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Sunday
 Pitchfork Music Festival 2007 |
I can count on one hand the number of sets I witnessed that featured really good sound and no technical mishaps. By Sunday, I had settled into the idea that I just had to live with low volume and a lopsided mix most of the time. Once you get that through your head, it's easier to enjoy the music. Thankfully, the crowds were very respectful and not too chatty, so it wasn't hard to immerse oneself in the performances. Meanwhile, Pitchfork is fantastic people-watching grounds. We played "count the knee-socks" all weekend, and there's no better t-shirt-spotting festival - from homemade smart-assitude (winner: "Hey hipster, nice uniform" backed with "Your mp3 blog sucks") to obscure anachronism (The Adventures of Tintin) and, of course, bands galore (are the faded Def Leppard tees still ironic or not?). Nobody held a candle to Deerhunter frontman Bradford Cox's gold and silver sundress and blue cotton glove with little puppets (or something) hanging from the fingers. He was reminiscent of Marilyn Manson without the delusions of grandeur (or any shred of commerciality) as his band tore through a half hour of cranked-up noise.
 Menomena :: Pitchfork 2007 |
The Ponys blasted off with the loudest blare heard all weekend until they basically blew the whole sound system. For two songs, all we could hear were the monitors, and the mix never fully recovered. This certainly didn't help the band's run-of-the-mill garage shtick. Menomena fared better, playing a stripped-down set that was frequently hypnotic but occasionally too sparse. The group's fragile vocals, by all three members, contributed to a feeling that the songs were held together by floss, but that made the heavier moments all the more resonant. The set was a definite highlight of the day.
Following Menomena was the blandest stretch of the weekend. Junior Boys came off better than expected live but were still underwhelming, stuck-in-the-'80s synth pop. The Sea And Cake was the closest thing to a jam band all weekend, but their rambling never really went anywhere. It was occasionally interesting music but it was seriously lacking in oomph. Jamie Lidell provided a mid-afternoon high point with his rousing neo-soul set. This one-man band created some body-movin', beatboxed soundscapes in-between his admittedly derivative (read: Stevie Wonder crossed with Cee-Lo Green) crooning, and his boundless energy onstage was contagious and much needed.
 Stephen Malkmus :: Pitchfork 2007 |
Stephen Malkmus' set was a regression. The crowd was rapt but the indie legend was a little too sloppy even for his standards, and the guest appearance by ex-Pavement bandmate Bob Nastanovich on drums was laughable. Yes, we all know that Malkmus made it okay for singers who can't really sing to front successful bands - it's one of his endearing qualities - but this set was just a carrot dangling in front of hungry Pavement fanatics. I guess if they felt sated, they were welcome to it.
Then we all did a complete 180 to watch Of Montreal, a group whose stage performance brings the non sequitur to a whole new visual level - pink wings, a five-headed blob, a dancing Darth Vader and a lingerie-clad football were just a few of the onstage oddities. There was nothing subtle about these guys. Musically, they were about halfway there, with moments of brilliance and stretches of pretty standard dancey rock, but the exuberance they played with made up for any underdeveloped sonic ideas. The band eschewed its tradition of covering David Bowie in favor of a near-perfect encore of The Kinks' "All Day And All Of The Night." This is an act in its adolescence but showing true phenomenon potential. Let's just say I now understand what all the fuss is about. While its antics may not make much sense, you owe it to yourself to see this band live. Sometimes you just need to be purely entertained.
 Of Montreal :: Pitchfork 2007 |
The end of Pitchfork was the worst dilemma. Klaxons overlapped the end of The New Pornographers and the beginning of De La Soul, and I was determined to see a bit of each. New Porn's set started off well, and I was struck by how much they sounded like The Who at times, which I'd never noticed before. They played the tunes expertly and with gusto, but aside from the banter, it was a lot like playing their records. However, for once, the sound was turned up plenty loud.
I could say virtually the same thing about the Klaxons set. Their music isn't very complex, but the energy was kinetic and the crowd was energized in the dying light. Klaxons get dirtier than most druggy club bands, and it sets them apart both live and on record. A guest appearance by Cadence Weapon made it a real festival set, and then I had to head back over to the big stage to catch the end of De La Soul.
 Bright Black Morning Light
Pitchfork 2007 |
In retrospect, I wish I'd caught more De La Soul. Clipse was solid on Saturday, but De La was the hip-hop highlight of the weekend. These guys made the crowd truly a part of the show. There was a palpable communion of gratitude in the night air - performers and fans alike just happy to be there. It was the second night in a row that closed with the spirit of love and good will, spreading of positivity through music, which may not be the overarching theme of Pitchfork but it is often the key purpose of music in general.
Stage announcements throughout the weekend ranged from "Um, this is Battles" to the Wavy Gravy-est of love-junkie meandering. In all the inconsistency there was a hesitant but noticeable camaraderie amongst the crowd that was absent in 2006. Maybe the heat stifled it last year, or maybe the more extreme genre-bending this year turned people on to things that made them look at others in a new light, but at the end it felt like a community. A hodgepodge to be sure, but a good community needs all flavors. We'd witnessed the first forays of metal into the lo-fi crowd, and watched gangsta rap infiltrate the sensitive crowd and get it jumping. We bristled as studio wizards struggled to translate technology to the open air, and were thrilled when they succeeded. And if anybody walked away on Sunday night without plans to buy a record by an artist they'd just discovered, he or she missed the point. Pitchfork is the one festival you can go to and not worry about catching the three-hour set you can count on. It's about the half hour performance that jolts you into the future and rekindles the quest for the cutting edge. As indie rock prepares to take over the airwaves, maybe we can still say we were there first.
JamBase | Chicago
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