, "It looks just like your old
haircut, but this one's handsome." Also, for 50 cents, he offers to trim the
guy's armpits and tweeze his stray nipple hairs. The customer happily complies.
"This might be a crew cut tomorrow," Harrington tells a guy whose hair is being
butchered. "Don't be scared," he says while shaving the back of his head with a
crude stencil fashioned out of a cardboard beer case. None of these are things
you want to hear or experience from a barber, but it's a pretty great spectator
sport.
5:45pm, Scott: In a
festival heavy on chin-scratching tweaks and variations, it's a blast to bounce
along to Elf Power's
refreshingly straightforward set, part power-pop and part psychedelia. Even
when it's experimenting, Elf Power takes much greater pleasure in solid, simple
melodies, and that quickly spreads through the Balance Stage crowd.
6pm, Genevieve: I
was planning on checking out a little of !!!'s set before setting up in front of the Hold Steady
stage, but seeing the cluster of eager fans rushing the stage the minute
Vampire Weekend exits it makes me think I should claim a spot now. It turns out
to be a good move. By the time Kyle finds me (with, amazingly, another beer!),
the crowd's already packed pretty tight, and I have a decent enough view of the
monitors broadcasting !!!'s set. I have yet to see !!! in all its glory—I
only caught a few songs from way far back in the crowd at Lollapalooza last
year—which I actually regret; it seems like the kind of frenzied dance
spectacle I tend to enjoy. However, The Hold Steady takes precedence, as it
guarantees not only a killer show but music that doesn't grate on me after a
few songs (as !!! often does).
6:24pm, Scott: A
friend describes !!!, perfectly, as "an evil Go! Team."
6:33pm, Nathan: The
lead singer of !!! moves like a
spastic Mick Jagger and looks like the HR guy from your office or Nick
Swardson's roller-skating prostitute from Reno 911, and not just
because of the too-tight, somehow obscene short shorts. Ah, so that's what
happened to the singer from Skunk Anansie: She's now the back-up singer for !!!
The band sounds like a bubblegum LCD Soundsystem—good time dance music
for white people with a ginormous band and crazy-positive energy.
6:42pm, Scott:
Half-American, half-African group Extra Golden crafts a groove from multiple threads of warm, wiry
guitar. Except for some extra fuzz on Alex Minoff's guitar, there's little to
mark it as a self-conscious indie-rock-meets-world-music project. Instead,
Minoff and fellow American Ian Eagleson have a great feel for balancing their
sensibilities with that of drummer Onyango Wuod Omari and guitarist Opiyo
Bilongo. As they jam through "Ilando Gima Onge," Vampire Weekend tunes like
"Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa" sound like pleasant dabblings in comparison.
6:45pm, David: !!!'s Nic Offer sneers, "We're the lowest-rated band
playing the highest spot on the bill. I guess the kid's know something the
critics don't."
6:45pm, Genevieve: A
group of four people who have clearly been rolling in the mud puddles that have
formed near the porta-potties make their way toward the front of the stage. I
guess that's one way to make your way through the crowd—and get ringworm.
7:08pm, Steven: The
sun is out, sexy hippie girls are dancing in the mud directly in front of me,
and The Hold Steady is playing
"Sequestered In Memphis" for a ridiculously large and adoring crowd. All is
right in the world.
7:11pm, Josh: Just
to get him riled up during The Hold Steady's set, I text Steven Hyden: "guitar
solo blah blah blah."
7:15pm, Genevieve:
The Hold Steady is, predictably, killing it in what ends up being my favorite
performance of the weekend. This is the first crowd that seems almost entirely
devoid of pretense, and the only time during the festival I feel like I can
sing and jump around without being judged by some dude in gold pants and a
fanny pack—though the thick clouds of marijuana smoke billowing over my
head probably help in that as well. As I struggle through my beery, smoky haze
to keep up with the frequent handclap breakdowns that range from good ol'
fourth notes to syncopated confusion, it occurs to me that, for a band that
courts such a presumably intoxicated audience, The Hold Steady demands some
pretty difficult clap-alongs. During a manic sixteenth-note clap-down, my
brand-new melted-vinyl ring breaks. There's a metaphor to be made here, I'm
sure, but I'm just pissed I wasted five bucks. However, I quickly recover when
Craig Finn introduces "Navy Sheets," my favorite song from Stay Positive.
7:30, Josh: Atlas
Sound's Bradford Cox—you know, that
super-skinny guy who lots of people think is music's next great
hope?—starts his set by saying, "I have no idea what the fuck I'm gonna
do." Still, he's about half-awesome, twiddling knobs and strumming his acoustic
into weird little sheets of pop noise. Imagine how great he'll be when he knows
what the fuck he's gonna do!
8:35pm, Sean: God
knows I love him (though obviously not as much as the legion of aging, bookish
groupies squealing in the front row), but Jarvis Cocker's new material hasn't impressed me much, either on
record or live. "Fat Children" aside, he seems to be stuck in "Sylvia" mode,
rewriting the same overblown, mid-tempo ballad over and over. I write in my
notebook, "A little more Pulp, a little less pap," then hold my bon mot aloft
in triumph.
8:37pm, Nathan:
Jarvis Cocker—sexy motherfucker. If Lou Barlow is all about quantity when
it comes to banter, then Cocker is all about quality. His extended riff about
getting the Cliffs Notes take on Chicago from Wikipedia was all charming and
shit. Jarvis doesn't perform a single Pulp song, yet I can't imagine anyone
going home remotely dissatisfied—it was probably the best performance of
the festival. All protest songs should extensively use the word "cunt." Jarvis
pronounced Barack Obama's name in a most beguiling way.
[pagebreak]
9pm, Scott: The
moment Jarvis Cocker wraps up his encore, Animal Collective's stage bubbles up with whooshing and gurgling
noises. The whole mood of things suddenly flips around, cooled off and
re-energized in crowd favorite "Peacebone" and the Panda Bear solo song "Comfy
In Nautica," to name just a couple. Also, the light display is actually kinda
cool.
9:45pm, Andy: It's
been the case for a while now, but Animal Collective has once again become a different
band—the kind of band ideally suited for nightcap headliner slots at big
outdoor festivals. Their sound was loud and searching, the stage was laced with
hyperbright LED lights, and footage of the trio nattering away on the nearby
screens did well to shed more mystery on exactly how they go about making songs
like that. By an uncertain count, their set seemed to include three new songs.
(Newness in Animal Collective world is complicated; take it here to mean not
just as-yet-unreleased, but also not-yet-documented by the legions who tape
their shows and pore over web videos of recent sets to try to keep up.) Avey
Tare is getting evermore sweet and melodic, Panda Bear's voice is getting
richer (plus he drummed a fair amount), and the Geologist still rocks a
headlamp like no other.
SUNDAY
1:52pm, Sean: It's
criminal that The Dirty Projectors,
a band that I could easily listen to for hours, was relegated to this 30-minute
tease of a set. It's even worse that "Imagine It" was plagued by sound
problems, with the vocals going missing entirely for the first half of the
song. But right now I'm mostly pissed at Boris, who are making sure their chugga-chuggas are in
working order, and thus nearly drowning out this already somewhat abbreviated
version of "Rise Above." More proof that not every band is right for outdoor
festivals.
2:25pm, Sean: Les
Savy Fav's Tim Harrington continues to be
the life of the party, wandering around post-interview with a wireless mic
clipped to a clump of his chest hair. Could somebody please give this guy a
reality show already? For Christ's sake, we've given Bret Michaels three.
3pm, Scott: At any
festival, a few bands will excite the hell out of an enthusiastic niche and
leave others to wonder what the fuck the appeal is. This year, Health is the poster child for those bands. Its
noise-grinding precision actually takes on a lot more dimension live: Here, the
monstrously awesome drumming is actually a lot scarier than the relentlessly
chewed-up bursts of guitar and mice feedback. That said, Health sounds 10 times
as cool in a small, dark club with bad sound.
3pm, Genevieve: As I
present my backpack for a search at the festival gates, I wonder if security
has pretty much given up at this point, or if they even cared that much to
begin with: Right on top of my bag is a small makeup case that practically
screams "Drugs are inside me!"—not that I would try to sneak drugs into a
festival, much less in something so obvious. But the security lady doesn't even
pretend to notice it, nor does she open any of the seven other pockets that
could potentially be hiding something. Apparently as long as you're not trying
to get out of buying all your food and drinks at the festival, you're free to
smuggle in whatever you like.
3:15pm, Genevieve:
The Balance stage seems to be running behind schedule, as Health is still
playing, even though King Khan & The Shrines are set to go on now. However, as Kyle has once
again shared the treasures of the VIP section with me—this time bringing
me out a burrito, score!—and I have an oh-so-refreshing watermelon
lemonade to wash it down with, I'm more than happy to spread out my blanket and
have a little picnic. (That watermelon lemonade was my biggest festival vice
this year; I probably spent more on that stuff than I did on beer.)
3:25pm, Andy: The
tambourine player had no trouble keeping time, which wouldn't have proven
noteworthy if not for the fact that he was floating on top of the crowd after
stage-diving just to the left of the maraca player. The throng in front of the
stage went nuts, definitely then and pretty much the whole time as King
Khan & The Shrines leaned into grooves
swiped from old soul and R&B.; It was a time-stamped sound but positively
active—the kind of horn-heated funk you sometimes hear at parties and
leave wondering "Why don't I seriously collect that stuff with, like, all the
time and money I otherwise waste on things like eating?"
3:51pm, Scott: In
full view of the crowd, Les Savy Fav's Tim Harrington prepares his first stage costume of the day: Some
kind of yellow reptile-suit over sparkly red one-legged pants. As he strips
right back down again during set opener "The Equestrians," he'll occasionally
remember to put the mic near his face.
4pm, Genevieve: I
really want to like King Khan's set, but festival fatigue combined with a
pretty wretched hangover combined with the pounding of Health earlier is
rendering the spectacle a little too physically painful. I'm forced to bail out
a few songs in, and retreat to the grassy area between the Aluminum and
Connecter stages, where I spend the majority of the remainder of the day lying
in the sun and listening to Les Savy Fav and Dodos. Les Savy Fav is exhausting—in a good
way—even from afar. There's no way I could handle being in the middle of
that in my current state, but I am a little jealous of the manic crowd up
front, which Tim Harrington is making frequent forays into. At one point, he
jumps into a garbage bin in the middle of the audience and has the crowd hoist
him up, trash and all.
4:01pm, Scott: "This
is dream-making sauce," Harrington proclaims as he spits water into the crowd.
4:13pm, David: "Why
can't we just buy this city? Why can't we just buy this gear? Why can't we wear
a Sherlock [Holmes] costume with shiny armpits?" Harrington wonders aloud
between songs while donning said costume and a Deerstalker hat. What, no pipe?
5:15pm, Genevieve:
Strangest tattoo sighting of the festival, at the Dodos show: A guy with the
Land Rover logo on his back for some reason. Sadly, he gets away before I can
take a picture or ask him, "wait, what?"
6:33pm, Scott:
People can't seem to decide whether to stream in or out of Ghostface
and Raekwon's overcrowded set. It seems
some enjoy the medleys and frequent "Wu! Tang!" chants, and others were hoping
for a more coherent display of Ghostface's menacing ability to carry a full
song and a story. Bonus: A woman trying to find her friend via cell phone amid
this animated, "W"flashing crowd says, "Put your hand in the air, stupid
bitch."
6:35pm, Sean: As
Ghostface and Raekwon are taking requests from the crowd, someone calls out for
"Kilo." "Y'all like that drug shit, don't you?" Ghostface says. Unfortunately,
the DJ apparently didn't bring the record along. "We don't got 'Kilo.' What's
up with that shit?" Indeed, what is up with that shit?
6:43pm, Nathan: Ghostface
closes out a pretty good, if not great, set with Raekwon by mumbling something
about the importance of keeping hip-hop culture alive and volunteering that he
and Raekwon would be signing T-shirts in the back "for a small fee." Awesome!
Did anyone take him up on his offer? How much was said fee? Incidentally, the
cornerstones of hip-hop are now apparently rapping, DJing, graffiti,
breakdancing, and charging white people a small fee for autographs. Overheard after
Ghostface asked the audience to give themselves a round of applause for being
true, die-hard hip-hop heads: "I'm not going to clap because I really don't
deserve to."
7:15pm, Josh:
Spiritualized is the Pitchfork Fest highlight for me; Jason Spaceman, who
hasn't played Chicago in what seems like ages, looks healthier than ever. (His
latest record, Songs In A&E; has lots of death on it, and he
nearly died in 2005, so that's a surprise.) Accompanied by a pair of gospel
backing singers (in addition to his regular band), he delivers one of the
loudest sets of the festival, crashing through new stuff as well as a crushing
"Come Together." I'm told the next day that Julia Stiles was standing behind me
for the whole set.
8:03pm, Nathan: Dinosaur
Jr—Is it just me or is J. Mascis a
dead ringer for Larry Norman or the lost Winter Brother? A mosh pit broke out
during the set, accompanied by some very retro crowd surfing. I was so
nostalgic for 1994 I started to pine for the halcyon days when The Contract
With America brought order and unity to a divided nation.
9:06pm, Josh:
Text-message to Keith, "I don't think any of us are staying for Spoon!" We are,
indeed, old and tired.
[Most photos taken by Sarah Cochran]