Pitchfork Music Festival 2006: My Take on Day Two.

Day two started much better than day one—mainly, I just remembered all my stuff, and secondly, I got to see the first three songs of Danielson’s set, all from Ships, which will be in my year-end top ten. They were introduced as the perfect band to start a Sunday morning, and I guess that’s true. But where they wowed me in a tiny basement with their summer church-camp singalong pageantry, they sort of bored me here. The cavernous stage sort of swallowed them whole, which coupled with their solemn stillness to make them seem like they were playing in a shoebox and I’m a massive giant watching them, which might have been what they wanted anyway. “Did I Step On Your Trumpet” (mp3) still sounded fantastic, though, and will still go down as one of the best songs released this year.

I left Danielson early to go to the small tent to see the Brazilian one-two punch of Bonde do Role and CSS, easily the most hyped part of either day for me. And they both lived up to much, much more than I could have hoped for from them. Diplo, who just signed them to his Mad Decent label, was milling around behind the stage as they were setting up, and I got the feeling that this was going to be some sort of event—one of those rare unforgettable moments where I’m part of something bigger than just a concert, more like a happening. And then the trio (two singers and a DJ) came out blaring the bassiest shit I could hope to hear outside of Miami or a nuclear testing facility, just a non-stop mass of unrelenting energy and rhythm, and they were jumping and spinning and thrusting their arms in the air like they’d just won the Super Bowl or something. The guy, D’eyrot, is thin and tall and scruffy and the epitome of youthful excitement, but the woman, Marina Ribatski, is just a total show-stopper. She comes out spritely and cute, bouncing around and almost breaking into the running man at points, but is soon drenched in sweat and sexy in a strange sort of way. They rapped exclusively in their native tongue over un-clearable beats from Quiet Riot and Zeppelin, and at one point even Europe’s “The Final Countdown,” for Christ’s sake. It’s the sort of music (funk carioca) that comes with no strings attached to any notion of what’s hip or acceptable. If it’s got a break, they’ll break it. And themselves, too. Stay tuned.

Okay, here’s what happened. Ribatski decided close to the end of the set that she’d dive into the crowd. She’s small, and was wiggling and keeping time and rapping while being passed around like a beach ball (above). Then she disappeared, but it seemed like she was going to hop back up on stage and finish the set, like usually happens. But she didn’t. The guys finished the song, and then D’eyrot, in perfect English and with preternatural poise and grace, said something to the effect of “Marina fell and hit her head on the corner of the boombox.” The crowd initially sort of nervously laughed, but it soon turned into a gasp, then quiet. D’eyrot quickly relieved us of any culpability, though, “It’s not you guyses fault, not at all…but we did lose our lead singer…ummmm…hey, let’s get CSS up here to do a song with us!” The crowd got behind him, probably somehow knowing that Marina would be fine (I don’t know how she made out), and cheered like mad. Only about 30 seconds passed after her fall before the whole of CSS ran on stage and huddled around mics and pogoed like crazy while singing their hearts out (below). It was a remarkably professional move in the face of a pretty scary set of circumstances by D’eyrot, and it completely saved the afternoon, changing it from one that would have been remembered as the one where the singer got injured to one where the last song was a jubilant celebration of life and youth and fun.

We stayed in the tent until CSS came on, and they proceeded to follow their tourmates and one-up them, putting on the best set of the second day. I had given their disc a few spins, including one on the way up to the show, but couldn’t get past the general similarity to Le Tigre and the largish thematic cops from Madonna’s last two albums. But after the series of events I’d just witnessed, my slate was clean and I was ready for anything. And they of course delivered—how else would a story like this end? All I really can say is that “Alala” (mp3) is demure and buzzy on record compared to the Clash-like assault that took place in this tent with these guitars, and the chant that was echoing through my head for the rest of the day. You absolutely must see CSS live, if you have the chance, if for no other reason than to witness the level of interaction they have with the crowd. If they’re not exhorting them to participate, they’re throwing confetti or water or a banana at them, as if part of their show is just simply the act of giving. And, despite the horrors of the first set’s crowd-surfing, three CSS’ers gave their bodies to the crowd as well, inexplicably jumping out and risking life and limb. One of the people I was with noted that CSS should have made the main stage, and their show would have been better as a result, or at least enjoyed by more people. I have to disagree; the stuffed-full, canopied venue provided the perfect atmosphere for both CSS and Bonde to thrive—open enough to allow the requisite air flow, but cordoned off enough to give the performance a sweat-soaked, claustrophobic and unforgettable energy.

I recovered from CSS with water and food during Liars (unfortunately I had to miss them), and then proceeded to dick around during Devendra Banhart’s set (above), which was fine because he seemed to be doing the same. The music floated through the air like Europe ’72 being played by the guy in the dorm down the hall, but only with huge breaks between songs like they all had to agree what to play next. It seemed lazy and disorganized, with like 7 people on stage, two of whom were there apparently just to awkwardly bang on shit. The good part happened when Andy Cabic of Vetiver came on stage and the band played marathonpacks favorite “You May Be Blue” from Vetiver’s new record To Find Me Gone (all of which is weirdly referenced on the pre-Pitchfork podcast I recorded last Thursday). It’s actually strange, because all of the press I’ve been reading about Vetiver is trying to separate Cabic from Banhart and establish him as his own man. So, whatever.

What I was really waiting for, like so many others, was Mission of Burma. After their set ended, I became convinced that they should have closed day one instead of the Silver Jews. They have the same cache that comes with a decade-plus of live absence, with the bonus of a newer record to support and, well, a pretty untouchable live set. Burma has aged more gracefully than 99 percent of rock bands (especially including the New York Dolls’ comeback turd), and are putting out music after twenty years that surpasses some of what they’d built their reputation on. “2wice,” for example, can stand with anything from the original period, and another marathonpacks favorite, “Donna Sumeria,” was allowed to assume the ziggurat size it aspires to, while plowing through the crowd while the guitars balanced on a tightrope, pulling at each other to keep from falling into the drums. The band, of course, came with the unimpeachable classics (“Fate,” “Academy,” “Revolver,” “Photograph”), and it was amazing and heartening to see hundreds of fists pumping in unison while Clint Conley yelled the “not-not-not” part of “Academy Fight Song,” which for whatever reason has assumed a greater urgency during the past few years of the current Presidential administration. But they also broke out “Einstein’s Day” (mp3), and I closed my eyes and and wallowed in the fire-branded dueling-guitar outro.

The fact that Spoon, one of the five or six best bands on planet Earth, is not at an unavoidable level of pop ubiquity is a minor crime. Britt Daniel is a potent lyricist, touching on those universal pop themes of awkward love, vulnerability, strength and inspiration with a brevity and focus unknown to most, and he and drummer Jim Eno are mesmerizing song arrangers to boot. I know I’m not alone in thinking that if Spoon were the band of choice in Garden State instead of the Shins, the “indie-yuppie” phenomenon might have taken a detour toward Prince instead of Nick Drake or whoever. But still, Spoon was easily the biggest and most popular band at this festival, and should have ended the thing (Os Mutantes I have no problem with, but they were underwhelming and present, again, based on rep and exclusivity instead of live amazingness). I tried to get a spot up close (I left the boring-ass Yo La Tengo set to get there early), but got stuck with one toward the middle. Why Daniel didn’t choose to start with “Chicago at Night,” which would have been the absolute perfect (and not corny at all) way to end a show that owed so much to such an amazingly great city, or even play it at all for that matter, I don’t know. I do know that the last time I saw Spoon in Chicago, they opened up with it, and the crowd went fucking nuts. But they chose to open with new song “Target,” which got no immediate reaction from those assembled and really left no impression on me, either. Not as much, I should say, as the other new song they played, the dorkily-titled “Rhythm and Soul,” (edit: it’s actually the less-dorky “Wither the Soul.” See the comments.) which could have easily fit on Gimme Fiction for all of its chunky, clippy guitars and obscure lyrics regarding photography. The set remained choppy after “Target,” including a half-assed “Monsieur Valentin” where Daniel missed a few cues and a “Stay Don’t Go” that, well, stayed. They really got down to business around the end of “Jonathan Fisk,” though, and managed a thunderous “Beast and Dragon” and, later, “They Never Got You,” the endlessly repeating coda of which the band could have played for hours without it getting tiresome.