Pitchfork Festival – Chicago 17-19 July 2009

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Photography credit: Chris Alvarez

Just because you operate the world’s most influential independent music website doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to put on a decent festival. I mean, given Pitchfork’s impeccable scenester credentials and the air of smug self-satisfaction that permeates some of its article this could have been the American equivalent of being trapped in a Shoreditch industry party. But all credit to them- they acquit themselves marvelously with a superbly-organised event that delivers the musical quality you’d expect from the hipster bible without the pretension that mars its closest UK equivalents. (*cough*FieldDay*cough*)

Tortoise were a curious choice of opener – though generally lumped in the post-rock bracket they sound little like Explosions In The Sky and their ilk, their songs much more complex than the endless glacial crescendos that usually beset the genre. Their ferocious introduction involved a dual drum assault that’d do Boredoms proud, but their progression towards a more cerebral, minimalist direction, whilst technically dazzling, was too inaccessible to engage the crowd. Then again, they were miles better than Yo La Tengo, the kind of band who extend a song not because it needs to, but because they’ve apparently run out of ideas. Maybe it’d have been more riveting for established fans (especially as the setlist was picked by public vote), but by the end of their fiftieth interminable jam I just wanted them to go away.

Playing the first hometown show in over a decade, The Jesus Lizard provided the adrenalin shot the festival needed. Even at the age of 49, David Yow is one badass motherfucker, flinging himself into the audience at every opportunity whilst snarling incomprehensibly at everyone and everything, while the simple-but-effective brutalist guitar and driving bass of David Sims and Duane Denison ensure they’re musically satisfying to boot. Needless to say, they were a tough act for Built To Spill to follow and sadly the Boise-based indie veterans struggled to rise to the challenge, their competent performance emasculated by a muted, tinny sound mix. It’s a real shame, as they’re an immensely talented bunch with a formidable back-catalogue and some of the most impressive guitar skills around, but a few killer tracks apart (‘Carry The Zero’, ‘Conventional Wisdom’) they fell far short of what they’re capable of.

Indeed, it was left to Cymbals Eat Guitars, a band that owe a hell of a debt to Built To Spill to show them how it should be done. One of the most promising new bands I’ve seen this year, the New York youngsters delivered a confident, commanding performance that belies their age. They’re still too much in thrall of their influences to have found their niche yet, but they sure as hell have potential. Fucked Up’s beachball-munching antics provided an entertaining interlude before a revelatory set by The Antlers; much heavier and voluminous than their twinkly, delicate recorded output would suggest, the post-rocky ending of ‘Hospital Beds’ was almost Mogwai-esque in its tinnitus-baiting splendor.

Alas, we then had to survive The Pains of Being Pure At Heart and Bowerbirds battling it out to see who could bludgeon us into a state of catatonia first. TPOBPAH’s competent but repetitive indie-pop can be fun when they’re on form, but here it listlessly missed the mark and as for Bowerbirds…well, I endured 20 seconds of their tepid, tuneless wuss-folk before wanting to stove my face in with a brick. On the plus side, they only made Owen “Final Fantasy” Pallett seem even better in comparison, the one-man musical genius mesmerising the crowd with just a violin, keyboard and loop-pedal. His vocals have an arch shrillness that’s sometimes hard to get along with, but there’s simply no denying that the man has more talent in one pizzicato-ing finger than the vast majority of acts touring today.

The good times kept rolling with a strong showing from Beirut – not the most melodically varied band in the world, but Zach Condon was on sparkling form and the mariachi brass and Balkan-tinged balladry was the perfect tonic for the early evening. And ever-dependable Brooklyners The National put the finishing touches on a superb day; what they lack in razzle-dazzle, they make up for with emotional honestly, peerless songwriting and Padme Newsome’s mentalist violin freakouts.

“We’re the most professional band to play at this festival…ever!” proclaim The Mae Shi (or is it Signals?) as they open up Sunday in typical ramshackle fashion. Now down to just three members and in the midst of a messy break-up, this could well have been their final performance as a band- and if so, it was a fittingly shambolic swansong to their career. The first half of the set was frankly embarrassing but once they brought on rap duo Vacations things improved dramatically, with closer “Run To Your Grave” poignantly reminding us that underneath all the chaos and bullshit, they were one hell of a band.

Dianogah were one of my favourite discoveries from ATP: Breeders so to find out female vocalist Stephanie Morris had passed away a fortnight later put a bit of a downer on this set, which the band dedicated to her memory. Their instrumental post-rock/math-rock fusion, centered around two bass guitars and drums can get a little repetitive at times, but the intricacy of their rhythms and self-depreciating humour set them apart from their peers. Local band The Killer Whales were a chronically shirtless bunch whose liveliness rather outstripped their originality but with vibrancy and a sense of fun on their side, they had much more going for them than the tedious Blitzen Trapper, whose charms continue to elude me. The Thermals’ cover-heavy set was undemanding fun, as long as you’re able to accept they’ve only got one song, whilst The Walkmen failed to impress from my (admittedly distant) vantage point, although Hamilton Leithuser’s intense performance deserves some kudos. Also disappointing were noise/garage rock duo Japandroids- a bit too much like No Age for my liking in any case, they also seemed overly scrappy despite their enthusiasm.

With Sunday a little disappointing thus far, it was up to M83 to save the day. My ardour for these superior shoegaze-revivalists had somewhat dimmed after an underwhelming ATP set, but tonight they redeemed themselves and more with a career-high performance. If you’ve ever seen one of their regular shows, you’ll know they tend to start low-key and slowly build up from there, but here they cut straight to the chase, dropping beats under everything and transforming their spectral electronica into a full-on rave. Morgan Kibby looks and acts more like Karen O every time I see her, and even the typically laid-back Anthony Gonzales is looking more animated these days, making this more fun to watch than the static performances of old. ‘We Own The Sky’, ‘Skin Of The Night’ and ‘Graveyard Girl’ all sounded astonishing and in fact the only thing that held this back from perfection was the timing- had it been shifted only ninety minutes later to hit the sunset, this would have been a show for the ages. They rather overshadowed Mew, who despite moments of grandeur were clearly not firing on all cylinders, their set tilted too far towards their more obtuse material and the strain of a punishing touring schedule reflected in a muted performance.

The only act of the weekend to descend from a pulsating psychedelic vagina, The Flaming Lips are a band *designed* to close festivals. From the giant inflatable hamster ball Wayne Coyne uses to ride over the audience to the sixteen metric tons of confetti they swamp Union Park under, their performance almost creaks under the weight of Coyne’s theatrics, with the music often playing second fiddle to the spectacle. The fan-picked setlist means Coyne’s out of his comfort zone, but occasional awkwardness aside, there’s lots of rarities to please the fanboys – the first airing of the excellent ‘Bad Days’ in over a decade, the never performed B-side ‘Enthusiasm For Life’ and even ‘Fight Test’, subject to legal action by Cat Stevens because of its melodic similarity to ‘Father and Son’. As always, there’s too much proselytising and not enough songs – whilst Coyne was jabbering on they could have played several more numbers (were ‘Turn It On’ and ‘Waitin’ For A Superman’ really too much to ask?) but criticism dissolves like so much fairy dust in the face of that most wondrous of communal sing-alongs ‘Do You Realize?’

So, the verdict? Well, it’s probably the most consistently enjoyable festival I’ve attended- the site is perfectly sized and easy to get around, the number of quality performances would put many far larger events to shame, the poster and record fairs were worth the price of admission alone and even the less impressive acts weren’t all that bad. There’s room for improvement- it’s not got much way in character (partly due to its limited size), the sound on the first day left something to be desired and the lack of anything truly spectacular despite the strength of the line-up was disappointing. But if you ever find yourself in Chicago and have the urge to check out a music festival that combines the crème de la crème of alternative music with an intimacy rarely seen this side of the Atlantic, you could do a hell of a lot worse than Pitchfork.