UPDATE: More photos are available here.

Christopher Owens of Girls

In the spirit of beachy laziness, I took it easy rising and shining this morning. +2 chill points. Unfortunately, this meant missing out on ultimate beach bum Beth Cosentino, aka Best Coast. -3 chill points. There was no reason to worry (who worries anymore?) about my 1 point deficit that early on in the day though, as the Pitchfork planners seemed to have stacked Sunday’s schedule with acts bent on beating the heat and turning the temperature way down. Getting off the train platform for the last time that weekend, I could hear Girls starting their set with “Laura,” and made my way toward the croons of “I really want to be your friend forever, friends forever, Laurrraaaaaaaaa…” Dressed in a tropical floral-patterned shirt, a short haired Christopher Owens strummed along slowly and sang deliberately. There was something heartbreaking about the whole performance; songs which from the surface seem to be frivolous, sunny anthems about summertime antics were delivered with an aching sort of desperation—more about hoping so much that your life will one day resemble that California postcard you found once of a girl laughing with her sun-tanned boyfriend as she drives along the Pacific Coast Highway, than actually being anywhere close to having that. Owens may have “nothing to do and nobody to see, nowhere to go and nobody to be,” but in the end he’s hopeful: while watching him perform “Hellhole Ratrace,” I had the feeling that, like in the song’s video, he’s not really ever one to quit and pass out after a long night out—he’d much rather stay up and watch the sun rise in the morning.

3:00pm

Ernest Greene, aka Washed Out

If there were some way Washed Out could transport his set up and the audience to a giant bubble in a part of the ocean well populated with floating, bobbing, swaying aquatic wonders, that would be sublime. If Washed Out could then strike some sort of deal with the jellyfish to coordinate their movements to the beat of “Get Up,” I would relinquish my landlubber legs. If Washed Out could enlist some of those freaky luminescent fish from the deep sea to put on a light show, I would truly “Feel it All Around.” Are you listening Ernest Greene? It’s time to take those stunningly ethereal synth-pop vibes underwater.

3:30pm

Victoria Legrand, polka-dotted lioness of Beach House

Beach House’s set looked either like the work of a 1985 Prom committee, or the most apt physical manifestation of their shimmery, hyper-texturized sound. As vocalist Victoria Legrand began with Teen Dream’s “Better Times,” that divinely sanctioned beach breeze waltzed through the park again (they were, in fact, playing on the same stage that Real Estate had played on a day earlier), blowing the singer’s hair across her face indefinitely, a sight which caused a starry-eyed man to breathily whisper “she looks like a lioness…” Prefacing “Silver Soul,” guitarist and keyboardist Alex Scally warned the crowd, “if anyone has a dry eye by the end of this song, they have to leave the festival,” and truthfully speaking, that’s not a gross overestimate of Beach House’s effect on listeners—senses and emotions easily fall prey to the sweeping, swelling grandeur of dreamy arrangements and accompanying vocals which seem to have burst forth from ancient caverns measureless to man. The rest of the set was heavy on Teen Dream material, including “Used to Be,” “Walk in the Park” and “Norway,” and though eyes mostly stayed dry, we can always blame it on the heat.

3:50pm

Local Natives

Widely hailed as the “west coast Grizzly Bear,” LA’s Local Natives should be proud to be compared to the Knowles Family’s indie-rock band of choice. But their performance today proved that they’re not just a knock-off—the three-part harmonies were beautifully done and distinct, the guitars clear and melodic, and the percussion—energetic and brilliantly unconventional. Drummer Matt Frazier was a standout—drumsticks in hand, standing up by what looked to be a wide variety of things to beat on, his intermittent bursts of clattering gave the mostly Gorilla Manor set an unpredictable but utterly unique character. The crowd almost seemed surprised by how flawless they sounded live, and enthusiastically joined in on the impassioned shouting of “I want you back” during the treacherously catchy “Airplanes.” There are always some bands that have problems translating melodically-shouted lyrics from the studio to the stage, but Local Natives thrived on that point: the epics final moments of “Sun Hands” were handled with record-like quality without the sacrifice of any stage presence. Beyonce, you’re going to want to check this one out.

4:45pm

I’m feeling a little bad for Surfer Blood, because they’re looking young and super nervous. Riding the wave (lamest pun ever) of their debut, Pitchfork-adored (and we all know that Pitchfork doesn’t hand out adulations like 10-year-olds hand out elementary school valentines) album Astro Coast, they’ve got a lot to live up to. Shaky renditions of “Take it Easy” and “Floating Vibes” made me further sympathetic to the implications of the young band’s astronomical (hah, I did it again) rise by way of Pitchfork.

Surfer Blood

5:30pm

The first thing that I noticed about St. Vincent’s Annie Clark was that she looked absolutely radiant in the sunlight. Flanked by a violinist and saxophonist, Clark started with a fairly mellow set, but knew that guitar around her shoulder was begging to be really, really played—and just when the slightly jealous girl behind me had finished making her third comment about how “cute she looks,” Clark suddenly starts shredding away, kneeling down to the ground in a frenzy of feedback. And then, just like the flash of storm clouds that sent everyone running for cover earlier today, it was back to sunlight and radiance.

Annie Clark of St. Vincent

6:20pm

Having seen Major Lazer twice—once at a Lollapalooza after show and once at Brown University’s Spring Weekend—I figured it’d be more of the same high-energy delivery of dance-igniting tracks off Guns Don’t Kill People…Lazers Do. But apparently Major Lazer (which consists of DJs Diplo and Switch) have been studying up on spectacle, taking a hint from Of Montreal, reading Shakespeare’s gory limb-fest Titus Andronicus…or maybe they’re just trying to upstage Lightning Bolt…but oh what spectacle mine eyes did see. First came the girls and the Chinese dragons, then came the Hennessey and champagne, and then came more girls—but these ones were professional ballerinas, doing quadruple pirouettes to “Pon De Floor.” Lewd, loud and gratifyingly shocking, us groundlings loved it.

Dragonman!

Spectacle/mayhem

7:40pm

Lost phone and friends. Missed Neon Indian. -5 chill points, and drat. Not terminally chill. Not even close.

8:00pm

Sleigh Bells

Sleigh Bells, a duo that in the past have been known to blow out speakers during their shows, and I of course elected to stand in the very front, right next to a speaker. Game on. After being delayed about twenty minutes, the opening riff of “Tell Em” sliced through the air, obliterating every last molecule in its path. “You want it louder?!” screamed singer Alexis Krauss, eliciting cheers of approval from the crowd, which was just beginning to joyously beat each other up. And the more Krauss stomped and jumped around on-stage with the collective force of 10,000 allowance-deprived teenagers, the more blissfully battered and bruised it all was. After “Infinity Guitars” and “A/B Machines,” the mellower “Ring Ring” allowed for few minutes of rest and sweat removal, but rest is for children and like, old people, and “Crown on the Ground” is the last song, so give it your all, or go see…lame bells…instead…With the fading of a last distorted guitar note, the exhausted and broken Sleigh Bells crowd staggered, disoriented toward the day’s and festival’s closing act, Pavement.

Sleigh Bells

8:40pm

In “So Far Around the Bend,” The National’s Matt Berninger sings, “you’ve been hummin’ in a haze forever/ praying for Pavement to get back together.” Having that lyric come true, and having Stephen Malkmus and company wrap up three phenomenal days of music and general craziness, well, I couldn’t ask for much else. Hanging above the band was a canopy of white lights, the kind of simple but awesome lights you would use if you were bored one day and decided to decorate the back patio of your parents’ suburban California home, so that when your friends came over to sit around, it’d look really cool. 90’s nostalgia (okay, admittedly I was only four-years-old when Crooke Rain, Crooked Rain came out, but I can imagine) hit hard with the opening croons of “Cut Your Hair,” and gone were 10 years of waiting for the return of tremulous melodies, irreverent singing and the genuine lack of concern for your opinion. “In the Mouth of a Desert” and “Silence Kit” followed, and from the tired but happy looks of those sitting down on the grass around me, I could tell that everyone was secretly grateful that tonight’s headliner wasn’t another group like LCD Soundsystem. “Shady Lane” and especially “Range Life” evoked further 90’s alt-rock memories, as Malkmus playfully name drops, singing “out on tour with the Smashing Pumpkins/nature kids they don’t have no function” and “Stone Temple Pilots, they’re elegant bachelors/they’re foxy to me are they foxy to you?” The 90-minute set ended with “Gold Sounds” and “The Hexx,” and just like that, three day and 41 bands later, it was time to limp home, slanted and enchanted.

the crowd

the crowd

]]> http://blog.wbru.com/2010/07/20/from-the-pitchfork-music-festival-day-3/feed/ 0 http://blog.wbru.com/2010/07/18/from-the-pitchfork-music-festival-day-two/ http://blog.wbru.com/2010/07/18/from-the-pitchfork-music-festival-day-two/#comments Sun, 18 Jul 2010 21:08:32 +0000 Yuli http://blog.wbru.com/?p=14936

LCD Soundsystem

1:15pm

Last night’s gastronomic pursuits led to an extremely satisfying eight hours of sleep, and I was up and back in Union Park in time to catch most of Free Energy’s set. If you’re the first band of the day playing to a less than half-filled festival, you can either raise one fist in the air and curse the scheduling gods, or, as Free Energy did, take full advantage of the fact that you’re playing to a fresh, rested crowd which hasn’t sweat all over itself yet. Frontman Paul Sprangers and company powered through a slew of tracks off their debut LP Stuck on Nothing (produced by DFA records/LCD Soundsystem mastermind James Murphy, foreshadowing!) including “Free Energy,” “Dream City” and “Bang Pop.” Loads of free-flowing hair was being thrown around onstage, but it wasn’t just hairography (I can’t believe I just made a Glee reference)—the band had their 70’s throwback, glammed-out, guitar-driven, bangin’, poppin’ sound to back it up. Now who wants to go be young and invincible and drive around aimlessly all night and jump into an ornery old man’s pool and…milkshakes…hot chicks…dude.

1:45pm

Real Estate

So the mellow, psychedelic surf-rock onslaught of the weekend begins. Representing the east coast, from the illustrious town of Ridgewood, New Jersey comes Real Estate. Melted together under the rays of the ever-despotic sun were shimmery, smooth guitar lines, far-away sounding vocals which gently but persistently inquired of the audience in “Suburban Beverage,” “Budweiser, Sprite do you feel alright?” and the subtle but distinct beat of the drums, which, like the sound of waves crashing up against the rocky shoreline, completed the hazy beach illusion. Then, as if by some divine force of indie-rock approval, a comfortable breeze found its way from the Atlantic and elected to linger awhile in this fair city.

2:30pm

Delorean

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, aka it’s time to go check out Delorean. A Spanish dance/electronica band which starting getting attention for their excellent remixes of songs by The xx and Franz Ferdinand, Delorean was clearly ecstatic to be on stage, jumping around and infusing the afternoon with some blissful electronic vibes. I could have sworn I heard them sampling Animal Collective’s in “Stay Close” as well as in another song, but whatever it is that they’re doing, people are dancing as if Andres Iniesta just scored the World Cup winning goal for Spain. Like breakfast, Delorean can (and should) be served all day, so we can dance all day, everyday.

3:30pm

Titus Andronicus. TITUS ANDRONICUS. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Screaming, running around, shouting, they don’t care if they’re playing at a festival or someone’s garage, the song remains the same—and that’s a song of spiteful longing, of wasted but glorious youth, of a future, maybe, but chances are it will really suck so you might as well put on that Pogues record, down that bottle of whiskey and wonder about what freedom is and whether you ever had it. Not many thoughts from me here. Just jumping around, wondering why I don’t go to more punk shows, and resisting the desire to burn my Organic Chemistry textbook in an epic Civil War re-enactment.

4:45pm

The Smith Westerns

So hot outside. Heading over to the smaller, shady side stage to watch Chicago natives, the Smith Westerns. Now I love the Smith Westerns because when they craft a catchy three-minute pop song about a teenager being in love in the way that love and lust and identity are all confused into one monster ball of anxious emotion, it was probably written about something that happened to one of them last year—all the members of the band are actually between the ages of 18-20. Coming onstage, singer Cullen Omori joked, “we can’t drink here, we’re underage,” eliciting many offers from the crowd including a different kind of offer from the guy behind me, who shouted, “I want my future daughter to marry you.” The set was short and sweet, filled with brazenly honest songs of love and tortured teenage longing including “Girl in Love,” “Be My Girl” and “Gimme Some Time.” As for me, I hope the Smith Westerns could tell by the stars in my eyes that I’m a girl in love with their band.

6:00pm

Exhaustion from being out in the sun for five hours sets in. Desire for food reawakened, like a mighty beast from slumber. My eyes zero in on the words “tempura” at the Star of Siam booth, and my legs transport my aching body toward what was certain to be an oasis of fried goodness. I was extremely grateful for the speedy service, and was soon the bearer of a mound of tempura battered vegetables and shrimp covered in a tangy soy sauce. Oh. Sweet. Awesomeness.

Where food lives.

5:45

Why? Because it’s groovy.

Why?

The crowd

7:00pm

This is happening. This is finally happening. Okay well this is happening in an hour and a half, but I am waiting.

8:30pm

A disco ball above him and legions of fans below waiting to feel fantastic….the time has come. James Murphy and company take the stage breaking straight into “Us Vs Them,” and I, along with the thousands of other fans, start burning off all those Tempura calories. The set list was impeccable: songs from the latest This is Happening (“Drunk Girls,” “Pow Pow,” “I Can Change”) were followed by crowd favorites “Daft Punk is Playing at My House” and “All My Friends.” Notable omissions were “Dance yrself Clean” and “Disco Infiltrator,” but, hey, who’s complaining? With every song came a new wind of energy from both the band and the crowd: bring on the 8th wind, bring on the 9th wind, please. Don’t. Stop. But all great things must come to an end, and before we knew it, “New York I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down” was transitioning into an acoustic excerpt of “Empire State of Mind.” The most silent of silence followed. No encore followed. Pure elation turned into heartbreak, turned into an immediate nostalgia for the events that had just transpired. Magic.

The Hogwarts Express, much like the Green Line train to Pitchfork

So begins Pitchfork day one.  Traveling by train to the festival is, as I imagine, akin to traveling on the Hogwarts Express: you don’t know where the train comes from, but by the looks of those around you, you know where it’s going. Sure enough, the plaid-clad masses get off at Ashland and Lake, and speedily (yet oh so casually) make their way to the festival entrance. I arrived about half-an-hour too late to catch the finely-wrought but certainly not over-thought acoustic and vocal pairings of the Swedish folk artist Kristian Matsson (who goes by the monkier The Tallest Man on Earth), but was still determined to meet my one-Swede-a-day quotient anyway. But, before I could launch into my Scandanavian endeavors, I recalled the most scintillating phrase in the email concerning my press credentials: “light food and beverages” will be provided in the press tent. There I went, and there I dodged impressive camera lens after impressive camera lens to make my way to the free pizza and water. Refueled, and further refueled by the free samples of Clif Bar and Amp Energy Drink I snatched on the way to the stages (food, it is important to me) it was time for the pizza-less beyond.

6:30pm

First Swede on the list: electro-pop veteran Robyn. Standing about halfway back in the crowd amid the throngs of meticulously dressed (but they’ll never admit it) twenty-somethings hiding behind every color of Wayfarer imaginable, a sudden, crisp snare drum cut through the air. A robotic voice followed to herald the pop-star’s arrival on earth, er, Chicago: things were “activating!” “Countdowns” were “commencing!” There she is! Robyn sort of skips out onto stage and she just wants to dance and dance and dance, and I don’t blame her, I try to get my 6:00pm dance on as much as possible too. Kicking off with her latest song, “Fembot,” she re-energized the sun-slowed crowd, which was quick abandoning its lethargy to support the proclamation that “fembots have feelings too” (well, they do). Next up on the set was “Cry When You Get Older,” a simple, electronically-charged “love hurts and isn’t always like in the movies” sort of anthem. The lyric “back in suburbia kids get high and make out on the train” elicited a knowing chuckle from the man next to me, whose bicep featured a prominent tattoo of a highly realistic banana (?)—most likely a cherished relic from those good times in suburbia. More high octane tales of anguished love came in the form of “Dancing on My Own,” as Robyn made a dance move out of that things we all did in middle school where we hugged and squeezed our own shoulders and made kissy sounds so from the back, it would look like we were totally making out with someone. For an artist who is based in Sweden, Robyn certainly knows how to tap into some classic young American nostalgia.

7:20pm

Broken Social Scene

Pivoted to face the other stage (yeah, they’re that close) to calm things down with the polychromatic, dreamily lush sounds of the Canadian multi-instrumental collective, Broken Social Scene, a band who’s songs always maintain a quality of softness even in their loud moments. The Arctic Monkeys got it right when they said it changes when the sun goes down (I am not implying that Pitchfork suddenly transformed into the red-light-district, that would be…odd), and there was no better exit music for our solar system’s most baller star than that of Broken Social Scene. I sat. I chilled. I exchanged high-fives with the Windy City’s elusive summer breezes off the lake. With four highly-acclaimed full-length LPs under their belt, the ensemble made their way through songs off their latest Forgiveness Rock Record before playing favorites like “Fiery-eyed Boy” and “Cause=time.” Yuli’s soul says: I am serene and soothed for sure, thanks Broken Social Scene.

8:30pm

Yuli’s body says: I am le tired. Wrapping up Friday’s line-up was indie-rock mainstay, Modest Mouse. Being pretty unfamiliar with their discography, I passively watched from afar and honestly—they sounded only okay, often descending into long-winded jams. Oh—and they also didn’t play “Float On.” I think people were mad. The masses had begun to exit the festival before the band had even come out for their encore, and I went with them. Many were headed on the train to Wicker Park, a hip Westside neighborhood where Titus Andronicus would be playing that night. I too, was headed to Wicker Park, but Titus Andronicus would have to wait until tomorrow—I was there for the neighborhood’s block after block of excellent restaurants.

10:30pm

Ah, food.

Food.

On the plate for tomorrow, Saturday: Delorean, Titus Andronicus, The Smith Westerns, WHY?, Wolf Parade, Panda Bear and LCD Soundsystem.

Delicious.

The National at the 2009 Pitchfork Festival, photo courtesy of Pitchfork Media

Yet, whether you’d like to think of those running Pitchfork Media as prescient tastemakers or self-important critics, one thing is certain: they have assembled a large and varied cornucopia of artists for their three-day 2010 festival, which kicks off in mere hours. Headliners include the gloriously re-united Pavement and LCD Soundsystem, fresh off the release of their latest funkified, groovable, jump-up-in-air-and-somehow-find-yourself-to-be-100 feet up-but-dance-your-way-back-down-to-earth-able album This is Happening, but this certainly isn’t a festival carried by its headliners. We here in the Midwest have apparently been pining for salt-water seduction (Lake Michigan, I love you but you’re bringing me down), as the sun-soaked, beach-blissed sounds of Washed Out, Surfer Blood, Best Coast and Local Natives will soon be gracing this coastless city. Support for youthful indiscretion is also at an all-time-high this weekend (score!), as the Smith Westerns, Titus Andronicus, Free Energy and Girls prepare to take the stage and remind us all in clear, simple terms what it feels like to be twenty and wanting nothing more than a boyfriend and a beach house stocked with pizzas and a bottles of wine. Rhode Island even makes an appearance on Sunday, as Providence natives Lightning Bolt aim to (I don’t want to say electrify, but I’ll do it anyway) electrify the four o’clock slot. Additional details about the line-up can be found at: http://pitchforkmusicfestival.com/.

So, as I prepare to dive headfirst into my third Pitchfork Music Festival (having attended previously in 2007 and 2008), I bring to you my mission in covering the event:

I attempt to make my updates as organic, laid-back and honest as the festival itself—I’ll try my best (laziness, be vanquished!) to post as soon as possible after I have seen a the acts/stood in line for vegan ice cream (it’s seriously delicious) to more accurately relate my experience. It will be a sort of Stream-of-Pitchforkness:

The crowd, photo courtesy of Pitchfork Media

Sights, sounds and impressions from the 2010 Pitchfork Music Festival unadulterated by excessive contemplation, research, or general time-related “forgetting.” That moment when I realize I’ve completely misinterpreted the sound of a band I’ve honestly never heard and then blogged about it for all to see? That moment will probably happen, but hey, I’ll most gladly sacrifice my “correctness.” Shaky writing and the lack of the ability to elicit from my jiving brain adjectives less 2^nd grade than “sparkly” can be anticipated, but should be embraced because I certainly don’t think we’re living in a post-sparkle world.

Stay tuned—I’m armed with a press pass, a computer, a camera, good intentions and probably more youthful indiscretion than I’m aware of: it’s sure to be a great weekend musically and otherwise.