Well kids, it's my final transmission, and today's theme is "missed connections." After spending the last few weeks setting up my two biggest interviews of the festival—chiefly Built To Spill and The Flaming Lips—today I watched as all of my best laid plans went totally fucking awry due to various scheduling conflicts, a dollop of miscommunication, and various other last-minute excuses that made a mockery out of the already shaky gentlemen's agreement between publicist and publisher. As such, for my final round of Sasquatch coverage, I have no one's voice but my own to contribute; no rock stars or underground comedians will be making cameos today. I'll at least try to keep it brief. (I will also try not to let the fact that today I lost my motherfucking iPod somewhere in a fucking field of grass in George, Washington in any way color the tone of my review. No, I won't even mention how much it sucks sucks sucks and goddamn it why didn't I just leave it in the car??? Because really, that's not what you're here for. Um, unless you're the guy who found it, and you're playing the good Samaritan by Googling "lost iPod Sasquatch festival." In which case, drop me a line.)
12:30pm I arrive at the Gorge about 20 minutes too late to catch the beginning of Yeasayer's set, but I'm still fully confident that I'll be able to see at least a couple of songs. Of course, then I notice the loosely defined line out front, which stretches in every direction. It seems as though the loveably bumbling guards checking bags have suddenly taken on reinforcements from Homeland Security or something, herding people in at a pace that makes LaGuardia circa 2001 look good. It probably doesn't help that some of these yahoos are trying to sneak in everything from a magnum of champagne to a 12-pack of Coors. (Seriously: If you're going to sneak in your own beer, shouldn't it be a step up from Coors?) I spend nearly half an hour waiting for my turn among these barbarians at the gate, whereupon my designated inspector demands that I empty out my precariously packed bag from the bottom up before finally noticing my press badge and saying, "Oh, never mind." As it turns out, I didn't miss much: I later find out that Yeasayer—as is Yeasayer's wont—took approximately 45 minutes to set up, leaving them with only enough time to play four songs during their allotted hour. You know, I'm starting to wonder if this is a calculated move on Yeasayer's part, as they've definitely pulled that shit before (most recently at SXSW). Maybe it's all just misdirection to hide the fact that they only know how to play four songs.
2:10pm Another missed connection: The iffy wireless network in the press trailer is making it extremely difficult to get my Day Two write-up done and uploaded. Also making it harder than it should be: The woman from another publication who's talking very, very loudly about how she works for that particular publication, and all the cool people she's interviewed this weekend. For that particular publication. Which she names repeatedly.
2:30pm Luckily the press trailer is situated to where I can listen to The Hives while I'm racing to meet my long-since-blown deadline. Lead singer Pelle Almqvist acknowledges the warmer-than-usual temperatures (though still nothing compared to Texas, you Pacific Northwest pussies) by saying, "It's hot out here! But it's not just the weather—it's me!" The group charges through its amped-up pub-rock with the kind of shameless rock 'n' roll swagger that these days only the Swedes can muster. "Because we love you, here's a song we call 'Die, All Right!'" Kind of an odd way to show your love, Pelle, but I do actually fucking love this song. Even though the group is still beholden more to gimmicks than anything genuine, it's an invigorating set. Or, uh, from what I can hear.
2:45pm And here's the moment where I find out that my scheduled interview with Built To Spill has been bumped, because Brett Nelson's chat with Seattle Sound has run incredibly long, and now it's too late because they're due on stage. It's also 15 minutes past the time Wayne Coyne was supposed to come around to run his own promised press gauntlet. From what I hear, he's still stuck near the front entrance, signing autographs and mingling with his fans like the incredibly personal sweetheart that he is. Hard to begrudge him that, really, but it does mean I won't get to ask him my brilliant, carefully thought-out questions about Christmas On Mars. Namely:
AVC: What the fuck?
AVC: No, seriously. What the fuck?
3:35pm I'm still stuck in this increasingly trash-filled trailer as Built To Spill plays to a warm and receptive crowd. Doug Martsch's voice is in perfect, pinched form, and I can hear the familiar strains of "Carry The Zero" and "Big Dipper," two sentimental favorites that make me a little nostalgic for my carefree college days, when music was just a passion instead of a profession. The band's meandering fuzz is the perfect soundtrack to a breezy, sunny afternoon—or, uh, so I imagine. Meanwhile, the press trailer has run out of water. There's still plenty of Cheetos, though.
4:30pm Yep, still stuck in the trailer, trying to get these damn photos to download from the Sasquatch Flickr site. Pleasant surprise, though, in the form of Seattle's Siberian drifting over from the Yeti stage. The band's slightly mopey indie rock is both as chilly and expansive as its name suggests, with layered guitar textures meant for much larger arenas. Expect to hear more and more about them until you're totally fucking sick of them soon.
6pm Free at last! I make it to the main lawn in time to see Flight Of The Conchords settle in on stools near the lip of the stage, the chorus of screams growing to Beatlemania proportions. Who knew so many people had HBO subscriptions? With little more than a shy, "Hello," New Zealand's formerly fourth most popular guitar-based digi-bongo a capella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo get this irony party started with "Too Many Motherfuckers (Fucking Up My Shit)" as the not-as-tiny-in-real-life Bret McKenzie wields a fiery red key-tar. While the songs are laugh-out-loud funny (though their TV show and CD have ensured virtually no surprises), the best bits are the in-between patter. Witness this exchange, and try to imagine, say, The Mars Volta pulling it off: "We're a real band," Bret says. "We're a band that does songs, then we talk about things between songs, then it's time to play another song." "Yes, that's pretty much the structure," Jemaine Clement concurs. "People say we're not a real band, but look, we've got all this band stuff." "Can I get more feedback in this thing?" Bret says. "Can I get this thing removed?" Jemaine says, pointing to the microphone. "It's making my voice too loud." "So, because we're a real band, we've been hanging out backstage doing band things with the other bands. Jemaine, how many blowjobs did you get?" "47. You can hear some of them cheering out here... Thank you." (Believe me, I could go on and on.)
6:15pm Although it's perhaps more suited for the cozy confines of a club—and here it's nearly drowned out by this easily excitable crowd—The Conchords' set is one of the far and away highlights of the weekend. During "Business Time," someone in the front row sets a blow-up sex doll aloft—which seems like quite a lot of planning (and inflating) for a silly concert prop that gets confiscated quickly. During "Robot Song (The Humans Are Dead)," Jemaine improvises some lyrics about how, now that the robots have all taken over, the architecture is all about domes—"including the Honey Buckets. Domed Honey Buckets for everyone." [Note: For those of you who, like me, are not from around here, the portable toilets here are all emblazoned with the word "Honey Bucket"—which I found amusing enough to take a photo of on Day One, prompting my haughty new friends from The Stranger to sniff that "everybody in Seattle is so over that." Well what-fucking-ever, ladies.)
6:35pm Shortly after "The Most Beautiful Girl In The Room," somebody throws a bra up on stage. "That's our first bra!" Jemaine exclaims. And it probably won't be the last, judging by the amount of love the women obviously have for these dudes—such as the two teen girls I see with matching, homemade, glitter-paint "Flight Of The Conchords Fanbase" shirts. (The back reads, "That IS what I'm into." Referential!)
6:55pm The Flaming Lips' publicist finds me to apologize about standing me up on our scheduled interview (and apparently I wasn't the only one, which makes me feel a little better). He takes me down to their tour bus and tries to hook up a few minutes with Wayne by way of recompense, but unfortunately Wayne is a total diva who's far too important to be talking to any little pissant calling himself a journalist just because he has access to a blog. Just kidding. Everybody knows that Wayne is one of the nicest guys in the biz, but no, he's far too busy getting ready to get into an interview right now. Then the publicist mentions that Steven Drozd might do it, because he's such a huge fan of The Onion. Unfortunately, Drozd is nowhere to be found, and that's when I finally give up on trying to interview anyone at all today, because clearly nothing's clicking. Besides, Josh keeps sending me text messages that say things like, "Enjoy yourself!" which leads me to believe I've been giving off too much of an "all work, no play" vibe in these write-ups. So I may as well take this opportunity to stop the hustle and just go join the flow.
7:15pm Splice-and-dice soul singer Jamie Lidell, "the hipster Justin Timberlake" (or is Justin Timberlake still the hipster Justin Timberlake?), is throwing himself a sexy party on the Wookie stage, bounding around the stage, jumping into the crowd, and clearly having the time of his life. His band exits halfway through the set, leaving Lidell to return to his bedroom-pop roots by building loop upon loop of his own beatboxing, creating the burbling backdrop for a remarkably killer take on "When I Come Back Around" that manages to leave behind all those Jamiroquai comparisons. Actually, Lidell has more modern ambitions: On half the songs, he's Auto-Tuning the shit out of his voice for some of that T-Pain sound that's so hot with the kids right now. In his regular, wee British lad speaking voice he asks, "How many of you have my new album? Ah, that's sweet as candy. How many downloaded it for free? That's sweet as candy. No worries, mates. Music's free! You know that." So, uh, you heard it here: Download the fuck out of Jamie Lidell's new album for free. And then get yourself some candy. You've earned it.
8pm A guy walking out of the Jamie Lidell show says, "Wow, that wasn't what I expected Ghostland Observatory to sound like at all." Ah, yet another missed connection. (Told you it was a running theme.)
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