Video by Kevin Pang
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.
greg@gregkot.com
Tribune photos by Mike Rich and Elizabeth Myers