[On July 13, several members of The A.V. Club staff attended the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago. This is their report.]
Friday, July 13
7 p.m.: The members of Slint sit down for "Don, Aman," the six-minute-plus track from their seminal Spiderland, which they're playing in its entirety here as part of an evening co-sponsored by All Tomorrow's Parties' Don't Look Back series, in which artists perform their best-known albums. The moment captures the band's greatness and its greatest weakness: Slint completely lacks stage charisma, and playing a deathly quiet, moody song on a big outdoor stage just doesn't work. The festival's opening-day sound problems, which caused organizers to overhaul the system on Saturday, obviously don't help.
7:45 p.m.: GZA takes the stage to a sea of (overwhelmingly white) hands flashing the Wu-Tang sign, which more than a few festivalgoers note with snarky quips. The Genius lets the crowd know the stakes of this performance: "I'm missing a Wu-Tang show in Amsterdam tonight, ya'll gotta represent like I represent." The crowd accommodates by cheering.
8:25 p.m.: GZA leads the crowd through chants of "Wu-Tang" before dropping a lengthy promo for the upcoming Wu-Tang album 8 Diagrams, stopping just short of giving out the Amazon address for pre-orders.
9:04 p.m.: Tim Tuten, co-owner of Chicago bar/venue The Hideout, reprises his MC role from last year, prefacing bands with the long-winded introductions he's known for. His mention that Yoko Ono will headline Saturday elicits as many boos as cheers. Oddly, after Tuten's rousing intro, Sonic Youth doesn't immediately appear. But when the opening chords of Daydream Nation's "Teen Age Riot" ring out, the crowd goes into spasms of joy.
9:05 p.m.: Let's just skip the whole "Sonic Youth plays like a band half its age" talk, shall we? Such trite platitudes are admittedly warranted: Thurston Moore seems particularly invigorated tonight, whipping his lanky frame around. Too bad the soundman hasn't quite caught up, and anyone not standing within 50 feet of the front of the stage is treated to a tinny, underwhelming wash. The cries of "Turn it up!" start almost immediately—a pattern that will repeat all weekend long.
9:25 p.m.: Just as "The Sprawl" winds to a close, somebody yells out, "Boooring!" in a voice loud enough that even Kim Gordon might have heard it. He isn't exactly wrong, but the set picks up considerably around "Eric's Trip," with Lee Ranaldo's voice cutting through loud and clear while Moore hammers at his guitar with a drumstick. Maybe there isn't anything particularly revolutionary about Sonic Youth's approach any more, but the band deserves credit for not "reworking" its material into, say, a Police-style jazz fusion.
12:43 a.m.: Why didn't Pitchfork invite the blazingly exciting hip-hop trio Yo Majesty—three women from Florida that rap about "Kryptonite Pussy," among other things—to play? They're in town all weekend, and they rip it up at a Sonotheque after-party.
Saturday, July 14
2:20 p.m.: Voxtrot's Ramesh Srivastava moans, "I thought the sun was going away. I was happy about that." Still, no matter how much he wants to play the Mancunian moper, Austin's premier indie-pop band is ideal for a lazy, sunny afternoon.
3 p.m.: The master of ceremonies introduces Grizzly Bear as "wildlife from Brooklyn"—and if that's not what indie rock is, what the hell is it?
3:02 p.m.: Recorder solo! The crowd near the stage is surprisingly attentive, and a cool breeze lends the set an idyllic air for the time being—so, against all odds, this whole afternoon-slot-at-a-festival thing ends up suiting Grizzly Bear's stark, spacious feel. The only obstruction further up is a view-blocking V8-fro.
3:10 p.m.: Grizzly Bear's set is derailed in its second song, with a low frequency from the clarinet (how rock 'n' roll is that?) apparently blowing out one of the speakers. Chris Taylor seems genuinely embarrassed, saying, "I have all this shit down here, and it's never been a problem until now. It's the last show of the tour, and now I'm doomed." In spite of the (very brief) setback, the band's set is a festival high point. During the opening strains of "Knife," a guy over my shoulder starts singing along, drowning out the band. He breaks off to ask, "Hey, who's the lead singer? That blond guy?" Uh, right now, you are, dude.
4 p.m.: Boost Mobile's "Meet & Greet" tent is a little misleading: Fans wanting to "meet" Voxtrot, for example, are instead handed a phone and given one minute to have a forced, awkward conversation. Even more disappointing, a nearby sign indicates that Yoko Ono has already cancelled her session scheduled for later that day. So much for asking her if her refrigerator is running. (She'd probably just say it's "making love," anyway.)
4:06 p.m.: Shouldn't Battles be way more confrontational than this? Maybe it's the distance between the crowd and the band, but it feels itchy instead of scary. The set tweaks some songs to the limits of recognition, yet the band, which often sounds like it's deliberately messing with its audience on record, just seems to be having non-antagonistic fun here. Perhaps "ka-chunk," "scratch," "bleep," and "bloop" make for a friendly sonic vocabulary after all.
4:11 p.m.: From Union Park, the Sears Tower looks like a giant robotic middle finger. Maybe it's a Transformers tie-in.
4:53 p.m.: Festivalgoers use masking tape on the asphalt of Washington Boulevard near Ashland Avenue for an impromptu game of foursquare, which proves popular all weekend long. One guy coaches his friend from the sidelines by yelling, "Stop dancing around like a little homo, son!"
5 p.m.: Even as a full band, Iron And Wine apparently likes to keep it slight. Except for those within about 100 feet of the stage, everything from Sam Beam's voice to the drums and guitars remain relatively faint. A few songs in, Beam and the band assert themselves a little more (or get turned up), stirring up a slow, mysterious blues groove accented with vibes and other textural touches. It doesn't get much time to sink in, though, thanks to…
5:30-6 p.m.: Interruptions from Mastodon's sound check. Those really close to the Iron And Wine stage will be fine, but anyone near the middle of things is going to hear Mastodon's two guitarists noodling over Beam's whole band. Beam has a regal beard and mane, but Mastodon guitarist-singer Brent Hinds looks like a demon troll. A local student who writes for her high-school newspaper gets the privilege of introducing the band, which she lovingly describes as "metal most primordial." This draws cruel laughter—from people who presumably came to rock out to lyrics like "A vast calm wilderness / the call to adventure comes / lead and land atop this rock / infinite path carved with unrivaled skill." Of course, Mastodon is a lot better at stomping down its own corniness factor. It's exactly what the fest needed, and soon the front of the stage grows dusty from what is probably the festival's first pit ever. The Georgia band's performance proves to be one of the weekend's highlights. Take note, Pitchfork Fest organizers—next year: Converge!
5:20 p.m.: The "Balance Stage" is hands-down the worst venue here. It's crammed into the end of a narrow alley strewn with food stands and overflowing garbage cans. It's impossible to see anything, and the sounds emanating from the speakers are whisper-quiet. Brooklyn's Professor Murder is nearly drowned out by young whippersnappers calmly discussing the merits of The Bloodhound Gang. Professor Murder's Liquid Liquid-esque dance-punk—which its effervescent frontman/drummer Michael Bell-Smith (coming off like an indie Tito Puente) cheerfully likens to "Stomp a.k.a. Blue Man Group a.k.a. Louie Vega"—is admittedly fun, but not interesting enough to justify standing in this fetid nook any longer.
5:45 p.m.: The freestanding hand-washers outside the portable toilets have already run out of water, something many concertgoers find out only after covering their hands in liquid soap. That's bad news for the shirtless dude who wanders out just before Mastodon's set, chest and legs covered in puke, hair matted with dirt. He nonchalantly crosses his arms and joins the line. Everyone gives him a wide berth.
6:11 p.m.: A woman walks by wearing a black T-shirt with giant white letters saying "THE ONLY BUSH I TRUST IS MY OWN." It is, sadly, the classiest of the T-shirts The A.V. Club sees noting how the president's name is also slang for female pubic hair. Yawn. Another notable T-shirt, this one on a 10-year-old kid: "Xiu Motha Fuckin' Xiu." Nice.
6:30 p.m.: The novelty of Mastodon's thrash-metal begins to wear off shortly after the 10th sludgy instrumental breakdown. One fan in the front row has been throwing devil horns for so long that his arm grows tired, so he reaches behind his head and supports his elbow with the other arm.
7:03 p.m.: The two brothers of Clipse sneer into their set with forbidding, nasty aggression, sparking much more excitement than GZA did on Friday. Clipse sticks with the bleak Neptunes production, adding an extra bass-y thud that stretches across the park. The two give Pitchfork repeated shout-outs, which somehow seems really, really funny. The raucous crowd chants "Keys open doors!" along to "Keys Open Doors" from Hell Hath No Fury. Of course, "keys" here means kilograms of illicit substances, and it's funny watching the indie-inclined audience sing along like seasoned snowmen. Like GZA, Clipse plays louder and meatier than anyone else simply because they don't have to worry about mics or amps. Voxtrot's Ramesh Srivastava watches jealously before confiding, "Next time, I'm just going to put everything on a DAT."
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