Sunday Blurry Sunday

Much like New Dark Ages esteemed webmaster/wizard Bob Miller, and what seemed like half of Columbus, my honey and I made the Pitchfork Music Festival a weekend getaway of sorts. The site tabulated that over 36,000 people of all shapes and sizes attended this year, and despite the flak Pitchfork regularly receives for being an elitist group of rock journalist hacks (stop trying to act like you don't read it every fucking day), they should be applauded for assembling such a stellar line-up and putting together a show of this magnitude without a hitch. I'd hate to see the price of water or the lines for food at this weekend's Lollapalooza.

In the eyes of this reviewer, the two days were somewhat lopsided, so we opted to only go Sunday and tour the city Saturday.

Here's my minute by minute recap from the front lines.

12:55 - Once the gates of the park open, the masses literally sprint towards the stage to secure a spot for Tapes N' Tapes. And though The Loon has been on repeat in my household since it was released, I still find it hard to comprehend the amount of hyperbole thrown their way. Live they are simply middlin' to good and their tightly wound indie-rock cliches were played with minimal heart and gusto. I was underwhelmed. Carol was already bored.

1:55 - Let the Brazilian Invasion begin. As you may know (in this here blog) I've been touting the eventual South American explosion for months now, cluing y'all in on what to look out for. Three of those acts performed on Sunday. The first being Bonde do Role. To insiders, and lovers of funk carioca, this trio is walking the thin line between mocking the sensational and explicit hip-hop genre native to Rio and re-inventing it for hipsters worldwide. With goofy, obvious, and obtuse samples, lyrics barked in Portuguese that would make 2 Live Crew blush, and stage antics normally reserved for wannabe arena rock bands (spitting beer, air guitar, choreographed dance moves), they seemed to have a recipe for disaster, pure novelty, glorified karaoke. Somehow though, their energy outweighed their schtick, and they delivered quite an ingenious slant on what live hip-hop should broadcast. It was the giddy antics of MC Marina that was their ultimate downfall, as her constant crowd-surfing ended in a broken arm.

2:55 - The second round of Brazilian dominance came with Cansei de Ser Sexy. On record I found it adorable, if not a bit overcooked and overcolored electro-clash; too little too late. I wasn't at all prepared for what they had in store as a six-piece with live instruments. Nothing's cooler than three Brazilian girls on guitar, they didn't even have to play to win my affection. When they did play it was exhilarating, a raw monster of post-punk akin to Kleenex covering the Stooges. Lead singer, Lovefoxx, reveled in the decadence of the band's noisy barrage, prancing and cooing like a newborn rock star. I thought maybe that their reliance on electronics would be a hindrance onstage, but they seamlessly worked in the pre-programmed beats and blips of "Art Bitch" and "Fuck Off is not the Only Thing You Have to Show," adding fuel to their already raging fire. If I had to pick a highlight, CSS stole the show hands down.

3:30 - The heat was beginning to make me hallucinate. I'm not complaining, I actually love sweating in thick, soupy, humidity. I thrive on it. Unfortunately the Liars do not make a suitable soundtrack for such climates. In a dank, dark, cramped club past midnight, their tribal sludge works well, but under the blood red sun it felt like we were trudging through Death Valley.

4:10 - Mission of Burma play like teenagers. It is so refreshing to see a band that has influenced so many other bands regroup and record songs that don't sound like retreads. "2wice" from The Obliterati, is just as visceral as anything they've ever done, and it fit right into their set of oldies without anyone crying foul. Plus the kids in Times New Viking say they are outstanding gentlemen.

5:00 - The obligatory hip-hop hour is upon us. While I'm a fan of Mr. Lif, I choose to relax a bit, gnosh on some reasonably priced pizza, and browse the record fair.

6:10 - The park seems at full capacity. What I've learned from festivals of this size is that unless you are an ambitious fanboy or a drunken asshole, your not getting to the front of the stage to see the biggies. I used to be both of these and now I am neither. Though the wind would often carry the sounds from the main stages to and fro, east and west, a comfortable spot in the middle assured that one could hear everything just fine.

Devendra Banhart, with full band in tow, was king hippie. Over the last month, Cripple Crow, has begun to blossom into a folk masterpiece for me, so it was nice to see those melodies fleshed out for a crowd of thousands. It seems though that he's traded in the freaky, drug-addled, meandering labyrinths that made him a star for breezy, meditative, jams. While there's nothing wrong with that, I would have rather heard Quicksilver Messenger Service, which is exactly what he and his merry pranksters have morphed into.

7:10 - Yo La Tengo was perfect. I didn't stand to see this performance, but I could easily imagine Ira Kaplan giving his guitar sweet torture for minutes on end. The new songs are a revelation, especially the 10-minute lead track. Much like Sonic Youth's brilliant Rather Ripped, Yo La Tengo's latest is a return to form and in the live setting it translates into an eclectic mix of blissful psychedelic abandon and blue-hued cool bop.

8:10 - Time for dancing. Time for Diplo. I'll be honest, I spent most of my day under the tent instead of in the field. By the time the world's finest DJ took us all on a ride like no other, the tent was a sauna. For about an hour straight, rarely coming up for air, Diplo ran through an amazing set of mash-up heaven that became more and more frantic with every layer he added. Even Jared was twitching a little.

9:10 - Oh yeah. Os Mutantes? The band that initiated this trip? Well, by the time Diplo was over I was beginning to dread my all-night drive back to Columbus, but I had to stay and sweat it out with Rogerio Duprat and company. Unless you lived in Brazil between 1968-74, and saw one of the Mutant's few shows, there weren't any expectations to be had. I heard what I wanted to hear, but was disappointed that they chose to sing the English versions instead of the original Portuguese lyrics. All I can say is that their set was agreeable and at least that's better than most reunions of this type.


Celebrity sightings you ask? I did see Bob sleeping.