Science of Music

Here's another break from the p-fork '06 recaps. This was sent to me by "someone" (who I don't know because they didn't sign their name) on youtube. It's pretty hilarious. This lil video combines the mystery of making music with my great love for old science movies. But seriously, who the hell sent me this?

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Best Trip EVER (Pitchfork Music Festival Day 2)

Saturday

I woke up groggy eyed and completely unaware of what time it was. I was actually slightly cold from the AC that I coveted the night before but knew the split second I exited the rotating doors onto Adams Street, I would cry for that sweet sweet chill like a baby for a pacifier.

We collected our wits and sunblock, scarfed down some apple pancakes and bacon omelettes, and off we were. I was quite nervous. I don't do well in big crowds and I wasn't exactly sure of the magnitude of this festival. The train platform was relatively calm when we jumped on the L; a few wiry hipster-ish kids mucked about. But two stops later, we were ass to ankles in band tees and converse.


Kinda like that beer commercial except it didn't start snowing
and the train isn't a gigantic Coors Light can.

When those train doors opened, it was like the fucking Boston Marathon, short-shorted legs and headbanded mop-tops squeezed onto a staircase, all going one way. The show had started without us. We wiggled our way into Union Park, and upon entry, let out a sigh relief. Sure, it was a million degrees, but it was a spacious area, with room to walk, run or grapevine with the weather permitting (it was not). We missed Hot Machines, featuring members of The Ponys and Miss Alex White, entirely. I had heard their 7" which promised some hot and heavy garage-rock but frankly, I wasn't blown away and the thought of something hot and heavy was as appealing as putting on a wool sweater.


There were tons of dudes.

Sarah and I wandered around the premises in search of our dudes, the bizarro Felix and Oscar, Philly and Yake (hereafter known as "the odd couple") while Chin Up Chin Up unoffensively powered through a short set on the "Connector Stage". We caught up with the terrible two-some and staked our claim on some primo digs to see Man Man perform on the "Aluminum Stage". Man Man proved to be a great kick off to the day; they skipped, juggled, wormed and trampled their way through their catalogue. Weird music coupled with onstage antics curbed the extreme heat, which at this point was quite possibly at its peak.


Man Man: Respectable young lads.

As the odd couple went off in search of beer and water, we took in some Band of Horses from a distance. The story goes: I saw Band of Horses last fall, thought they were m'eh. I got Everything All The Time and thought it to be a understatedly brilliant mix of melodic americana and jaggedy indie rock. I saw them again on the C-stage and thought they were boring again. Maybe it was the mid-tempos, maybe it was the space between us, maybe it was the fact that my jeans were clingy with sweat, but I got a kick out of "Wicked Gil" and decided to bee-line it for shade during "Funeral". Done and done.


Band of Horses: HOT.

We all congregated by the mist tent, the, might I add, highly disappointing mist tent. I mean seriously, that's like trying to put a fire out with a squirtgun. NEXT.

After taking a few free shots of Fuze (some nutrisweet-y fruit beverage of some sort) and laying in the shady grass, I went to check out the Mountain Goats. I liken seeing John Darnielle perform to going to a midnight showing of Monty Python and the Holy Grail with a large fanoy contingency. At first, hearing everyone yell out the lines as the movie is going on is endearing. It was kinda fun that everyone was singing along with Darnielle. There's a strong sense of comraderie and a general vibe of love and acceptance. Then I found it to be annoying. I didn't know all the words and I've always thought Darnielle's music to be underwhelming. So after 3 songs, I took back the shade and rested on my laurels until Dan Bejar and Destroyer began.


The Mountain Goats: Nerds like 'em.

Bejar and Co. played one of the better sets, sound-wise of the weekend. He mostly played selections off the immaculate 2006 release Destroyer's Rubies. I'm pretty sure it was just the weather, but there was a cool breeze through most of the set and the wind scored a 9.1 on the Pitchfork scale. At the same time, I wouldn't be surprised if Bejar's melodic wizardry had something to do with the breeze. But I won't go further on that subject.



Art Brut brought it hard as they usually do with their fiery and angular brand of post-punk, and singer Eddie Argos was especially in top form with his incomparable banter and lanky dancing. Philly and Sarah had never seen the quintet before. I had seen them once. Jake rounded out the group, having seen them approximately 49 times (okay maybe more like approx. 5 times?). Nonetheless, each of us were equally entertained and satisfied.




Art Brut: A regular, uneventful, lazy Saturday afternoon.

After a solid 4 hours in the park, only one thing was perfectly clear: it was hot to death. Though I had met the heat with surprising resilience, the mere sweating was taxing. Interest was beginning to wane. It's unfortunate that both Ted Leo and the Pharmacists and The Walkmen went on in the remaining hours of light. The four of us kicked around the empty beer dixie cups and reclined in the matted grass, watched Ted performed from what seemed like a mile away. The intensity just wasn't there. And while the Walkmen, benefitted from the sun setting slightly, they were hindered by probably the worst sound of the day and were missing ferocious drummer Matt Barrick (the fill-in did an admirable job). A food run for chicken strips and cheese fries trumped the last minutes of their disappointing set, my love for them still strong as ever. I blame it on the heat.


Ted Leo: Ride the snake.


The Walkmen: What's in it for me?


Philly and food: This is actually a Sunday picture.

Sunderland's finest, The Futureheads took the stage as the sun finished setting. The relief from the pounding heat was immaculate, and allowed us to enjoy the band fully. They mixed and matched songs from their self-titled debut and their newer, sleeker release News and Tributes. Having warmed up considerably to the latter, I thorough enjoyed hearing the new tracks along with the staples of a Futureheads set (a crowd-supported sing-along of the Kate Bush cover "Hounds of Love").


The Futureheads: Oh-oh-Oh. Oh-Oh-oh.

The Silver Jews headlined Saturday night and rightfully so. Having been a celebrated band with no touring credits in a long and storied career, David Berman's indie country-rock act drew flocks to catch a glimpse of an indie near-myth. I wasn't blown out of the water by their stage presence but they sounded like pros, mixing in and out their whole catalogue but mainly focusing on tracks off Tanglewood Numbers. After a handful of songs, the exhausted four of us decided on beating the rush to the trains home. We exited the grounds and found a bumrush to the train platform. Eff. We wandered the industrial streets surrounding Union Park for about 15 minutes before we flagged down a cab, in which the driver had tickets to Sunday's festivities and headed back downtown to gorge ourselves on Jewish diner food and get mentally prepared for another day in the sweltering Chicago sun.


The Silver Jews: Sometimes a pony gets dehydrated.

(If you didn't already know, I stole nearly every picture from Pitchfork's lovely recap.)

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Let me interrupt the regularly scheduled program...

... to show you the second cutest video ever (Architecture in Helsinki's "Do the Whirlwind" #1, duh).



Just for kicks...

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Best Trip EVER (Pitchfork Music Festival Day 1)

Friday

I arrived at Midway Airport Thursday night, after a frenzy of flight changes and harried airport confusion. It turns out I had booked ticket for a month earlier, and for some strange reason I had missed my flight by a MONTH. After the smoke cleared, I found my self sitting bitch between two very familiar gentlemen, Jacob "Uncle Louie" Rosenberg and Landis "Philly""Killadelphia" Knorr. I read Vice for the first time in months and dozed in and out to Grizzly Bear's Yellow House (left). Excellent nap music. I switched to the new Black Keys' album, Magic Potion, when I finally awoke and found it incredibly boring.

When we finally touched down, I was terribly excited. Jake and Philly temporarily parted ways as I hitched a ride with Sarah and Sarah's mom out to Oak Park. Staring out to the strange streets of Cicero Ave. from the comforts of Sarah's mom's Subaru Outback, all I could only think of two things. 1) I actually made it. 2) So this is where Olga Sarantos aka Granny Fiery Furnaces was talking about. You know how I do.

Thursday night was sleepytime, but Friday started off with a bang. After a trek into Wrigleyville to track down incapacitated Jake's wallet (Daddy Warbucks bought us a dinner later on as a thanks) and a swing by out hotel downtown, we took in one of the greatest sports rivalry: Cubs and Cards. While the game was decent (Cubs win! Cubs win!) and the heat was manageable due to our shady seats, I found myself guilty of a tourist crime: caring less about what I'm taking in but more of how I'm gonna get a souvenir to show I was taking it in. As soon as I decided I would get a Juan Pierre t-shirt if my original plan Nomar Garciaparra jersey was unavailable, I was able to figuratively chill out. By the way, the "The Cardinals Like To Take It In Their Pujols" T-shirt (shown below) never came into the picture. I was able to relax, sip on a cold Old Style and marvel at the history and almost human-like personality of Wrigley Field.



After the game we met back up with Philly and Jake and ventured into Free Fridays at the Art Institute of Chicago, home of such famous paintings as Georges Seurat's La Grande Jatte, Grant Wood's American Gothic and Edward Hopper's Nighthawks. We ran the hurry up offense, missed Hokusai's The Great Wave of Kanagawa (on loan?), skipped as many of Monet's Haystacks as possible and had Philly and Jake pick out their metals for their Gladiator battle in the medival weapons section. We were eager to get a quick bite and finally get the music on. Jams. I wanted to hear the jams.


Edward Hopper's Nighthawks: Pretty good.

The crew waded through the humidity of Wrigleyville, fighting through the dark mugginess and indigestion from a hurried dinner at Quizno's. My Quizno's-virginity had been taken away from me and as you can probably guess, I wasn't in love and was extremely disappointed. I wanted the Joggers to come take me away. We finally made it into The Metro and Joggers had already started. If I didn't have a whole weekend recap ahead of me, I would come right out and say it: Joggers might have been the best band I saw in Chicago. This is because Joggers might be the best band in the world. Their guitar craftsmanship blows my mind and everytime I see them, I'm in sheer amazement of their fingers. Like when Trent and Sue see Mikey do the "Twirly Whirly" stuff in Swingers, I'm just speechless. They're so money they don't even know it. Ben Whitesides looks like Harry Nilsson these days; it's a very good look. To top off a set laden with tracks off With a Cape and a Cane, the Portland boys rocked a Yes cover ("Long Distance Runaround"... go to their myspace page to listen) and the barbershop acapella stylings of old fave "Back to the Future." Doc Brown would be so proud.


Though they don't seem like it, these guys are artists.

After Eugene Mirman and Todd Barry provided entertainment better than staring at the floor waiting for the next band to start, Austin's Voxtrot took stage and proceeded to wuss the place out in a totally sissy awesome way. The pop outfit brought their Belle and Sebastian meets Moz indie rock really hard. Highlights included "Mothers Sisters Daughters and Wives", "Raised By Wolves" and "The Start of Something". They say everything is bigger in Texas... Voxtrot proved that adage correct, well almost. They played for a bit too long and their catchy pop tunes suffered from a bit too much weight. By the the end of each of their 4+ minute pop tunes, I questioned why they weren't 2 minutes. Short and snappy.

Sunset Rubdown sauntered on past midnight and let me speak for myself, I was fucking tired. At this point it was chore to even stand up and though Spencer Krug and Co. (including former Pony Up! player Camilla Wynne Ingr) held my attention through most of their set, by the end, I wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel, sit in my underwear and bask in the glory of air conditioning. They finished a little after 1am, and completely satisfied, I tagged along with the crew across the street to the gyro shop. It was there where I was to have the biggest regret of my trip: not eating a gyro. I would spend much of the rest of the weekend seeking reasons to go back to Wrigleyville, coming up with none, and dreaming of grilled onions and tzatziki.


Sunset Rubdown: I can't decide if this picture is real.

Next: Day 2. Duh.

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It's good to be home.

Joe Mantagna and the band Chicago have nothing to do with my trip.

Chicago was a blast.

I'm currently working on a day by day recap of the events, complete with pictures (mostly stolen from p-fork) and a whole bunch of things you didn't even care about.

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