LA WeeklyPitchfork Music Festival, Day 2
By Jeff Weiss
Tad Kubler of the Hold Steady (Photos by Nick Lucchesi)
Sometimes, on your own, you arrive at the realization that
“hey, it isn't so bad. I'm attending a music festival for free in a
very beautiful city and even though I'm trying hard not to gawk at the
mustachio'd sailer-hatted hipster either in the merchant marines or an
aspiring killer clown, things is alright.” But at other times, nothing
can palliate you, outside of the right street pharmacist, one who will
sell you $100 worth of that sweet chiba in an apartment a few blocks
from Union Park, while bumping M83's “Graveyard Girl.” Yesterday was
one of those days. And in conjunction with my new found ray of light
(no Madonna), the murky, muggy rain that had been washing down on the
streets of the Chi lifted, just in time for me to miss the last 10
minutes of Caribou's set.
Welcome to the Midwest
Things were different yesterday. The publicists who I had so lustily
condemned the day prior were able to fall for my cheap ruse about
there obviously being some sort of mistake in my not getting VIP
passes. Or was there? Maybe it was wise for them to throw me the VIP
tags, after all, as the saying goes, hell hath no fury like a jaded,
spoiled reporter not being able to smoke blunts the size of burritos
and eat burritos the size of blunts. Plus, free beer and free
Sparks – and while Sparks might taste like “perfumed asshole” as one of
my colleagues so eloquently put it, it not only give you wings, it
convinces you to climb to the top of the nearest building and play
Daedelus. (Who should've been at this festival now that I think about
it).
Besides, the energy was different on Saturday. Long gone was Friday's
indier-than-thou crowd lured in by unremembered nostalgia for Mission
of Burma, Sebadoh and PE. In their stead were a bunch of teens and
people in their early 20s, drawn by the promise of Vampire Weekend's
dulcet pop and The Hold Steady's sincere sing-a-longs. It was the
proverbial “next generation,” and anybody lambasting Vampire Weekend
for their depictions of an idle, spoiled rich class might be well
served to note their fanbase, full of MTV sunglasses and girls with
purses bought at Saks 5th Avenue, and understand that hating them for
singing about Louis Vuitton and Reggaeton is like hating a chicken for
laying eggs.
The first band I caught was Fleet Foxes, who pretty much owe 80
percent of their fanbase to a whopping 9.0 rave that the Fork gave
them earlier this year. I've been resistant towards the Fleet Foxes
bandwagon. Not because I dislike them per se. Watching Robin Pecknold
and co. sing their America meets My Morning Jacket hymnals, you can't
help but note how pretty the songs sound. But for a website
focused on originality and progressive sonic ideas, it was a little
strange to think that these are their new poster boys. Earlier this
year, I asked Jim James how he felt about bands like Fleet Foxes and
Band of Horses essentially stealing the blueprint from At Dawn
and The Tennessee Fire. Wisely, he dodged the question,
claiming he'd heard them and didn't really have any thoughts on the
matter. Good for him for being tactful enough to side-step any
controversy. However, were it be me, I'd be halfway towards
re-enacting the “Shark N–Z” sketch from Only Built For Cuban
Linx, where Ghostface and Raekwon indict copy-cat rappers. Bottom
line, Fleet Foxes sound identical to My Morning Jacket. They do what
they do well and their songs are winsome, affable and at times very
poignant, but I'm not nowhere near ready to pronounce them the next
best thing.
The same can't be said for the Hold Steady. I know a lot of people
hate their music and it's not hard to see why. At times, they're
almost painfully sincere and occasionally they can veer dangerously
close to parody, but on any given Friday night, this band be in any
top 5 of bands that I'd want to see. In the festival environment, their
guitar rock is damn-near explosive, their songs rollicking, boozy and
often brilliant. Perhaps the most joyful performer in all music, every
show Craig Finn summons the sort of joy and catharthis that often
provides the foundation for great rock n' roll. They're the sort of
band that can make cliches come to life. You “lose yourself in the
music.” You become “one with the audience.” Or more aptly, as they put
it, “Party Pit,” it's the sort of music that makes you want to walk
around and drink some more.
So I listened, liquored up good, heading to the C stage, way out in a
no-mans-land corner of the park to see No Age thrash and twist and
somehow prove what a lot of people thought was impossible: that it is
possible to re-invent the punk song. Were New Found Glory, NoFx and
all those other hacky mall-punk bands to have seen No Age in person, I
can imagine them being reduced to tears, struck with the realization
that they're frauds and that with just a drummer and a guitarist Dean
Spunt and Randy Randall could cauterize their flesh and bleach their
bones. Real vicious, powerful Punk music that justified the acclaim
and hype and left me feeling guilty for having never dragged myself
out to the Smell once. Thankfully, they've outgrown their first home
and are ready for prime-time, local boys made good. God willing, in
due time they'll have strung Pete Wentz up by his assymetrical
haircut, stolen Ashlee Simpson, forced Panic at the Disco! into a
full-on panic and saved an entire generation of 14-year olds from
being emo. All in a day's work.
But speaking of a day's work, like the White Rabbit, I'm late for a
very important date. Besides, I need to get my Lewis Carroll on, as
their are herbal refreshments to be rolled and there are Times New
Vikings to be seen. To say nothing of Spoon or King Khan or best of
all, Ghost and Rae performing together. Hopefully, they will play
“One” from Supreme Clientele, if only so Ghost can offer the
question, “How Many Blunts We Smoke.” To which the crowd can only
respond, “One…at a Time.”
Randy Randall of No Age
Advertising disclosure: We may receive compensation for some of the links in our stories. Thank you for supporting LA Weekly and our advertisers.