Chicago's weekend-long hipster picnic
Now that the dust from Union Park's baseball fields has cleared, we can reflect on Pitchfork Music Festival
By Sheba White, Jeremy Ohmes & Angie Vo
Published: July 23rd, 2007 | 3:30pm
FRIDAY, JULY 13
By Jeremy Ohmes
Less than two miles east of Chicago's Union Park, Fergie was shaking her “humps” and undoubtedly lip-synching at an outdoor Victoria’s Secret pajama party on the edge of Lake Michigan. If Friday the 13th was really working its jinxed-out mojo, then the supernatural powers that be probably should've summoned a freak hurricane, tidal wave, or isolated thunderstorm to rain on Fergalicious' pink PJ-clad parade. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen; Fergie and her fabricated booty jams are still here, taking a crap into America’s ears. Luckily, Fergie’s bad energy was countered by the 13,000 or so music enthusiasts who stood two miles away in the smiling sun and savored the reunited riffs, long-lost raps, and good old-fashioned feedback of three canonical musical outfits, sublimely oblivious to the mindless melodies and bared midriffs on the lake.
Sponsored by All Tomorrow’s Parties, the theme of Friday’s three-part bill was “Don’t Look Back,” featuring Slint, GZA, and Sonic Youth each playing one of their seminal albums from start to finish. Considering that the youngest album between the three acts is almost a teenager already, the title at first seemed somewhat facetious. But listening to Slint’s Spiderland (Touch and Go), GZA’s Liquid Swords (Geffen), and Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation (Enigma, DGC) unfurl from beginning to end, you realized that these records were not only ahead of their time, but absolutely timeless. The crowd may have been slightly older than the usual Pitchfork audience, but this was no nostalgia trip or where-are-they-now? racetrack reunion; this was a long-awaited wish list, a renewed appreciation, and, for some, a newfound reverence for three amazing musical forefathers.
Slint kickstarted the day with a dead-on rendition of their 1991 post-rock magnum opus. A slight breeze cooled the audience as the opening harmonics of “Breadcrumb Trail” floated from the stage, before locking into the song’s glacial groove. Singer Brian McMahan, sporting some Dan Cortese-ish wraparound shades, stood to the side of the stage, disseminating his patented speak/scream that so many bands — from indie to emo — still copy to this day. Dave Pajo strangled tones out of his guitar that didn’t seem possible. Songs and sounds folded in on themselves, disappearing before being conjured up again, like coins plucked from the audience’s ears. The stop-start, quiet-loud dynamics of “Nosferatu Man” showcased the Slint technique: be elusive, play hard to get, and then give it to ‘em like a punch to the gut. Granted, there was a yawn when the two guitarists sat down for the post-rock Extreme version of “Don, Aman,” and the self-indulgent noodling of “For Dinner…” Unfortunately, Slint’s sound can come off as derivative because so many bands have borrowed it, expanded it, and, frankly, done it better. But it’s rare when you get to witness a legend, and as soon as the high strums and pulsing rhythms of “Good Morning, Captain” kicked in, it was clearly worth the wait. By the time the song’s chugging riffs descended, the crowd was at Slint’s mercy.
The posse of people that anxiously awaited GZA to take the main stage was decidedly different from a typical indie crowd — not just a bunch of cross-armed head-nodders, but a riled up, hand-waving throng. Probably the most talented and definitely the most cerebral rapper of the nine-man Wu-Tang Clan, GZA, a.k.a. the Genius, pounded out his definitive ‘90s statement, Liquid Swords like a man on a mission. “Y’all better make some noise,” he shouted. “I missed a gig in Amsterdam for this.” And the crowd was with him all the way, calling out to him and responding to his every move. Even 12 years after the album landed in hundreds of adolescent hands, the Genius’ easy-flowing, nuanced rhymes and the RZA’s menacing, atmospheric beats still sounded fresh. Joined by Cappadonna and Killah Priest, GZA smoothly mixed grit and grace, battle rhymes and story-songs, in “Liquid Swords,” “Cold World,” and “Investigative Reports,” mixing in his favorite metaphors — chess and kung-fu. The sound left something to be desired, as the rhymes drowned out a lot of the essential beats, but all was forgiven when he launched into Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s “Shimmy Shimmy Ya,” for his encore, an energetic, unexpected tribute to the late, great ODB.
As the sun set and the sound was sorted out, the institution that is Sonic Youth took the stage in front of the sold-out crowd. The legendary NYC art-punk four-piece could have played any one of their 15 albums (OK, maybe not any one) and the park would have been packed, but playing what is widely thought of as their masterpiece, Daydream Nation, was a collective wet dream for just about everybody in attendance. Though they were a little grayer and had a few more wrinkles than when they first played Daydream almost 20 years ago, Sonic Youth still had the energy of an upstart punk band with nothing left to lose. (In fact, they had more passion and verve than any band I’d seen in the last eight years.)
Lifting off with the lightly strummed guitar and Kim Gordon’s seductively scratchy goading, the progenitors rocketed into “Teen Age Riot.” Everyone around me was in awe for fourteen songs, as Gordon swaggered with her bass, Lee Ranaldo beat and tossed guitar after guitar, Steve Shelley pummeled the holy hell out of his drums, and Thurston Moore jumped around like a seven-foot kid with serious ADHD. Every note (except one, during “Eric’s Trip”) was spot-on and every ounce of feedback and dissonance felt as new and mind-numbing as your first French kiss. Shelley broke drumsticks while Moore used them to lacerate his strings. Ranaldo head-banged while Gordon shimmied and shaked. Moore muttered something about “having to leave before [they] got in [quote-unquote] trouble” and then, for their encore, they brought out Mark Ibold from Pavement to play bass on three songs from their latest album, Rather Ripped (DGC, Interscope). Ending with the jangly anthem “Jams Run Free,” Sonic Youth punctuated the evening with a set for the ages, and Gordon, with her arms and hair flailing about, twisted her way into one of many people’s best concert moments.
SATURDAY, JULY 14
By Sheba White
3 p.m.
Every year at Pitchfork Music Festival, I make a promise to attend the 1 p.m. sets, when the field is nearly empty and the fry vats haven’t churned the air with an odious gas, only to arrive at 3 p.m., kicking myself for having missed possibly the best sets of the day. And though I broke that promise, once again, I didn’t miss a thing. By the time I arrived, Grizzly Bear had just taken the stage, and were well into their second song, some ditty with their signature choral harmonizing, followed by orchestral folk-laced rhythms, ala 16 Horsepower. What made the show, though, was drummer Christopher Bear, who is far and beyond the best new drummer in a long time — easy on the eyes, exciting to watch, and essentially making the performance pop with his jaunty, unexpected, clacking beats.
4 p.m.
Trying to avoid math-rock at Pitchfork is like trying to avoid using the porta-potties. It just ain’t gonna happen. Sooner or later you’ll find yourself in front of a blistering stage watching a band like Battles, the progressive rock-jazz super group featuring ex-members of Helmet and Don Cabellero, as well as the jazz avant-garde offspring, Tyondai Braxton. And though you may not understand half of what’s going on, or flashback to your little brother’s bedroom antics with his brand new guitar and an AC/DC album, it’ll seem an appropriate soundtrack to a burning-epidermis and a parched-throat afternoon with seagulls flying overhead and nary a wind in sight. You’ll also wonder how the hell ex-Helmet drummer John Stanier can stand to wear a long-sleeve shirt in all that heat, or how the hell Braxton can wear a jacket, and screech out discombobulated phrases without self-combusting.
5 p.m.
The antithesis to the modern indie rock festival group, Iron & Wine arrived on stage fully bearded and sporting linen-cool outfits like some Woodstock throwback, then proceeded to de-rock the house with their quiet, duet-harmonizing folk. Nothing that hadn’t been seen or heard at any number of Iron & Wine festival sets was brought to Pitchfork’s Aluminum Stage, but it was worth looking out at one point and seeing a stage littered with Grizzly Adams-like blondes playing equally blonde acoustic guitars and inspiring that old-time festival vibe. Peace and love, man. Peace and love.
5:15 p.m.
For a band with such a menacing name, Professor Murder played possibly the most unpretentious and happy Saturday set, with their sing-along synth-funk beats churning up the sleepy early-evening packed crowd. An extra bonus to the show was that the notorious Balance Stage sound problems got rid of the annoying echo effects that plague the band’s recorded releases, so that singer Michael Bell-Smith’s vocals came across more funky than euro-rave annoying.
6 p.m.
“Boring, boring shit,” said some guy next to me on Sunday night, after all was said and done at Pitchfork. “Iron & Wine are up there just boring the shit out of everyone, and then Mastodon gets on stage and they’re like, ‘Raaawwwkkkkk Motherfuckers!’” I missed most of the infamous set he referred to, but I do recall getting as near as a _ mile from the stage (mosh pit and banging heads in sight), during their set and thinking: loud didn’t exactly equal exciting and feeling very, very old all of a sudden.
6:15 p.m.
The rockiest moments at this year’s festival had to be the sound issues that plagued the third, smaller Balance Stage. During most of the bands’ sets, the vocals were nonexistent, which left audiences consistently yelling “turn it up” and glaze-eyed before the stage. This was the situation with Oxford Collapse, where perennial festival stage hugger, Collapse’s drummer Dan Fetherston, spent the majority of the band’s anticipated set visually scanning side stage for the sound guy. Distracting and frustrating as it was, the impact seemed to carry over to the band’s music, which devolved slowly and ground down what could have been the best ’90s reenactment of the day, from this Brooklyn band with a history of super-energetic old-school rocknroll shows. As bad as it was, though, vocalist-guitarist Michael Pace graciously thanked the audience and Pitchfork at the set’s end. “It’s a dream for us,” he said, even if it was a sound nightmare for the audience.
7 p.m.
Think of the worst place you could possibly be during a hip-hop show, and it still wouldn’t be as bad as standing on a press platform with a bunch of sober-faced, indie rock journalists watching someone as exciting as Clipse perform and seeing the blank stares all the way around. Thankfully there was a kid in the audience — visible from the press platform — who kept bobbing up and down and singing the Virginia-based duo’s lyrics word for word and mirroring the hype levels the band brought with them — from the real South Side, yo. “We know we in Chicago,” one half of the Virginia Beach-via-Bronx duo said, “but you ain’t foolin’ nobody. Ya’ll are getting real granny out here.”
8 p.m.
You can’t stand next to Thurston Moore and feel let down watching a concert, can you? You’d think. But Cat Power’s set, as astounding as her backing band, the Dirty Delta Blues (indie stalwarts Erik Paparazzi, Jim White, Judah Bauer, and Gregg Foreman in one super group) is, and as anticipated as her performance of many numbers from Greatest Hits was, there was something missing to Power live. The notoriously stage-shy artist came across as unflatteringly vulnerable and unsettlingly uncomfortable on the festival’s Connector Stage, grasping at her stomach and into the audience with an outstretched hand, ala Celine Dion, but singing just above a whisper and visibly awkward. It’s a shame, because the woman has enough indie cred and talent to eat boogers on stage and peeps would watch. Instead, the vast stage seemed to swallow the artist and her music up, and inspiring a flat crowd response and burnt-eyeball images of her tight jean-white tap shoes prancing.
8:30 p.m.
Bathroom timing is essential at any outdoor music festival. If you’re smart, you’ll skip $6.00 funnel cakes by eating a larger-than-normal breakfast at home so that you’ll get in on the early morning porta-potty atmosphere — when the TP is flowing and the sinks are filled with running water. If you’re not smart, like me, you’ll drink as much free beer as possible after inhaling a free burrito (“with everything, please”) from the press area, then plop your greased guts over a dark, piss-covered, spidery toilet at around 8:30 p.m., trying not to hit the glistening spots on the floor with your just purchased poster/cute button/bag from the vendor area. The only redeeming side to this moment is that Girl Talk’s cacophonous mélange can be overheard from the press porta-potty area, and, indeed, once you exit, a row of journalists on their tippy-toes are trying to see over the fence to the Pittsburgh-native, pop-based DJ while they wait, though no one will shake your hand when you join them.
9 p.m.
Yeah, there were two long videos before the most anticipated set of the night. Yeah, the same peeps who praised noise jazz band Battles and noise metal band Mastodon had issues with the noise rocknroll produced by this lady. And yeah, there are still a lot of Beatles fans who have unresolved issues regarding an artist steeped in hearsay and legend, watching her closely with the gaze of what they think she brought, instead of what she brings. But man, Yoko Ono as a performer is the shit. Opening her set with a message from her ongoing campaign for world peace and a song from her newest release, Yes, I’m a Witch, the 74-year-old artist shook the stage with an aggressively beautiful series of wailing favorites — including a song (“Don’t Worry”) that she wrote specifically for her daughter, she explained, when Kyoko Chan Cox was kidnapped at the age of 5 or 6 — culminating in a duet with Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore (in which she mirrored the legendary guitarist’s scrawling feedback) and a sing-along refrain of “War is Over (If You Want It).” Aside from the music and direct addresses to the audience, the highlight of the night was just watching Ono work the stage, dance, and bring a sense of pure unfiltered joy back to a sometimes jaded concert atmosphere.
SUNDAY, JULY 15
By Angie Vo
The third and final day of the Pitchfork Music Festival was more of same stuff from the previous two days — great weather, amazingly courteous fest-goers, and of course, the promise of so many fantastic music offerings. Unfortunately, it also included some sound issues at the Aluminum Stage and Balance Stage. The set by Chicago’s the Ponys was an early victim to the sound system. The Aluminum Stage’s sound also went in and out for Canadian duo Junior Boys. Despite the problems, there was dancing, cheering, and at least one guy in a neon orange hat clutching his head like he was losing his mind to songs such as “Double Shadow,” “Like a Child,” and “In the Morning.”
Stephen Malkmus’ mostly-solo set at the Connector Stage in the early afternoon also got some people dancing, but it was a relatively calm group. Malkmus, an indie rock legend from his previous work in Pavement, played “In the Mouth a Desert” and “Extradition,” which delighted big pockets of fans but failed to get the entire crowd enthused. Former Pavement drummer, Bob Nastanovich, was Malkmus’ special guest, lending his talents for some of the songs and getting couples dancing at set-ender “We Dance.”
The heat and exhaustion of a bruisingly full weekend were banished from everybody’s minds by a campy and clever set from the Athens, Georgia, group Of Montreal. The makeup, the costumes, and the sheer spectacle of Kevin Barnes and his musical troupe that gobstopped the crowd in March at Chicago’s Metro were refined, and upped to a new level of orchestrated madness and melee at Pitchfork. Their act included pink wings, metallic eye makeup, glitter balloons, gold-masked men in black, and an interpretive illustrator who tossed doodles to the wriggling, joyful fans. After a loudspeaker announcement proclaiming that what was to follow would be “flights of fancy, mirth, and wonderment,” the set opened with “Suffer for Fashion,” the first song on the band’s latest album, Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer? (Polyvinyl).
Many of the other songs from the set came off this album as well. As Barnes jubilantly decreed in “Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse,” “At least I author my own disaster!” and, judging by the adoring crowd surrounding the S&M-attired lead singer, many are eager to share his disaster.
At the Balance Stage, sound problems continued to pervade during the last sets of the day, and the bands were running at least half an hour late as a result. Beer was drank or spilled, after-festival plans were made, and toilet paper rolls floated by in the air during the gap between the Field’s blissful electronica, and the Klaxons’ “nu-rave” (and yes, there were a few glow sticks in the crowd). The technical issues that kept the acts running late on the Balance Stage forced the Londoners to play at the same time as the night’s headliners De La Soul, but the majority of the crowd stayed to dance for “Gravitys Rainbow,” “Atlantis to Interzone,” and “Four Horsemen of 2012.” Later in the set, while the Klaxons played “It’s Not Over Yet,” people were heading out of the park, away from the weekend’s canned craziness and back to their everyday lives. Despite prevalent sound problems, judging from the sold-out status of the festival along with the generous support of corporate and independent businesses, Pitchfork’s reign over indie music isn’t over yet.
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