PITCHFORK MUSIC FESTIVAL
UNION PARK, CHICAGO, IL
WORDS: AW HENDERSON
PHOTOS: MATT THOMAS
& ALLISON FELUS
& KRISTIN B
SUNDAY, JULY 15, 2007
Sunday at the Pitchfork Music Festival was all about dissolving borders, between past and present, between genres, and, for at least two acts, between genders. One p.m. found things kicking off to a distinctly drag start, with Bradford Cox of Deerhunter garbed in his by-now infamous grandma dress. The elongated Cox, who shares the same growth condition as Joey Ramone and Robert Johnson, looked more ghost than man on stage, but that's nothing to his transparent wail, which was tossed about like a dead thing in the debris-filled vortex of guitars and effects that we so lovingly call rock. It was more than a little absurd bobbing my head to heavy psychedelic drone and a hypnotically reverbed transvestite with the day barely half-over, but I won't pretend I didn't enjoy it all that much more. In a way, it was the perfect continuation of the day before, and if I hadn't already seen Deerhunter put on a similar show earlier this year, I would accuse them of shamelessly trying to one-up Yoko from the previous night.
Menomena next took the stage from Deerhunter. Compared to the theatrics of Cox and co., the Portland trio seemed downright demure, until they started playing. The members of Menomena, who have turned down the volume on their exuberant personalities since their 2003 debut, still can't contain their innate energy on stage. Pulling songs mostly from this year's Friend and Foe, the band delivered a tight, seamless set of indie rock aimed right at the stomach. Danny Seim's drumming reached out into the crowd and conked heads together like coconuts on "Muscle N' Flo," while Brent Knopf and Justin Harris traded vocals back and forth on "E. Is Stable" like two explorers lost in a cave. It was something of a shame to see the band play with only six or seven instruments on stage. Twice I have counted at least 15 instruments between them on previous tours, and each member righteously uses these instruments to their fullest, usually. As it was, Justin Harris traded his battle-axe of a guitar for a saxophone war-hammer for a couple songs, to great effect. This performance was another festival highlight for me, and I envy those in crowd who were just hearing the band for the first time.
The Deerhunter/Menomena double-whammy necessitated a rest, and I sat out Jamie Lidell and The Sea & Cake in favor of catching up on my Harry Potter. By the time Stephen Malkmus took to the Connector Stage, I was frankly a bit tired, and contemplated sitting the set off to the side. This was a short lived decision. I was, quite literally, in the middle of discussing the probability that Malkmus might play a Pavement song or two when the opening lines of "Heaven is a Truck" rolled over our heads. My friend and I shared a loaded glance that was too succinct to be non-scripted, and then bolted upright and towards the stage. I'm not sure if anyone in the crowd expected to be treated to classic Pavement cuts, which made it all the sweeter when Bob Nastanovich ambled out to the drum set and accompanied Malkmus through not only some Pavement songs, but at least one Silver Jews track as well. "In the Mouth a Desert," "We Dance" and "Spit on a Stranger" were nearly untoppable moments. Malkmus's conversational humor and fashion sense (decidedly not lo-fi) served to make these songs feel even more accidental and special.
With 8 p.m. came of Montreal and...well. I'll let the pictures say what words never will be able to about Kevin Barnes. At least he wasn't completely naked this time.
The New Pornographers played the last rock show of the festival, sadly sans Neko Case and Dan Bejar. Despite these not unpredicted absences, the Pornos created a cathartic space for audience members of every age to release three days' worth of line-waiting, heat-enduring, shower-lacking tension. As the sun went down, A.C. Newman confidently supplied the crowd with his own surrogate solar power, such that he seemed to glow. The crowd willingly let Newman whip them into a dance frenzy, together lighting the final firework of the show with closer "Twin Cinema." At no point during the festival did I see more kinetic energy being released than during the last half of the Pornos' set, which is entirely fitting.
By this point, having a huge genre-defining headliner cap off the last night seems rote, if not gratuitous, considering the wealth of forward-thinking and inventive bands that Pitchfork have been able to stuff their festivals with. That is to say, De La Soul closing out the night came across as almost pornographically indulgent, which is altogether not inappropriate, just a bit exhausting. Union Park was, for the duration of their set, the biggest party you could find anywhere. Prince Paul and co. shrunk the festival grounds to no more than the size of a club, which no other artist came close to doing. Even sitting against the fence on the far side of the baseball diamond, I was only in the farthest pew in the cathedral of positive energy erected for the night. Yoko Ono may have made it a point to emphasize the abstract love that is somehow going to save the world, but De La Soul gave the rest of us a chance to engage in the immediate love of the moment that needs no decryption system to understand.