It all looked so good at the start. I would leave my conference in Oakland just in time to hit the Pitchfork Music Festival on the 18th and 19th by flying into Chicago at 6:30am Saturday morning. Well, that part went off without a hitch, but I didn't anticipate how ass-draggin' I would feel, which threatened to derail the whole fest. But after a nap and a Dunkin' Donuts infusion, I was ready to tackle my third P4K (which was a "just me" fest this time). And the weather was perfect: overcast and 70 degrees both days. [Clouded and cool can also summarize my overall attitude, too.]
I arrived Saturday in time to watch Fucked Up roar their way through a set of high-energy hardcore with a few rock flourishes, and while they were engaging, I was awash in the old-guy sensation of watching history repeat itself with a few wiggles left and right. This feeling only grew in intensity during the next set (The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart), which was a mash of Ride, The Jesus & Mary Chain, and estrogen. As I like all three of those things, it wasn't bad by any stretch. It was just what much of today's music now is for me: an elicitor that triggers memories associated with earlier and better bands, an emotional echo of a moment that will never be repeated. Pretty deep stuff, right?
Thankfully, I pulled my head out of my ass for the rest of the day and actually enjoyed myself, starting with the virtuoso performance of Owen Pallett, aka Final Fantasy. FF was always a "I've heard of them but never heard them" act for me, but the Saturday afternoon solo performance was a real stunner. He has a transfixing voice, for starters, but his real wizardry is on the violin; he layered percussion, keyboards, violin and voice in beguiling arrangements of songs from his records that managed to put thousands of kids under a spell, if only for a few moments. From there, it was one solid act after the other -- Yeasayer, Doom, Lindstrom, Matt & Kim --that built on what came before rather than simply presenting it unadorned, finally closing out the eve with The National. If bands were in the stock market, I'd put some bucks on The National; they have the feel of a Springsteen/U2 hybrid that's oh-so-close to writing the breakout album, a surge of Americana with ambition and skill. It was a nice way to end the day.
[Actually, the coda to the "end the day" was pounding back a Coke in a glass bottle from Mexico -- sugar, baby! -- as I cooled off back in the hotel. Sweet, sweet sugar.]
I was a bit underwhelmed by Sunday's early-afternoon acts, so I decided to take in a few movies first (The Hurt Locker and (500) Days Of Summer -- go see these movies immediately) before I made it in time for the underwhelming Pharoahe Monch set. Right after, The Thermals took the stage to mix their rawk with some hits of the '90s (they covered Sonic Youth, Nirvana, The Breeders, and Green Day in between their songs), which was more fun than it should have been. From there, it was back and forth between hits (even though it was still light out, M83 and The Walkmen got their much-deserved close-up) and misses (a half-assed "performance" by Japandroids and the pounding monolithic beats of DJ/Rupture) until the one-two closing punch of Grizzly Bear and The Flaming Lips.
I've neither seen nor heard anything by Grizzly Bear (although I own three of their albums, sitting in my "to listen to" pile), so their set was a nice revelation: beautiful sound, layered songs, funny banter, and everything you want from a critic's darling. Speaking of critical faves, it's been amusing to watch the journey of the Lips from acid-soaked critical faves to one-hit wonders ("She Don't Use Jelly," what what!!) to respected elder statesmen of indie rock to their current designation as Kiss for the bloggera. The Kiss label is apt in that you come to a Lips show now for the SHOW rather than the music. And what does the SHOW look like? Well...
Before the first song, strobes by the shit-ton spark alongside a stage screen featuring a gyrating nude female who eventually spreads her legs in a birthing position; once the gams are splayed open, white light shines from her vagina onto the stage area where bubble-boy Wayne rises, eventually rolling into the crowd. Then cue the costumed dancers and confetti cannons, then finally we actually get a song (the epic "Race For The Prize") that Wayne proceeds to croak into oblivion, his shattered voice bereft of melody and grace. And then, for good measure, he spends a few minutes after "Race" to snidely comment on the P4K policy of picking the playlist, blowing any momentum built by the eight-ring circus intro. Nobody likes vitriolic clowns, and that's what the Lips have descended into. Let's hope their new album can get back to music instead of the creative cul-de-sacs on display Sunday night.
However, the folks around me seemed to love it, and it was hard to deny the thrill of the first strains of "Race For The Prize" while a sea of yellow balloons rode the currents of the crowd. And if you want to close a festival, the Flaming Lips offer a scorched-earth policy, 'cause who wants to follow that? It was an apt ending to the fest, and it sent me off on my quest for sleep perfectly, given the dream-like visuals that sent me home.
I arrived Saturday in time to watch Fucked Up roar their way through a set of high-energy hardcore with a few rock flourishes, and while they were engaging, I was awash in the old-guy sensation of watching history repeat itself with a few wiggles left and right. This feeling only grew in intensity during the next set (The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart), which was a mash of Ride, The Jesus & Mary Chain, and estrogen. As I like all three of those things, it wasn't bad by any stretch. It was just what much of today's music now is for me: an elicitor that triggers memories associated with earlier and better bands, an emotional echo of a moment that will never be repeated. Pretty deep stuff, right?
Thankfully, I pulled my head out of my ass for the rest of the day and actually enjoyed myself, starting with the virtuoso performance of Owen Pallett, aka Final Fantasy. FF was always a "I've heard of them but never heard them" act for me, but the Saturday afternoon solo performance was a real stunner. He has a transfixing voice, for starters, but his real wizardry is on the violin; he layered percussion, keyboards, violin and voice in beguiling arrangements of songs from his records that managed to put thousands of kids under a spell, if only for a few moments. From there, it was one solid act after the other -- Yeasayer, Doom, Lindstrom, Matt & Kim --that built on what came before rather than simply presenting it unadorned, finally closing out the eve with The National. If bands were in the stock market, I'd put some bucks on The National; they have the feel of a Springsteen/U2 hybrid that's oh-so-close to writing the breakout album, a surge of Americana with ambition and skill. It was a nice way to end the day.
[Actually, the coda to the "end the day" was pounding back a Coke in a glass bottle from Mexico -- sugar, baby! -- as I cooled off back in the hotel. Sweet, sweet sugar.]
I was a bit underwhelmed by Sunday's early-afternoon acts, so I decided to take in a few movies first (The Hurt Locker and (500) Days Of Summer -- go see these movies immediately) before I made it in time for the underwhelming Pharoahe Monch set. Right after, The Thermals took the stage to mix their rawk with some hits of the '90s (they covered Sonic Youth, Nirvana, The Breeders, and Green Day in between their songs), which was more fun than it should have been. From there, it was back and forth between hits (even though it was still light out, M83 and The Walkmen got their much-deserved close-up) and misses (a half-assed "performance" by Japandroids and the pounding monolithic beats of DJ/Rupture) until the one-two closing punch of Grizzly Bear and The Flaming Lips.
I've neither seen nor heard anything by Grizzly Bear (although I own three of their albums, sitting in my "to listen to" pile), so their set was a nice revelation: beautiful sound, layered songs, funny banter, and everything you want from a critic's darling. Speaking of critical faves, it's been amusing to watch the journey of the Lips from acid-soaked critical faves to one-hit wonders ("She Don't Use Jelly," what what!!) to respected elder statesmen of indie rock to their current designation as Kiss for the bloggera. The Kiss label is apt in that you come to a Lips show now for the SHOW rather than the music. And what does the SHOW look like? Well...
Before the first song, strobes by the shit-ton spark alongside a stage screen featuring a gyrating nude female who eventually spreads her legs in a birthing position; once the gams are splayed open, white light shines from her vagina onto the stage area where bubble-boy Wayne rises, eventually rolling into the crowd. Then cue the costumed dancers and confetti cannons, then finally we actually get a song (the epic "Race For The Prize") that Wayne proceeds to croak into oblivion, his shattered voice bereft of melody and grace. And then, for good measure, he spends a few minutes after "Race" to snidely comment on the P4K policy of picking the playlist, blowing any momentum built by the eight-ring circus intro. Nobody likes vitriolic clowns, and that's what the Lips have descended into. Let's hope their new album can get back to music instead of the creative cul-de-sacs on display Sunday night.
However, the folks around me seemed to love it, and it was hard to deny the thrill of the first strains of "Race For The Prize" while a sea of yellow balloons rode the currents of the crowd. And if you want to close a festival, the Flaming Lips offer a scorched-earth policy, 'cause who wants to follow that? It was an apt ending to the fest, and it sent me off on my quest for sleep perfectly, given the dream-like visuals that sent me home.
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