- If there is a better location for viewing the amusing juxtaposition of indie kids, just off from work professionals and aging hipsters than the evening crowd on Friday at the fifth annual edition of the Pitchfork Music Fest, please point me in the right direction, for this is the stuff of dreams and magic and everything that is right in the world when you love that intangible magic (or mess) that is the visualized Venn diagram of festival lovers.
From cool daddies taking their turn strapping on the Baby Bjorn and carrying their little ear-protected Panda Bears (perhaps rocking Raekwon in the "Swagger Wagon" on the way in?) to summer breakers on musical holiday, cute waifs in perfect summer Deschanel, after work business casuals, the cargo short brah nation and even the strange sightings of He-Man and the Hipsters of the Universe (ensemble: Underoos and... nope, that's it), all congregated on this first day to take in a lineup that supplanting the fan-selected setlists and complete album evening performances from seminal favorites of years past with a more complete lineup and even comedians like Wyatt Cenac and Michael Showalter.
Friday
Platinum-topped Swedish pop pixie Robyn might have seemed like a strange choice to be gracing the Aluminum stage on Friday, but from the moment she arrived, armed with Billy Blanks punches and grinding electro-pop, it was clear that her former '90s incarnation as an R&B-tinged starlet was left behind. No more Ace of Base: The Next Generation schmaltz. In its place? A surprisingly effective crowd moving set that had fest-goers bouncing in the sun as she finished strong by finding the riddim on the Diplo-produced "Dancehall Queen" and feisty "Don't Fucking Tell Me What To Do."
Just as soon as Robyn was giving her thanks to the crowd, the beautiful harmonics of Broken Social Scene's "World Sick" began echoing from the west at the adjacent Connector Stage. Leaning heavily on Forgiveness Rock Record—their first album in five years—BSS's set featured hometown superproducer Jeff McEntire on drums, and closed with a bombastic old favorite "Superconnected" and the rollicking new instrumental "Meet Me in the Basement." Finishing on Friday were Modest Mouse who jangled and shouted and plowed through a workmanlike effort that conspicuously omitted the sing-along-in-a-bottle "Float On." While rockers like "Dashboard" failed to completely ignite, frontman Issac Brock and company excelled when slowing it down on the country charmed banjo of "Autumn Beds" and closer "Gravity Rides Everything," the latter prompting a gentle goodnight kiss from the audience as they sang along "it all will fall, fall right into place." One can only hope that it tasted better than the glowstick Brock accidentally bit through onstage.
Saturday
The Pitchfork massive had to run a tough gauntlet of a festival on Saturday, with temperatures soaring above 90, and a thick blanket of Chicago humidity strangling the comfort out of even the best prepared, big-hatted, Camelback-sporting pro. Some of the hyped early performers seemed to wilt in the heat or suffer through technical difficulties (Dam-Funk). Raekwon also had problems getting his set started, as he was left sweating in the sun with delays from his DJ. But with some crowd banter and freestyle rhymes, he gamely soldiered on, eventually working himself back into the groove on Wu-Tang Clan favorites "Ice Cream" (yelling "ice cream" to a sweltering crowd always goes over well) and, of course, "Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nuthing ta Fuck Wit."
The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, meanwhile, weren't going to sacrifice their style and dirty, dirty blues hammer smash of their defiant energy. Spencer was impossibly clad in a black shirt, vest and jeans, caterwauling and rocking his way through a sonic assault that didn't much incite the crowd as leave them dumbfounded. "Who wants some hell?" he hollered before launching into non-stop sonic fury, with Russell Simmons holding together the beat on drums. Hell hath no fury like a frontman committed to black.
But as the day went on, you could feel the anticipation rise for LCD Soundsytem. A meandering, droning performance from introspective Animal Collective member Noah Lennox, AKA Panda Bear, helped set the table, as a late day sun coupled with the Brian Wilson-laced psychedelic harmonies of "You Can Count on Me" placated the growing crowds awaiting James Murphy and company. Under an enormous disco ball, LCD took to the stage and opened up with "Us V Them," signaling that the time had indeed come, with the gathered thousands singing along gleefully, yelling at the sky: "cloud, block out the sun" at the waning light of day.
Finally, relief—but not from the band as they pounded through bangers like "Drunk Girls" and "Movement." Still, it was mostly the heartfelt moments that resonated the deepest, with the knowledge that this could be the last tour for the group. While not hearing "Dance Yrself Clean" was a disappointment, amongst the introspection of "All My Friends," "I Can Change" and "Someone Great," it was understandable that the band needed more "Pow Pow." And blistering runs through "Yeah" and "Losing My Edge" did just that. Before you knew it, amongst a rapturous crowd pushed to the rare trifecta of singing, dancing and rocking for the entirety of a set, LCD's love song to their hometown in "New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down" morphed into a goodnight lullaby as everybody's favorite disco-punk keyboard superstar Nancy Whang harmonized with Murphy over the chorus of Jay-Z and Alicia Keys "Empire State of Mind."
12 songs, no encore, and none needed. A job well done, a crowd finally sated and, POOF, LCD is gone…in the back of everyone's mind were the sounds of the evening, and the bittersweet knowledge that this knockout performance might have been Murphy's last before he Keyser Sozes off into a studio never to be seen performing live under the moniker again.
Sunday
Sunday brought some of the best in dreamy sounds and gentle, pretty things like Beach House and St. Vincent, AKA Annie Clark—who quietly, gradually, won over the crowds with her distinctive vocals seemingly holding back inner turmoil. But St. Vincent is capable of bringing the noise, too, as capably demonstrated on closing number "Your Lips Are Red," which sandwiched loud, fuzzed-out riffing and maniacal drum beats with gentle strings and Clark's instrument of a voice. Sunday also presented the furious, near comical noise rock-overdrive of Lightning Bolt. Drummer Brian Chippendale was wearing a mask, much like if someone slipped Slipknot some molly, and outfitted him with a microphone over the mouth to amplify his incomprehensible "singing."
Major Lazer also brought the noise, with Diplo's global reach and Switch's digital flatulence combining with dance hall deejays (MCs), dancers, two Chinese dragons, ballet dancers, lots of Hennessey and a lead jester talent in Skerrit Bwoy yelling, crowd surfing, dry humping and simply inciting the masses to get up and get down. Resembling more of a melee than a performance, the spectacle alone was capable of winning over the most ardent hater. Closing out the night were indie-rock elders and alternative nation relics Pavement, who, at their best, put out brilliant, uneven albums and countered every sincere moment ("Gold Sounds") with clever digs and wordplay and references just this side of Rob Gordon from the film High Fidelity.
On this night, Pavement ran through a solid set spanning all of their five albums, kicking things off with "Cut Your Hair," and including other fun rockers like "Unfair" and "Stereo." But where they excelled most were riding Stephen Malkmus slacker-drawled delivery on "Shady Lane" and "Range Life" (gleefully singing his Smashing Pumpkins dig to the modest sing-along delight of the crowd), and the heartbreaking sincerity of "Gold Soundz." "...And you can never quarantine the past," Malkmus sang as I walked happy, exhausted and humming to my bike parked in the secured bike parking area.
Photo credit
Chase Turner