In preparation for Saturday's festival, I go to the beach and get a nice back sunburn.
Titus Andronicus
Great energy. Sloppy freewheeling rock. I learn more about the Civil War in an hour set than I did in high school. Apparently they said “f*ck” a lot back in the 1800s. Fourscore and seven f*ckin’ years ago, our f*ckfathers brought forth on this f*ckin’ incontinent a YOWL SCREAM GUITAR FEEDBACK trumpet tooooodle YOWL YOWL f*ck f*ck emancipation f*cklamation!
The lead singer shouts out libraries at the end of the set, which makes me happy because I married into the American Library Association. Let's hear it for libraries!
The Guy in the Turquoise Pleather Hightops
I wish I took a picture of this guy, but his awesomeness might have shattered the lens of my camera. His muskels are big, he has a large shoulder tattoo of Michael Jordan (I think) going in for a dunk from the perspective of the ceiling, several other seemingly unrelated tattoos, and those shoes, oh those shoes. These are the kind of shoes that deserve their own talk show.
The Sun
The sun buys a ticket and brings her friends Humidity, Red Face, and Sweaty Ball Syndrome.
How I Offset My Age With an Obscure T-shirt
Some girl recognizes my Enfield Tennis Academy shirt from Infinite Jest. (Second year in a row! Pitchfork is clearly the right demo for literary in-jokes). She asks me “Did you do that on purpose?” “Yes,” I say. “It’s from Wuthering Heights.”
Raekwon
Sound problems apparently delay 'Kwon’s set, but I wouldn’t know as I am devouring a vegan burger and pretzel with beer cheese. The pretzel tastes better than rap. The vegan burger tastes better than crap.
The Merch Booth
If you ever need a stuffed mustache, attend next year’s Pitchfork.
John Spencer Blues Explosion
The only reason I endure this set is to get a good spot for Wolf Parade. From what I can tell it consists of the frontman, John Something, I forget his last name, yelling over and over “Blues Explosion!!” I entertain myself by imagining him saying “Blues Clues Explosion!!” and then leading the whole park of hipsters in a spirited game of patty cake.
Wolf Parade
When I last saw Wolf Parade it was New Years Eve ’06 or so at the Viaduct Theater where they played every song in doubletime and I spent the better part of the set standing in line to pee while douchebags yelled at each other to “piss faster.” Awesome time, really.
Thankfully, they bust out of the gates with Cloud Shadow On the Mountain, transition to The Grey Estates and roll into Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts, essentially rolling backwards through their discography with an energy and confidence I’m not quite expecting.
The sun beats down on my neck, scorches everything in its path, which means these guys are playing right into the sun. And my only regret for the whole damn, beautiful set is that they don’t take advantage of this and rip out You Are a Runner and I Am My Father’s Son, screaming out “Won’t make it through the high noon sun…”
Which we don’t. Halfway through the set we retreat to shadier pastures. As soon as we set up camp, Wolf Parade launches into I’ll Believe in Anything, easily one of my favorite songs EVER. If you haven’t heard it, buy it from iTunes. If you don’t like it, let me know and I will refund your 99 cents via a personalized haiku that is worth at least twice that.
Panda Bear
Hey everybody. Panda Bear is next! His album Person Pitch was #2 on my top albums list from ’07. This is going to be so great. No seriously, I know you don’t like Animal Collective, but wait. This is like Brian Wilson caught in reverb loopy land. Just wait until he plays Comfy in Nautica. Dude. Woo! Panda Bear! Here he comes. Okay get ready!
Okay, okay, no problem, this first part he’s just warming up. He’s building to something, okay? Yeah, I know it’s just a drone moving to another drone. Yeah, sure he’s screaming occasionally, that’s fine. No problem, he’s got a master plan. Just wait.
Just… wait.
No there will be some drum loops soon. I’m pretty sure.
Why are you looking at me like that? Look at the video screen. See there’s some trippy stuff going on. That dude is repeatedly punching a fish, that’s pretty cool, right? And that couple doing it on the roller coaster is from that one exploitation flick. Neat. No, the music will start soon. It will.
It will. I will it to. I will Panda Bear to not make me look like such an ass for talking him up. Here I am willing. I’m willing. Oh forget it.
I’m going to get some beer.
LCD Soundsystem
James Murphy washes the bad taste of Panda Bear off my brain immediately with Us V Them. I am pleased with his disco ball. I am pleased that he is quite possibly older than me. I am pleased with All My Friends. I am pleased to leave early to beat the mad crush of people all trying to board the same damn bus at the same time.
I’ll catch the whole set on your next tour, LCD! Wait, what? You’re breaking up? I… but… Aw fuck it, I’m catching the bus.
The Bus
Lainie and I have a spirited debate over whether or not jean jams and jorts are synonymous. I propose that all jean jams are jorts, but not all jorts are jean jams. She proclaims that jean jams are not jorts. They are too specific, too close to the knee. We wind up having a terrible fight and I haven’t spoken to her since.
Lainie, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry we fought about jorts.
Stay tuned for Sunday’s Pitchfork review by special guest columnist, Mazlin!
NO! We agree: all jean jams ARE JORTS. JORTS= JEANS SHORTS. Jean Jams also can only be...JEANS SHORTS. What I'm saying is that there are a lot of kinds of jean shorts in the world, but the kind that most needs teasing is the close-to-the-knee, pre-hemmed jean shorts, and that they should be called Jean Jams, rather than Jorts, because it is more specific. The Jam part lets you know that it is knee length, and hemmed by a professional. Jorts, on the other hand, could easily be daisy dukes. I mean, right?
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