Pitchfork Music Festival 2010: Day 2 review

1:42 p.m.
Is the heat of the sun causing guitars to go out of tune? Nah, it's just the hazy twang of Real Estate's lazy tones. If any band's songs are tailored for a scorching daytime set, it's this New Jersey group's fare, which is obsessed with bodies of water and suburban life. The gentle surf rock doesn't hurt either, as chords lap up like waves on a beach. "Budweiser, Sprite, do you feel alright?" asks the refrain on the simple albeit enjoyable "Suburban Beverage," while swimming pools remain just out of reach on "Pool Swimmers" and an untitled new song, the third unreleased song debuted. Who cares if most of the music relies on similar arrangements? When songs go down this easy, it doesn't matter. Singer/guitarist Martin Courtney alludes to the Union Park pool behind the stage but no one dares jump the gate. Somehow, however, it suddenly feels cooler. (BG)
 
1:50 p.m.
Pitchfork e-zine publisher Ryan Schreiber says the “Write the Night” concept that invited fans to draw up a set list for veteran bands such as Built to Spill and Tortoise in recent years was dropped “because maybe we were getting too nostalgic” and nostalgia, presumably, is not Pitchfork’s calling card. This year, the festival instead introduced a comedy stage on Friday, which drew sparse crowds. “It’s fun to experiment,” Schreiber says. “We think comedy is a likeminded scene” to indie music. (GK)


2:05 p.m.
Over at the Balance Stage, attendees already cling to the plentiful shade like sun-weary vampires. Onstage, catchy San Francisco quartet Sonny & the Sunsets run through a hazy set that mixes 1950s doo-wop (dig the guy-gal vocals on “Too Young to Burn”) with '60s garage (the snarling riff on “Teenage Thugs” is a direct descendant of the Kinks' “All Day and All of the Night”). Even though singer-guitarist Sonny Smith appears to be dressed for the weather — his Hawaiian shirt and white-framed sunglasses could have been inspired by here-and-gone “Simpsons” character Poochie — the temperature eventually gets to even him. “Now I'm starting to feel the heat,” he says, wiping the condensation from his forehead. “Regular blue jeans are starting to feel like spandex.” (AD)

2:15 p.m.
Why is Mike Reed smiling? Reed, longtime Chicago jazz drummer and festival promoter, is one of the most pleasant individuals you’d ever want to meet. But on Pitchfork weekend he’s traditionally a bundle of stressed-out nerves. Today, “it’s like a lunar eclipse,” as my Sound Opinions colleague Jason Saldanha says, because Reed actually appears to be having … fun? “Every year I say that this is going to be my last year,” he says. “But this year, I decided I’m just going to enjoy it. And I’m enjoying this one a lot.” Despite the heat, the festival is keeping the 18,000 fans relatively well hydrated and deserves massive kudos for quickly cutting the price of bottled water in half to $1 on Friday when it became apparent the heat was going to be an issue all weekend. Also, the sound system is noticeably improved with additional speakers kicking out more volume from behind the main-stage sound board. “I feel like we’ve learned a lot” in running the festival for five years, Reed says. “It feels like we’ve come out of the Stone Age.” (GK)


2:37 p.m.
Massive, heavily amplified drum pads prompt a sea of hands to start clapping in time, and for a moment, Delorean reproduces the equivalent of a stadium rock concert held at Wembley Stadium. The Spanish quartet remarks on the heat's intensity but doesn't let up. Taking advantage of a cluster of electronic pedals, synths and samplers, the band hosts an acid-house dance party that's impossible to ignore. Drummer Igor Escudeo's live beats add texture, and bassist/vocalist Ekhi Lopetegi supplies hints of melodrama. But most everyone is focused on the grooves. And the miniature soccer balls that are sailing in the air, a probable tribute to Spain's World Cup victory. (BG)

2:50 p.m.
Philadelphia's Kurt Vile hints at the music to come as he makes adjustments with the sound technician during the final stages of setup: “Just so you know, I'm playing electric”; “I need more vocals [in the monitor] because I'm deaf.” Fittingly, the lanky frontman—his face obscured by a brown mop of hair — launches into a series of fuzzed-out, loosely-psychedelic guitar dirges with his three-piece backing band, the Violators. Both the music and Vile's vocals — often barked or slurred — are drenched in buzzing feedback until they have roughly the texture of a Brillo Pad, and song titles like “Freeway” and “Freak Train” echo the band's loose-limbed momentum. The latter, with its incessant, druggy guitar rhythms, is particularly impressive, chugging along as relentlessly as its title suggests. (AD)

3:15 p.m.
The First Aid tent reports nothing unusual but continues to treat a constant stream of heat-related problems. Nearby, a male concertgoer cools off wearing nothing but rolled-up jockey shorts. He's obviously not shy. (BG)

  
3:22 p.m.
With a small American flag dangling from his guitar, Titus Andronicus singer Patrick Stickles (above) addresses the crowd: “Let’s make this the greatest day of our lives.” He then sets about fulfilling that wish with not only fervor, but humor. Friday may have been comedy night at Pitchfork, but Stickles gets off what might be the best line of the weekend: “I’m sweating like a pregnant nun talking to the Pope up here.” He and his quintet, aided by a handful of additional musicians, turn his complaints, disappointments and paranoia – “Your life is over,” “You will always be a loser,” “The enemy is everywhere” – into triumphant celebrations. (GK)

4:16 p.m.
Dam-Funk (pronounced "dame") straps on a keytar after rapping about being "real gangster." Wearing shades and several layers of clothes, he resembles a youthful Ice-T but lacks panache and originality. Rather than play songs, the multi-instrumentalist teases with snippets and fails to complete anything he begins. His hyped bandmates don't do much to rescue a shoddy, inconsistent performance that began late and fails to hold the already thin crowd's attention. At its worst, the trio passes for an act you might encounter in a subway station. Dam-Funk's sweet falsetto comes on as if he were crooning Michael Jackson at a karaoke bar, and the overdose of MIDI synthesizers takes everyone back to the '80s, with little of the fun. A wasted opportunity for the Los Angeles musician. (BG)

  
4:37 p.m.
Burly Wu-Tang Clan veteran Raekwon (above) finally emerges 20 minutes after his scheduled start time and sleepwalks his way through a hit (and cliché) heavy set while surrounded by a cadre of hype men and hangers-on. Raekwon — despite having a growl of a voice as rough-and-tumble as a back-alley knife fight — even utilizes a vocal backing track for the set-opening “C.R.E.A.M.,” which is further marred by several technical hiccups. The MC does begin to find some life on “Da Mystery of Chessboxin',” but the Wu's more-metaphysical leanings aren't the best fit for his brawny style. Unfortunately, rather than digging deeper into the self-named “reality raps” that define his solo work, Raekwon opts to exhume Wu classics like “Can It Be All So Simple” and “Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nothing to [Expletive] Wit'” — a lazy decision that challenges neither rapper nor audience. (AD) 

4:55 p.m.
The Smith Westerns play jingle-jangle guitars with high harmonies, reminiscent of Midwestern pop bands like Shoes, Green and Material Issue. But the lush hair and the ‘60s pop references have me flashing back to California power-popsters Red Kross, circa “Third Eye” (1990). The quartet still sounds a little malnourished, though. They need another year of seasoning. But it’s clear they’re on to bigger things, and “Be My Girl” is a great pop song, as bittersweet as that first high school crush. Gerard Cosloy, founder of Matador Records and one of the most astute talent scouts of the last 25 years, is watching the set. A sign of things to come? (GK)  


5 p.m.
The line for the water fountains seems endless, with more than 100 people waiting to fill up containers. (BG)

5:40 p.m.
The line for the free water refill station stretches nearly 150 deep. (AD)

5:47 p.m.
Jon Spencer is promising to give the audience some hell. It's all part of the show, complete with the string-bean-thin singer sliding across the stage in boots, doing the splits and dropping to his knees. After a lengthy hiatus, not much has changed about the Blues Explosion, save that the carnival-barking Spencer is less hyperactive than he was in the early ‘90s. His voice still sounds like that of Las Vegas Elvis, and his moves and self-referencing statements all appear carefully cropped from blues, soul and rock legends. Is it parody or is Spencer merely parodying rock cliches? The answer is open to interpretation, but on this afternoon, the trio's combustive mixture of scuzz punk, country fried R&B, snaking rockabilly and frenzied blues is both tight and thrilling. "I Want To Make It Alright" and "Soul Typecast" ooze feel-good energy, and "Bellbottoms" turns into a celebration of impromptu distortion. The Blues Explosion concludes with a frantic "Magic Colors," which witnesses a sweat-drenched Spencer falling to the ground, manipulating a theremin and smashing a microphone to pieces. Nice. (BG)


6:03 p.m.
Spencer soaks through his leather pants by the time his ridiculously over-the-top set ends. He also keeps his black vest buttoned up like he’s attending a funeral. “Sweat! Sweat!” he screams. What else is a guy to do when he wears the completely wrong outfit for a day that made every stitch of clothing feel like steel wool? Going into this set with low expectations, I can’t help but be impressed with Spencer’s spazzed–out Vaudeville-like homage to rockabilly/funk/blues showmen of generations past (James Brown, Hasil Adkins, Gene Vincent, Andre Williams). Think about this stuff too much and your head starts to hurt. But Spencer makes a rude, excitable noise with his excellent sidekicks, guitarist Judah Bauer and drummer Russell Simins, and their set is exactly the pick-me-up Pitchfork needs as a long, hot afternoon recedes. (GK)

6:15 p.m.
Cincinnati quintet Why? embraces its playful side on tunes like “Song of the Sad Assassin,” which combines surreal, Dali-esque lyrics with kitchen-sink instrumentals. “Alopecia,” for one, opens with a brief Gregorian chant before singer Yoni Wolf (right) — decked out in a flat-brimmed hat that made it appear as though he were cutting out post-show to sell monorails to Ogdenville, North Haverbrook and Brockway — begins spitting absurdist, X-rated rhymes in his nasal, love-it-or-hate-it voice. At the song's close, the music shifts from the Middle Ages to the distant future, the band reenacting an alien invasion with guitars and keyboards locked together in a space-age duel. (AD)

6:30 p.m. Wolf Parade sounds like a streamlined rock machine. The differences between the wired intensity of Dan Boeckner and the wordier, more cerebral approach of Spencer Krug have narrowed, and the quartet punches out one would-be hit after another. (GK)

6:37 p.m.
A lone gate-crasher clears the fence by the Balance Stage and is chased down and quickly apprehended by a security official, who declines further comment. (AD)

7:15 p.m.
Bear In Heaven singer Jon Philpot sounds determined to kick-start a new fashion trend. “You like my lederhosen?” he asks from the stage. “How many suspenders do you think I've sold this festival?” Despite the laid-back atmosphere, the Brooklyn trio's synth-heavy sound is, at times, vaguely menacing. “Wholehearted Mess,” for one, builds around a shimmying drum beat and an angry hornets nest of synthesizers. “Ultimate Satisfaction,” by contrast, undulates gently, the band crafting slowly rolling electronic waves. Indeed, Philpot's voice is frequently more noticeable for its velvet-soft texture — think a less-nasal James Mercer — than any of the words he actually sings. (AD)

7:30 p.m.
Animal Collective's Panda Bear opens his set with spacey, chiming electronics and breathy moans that sound vaguely like an invocation to prayer — an apt start for an artist who's achieved near-godlike status among the Pitchfork crowd. Performing alone, Panda triggers electronic loops on a keyboard rig and then shades the loose sketches with ambient guitar and an array of vocal tics, yelps, and shrieks. Some songs, like “Ponytail,” gradually bloom and flower like spring gardens, while others merely evaporate in the early evening heat. Too often, though, Panda Bear sounds content to play sonic alchemist, conjuring eerie grooves (one song builds around dark synths and a noise like a distant, tolling bell) and ambient soundscapes in lieu of delivering fully-formed songs. (AD)


7:55 p.m.
Freddie Gibbs is the breakout hip-hop star from the Midwest, at least on the mix-tape scene. He comes roaring out of the gate waving a liquor bottle and striking gangsta poses. Don’t know about you, but I think I’ve heard enough songs about gang-bangers and hustlers to last a lifetime. But beneath the chest-thumping, Gibbs reveals the storyteller within, spinning out vivid images of what it feels like to grow up poor, frustrated, ambitious and desperate in a Gary, Ind., ghetto. The vocal style is authoritative and gruff, occasionally speeding up to reveal a debt to Twista, over immense, sternum-shaking beats. There’s nothing puny about these tracks; they're ready to be cranked on low-rider stereos. Here’s hoping Gibbs can keep the subtlety and nuance thriving in his rhymes while he hustles for the music-industry cash he appears destined to receive. (GK)

8:05 p.m.
Titus Andronicus rabble-rouser/singer Patrick Stickles, sporting a bushy beard reminiscent of a Civil War-era soldier, unwinds backstage after an explosive early afternoon performance. Stickles praises the accommodations, saying of the five or so festivals the band has played, Pitchfork is easily the best — “not to play favorites.” He also says the band was hampered by a lack of rehearsal time with the horn section that joined them onstage: “I think we rehearsed once for like three hours last week.” And while he hasn't had much time to check out any other music since arriving in Chicago Friday afternoon, he plans on sticking around to see Pavement on Sunday. The band broke up when he was only 13 years old, Stickles says, but “Pavement is still the big story, as far as I'm concerned.” (AD)


8:55 p.m.
LCD Soundsystem usually saves it for last, but “All My Friends” sounds absolutely glorious anywhere in a set drunk with good stuff. With three top-notch albums to his credit, James Murphy and his band are in no danger of running out of material. But still it’s awe-inspiring to hear “Losing My Edge,” “Daft Punk is Playing at My House” and “Yeah” one after another, leavened by heartbreakers such “Someone Great” and “New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down.” Murphy, a guy who looks more like a car mechanic than one of the most successful producer-songwriters of the last decade, sings with more authority than ever; he’s not just a sing-speak wiseguy anymore, but he’s pushing his voice into falsetto and evincing tenderness. And his band has become a force; on the material from the recent “This is Happening” album, the musicians set up an intricate cross-chatter among chicken-scratch guitars, percolating layers of percussion and deep-sea bass. We go out dancing. (GK)
 
greg@gregkot.com 
 
 
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Photos by Nuccio DiNuzzo, Mike Rich, Brent Lewis and Christopher Smith