Pavement performs at Pitchfork 2010. View more Pitchfork 2010 photos. (Christopher Smith, RedEye)
Editor's note:
Updated 4:30 p.m. Wednesday with response from Pavement's Scott Kannberg
Updated 1:30 p.m. Tuesday with comments below from Pitchfork promoter Mike Reed.
Though the Pitchfork Music Festival streamed video of virtually its entire main-stage lineup last weekend, enabling fans to watch the festival as it happened around the world on their computers and cellphones, one notable band was not included: festival-closing headliners Pavement.
Why was Pavement excluded? One band member has a beef with Pitchfork's editorial department. The band’s longtime booking agent, David Viecelli, explained Monday that “one of the band members has some issues with (the Pitchfork e-zine), comments that were made (in past articles) that demeaned that person in the context of Pavement.”
“Some of the things he objected to were bitchy, personal attacks that, if someone had said them about me, I wouldn’t have been happy either,” Viecelli said. “Because of that, he had a problem with the video being streamed not just on the festival Web site, but on the editorial side as well. It was a last-minute thing and I wasn’t able to stop it. I apologized to (festival promoter Mike Reed). I don’t think it hurts Pitchfork – if anything it hurts Pavement because fewer people got to see them. But to me the biggest damage was that the fans couldn’t see it. I wasn’t happy with (the decision), but these things happen.”
Viecelli would not name the band member, but sources familiar with the situation say it was not singer Stephen Malkmus.
Pavement guitarist Scott Kannberg responded Tuesday to Vanity Fair after the magazine's Web site speculated that he was the culprit, responding to negative reviews of his solo work in the Pitchfork e-zine. Kannberg issued the following statement: "Regardless of my thoughts about the Pitchfork e zine, myself and the
rest of the band had a great time playing the Pitchfork music festival.
The crowd were super enthusiastic and we couldn’t have asked for a
better day. We only found out the day of the show about the live webcast
and I personally thought that it was not something that Pavement should
do. We apologize to the fans for pulling out at the last moment and
hope that you’ll come and see us in September. We’d gladly look forward
to playing the Pitchfork festival in another 10 years."
Pitchfork promoter Mike Reed noted Tuesday that other acts have declined to be videotaped, including Broken Social Scene last Friday, the festival's opening day.
"With all of the artists I make the offer to include the ability to stream
the show," Reed said. "Some artists take their time responding and some want it taken out
right away. The main goal is to have the performance, the webcast is secondary.
(Broken Social Scene) said no to the webcast from the start. We did not tape them.
"It's very common that these things happen and even in some cases get
axed at the last minute. Talking to other festival producers it's common that
come the day of the show the manager or a band might say no, for a variety of
reasons."
Pitchfork also issued the following statement in response: "We were thrilled to be able to showcase so many of the performances throughout the weekend on the festival webcast, but ultimately, we were focused on every one of these great acts playing their best show possible for the festival's attendees. For those acts that chose not to participate in the webcast, we were of course disappointed that its viewers did not have the opportunity to watch their set. That said, we very much respect the wishes and decisions of all the acts that play our festival."
A number of acts in past festivals, including De La Soul, Cat Power and Sonic Youth, have declined to be videotaped. And last weekend Big Boi and Panda Bear projected their own visuals on the video screens to accompany their sets.
For the majority of acts, video was streamed live from the festival in Union Park of the two main stages. Performances on the smaller Balance stage were also videotaped, and will be made available on the Pitchfork TV Web site in a week, said video coordinator Johnathan Crawford.
Video produced by Kevin Pang The Pitchfork Music Festival 2010 is in the books. Maybe it was the oppressive heat, but this was not a high-energy festival overall. Beach
House singer Victoria Legrand put it best Sunday: "There are a lot of
mellow, dark bands playing." So Sunday's lineup really got a boost when Major Lazer took the stage. DJ's
Switch and Diplo are top club draws, but they covered their bases by
bringing their own spectacle: Chinese lion dancers, dancers in tutus,
dancers parodying pro wrestling moves (including the time-honored ladder
leap). Fun suddenly become part of the festival, a trend continued by
OutKast's Big Boi. He may be the less cerebral half of the Atlanta hip-hop
outfit, but he does know how to throw a party - and Pitchfork needed one as
the long weekend wound down. As usual, my colleagues Bob Gendron (BG) and Andy Downing (AD) were on the
scene alongside yours truly, Greg Kot (GK). Our collective musings on Sunday's
action are below. Thanks also to hard-working videographer Kevin Pang, who
was everywhere with his camera. Here's how it went down Sunday: 12:06 p.m. Counting down to Day 3 Sunday in what is shaping up to be the strongest day
of music at this year's Pitchfork Music Festival. It takes a village to run
a music festival, as these numbers from Pitchfork headquarters indicate:
120 people on production crew; 85 people on beer staff; 120 volunteers per
shift (there are 2 shifts a day); 30 contractor staff working on the stage;
50 on video production crew; 70 people on security per shift; 16 food
vendors with an average of 10 people working with each. (GK)
12:39 p.m.
Rain is coming down in sheets, sending nearly all of the early arrivers
scurrying for cover under the Record Fair tents. While a welcome relief from
the heat, the downpour ups the already soupy humidity levels. When the sun
returns a few minutes later, the weather is uncomfortable but not anywhere
nearly as oppressive as in 2005, Pitchfork's inaugural year and the last
time Chicago temperatures cracked the 100 degree mark. (BG)
Counting down to Day 3 Sunday in what is shaping up to be the strongest day of music at this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival. It takes a village to run a music festival, as these numbers from Pitchfork headquarters indicate: 120 people on production crew; 85 people on beer staff; 120 volunteers per shift (there are two shifts a day); 30 contractor staff working on the stage; 50 on video production crew; 70 people on security per shift; 16 food vendors with an average of 10 people working with each.
First prize for the day’s most grossly inappropriate outfit goes to Jon Spencer of the Blues Explosion, who wore skin-tight leather pants for his late-afternoon set Saturday at the Pitchfork Music Festival in Union Park, and soaked right through them. Now that’s either complete irrationality or complete dedication to the rock, and this day needed a lot of both to survive it. Day Two was even hotter than Day One at Pitchfork, and the heat gripped the festival like a noose in the afternoon, perhaps explaining why there were only a handful of truly standout sets. Titus Andronicus delivered monster anthems at the height of the midafternoon meltdown. Jon Spencer made it seem like 1995 all over again. And, by gosh, was LCD Soundsystem something else. If this is indeed James Murphy’s last go-round with the band, I will never forget the moment “All My Friends” rolled over me like a big wave illuminated by a crescent moon and a disco ball.
Thanks to my dedicated colleagues Bob Gendron (BG) and Andy Downing (AD) who contributed to the hour-by-hour account of the day’s events below, along with yours truly, Greg Kot (GK).
1:03 p.m. "I hear frequencies in the back of my head," proclaims Netherfriends leader Shawn Rosenblatt, whose band's reverb is up so high it seems that his vocals are completely separate from the Chicago group's ramshackle pop. The echoes provide an interesting sonic illusion, a good thing, since Rosenblatt doesn't have anything of importance say. Percussive songs randomly stop and start, and wordless vocal harmonies spring up like a Jack in the Box. At times, the psychedelic choruses resemble the singing of Whoville residents from Dr. Seuss' "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas." Netherfriends score big on the cute factor but lack memorable material. The trio's set doubles as band practice in a basement where anything goes. (BG)
1:10 p.m. Philadelphia quintet Free Energy has a vintage look — think Stillwater in “Almost Famous” — and an equally vintage, if not-all-that-memorable, sound. It's clear the band members have absorbed plenty of T-Rex and Thin Lizzy, and their youthful enthusiasm fuels mindless dance-rock nuggets like “Bang Pop” and the shimmying “Free Energy.” On the latter, drummer Nick Shuminsky pounds his cowbell so hard that I half-expect Will Ferrell to dance out from the wings in his "Saturday Night Live" “more cowbell” getup. What singer Paul Spranger lacks in natural charisma (his stiff delivery on the strutting “All I Know” keeps the song grounded), he makes up for in genuine excitement. At times it sounds like the ever-grinning Spranger's stage banter has been penned by some combination of Jeff Spicoli and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: “Sweet!”; “That's so cool!”; “This totally rules!” (AD)
Jack Black, circa “School of Rock,” would’ve appreciated this face-melter. The Pitchfork Music Festival got underway Friday in Union Park with enough heat and humidity to prompt promoters to cut the price of bottled water in half to $1 for the rest of the weekend. Pitchfork, we salute you. And festivalgoers (all 54,000 of you by the end of the three-day festival), make sure to hydrate and apply sunscreen liberally.
As for the music, my overall impression of Day One was that we were off to a slow start, with a few exceptions.
The big winners: Sharon Van Etten, Broken Social Scene’s Chicago-centric set, and aerobics instructor/Euro-pop anti-diva Robyn.
The big outrage: Headliners Modest Mouse didn’t perform their biggest hit, “Float On.” I’m guessing their relationship to that 2003 breakthrough song is similar to what Warren Zevon’s was to “Werewolves of London” or Radiohead’s to “Creep” — it’s a once-popular song the artist who wrote it no longer loves. So are they obligated to play it? Me, I want to see a band play songs it is still emotionally invested in, no matter what the setting. If Modest Mouse is going to go through the motions performing “Float On” (much the way Van Morrison does when he phones in “Brown Eyed Girl”), I’ll pass. What’s your take? Let me know in the comments below.
I’m betting that Saturday is going to be just fine with much-anticipated sets by Gary, Ind., MC Freddie Gibbs, the Smith Westerns, and especially LCD Soundsystem. And Sunday should save the best for last with a murderer’s row of St. Vincent, Pavement, Big Boi, etc.
But let’s get down to the nitty-gritty of Friday. Below you’ll find an hour-by-hour account, with entries from yours truly, Greg Kot (GK), and my ever-enthusiastic colleagues Andy Downing (AD) and Kevin Pang (KP):
3:30 p.m. Sharon Van Etten could be forgiven for just wanting to run and hide as she takes the stage shielded from the Sun only by a veil of bangs. She is alone except for her electric guitar and she looks tiny amid the vast setting. She glances at the big screen flanking the stage and says, “There’s a bigger version of me over there,” as if she’d like to trade places with her video image. But, wow, what songs. Her butterfly voice floats over — take your pick — hypnotic/repetitive/trancy guitar strumming. She’s not attempting more than a few chords per song. But the effect is mesmerizing. She writes about broken relationships – an old, perhaps hackneyed subject — with switchblade insight. “Don’t you think I know you’re only trying to save yourself/You’re just like everyone else.” In the space of those two lines she moves from empathy to disappointment. Great stuff. The voice is direct, unvarnished, the sound of truth. “First day, first act, oh, my God … I feel like I have something to prove,” she says with disarming frankness. Mission accomplished. (GK)
4:10 p.m. From a spot near the soundboard, the Tallest Man on Earth appears to stand only about 5-foot-8. Kristian Mattson, the Swedish singer-songwriter who performs under the moniker, openly struggles with both the heat and a bad case of jet lag: “I haven't slept in two days,” he announces from the stage. Not surprisingly, his voice — clear, if somewhat nasal on record — seems to sport three-days growth. There's definitely more than a touch of Dylan in acoustic numbers like “Wild Hunt” and a particularly strong “King of Spain,” which finds the troubadour strumming his acoustic as though he wants to reduce the instrument to kindling. With the sun shining and clear blue skies overhead, it's fitting that so many tunes touch on the natural world; Mattson fills his songs with references to floating bluebirds, sunning lizards and flower-dotted meadows. Heck, even relationships sound more like big game hunts when filtered through Mattson's worldview. “If I don't get you in the morning,” he sings over dancing guitar on “Thousand Ways,” “By the evening I sure will.” (AD)
Rumors surfaced Monday that a reunited Pavement will headline this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival in Union Park.
Though Pitchfork has not announced its lineup for the July 16-18 festival, an interview with Pavement percussionist Bob Nastanovich published Sunday by the Louisville Courier-Journal has fueled speculation that the quintet will include a Pitchfork date as part of its worldwide reunion tour.
The Courier-Journal’s Jeffrey Lee Puckett wrote of the possible Pitchfork date as part of an interview with Nastanovich, a former Louisville resident: “The vast majority of venues will be far larger than any they used to play, but none are expected to be in Louisville. Chicago's Pitchfork Festival will likely be the closest; the only non-festival U.S. dates announced so far are the late September shows in Central Park [in New York].”
The comments have been picked up by numerous Web sites as confirmation of a Pitchfork date, but Nils Bernstein, publicist for the band’s Matador label in New York, says that isn’t the case. “Bob was talking about all the various things that might happen, and he talks with such confidence and glee that it may have come across that it is confirmed,” Bernstein said Monday. “But right now, the official word is ‘no,’ it’s not confirmed.”
"We are still working on the important details of ticket price, on-sale date and,
of course, lineup," said Pitchfork spokeswoman Jessica Linker. "Any information at this time concerning these aspects would
be premature."
Pavement was one of the leading indie-rock bands of the ‘90s, defined by Stephen Malkmus’ erudite wordplay and shambling, guitar-based melodies. The band announced plans to reunite last year after a decade apart.
The Pitchfork Music Festival debuted in 2006 as an off-shoot of the hugely popular music e-zine pitchforkmedia.com and has been selling out its annual three-day festival in Union Park ever since.
In the previous blog entry, Radiohead's "In Rainbows" is the decade's watershed moment, symbolic of the power shift from the corporate industry to the fans. Here are 10 more defining moments for the decade:
2000: N Sync caps an unrivaled run of prosperity for the music industry by selling 2.4 million copies of its album “No Strings Attached” in a single week.
2000: Radiohead’s “Kid A,” leaks on the Internet months before release, but debuts at No. 1 on the Billboard chart anyway with computer-savvy fans leading the charge. 2000: Metallica sues Napster, and brings the wrath of the music industry down on peer-to-peer file sharing.
2002: Kelly Clarkson tops Justin Guarini to win the first “American Idol,” and ignites the most popular mainstream music industry franchise of the decade.
2002: After a false start in 1999 followed by years of inactivity, the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival re-launches in California. In Tennessee, the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival debuts. The two events kick off a decade of major destination festivals, including Lollapalooza and Pitchfork in Chicago, and help rejuvenate the touring business.
2003: Apple opens its digital media store iTunes, the music industry’s most successful response to the file-sharing crisis.
2003: The Recording Industry Association of America opens a five-year campaign to sue consumers accused of sharing copyrighted digital songs. Most consumers avoid trial by paying a $3,000 fine.
2004: An obscure Canadian band, the Arcade Fire, hits big with its debut, “Funeral,” fueled by massive Internet buzz fed primarily by Chicago-based e-zine Pitchfork. The next year, the Web site will begin curating its own festival, and a host of indie-rock bands would enjoy unprecedented mainstream attention.
2007: Culminating four years of lawsuits against file-sharing consumers, a jury awards the music industry $222,000 in the infringement trial of Jammie Thomas (later Thomas-Rasset), who is accused of making 24 copyrighted songs available on her home computer. The award is increased to $1.9 million in a retrial the next year.
2009: Live Nation and Ticketmaster announce plans to merge the nation’s largest concert promoter and ticketing company. Despite major concerns about a monopoly that could send ticket prices spiraling even higher, the merger was still in play as the decade ended.
The Pitchfork Music Festival 2009 is in the books, amid a shower of confetti and balloons from the Flaming Lips. All told, 40 bands played over three days on three stages, with 49,000 fans from around the world in attendance. Here’s our hour-by-hour coverage from Sunday, with contributions from my hard-working colleagues Bob Gendron (BG) and Andy Downing (AD).
12:20 p.m.: Outside Union Park, business for scalpers appears brisk, with $35 single-day passes for the sold-out Sunday bill selling steadily for $50 to $75. (AD)
1:14 p.m.: So much for a Sunday morning hangover. Performing its final show with its current lineup, the Mae Shi unleashes disorganized chaos in the form of cartoonish screeches, high-pitch screams and spastic bedroom punk that seems on loan from Japan’s freak-out bands. These aren’t songs as much as they are 40-second fragments and outbursts. Alternating between playing Mae Shi and Signals material, singer Jonathan Gray shakes and shouts as if he’s suffering from Tourette’s syndrome. He soon gets help in the form of Chicago hip-hop duo Yea Big (a knock-off for Napoleon Dynamite) and Kid Static, and the mood turns more frantic. A gang chorus rendition of “Run to Your Grave” inspires a robot dance to break out before the finale. Dorks just want to have fun. (BG)
1:20 p.m.: Micheal Columbia, a local trio (none of whom are actually named Michael), lock into the propulsive sci-fi groove of “Diana,” which one bandmate describes as being loosely inspired by the movie “V.” Utilizing guitar, bass and keyboard (along with the occasional saxophone solo), the crew crafts a dense, tech-heavy tapestry of alien grooves and disaffected vocals. “Made of Metal” (sample lyric: “Now that you are made of metal/Will you still feel summer breezes?”) even hints at Devo, or, perhaps more accurately, that band the outcasts of Tri-Lambda form in “The Revenge of the Nerd's” penultimate scene. (AD)
2:02 p.m.: Frightened Rabbit conquers early equipment problems that cause the band to briefly exit the stage. Vocalist/guitarist Scott Hutchison (left) doesn’t let the technical difficulties get to him, but he’s clearly consumed by relationships and heartbreak. Putting its three-guitar lineup to good use, the Scottish quartet’s tightly wound rhythms and crisp, rattling chords evoke the clattering sound of aluminum cans being dragged down a highway. Hutchison’s feelings are equally battered. The soulful nature of the jittery “I Feel Better” belies the song’s title, while the soaring “Good Arms Vs. Bad Arms” overflows with earnestness and pain. “I need human heat” Hutchison confesses on “The Twist,” opting for a cathartic honesty that boosts the impact of the group’s smartly written and well-executed songs. An impressive showing from a band that’s ready for a bigger platform. (BG)
2:25 p.m.: Frightened Rabbit finishes off a strong set in a rage that energizes the crowd. I’ll second what Bob Gendron says above: This is a band on to bigger things.
2:13 p.m.: Dianogah bassist (and noted artist) Jay Ryan stops the local trio's set, which to this point has been an oceanic swell of largely-instrumental passages, to pay tribute to former bandmate Stephanie Morris, who passed away June 1. “[We] considered bowing out of Pitchfork,” says Ryan, “But we knew how excited Stephanie was to play here.” Guitarist/keyboardist Mark Greenberg and singer/guitarist Rebecca Gates (of the Spinanes) join the trio for the second half of the performance, ably recreating Morris' parts on songs like “Sprinter” and giving added weight to lines like, “Tell me who am I without you by my side?” “We love you, Steph,” the bandmates holler as they depart the stage at the close of the touching tribute. (AD)
2:35 p.m.: A packed lawn indicates that fans are eager to show up early today. Whereas Saturday didn’t fill up until later in the afternoon, the park is already congested, making walking from stage to stage a slower, obstacle-ridden trip. (BG)
2:40 p.m.: The Flaming Lips army of roadies, dressed in industrial gear, are blowing up huge orange and yellow helium balloons behind the main stage in preparation for the night’s main event. Children wander past and immediately are entranced. A few make off with a prize for their curiosity; the beach-ball-size balloons are often as big as the kids carting them off.
2:53 p.m.: Portland sextet Blitzen Trapper is mesmerizing with a set of songs drawn largely from their most recent album, “Furr,” which is starting to sound more and more like a long-lost greatest hits collection from 1973. Just as their Sub Pop Records labelmates the Fleet Foxes made a splash at last year’s Pitchfork festival, Blitzen Trapper (right) is showing signs of doing the same this year. Four albums into its career, this band is clearly ripe to pop.
2:55 p.m.: “Take off your shirt,” yells an obviously-sarcastic gent in the midst of the throng gathered for local crew Killer Whales. The over-caffeinated bandmates, who appear to share a fashion sense with Huck Finn (all four are already shirtless and shoeless), are a kinetic blur for the bulk of their 25-minute performance. A pair of percussionists lay down a frenetic, tribal groove that borrows liberally from both post-punk and Afro-pop, while a dueling bassist and guitarist, stomp, twitch, sway and convulse to the spastic-yet-danceable rhythms of songs like “Chain Gang” and the relentless “Tunnel Station.” Credit Pitchfork with embracing a number of local artists in booking the Fest; it's a trend another Chicago festival (cough, Lollapalooza, cough) would do well to follow as it looks forward to 2010. (AD)
3:35 p.m.: Veteran MC Pharoahe Monch is kickin’ it old school, from his splendid Afro to his love of dusty soul beats with two backing singers. He also brings an aggressive political dimension rarely heard in hip-hop these days. Monch is a throwback to a bling-free era, when beats were hard and rhymes addressed even harder questions.
4:11 p.m.: The band Women momentarily refrains from its rumbling cacophony and reveals a softer side. Patrick Flegel’s monotone, out-of-tune vocals match the all-male quartet’s meandering arrangements as the indecipherable song fades to a close. Anything goes—or does it? Cold and detached, the Canadian band hurts for anything resembling a genuine stage presence. That’s not all. Random and indistinctive, the group’s deranged stomps owe more to artsy indifference than psychedelic experimentation. Save for the slightly tuneful “Black Rice,” Women’s splintered art-rock forgoes consistency. Loud conversations amid the crowd suggest a lack of sustained interest. Sometimes, noisy guitars and stoic looks aren’t enough. A bummer. (BG)
4:50 p.m.: The Thermals (right) cap their pogo-worthy set by covering Green Day, after earlier nodding to Sonic Youth and the Breeders. The alt-rock classics fit right in with a set of high-energy anthems that justifiably rev up the crowd. After a couple of relatively sleepy days on the big stages, the festival’s final day brims with slamming guitars and uptempo tunes.
4:54 p.m.: DJ Rupture's stage setup -- three turntables resting side-by-side --is most notable for what's missing: computer equipment. Eschewing laptops and iPods, the crate-digging, New York City-based DJ (born Jace Clayton) crafts a seamless, 45-minute mix of globe-trotting beats using only vinyl and his apparently limitless imagination. Few samples are instantly recognizable (even Ol' Dirty Bastard's “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” is slowed to a ghostly crawl), and the entire mix is haunted by ambient sounds (crashing cars, mumbled voices, video game bleeps). DJ Rupture reveals himself as a master of pacing and tempo, opening with more cerebral cuts to get heads nodding and gradually raising the beats-per-minute until a majority of the crowd is dancing along. (AD)
5:12 p.m.: A number of fans have found a way around paying scalper prices, as evidenced by a steady stream of fence jumpers by the Balance stage in the park’s southwestern corner. (AD)
5:37 p.m.: The Walkmen gets a little help from its friends. A seven-piece horn section saunters onto the stage and punctuates the New York quintet’s ramshackle tunes with Spanish accents. It’s a perfect match. The music’s opaque, hazy tones befit a last call at a 4 a.m. bar when just a few patrons remain, uncertain what to do and where to go. Singer Hamilton Leithauser is on his best behavior, content to slur lonely musings and howl about loss on songs such as the gauzy “Red Moon” and chiming “In the New Year.” Not that he’s completely coherent. And while the band’s muted material is slightly restrained for the occasion, strong suggestions of alienation and sadness go down without the need of a chaser. (BG)
5:42 p.m.: As Japandroids take the stage, singer-guitarist Brian King (left) notes the duo will have to keep the stage banter to a minimum because they're already pressed for time. “Come see us when we come back in a couple months,” he continues. “We're hilarious.” Two songs later, drummer Dave Prowse introduces his vocal turn on “Rockers East Vancouver” by saying, “I'm gonna do a Phil Collins impression for you.” Point, Japandroids. But though the Vancouver duo proves an affable, energetic and engaging onstage presence, it's tough to shake the feeling that the performance would sound better in a smaller club; the band's power—like many on the bill—is clearly diluted by the expansive outdoor setting. That said, the set isn't without its high points, particularly the ragged garage-punk anthem “Young Hearts Spark Fire” and “The Boys Are Leaving Town,” which plays like the scuzzy flipside to Thin Lizzy's “The Boys Are Back in Town.” (AD)
6:02 p.m.: Unlike my colleague Andy Downing who’s out in the field watching Japandroids set, I’m perched next to the stage and loving it. It just goes to show, it’s all about perspective, especially with a sound system that isn’t first-rate. In any case, the King-Prowse heaviness is being felt from my vantage point, from the rough and ready guitar riffing to the pummeling drum fills. The sound is bigger than it should be for two guys, but what’s especially gratifying to watch is the obvious fun they’re having playing at each other. When King roars, “I don’t want to worry about dyin’ ” and punctuates it with a Naked Raygun-like “whoah-ohhh,” that’s worth a first punch or three. These hair-flailing true believers should have a rock-off with their partners in guitar-drums mayhem, Los Angeles-based duo No Age. Better yet, how about touring together?
6:34 p.m.: Sweetness prevails during M83’s set. “It’s just beautiful, just beautiful” observes leader Anthony Gonzalez, and he does everything to keep it that way. The French pop band’s lush atmospherics and wanderlust melodies are indeed the stuff of sunny days and zealous dreams. Pulsing dance beats balance the tempered gentility, but M83 primarily allows its space-rock to drift into a peaceful universe where helium vocals and gushing symphonics curry favor. Anyone hoping to hear the group’s guitar-driven shoegazer fare is out of luck. This is all about the allure of the synthesizer and resurrection of new-wave delights. Alas, the huge walls of sound M83 creates on record are nowhere to be found. (BG)
7:07 p.m.: The Vivian Girls put out one of my favorite albums of 2008, and their brief but hard-hitting set doesn’t disappoint. Big, melodic bass lines provide a foundation for innocent harmony vocals, a mix of tart and sweet that proves irresistible. Only disappointment, they didn’t play “Where Do You Run To.”
7:58 p.m.: Grizzly Bear gets nasty, quickening the pace and flexing its muscles for a thrilling finale to “Fine For Now.” It’s a rare occurrence during an otherwise low-key concert, which largely comes across as a choral ode to a higher power. Laden with breathy harmonies and nimble textures, the Brooklyn quartet’s ethereal pop is firmly wedded to slow, staggered tempos and graduated crescendos. Elegance and delicacy reign. Birthday boy drummer Christopher Bear delivers occasional ripples of percussive thunder, yet the rapturous “Two Weeks,” fluttering “Little Brother” and intimate “Cheerleader” are designed to make the senses swoon. Mission accomplished. (BG)
7:58 p.m.: Mew might be the best dressed band at Pitchfork; singer Jonas Bjerre sports an expensive-looking cardigan and tailored jeans, while his bandmates are wearing crisp oxford button-ups with the sleeves rolled just so. The Danish group's sound is equally dapper. Indeed, even the rockers are hopelessly lush—as though everything the band touches is forced to blossom (think King Midas meets Johnny Appleseed). This feel is abetted by Bjerre's lullaby of a voice, an effortlessly melodic instrument with watercolor-soft edges. Mew imbues a decadent “The Zookeeper's Boy” with enough romantic longing to make Jane Austen blush and turns “Special” into a velvet-smooth, disco-rock shuffle. Only two complaints: (1) at just 40 minutes the set is at least 20 minutes too short and (2) the crowd is on the small-ish side as everyone readies for the Flaming Lips performance in the opposite corner of the park. (AD)
8:37 p.m.: Security chases down a few gate-jumpers on the South side of Union Park that hope to get in for free and see the spectacle that is the Flaming Lips. (BG)
8:38 p.m.: The three core Lips band members cap what has been the festival’s best beginning-to-end day of music by emerging from the womb of a video vixen, accompanied by go-go dancers dressed as frogs and chipmunks. There’s confetti and those helium balloons we were telling you about earlier. And the music has barely started. Will the Lips dig deep as they promised, honoring a set list chosen by the fans? They open with “Race for the Prize,” a staple of their set list in recent years, then treat us to a new song with Wayne Coyne riding atop a roadie in a gorilla costume. Everybody’s smiling, and it appears very few people have left the park. This show is already shaping up as an Event, perhaps the best festival-closer in Pitchfork’s history.
9:22 p.m.: It’s hard not to feel sorry for The Very Best. Led by vocalist Esau Mwamwaya, the collective is up against stiff competition (the Flaming Lips) and draws only a few hundred people for a rare performance. Undaunted, Mwamwaya’s spirits are running high. A DJ, two dancers and a constant procession of African-rooted grooves spike a joyful fusion of hip-hop, reggae and dancehall. While Mwamwaya sings in his native Chichewa language, the lyrics don’t require any translation. Piping-hot steel-drum beats combine with hard-charging, elephant-herd rhythms to create the impression of having stumbled upon a tropical-flavored club that’s the best-keep secret in town. And on this night, that’s exactly what The Very Best is. (BG)
9:45 p.m.: The Lips dig out “Bad Days,” “Enthusiasm for Life (Defeats Internal, Existential Fear)” and the psych-rock blow-out “Mountainside” in addition to the usual suspects. Stephen Drozd plays his usual man-of-many-talents role on keyboards and guitars, and Michael Ivins lays down monster bass lines. Then there’s Coyne, the perpetually enthusiastic ringleader, cheerleader, circus barker, confetti shooter and feel-good preacher-instigator. “Do You Realize” is a predictable finale, but no one’s complaining – it sounds glorious booming out across Union Park amid even more confetti and balloons. A festive finale, the kind of moment that makes you feel glad to be alive, experiencing this moment in this city with this band.
Day 2 of the Pitchfork Music Festival in Union Park is in the books. Here’s the hour-by-hour report from Saturday when 18 bands and artists performed before a capacity crowd of 18,000, with contributions from Andy Downing (AD) and Bob Gendron (BG).
12:47 p.m.: Bike racks and cast-iron gates surrounding the park are already layered with so many battered 10-speeds that they're starting to resemble a metallic, free-form sculpture. (AD)
12:50 p.m.: Marty Perez, local photographer supreme, is backstage getting ready for another day of work. Perez has seen countless bands and is as tough as any critic when it comes to assessing them. I ask him about last night’s Jesus Lizard set on Pitchfork’s opening night. He breaks into a huge grin and says, “That was affirming.” We agree that we’ll be lucky to see anything quite as good the rest of the weekend, but I have high hopes.
1:02 p.m.: Disappears, a local quartet fronted by Brian Case (90 Day Men, The Ponys) dig into “Old Friends,” a terse, feedback-heavy stomper, as 200 early arrivals look on. Case has described the band's sound as “caveman-like,” and the crew lives up to its keep-it-simple credo, laying down a primal, bluesy wall-of-sound as thick and matted as dryer lint. (AD)
1:07 p.m.: Cymbals Eat Guitars (right) is a New York quartet getting mountains of blog love. The band works a dramatic range of peaks and valleys in its arrangements, which feature lovesick melodies and squalling guitar interludes. But they’re not quite ready for prime time. One of the downsides of a festival like Pitchfork, which mostly features up-and-coming rather than established talent, is that it sometimes pushes newbie bands out from their basement gigs onto a big stage in front of 19,000 people before they’re ready. Cymbals Eat Guitars has the songs but not the stage presence to pull off their first big gig. Heck, they didn’t even have band T-shirts until a few weeks ago. I look forward to seeing them again in a year or so, when they’re a bit more seasoned.
1:10 p.m.: More people are browsing the Flatstock Poster Convention than watching Disappears. Diehards arrive early to get first dibs on hundreds of art-rock prints for sale. (BG)
1:22 p.m.: Sound bleed from the ruckus over on the B Stage interferes with a quiet moment during Cymbals Eat Guitars’ set. This isn’t the time for a laidback song, but the band doesn’t break from its plans and tries a little tenderness. (BG)
1:35 p.m.: You want family-friendly? Oblivious to the surrounding din, a toddler happily crawls on a blanket as her parents enjoy Cymbals Eat Guitars’ feedback-drenched “Living North.” Conveniently, her stroller holds two beers. Saturday in the park. Everyone’s happy. (BG)
1:48 p.m.: Reaching his right hand toward the sky, Plants & Animals vocalist-guitarist Warren Spicer opens his band’s performance with serious drama. A stunning new, untitled song comes complete with ominous warnings and dark wishes. While lighter, a concluding three-part harmony fails to break the fractured mood. (BG)
1:49 p.m.: The Dutchess & the Duke—actually a quintet—look less like budding royalty than a shaggy gang of 20-somethings who spend their free time solving capers alongside a talking dog. The rag-tag group is more Duke (Jesse Lortz) than Dutchess (Kimberly Morrison) on opener “Back to Me” as the sound crew struggles to find the right the mix. (AD)
1:54 p.m.: With lyrics like “Clouds keep rolling on in” and “I can't see the sun,” the Dutchess & the Duke sound oddly prescient as the sun continues its prolonged game of hide-and-seek. (AD)
1:59 p.m.: Plants & Animals’ sense of heightened grandeur and intriguing contrast continues with “Good Friend.” A Korg keyboard doubles as a church organ, and drummer Matthew Woodley underscores the harrowing vibe with minimalist percussion. Spicer sings as if he’s consumed by desperation but determined to get what he desires. It’s a cry of loneliness without the usual self-pity or self-deprecating irony. Liberation arrives in the form of another unreleased tune that bassist/guitarist Nicolas Basque dedicates to his girlfriend. There’s no romance here, just an incessantly shaking rhythm and a refrain (“Kids just want to be left on the outside!”) that demands to be shouted by a cast of thousands. (BG)
2:05 p.m.: Augmented by dual violinists, the Dutchess & the Duke deliver a pair of ramshackle ballads: the heart-rending “Scorpio” and a desolate “Living This Life Makes It Hard.” The latter, laced with death rattles of tambourine, finds Lortz and Morrison harmonizing like bone-weary soul mates. (AD)
2:29 p.m.: Plants & Animals know how to say farewell. As organic as the group’s name, “Bye Bye Bye” features a hook that will stick in peoples’ heads long after the band has gone home. Despite lyrics that detail a permanent separation, optimistic emotions run high. (BG)
2:31 p.m.: Damian Abraham of [Expletive] Up (right) gets things rolling by crushing a beer can on his head and tossing it into the crowd. Dozens of beach balls are flying around and Abraham snatches them and tries to eat them, tearing them in half and perching one on his head for several heads. He looks like an oversized refugee from the cast of “Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” and he is grandly entertaining singer/instigator. But the sound on the main stage is seriously flawed. A number of dissatisfied fans make a point of telling me. “It needs to be louder!” I’d agree. The drums of the hard-hitting Jonah Falco finally sound up to snuff by the end of the set, but the wall of guitars remains muffled. Frustrating to have what could’ve been a great set compromised by a lousy mix or a faulty volume switch.
2:45 p.m.: Abraham is hitting it off with the audience. “I give you guys an 8.8,” he says, in reference to the Pitchfork e-zine’s 10-point rating scale for albums. He later revises it to 9.9, insisting that the crowd is better than the latest Animal Collective album, “Merriweather Post Pavilion,” which the e-zine rated a 9.6. “It just sounds like Phish,” the singer-turned-critic cracks.
2:48 p.m.: Overheard roughly 17 seconds into the Antlers' set: “I like it so far.” The same person nine minutes later: “This is boring.” Who says indie culture can't be fickle? (AD)
3:05 p.m.: The Antlers, a Brooklyn trio, seem more intent on creating atmosphere than cultivating full-fledged songs. Frontman Peter Silberman sings in a wounded falsetto, dotting his fragile tunes with medical imagery: empty hospital beds, morphine alarms, and tubes jutting from cancer-ridden arms. The hazy, last rights feel carries over to the music, Silberman wrapping songs like “Kettering” and “Bear” in thick, gauze-like guitar. And while there are moments of striking beauty (particularly the stately “Two,” a potentially grandiose tune in the hands of an act like Arcade Fire), they are countered by longer spells of mind-numbing boredom. (AD)
3:30 p.m.: First Aid tent reports no major incidents except for some minor cuts and bruises. Most of the workers are just standing around, enjoying the slow pace. (BG)
3:48 p.m.: Bowerbirds keyboardist/accordionist Beth Tacular appears to be directly out of central casting as the love interest in a quirky, independent romantic-comedy (think Zooey Deschanel in “[500] Days of Summer”). The group's music is equally swoon-worthy on loping, acoustic laments like “Northern Lights” and the stripped-to-the-bones minimalism of “Silver Clouds.” That said, “Beneath Your Tree” comes across as overly-precious and much of the set is so wispy it threatens to be carried away on the lightest breeze. (AD)
3:50 p.m. The Pains of Being Pure at Heart are another overhyped blogosphere darling. The New York quintet recycles the buzzing guitar/soft vocal approach of British bands from the ’80s such as the Shop Assistants and Primitives. It’s all nice enough, kind of like a glass of milk before bedtime.
4 p.m. An ambulance pulls onto the field and places a man onto a stretcher. The victim is passed out, but medics aren't yet certain of the cause. It's safe to say it isn't heat related. Hospital awaits. (BG)
4:05 p.m. That ambulance and its siren makes the Bowerbirds all but inaudible on the smaller third stage in the southwest corner of the park. The stage is in a beautiful tree-lined setting, but its sound system needs to be beefed up.
4:21 p.m. Final Fantasy, aka violinist/singer Owen Pallett, gets right to the point. He’s feeling awkward. “I’m a little nervous. I don’t play these sorts of shows for Americans, or anyone outside of Canada. So it’s really nice to be able to do it.” With a wavy Flock of Seagulls haircut and overly polite demeanor, Pallett seems like the last person who would be a fan of the infamous black-metal band Mayhem. But the one-man chamber quartet proudly sports the band’s t-shirt as he croons in a castrato falsetto and relies on electronic loops while making arch, dry baroque music that’s more aptly suited for a formal dinner party (or Ravinia) than a rock concert. Where is the wine and cheese? (BG)
4:35 p.m. Gotta love the exuberance of Ponytail’s Molly Siegel (right) as she frolics and shouts in the wordless-warble tradition of Yoko Ono and the B-52’s. With two guitars racing on either side of her and a frantic drummer at her back, Siegel was all smiles and pogo hops as she led the audience through a series of spazz-attack anthems.
5:20 p.m. Reports that concertgoers are sneaking in through an unmanned opening into the VIP area, which offers gratis beer and water, crackle over a security guard’s walkie-talkie. A vow to correct the problem is issued. Yes, even Pitchfork separates the bourgeois from the proletariat. (BG)
5:47 p.m. Wavves has been delayed for nearly 20 minutes and the crowd is growing restless. “People are going to riot when this show doesn't happen,” remarks one fan in jest, to which his friend (sounding deathly serious) replies, “We'll just keep our backs to the fence and punch our way out.” (AD)
5:45 p.m. Rain hits in the middle of Yeasayer’s set and hits hard for a few minutes. But the crowd is loving it. The band doesn’t miss a beat in a set that combines polyrhythmic drive, falsetto-soul vocals and electro-rock melodies.
5:50 p.m. No riots necessary as Wavves frontman Nathan Williams, sporting an elbow-length cast acquired in a skateboarding accident a week ago, slings his baby blue guitar over his shoulder and stabs his hand across his instrument. Following a well-publicized onstage meltdown at the Primavera Sound Festival in Barcelona, Spain this past May, at least half the crowd appears to have gathered in anticipation of a train wreck that never quite arrives. (AD)
6:02 p.m. Yeasayer (right) is rocking their big indie hit, “Sunrise,” under gray skies when guess who decides to show up? The sun bursts through the clouds and the crowd cheers while the band raises its arms triumphantly. A great festival moment.
6:06 p.m. That Williams avoids another public unraveling is far from an endorsement of his band's music. Wavves' lo-fi, surf-tinged punk is so amateurish that it almost comes across as performance art—an Andy Kaufman-esque stunt designed to dupe unsuspecting listeners. I kept waiting for the singer to grab his microphone and howl, “I've done it! I've fooled you all!” No such luck. On “Beach Demon” Williams' guitar approximates a mis-wired garbage disposal. It stands as the high point of the set. (AD)
6:15 p.m. Doom is laying on some rap-star attitude backstage. He arrives barely on time for his set and demands to be paid --- in cash--- up front. Once he gets the dough, he’s ready to roll.
6:40 p.m. Doom is on stage in his trademark silver mask and a camouflage outfit that appears to be sprouting leaves. He resembles a tree, but then alien terrain is nothing new to the gifted MC, who just might be hip-hop’s best wordsmith at the moment. But the set is disappointingly perfunctory, with Doom lip-syncing his way through it. Weirdly enough, his sidekick and DJ are live as they address the audience and try to drum up some enthusiasm.
6:50 p.m. With his face hidden behind sunglasses and underneath a straw hat, Lindstrom gazes at a MacBook screen as if were a crystal ball. The sun is just beginning to descend behind buildings, yet the Norwegian deejay’s easy beats and space-age disco washes suggest a much later hour. (BG)
7:03 p.m. The first noticeable transition in Lindstrom’s set marks a move away from chill-out music into funkier, looser grooves that are interspersed with various bleeps and blurts. A small albeit dedicated crowd reacts by jumping up and down and throwing their hands in the air. Rave on. (BG)
7:12 p.m. Lines for the portable toilets stretch as deep as 40 people, combining with the food lines in certain parts of the park to create a nearly impenetrable mass of humanity. (AD)
7:18 p.m. Though he’s not much to look at, Lindstrom seamlessly brings thumping hip-hop and bass-heavy accents into play, ratcheting his space-age disco blend up another notch. Despite the increased pace, the rubbery mix is refreshingly free of harshness or aggression. (BG)
7:26 p.m. The monopoly on all-instrumental sounds is over. Lush vocal samples signal the denouement, and they’re right on cue, as the heavy grooves are beginning to get stale. Rare is the deejay who knows how to build the momentum and cut ties before people get bored. (BG)
7:59 p.m. Matt & Kim hit the stage with the exuberant energy of a duo that just finished eating several bowls of Captain Crunch cereal and sucking down a six pack of Coke. The Brooklyn tandem’s giddy, trashy pop follows suit. Romper Room is in session. (BG)
8:12 p.m. After the mostly gray afternoon, it’s turning into a beautiful evening and Zach Condon’s (right) band, Beirut, is the perfect soundtrack for dusk’s balmy arrival. Horns, accordion and violin weave a gorgeous spell.
8:13 p.m. Does anyone notice that Kim is essentially playing the same thrashy beat on every song? Not really. Kim thwacks at her drum kit, hitting whatever is in sight. Not to be outdone, Matt’s fingers pounce on the keyboards with slaphappy abandon. “Yeah Yeah” goes down as an advertisement for the power of Xanax. (BG)
8:26 p.m.Can anybody really be this gleeful? Overcome by the moment, Matt gets even sillier, and professes his hopes for an appearance from Barack Obama and Oprah Winfrey. “Light Speed” barely differs from anything that came before it, but the party rolls on. (BG)
8:37 p.m.A suit- and tie-clad Matt Berninger stalks the stage like a conflicted drunk in search of someone to listen to his innermost thoughts—even if that person is himself. The National frontman’s sullen vocals match his appearance. Bathed in dynamic atmospherics and blue light, the sobering “Runaway” epitomizes melancholic beauty. (BG)
8:51 p.m.Augmented by two funereal horns, The National continues to bring its music to a simmering boil, careful not to let it all explode. Berninger’s deep baritone on “Brainy” contains a subtext of mental violence and conveys the sense that something is about to erupt. Still, the tension doesn’t break. (BG)
9:02 p.m.Just one song into Black Lips' joyously rowdy performance, guitarist Ian St. Pe lifts his guitar above his head, swinging it down to the stage like a battle axe and obliterating the instrument. “Does anybody need a pickup?,” he asks, holding aloft a piece of shrapnel. (AD)
9:15 p.m. The National are bringing it. They opened arena shows last year for R.E.M. and proved they could translate on a bigger stage. Their brooding, darkly romantic songs have an undercurrent of violence, which singer Matt Berninger coaxes to the surface.
9:19 p.m. Berninger’s (right) shell finally cracks. He tears into “Abel” with rabid animalism and practically foams at the mouth. Unable to sort out the battle in his mind, the vocalist has no choice but to break from the weight. It’s an exhilarating—and disturbing—display. (BG)
9:36 p.m. Text message received from a member of the festival promotion staff. He says 35 more toilets will be added before Sunday's final day of the festival.
9:24 p.m. While most of the guys in Black Lips radiate a blue-collar aura (St. Pe, for one, looks like a shifty auto mechanic), guitarist Cole Alexander is sporting an entirely unique look; with his mustache and wide-brimmed hat he looks like Daniel Day-Lewis' “There Will Be Blood” oil magnate reborn as a scruffy garage rocker. Fittingly, the Atlanta quartet's music is a similar mix of sleaze and seduction. “Dirty Hands” sounds like a scuzzy take on a '50s prom song; “O Katrina” evolves into a veritable typhoon of jangly guitar and slapdash drums (indeed drummer Joe Bradley remains an almost cartoonish tangle of limbs and sticks and hair throughout). Remarking on their hosts, St. Pe concludes: “We got a 7.4. What was it? Higher? 7.5? 7.8? Who give a [expletive]. We like Pitchfork.” (AD)
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