Recap Pitchfork 2011: Hot in herre

“Solid” is hardly the most scintillating adjective for a music festival, but it best fits this year’s installment of the Pitchfork Music Festival. Even Odd Future, whose controversial booking caused considerable excitement to ripple through Union Park before the rap collective finally took the stage Sunday, merely delivered (here’s that word again) a solid set of music that never really lived up to the cavalcade of pre-festival hype.

Not that Odd Future should be singled out in that regard: Nothing was truly exceptional this year, nor was anything exceptionally terrible; it was all very even keel. Perhaps it was simply too hot for anybody to act up; as temperatures soared into the mid-90s on Sunday, a feeling of exhaustion seemed to set among attendees and bands. Before we fell over onto our couches in the AC-comfort of home this weekend, The A.V. Club took in as much music as we could. Here’s what we saw.

FRIDAY

YES

• A who’s-who of music writers crowded the VIP section at the Blue Stage to get a peek at Tune-Yards, whose album Whokill is among the year’s most critically acclaimed releases. But Merrill Garbus didn’t seem overly concerned with the press presence; this whirling dervish of animalistic yelping and furious ukulele strumming set her sights on captivating the crowd, which responded enthusiastically to Whokill cuts like “Gangsta” and “Powa.” While Garbus’ music on record can occasionally come off as schtick-y, her rightfully hyped live show is the real deal, rolling a steady wave of rhythm and manic energy. Any critics that weren’t already on board with Whokill likely walked away converted after this set. [SH] 

• Over-dressed and seemingly unconcerned about the heat, Battles dove headfirst into a sweaty, frenetic set of lengthy art-math-whatever-rock jams, often seamlessly and without pause for a necessary breather. The trio seemed unaffected by the departure of frontman Tyondai Braxton (who left the group before this year’s excellent Gloss Drop), using integrated loops, effects, and prerecorded vocals to mechanical precision, and filling in the gaps between its two guitarist and drummer set-up. It’s a testament to Battles’ talent that a 45-minute set of complex time signatures, with no vocalist in the blazing sun, was so well-met by an engaged, communal-head-bobbing crowd. [SM]

• Considering how disappointing the night’s headliner ended up being (more on that in a moment), it’s a shame that Guided By Voices was relegated to the 6:25 slot on the Green Stage, which only allowed for a too-brief 45-minute set. GBV fans know that things only really start to get cooking at that point in a normal show, and since this was one of the final hurrahs of the band’s “classic” mid-’90s lineup, it would’ve been nice to hear a few more hits. Still, Robert Pollard and company delivered a dependably rousing set, delving into the deepest cuts from albums like Alien Lanes (“Always Crush Me”) and curveballs like “Jane Of The Waking Universe” from Pollard’s first album without this line-up, 1997’s Mag Earwhig!. It was fun as always, but this great band has always benefited from having a little more room to spread out. [SH]

• Neko Case’s set on the Red Stage downshifted tempo from the raucous GBV set (which Case herself guested on), but it was the perfect tone-setter for the time slot. Backed by an outstanding band that included honeyed harmonies from Kelly Hogan, Case breezed her way through cuts like “Maybe Sparrow,” “Hold On, Hold On,” “That Teenage Feeling,” and a new song “about whores.” Case did nothing particularly noteworthy that set this performance apart from other festival appearances, but when the delivery is this consistent and good, that’s not a bad thing. [MG]

NO

• As is the group’s custom, Animal Collective polarized fans with its predictably challenging night-closing set. Supporters appreciated the group’s long-standing practice of concentrating on unreleased music in concert; dissenters complained loudly (or simply walked out) about the band’s apparent self-absorption and disinterest in connecting with the audience. While I appreciate the group’s desire to continually push its music forward, there’s no question that the decision to focus on bleepy-bloopy new songs rendered into goopy sonic sludge by less-than-ideal sound conditions made this performance a major buzzkill. The group’s creativity is admirable, but its performance instincts are dreadful; an outdoor festival simply is not a good place to unveil your latest material. When Animal Collective deigned to play a recognizable tune, the mood turned electric—after dicking around for several songs, “Brother Sport” suddenly set the crowd on fire with palpable jubilance. But as quickly as the good vibes appeared, they dissipated as Animal Collective launched into another bevy of unfamiliar gurgles and farts. I’m sure I’ll enjoy this Animal Collective set a lot more when it’s released as an album, but for now, it was just confusing and disappointing. [SH] 

MAYBE

• EMA’s debut, Past Life Martyred Saints, is a bleak journey into the paranoid mind of Erika M. Anderson, backed by slow-burning dirges and an excessively brash low-end. It’s not exactly the best material to open the first day of a festival, but the surprisingly large walk-up crowd was attentive, and in the case of a group of older, jorts-sporting men, dancing and swaying along to “Butterfly Knife,” likely unaware that it’s an ode to suicide. Anderson had some fun with it, too, strutting around to the spoken-word “California” and lone rocker “Milkman,” and banging along with each song’s eventual climax. Unfortunately, those payoffs were few and far between—nearly all of Anderson’s songs are crafted to seethe with tension until a rousing close, but in a live setting with mostly unintelligible vocals, the ride there is one of redundant, generic indie-rock. [SM]

• As smoke rose from the crowd in a haze, New Orleans rapper Curren$y eased through songs like “Elevator Music” and “Roll My Shit,” his delivery not dissimilar from that of mentor Lil Wayne. While frequently impressive—and funny, during the between-song banter—the one thing the set lacked was substance. Apparently, smoking copious amounts of weed leads to a short attention span: This wasn’t so much a live performance of songs as it was sketches of songs, each one dropping out after no more than a minute, never letting the Louisiana MC get the flow going that’s made his albums and mixtapes so much fun to listen to. [MG]

• As far as the weekend’s hip-hop offerings go, Das Racist’s tongue-in-cheek, good-natured college rap was among the friendliest offerings. But laid-back, beer-toting MCs Heems and Kool A.D. proved to be a little more “house party” than “festival” in terms of energy level as they launched into the “Scenario”-sampling “Who’s That? Brooown!” off of last year’s Shut Up, Dude. Hype Man Dap picked up some of the slack, and an enthusiastic portion of the crowd did its best to make up for the lack of enthusiasm coming from those who were just there to ensure up-close spots for James Blake, but it was party-by-numbers, and far from the most engaging hip-hop of the weekend. [GK]

SEEN & HEARD

• One of the first things on Pitchfork’s to-do list for next year ought to be reconfiguring the Blue Stage. The shade is nice, but the sightlines are pretty bad and, considering the draw of some of the performers (including Tune-Yards and James Blake, who beguiled an overflowing crowd that spilled past the beer vendors), it gets awfully crowded awfully quick. [SH]

• The easiest celebrity sighting of the weekend was Fleet Foxes’ Robin Pecknold, who was spotted watching Tune-Yards as well as several other places taking in the day’s shows. [SH]

• “I see a lot of young ones out there. Just say no.” —Curren$y’s personal PSA to younger audience members. [MG]

• “You guys wanna hear some songs about rape, incest, and carnage? We’ll do the best we can.” —Thurston Moore, before playing a bunch of very sleepy folk songs backed by strings and a harpist. [SH]

• Neko Case gave the Chicago crowd a loving shout out, reminiscing about riding the No. 9 Ashland bus (that runs right by Union Park) and coming to the park and “picking up my dog’s shit.” [MG]

• “This is like having you all watch me get dressed.” —Tune-Yards Merrill Garbus, as she sound-checked vocal loops. [MG]

• My friend Joe at Animal Collective: “Even the shirtless guy with feathers is leaving.” [SH]

• “It smells like white nerd up in here.” —EMA’s white, nerdy-looking drummer. [SM]

• “I can’t wait to see ‘The Yucks!’” “Me too” —College-aged kids ostensibly waiting for last year’s comedy stage. [SM]

• “They’re the jock jams of Pitchfork” —Genevieve, on Battles [SM]

SATURDAY

YES

• The Huntsville, Alabama-based rap duo G-Side—the least known of the festival’s small selection of hip-hop acts—upped its profile considerably, delivering an outstanding set of Dirty South rap. Comparisons to early Outkast abound, and rightfully so: The duo of Yung Clova and ST 2 Lettaz exhibited clever wordplay mixed with rapid-fire delivery. Backed by a DJ and a pair of back-up singers, the duo had fun with the audience, leading plenty of call and responses (“We got money!” and “Ain’t no party like a Pitchfork party cause a Pitchfork party don’t stop”) and showing Southern charm on a hot summer day. Many of G-Side’s songs, like “How Far” from its latest LP, The One… Cohesive, show influences both indie (sampling Beach House, dropping a SXSW reference) and hip-hop (referencing LL Cool J and Kanye West’s “Power”). While other acts got the headlines, G-Side simply delivered one of Saturday’s best sets. [MG]

• Making a whole lot of noise for just two guys, No Age’s Randy Randall and Dean Spunt barreled through a set of revved-up punk that reverberated across the grounds. The stomp of “Here Should Be My Home” pulsated while “Fever Dreaming” cut a hazy buzzsaw through the warm afternoon. [MG]

• Gang Gang Dance’s mid-afternoon set was a slow build with serious payoff. Upon entering the stage, the group members began fiddling with their various synths and drums, banging and blooping through a sound-check that eventually wound its way to something resembling a song, with frontwoman Lizzi Bougatsos pounding and keening away. The group’s massive drums—three people were drumming simultaneously at some points—and wooly, abstract synths proved both druggy and energizing, almost seeming to trick the blissed-out crowd into dancing. Bougatsos engaged in some awkward crowd-surfing (sitting up, legs together), and hype-man/“spirit guide” Taka Imamura wandered the stage halfheartedly waving makeshift flags. But the set’s real energy came from the music itself, super-rhythmic experimentation that sounds like anything from a drugged-out trip to the Caribbean (featuring occasional appearances by the Smoke Monster from Lost) to straight-up, booty-shaking bass. [GK]

• Poor Zola Jesus: Between sharing her time slot with DJ Shadow and the rapidly building Fleet Foxes crowd, and a problematic sound-check that delayed her set by 15 minutes, the neo-gothic chanteuse had the cards stacked against her set, and the sight of the sparse crowd by the Blue Stage couldn’t have been very inspiring. But when the diminutive singer emerged in a botanical-looking silver-layered couture dress, she immediately made up for the wait, launching into a spastic dance that saw her careening all over the stage like a caterwauling pinball. Despite the flailing, her otherworldly, operatic vocals were on fine display on songs like “Night” and “Manifest Destiny,” off last year’s excellent Stridulum EP, plus some new tracks off her upcoming album, Conatus—and those standing near the back, close to the Red Stage, got a taste of what the DJ Shadow remixes of those songs will sound like. Despite the sound bleed, Zola Jesus gave a loud, vibrant, deeply evocative set that was worth sacrificing an up-close look at Fleet Foxes for. [GK]

• Destroyer’s Dan Bejar is enigmatic. With his mass of hair, warbled lyrics, and minimal talking on stage, audiences are apt to assign him some sort of “tortured artist” status. He probably doesn’t deserve the “tortured” part, seeing as how he’s probably just a little shy, but he definitely deserves the “artist” part. Charmingly sliding through tracks like “Chinatown” and “Suicide Demo For Kara Walker” off his latest record, Kaputt, Bejar quietly enchanted the dust-ridden Red Stage audience. Of course, it would have been better a little later, as the sun went down and not at 5:15 p.m., but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers, especially when the music’s this good. [ME]

• The Dismemberment Plan has had a bit of a tortured relationship with Pitchfork, given the legendary 0.0 the site gave lead singer Travis Morrison’s solo record, Travistan. Apparently, a 10.0 on this year’s Emergency & I reissue (and, presumably, a fat festival paycheck) healed all wounds, because the band seemed more than happy on Saturday, even though its time slot had them singing into the setting sun. Morrison borrowed sunglasses from Cut Copy, and guitarist Jason Caddell borrowed a Froggie—one of those things that hold sunglasses on—from an audience member, and it was all good as the band ripped through sing-along jams like “What Do You Want Me To Say” and “Life Of Possibilities.” The sun didn’t appear to affect the crowd, who gave the band one of the warmer receptions of the festival, playing along with Morrison’s occasionally hammy antics and squeaky vocals. It was an impressive show, all the same, for a bunch of middle-aged dudes who have been out of the rock game for a bit. They tore up the stage with more enthusiasm and musicality than most of the other acts playing the festival. [ME]

MAYBE

• A cloudy, mild morning gave way to a sunny, hot afternoon as the music kicked off, the perfect setting for Woods’ rootsy psych-pop. The emphasis was on “rootsy” for the first half of the set, with lead singer Jeremy Earl’s vocals falling somewhere between Jim James and Fleet Foxes’ Robin Pecknold as the band chugged through “Pushing Onlys,” setting a relaxed atmosphere. But the emphasis was more on the spacey, psych-pop angle as the set drove on, keyboards and squelching guitars washing over the crowd. It was hard to tell which had the most impact on the crowd, as the heat did its work sapping energy out of everyone even as the band kept building to the conclusion of its dichotomous set. [MG]

• Every year, audiences and critics make the same complaint about Pitchfork: It’s too damn quiet. That’s perfectly understandable, given the constraints of a festival in a public space, but it’s still a bummer. For everyone right up on the barrier of a stage, it might seem loud enough, but creep back even 50 yards or so, and the sound’s thin and often muddled with the music from a competing act. Fleet Foxes fell victim to this phenomenon Saturday. Their pitch-perfect harmonies and delicate arrangements were heartbreakingly smashed together with Zola Jesus’ yelps toward the back of the crowd, making it a less than ideal setting for Fox fanatics to really lose themselves in the music. The crowd made the best of it, screaming along to “Mykonos” and paying rapt attention to lead singer Robin Pecknold’s lyrics on “Helplessness Blues,” but the magic just wasn’t all there. The band’s touring the country again this fall, and if they come through Chicago again, hopefully the setting will be a little more intimate. [ME]

SUNDAY

YES

• No, Superchunk could not be more different from Odd Future, who preceded the long-running indie-rock band on the Red Stage. Thank God. After all the hype, overblown controversy, and general ridiculousness surrounding OFWGKTA, Superchunk offered a much-needed corrective. Odd Future is a very young group who lays on the shock value way too thick because they’re kids and don’t know any better. Superchunk has been playing its music, and playing it well, for more than two decades, and last year’s excellent Majesty Shredding showed the band still in fine form. On the Red Stage, frontman Mac McCaughan bounded around as if it weren’t oppressively hot and he were 20 years younger. The band blew through 12 songs, leaning heavily on old favorites (opener “Throwing Things,” “Detroit Has A Skyline,” “Like A Fool,” set closer “Slack Motherfucker,” and others) and four songs from Majesty. It’s too much to ask that Superchunk’s renaissance never end, but here’s hoping the group stays this active for a while. [KR]

• Deerhunter’s mesmerizing performance was the Gallant to Animal Collective’s Goofus from a few days earlier. While Deerhunter can be just as strange and otherworldly on record as AnCo, the band presented the tightest, most appealing version of itself at the festival, unfurling the most majestic guitar rock of the whole festival. On “Desire Lines” and an electrifying extended jam of “Nothing Ever Happened,” Deerhunter exuded the confidence of a band just entering the peak of its career, and even when the laser-focus of the set’s first half faded for a noodly climax, gangly frontman Bradford Cox never ceased being a weirdly charismatic rock star. [SH]

• “You’ve been here for three days. And after three days, it’s time for you to get crazy,” screamed Cut Copy’s Dan Whitford midway through “Hearts On Fire,” inspiring one of the—if not the—biggest crowd responses of the weekend. The combination of the setting sun, dwindling heat, kick-butt light show, and Cut Copy’s wildly energetic performance got people jumping in earnest all the way to the back of the crowd. A marked improvement over the Australian group’s mega-delayed, 20-minute 2008 Pitchfork set, Cut Copy’s early-evening performance was a weekend highlight, an exuberant, disco-grooved show set that saw both band and audience dancing like mad and dripping with sweat. [GK]

• The last Chicago festival TV On The Radio played was the final night of Lollapalooza 2007, when the band played before headliners Pearl Jam. After TVOTR closed with “Staring At The Sun,” the crowd demanded more, eventually chanting “Fuck Pearl Jam! Fuck Pearl Jam!” Now closing out Pitchfork 2011, TVOTR had no headliner to contend with, but enjoyed an equally rapt audience. The first four songs of the set—“Halfway Home,” “Dancing Choose,” “The Wrong Way,” “Wash The Day Away”—hit especially hard, frontman Tunde Adebimpe pacing the stage during “Dancing Choose” like he was in the middle of an anxiety attack. The tone became less manic for about five songs until the old favorite “Staring At The Sun” brought it back up. It continued through “Repetition” and climaxed with a ferocious version of “Wolf Like Me,” the final moments of which were some of the most intense of the whole festival. Really, TV On The Radio could’ve walked off after that point and still ruled the day, but the band stuck around for three more songs, including a completely unexpected but amazing cover of Fugazi’s “Waiting Room.” There was no encore, but no one would argue TV On The Radio held anything back tonight. [KR]

NO

• Onstage, Yuck looks very young, a little frail, and disconcertingly small in stature; actually, the ’90s nostalgia act sort of sounds like that, too. Seeing Yuck live is similar to experiencing the group on its self-titled debut—it sounds pretty good for about four songs, and then boredom sinks in. There’s no denying that the group can write a catchy tune (like the fantastic “Get Away”) but the group’s limited range and dearth of original ideas eventually catches up with it. If Yuck can one day escape the long shadow of its influences, the band’s inarguable melodic sense might yield something truly special. But at the moment, it hasn’t earned the plum festival spots it’s been bestowed. [SH]

• Ariel Pink seems to be jockeying for the role of the Amy Winehouse of the Pitchfork set, what with his recent onstage tantrum at Coachella and now a similar meltdown during his Sunday afternoon set with Haunted Graffiti, who was much more on-point than its frontman. Whether it was due to the 90-degree heat or illicit substances (it wasn’t due to the heat), Pink seemed decidedly altered, spending most of his truncated set alternately swaying, stalking, and rolling around the stage while barking incoherently into a distorted headset mic—when he wasn’t crouched on the stage smoking a cigarette, that is. After 25 minutes that rapidly devolved from fascinating and strange to boring and awkward, Pink left the stage, without any substantial entreaties from the crowd for him to return. It all probably worked out for the best: Pink could retreat to a cool, dark room and freak out in peace, while the crowd was now free to run over and catch part of a less-trainwreck-y but far superior set from Baths. [GK]

MAYBE

• Donning a Grateful Dead tee and fisherman’s hat, frontman Tim Cohen led San Francisco’s The Fresh & Onlys with an appropriately sunny, good-vibes set, channeling simple, cowboy-chord balladry through psychedelic swaths of noise and occasional touches of spaghetti-Western soundtrack and surf-rock guitar. The band’s 35-minute set threatened to run together around halfway through, as Cohen’s vocals and the lo-fi jangle from last year’s Play It Strange became muddied in too much reverb and unchanging tempo, but able guitar work-outs and feedback-fueled jamming eventually emerged to save a set best fit for a cozy club. [SM]

• Kurt Vile’s laconic cool and sensitive loner sensibility is designed for darkened rooms and corner taverns, not sun-blasted music festivals with temperatures reaching into the mid-90s. Vile gamely amped up the energy on rockers like “Jesus Fever” and “Freak Train,” but his hazy psych-folk seemed to make minutes spent in the punishing heat drag on even slower. Considering that many attendees spent much of his set getting psyched for the upcoming OFWGKTA tabloid spectacle, Vile’s long-haired hippie jams seemed a little out-of-place, no matter how good they were. [SH]  

• From the non-profit kerfuffle to alleged promises of good behavior to Tyler, The Creator’s prediction of the crowd’s demographic make-up, there was plenty of buzz leading up to Odd Future’s set at Pitchfork. Attendees were prepared for anything; what they got was a solid, energetic, though not particularly extraordinary set. After taking the stage to Bob Marley’s “One Love” and the Black Eyed Peas’ “Where Is The Love?”—showing the group’s sense of irony is intact—the collective ripped into its set, rotating duties and delivering Mellowhype’s “64” and Mike G’s “Everything That’s Yours” with ferocity. And even though a cast on his right leg meant he spent parts of the set perched on a stool, Tyler joined Hodgy Beats in stage-diving into the mosh pit. But once the controversy and attitude is stripped away, what’s left is a slightly above average hip-hop group—not nearly as apocalyptic as detractors claim, but not as revolutionary as supporters would have you believe. By the time Tyler ranted against “the people that hate me” (which, to him, included the anti-violence groups and “faggot-ass bloggers”) and launched into an incendiary, set-closing “Radical”—the mosh pit chanting along, “Kill people! Burn shit! Fuck school!”—the idea that the set would be, in one way or another, transcendent had evaporated like so much sweat. [MG]

• Woe to the band going up against Odd Future, and double woe if that group happened to be hip-hop, as was the case with Shabazz Palaces, who played the smaller (but gloriously shady) Blue Stage not long after Odd Future started. Before their set began, the members of Shabazz watched some of Odd Future’s set, and when Tyler, The Creator saw one member’s dreads out of the corner of his eye, he thought it was Lil Wayne. No, but Shabazz features Palaceer Lazaro, a.k.a., Ishmael Butler, a.k.a. Butterfly of Digable Planets. But Shabazz Palaces plays a far more difficult-to-label style of art-damaged hip-hop. It’s interesting stuff, but the festival environment didn’t suit it very well—especially with sound bleed from Odd Future across the field. [KR]

SEEN & HEARD

• In the early afternoon, the members of Odd Future strolled backstage carrying a box of cupcakes, recalling that great bit of Guy Picciotto stage banter from Fugazi’s Instrument: These guys aren’t so tough! They eat cupcakes! Cupcake-eating motherfuckers! Turns out that Odd Future was taking the cupcakes to Between Friends, the anti-domestic violence group that some erroneously reported were “protesting” Odd Future’s performance. [KR]

• Chances of seeing someone wearing a T-shirt for Ghost Dad, the little-loved Bill Cosby comedy from 1990, on the street in real life: less than 5 percent. On the Pitchfork Music Festival grounds: 90 percent. [KR]

• The brother-sister garage-rock duo White Mystery was spotted all over the park this weekend—their matching, flaming afros are hard to miss—and even took turns handing out ice cream from the truck in the VIP area à la Wayne Coyne in 2009. [MG]

• Best tweet of the festival, courtesy of our own Kyle Ryan: “Folks, be nice to each other. Many of you will meet again in 20 years in the waiting room of a laser tattoo removal clinic.” [SH]