CAVE + Allá + Cass McCombs + Beach House + Lightning Bolt + Here We Go Magic + Major Lazer + Big Boi + Pavement at Pitchfork Music Festival 2010: Live review

Photos: Erica Gannett, Marzena Abrahamik, Chandler West, Matthew Reeves

A flash rainstorm struck Chicago less than an hour before Pitchfork’s 1pm kickoff on Sunday, nearly throwing a wrench into the final day of indie-rock summer camp, as a friend affectionately dubbed the annual endeavor. In the end, the indie-rock gods shined down and parted the storm clouds, leaving us early attendees with the next pressing decision: Whether to see Allá or CAVE. It's anyone's guest why fest organizers would pit two local acts with such synonymous Krautrock-informed aesthetics—both groups have a clear affection for hypnotic, driving psych jams nodding to genre standbys like Kraftwerk and Can. Live, Allá punches up the sunny pop from its Crammed Discs debut, Es Tiempo, and while straddling the soundbleed between the Aluminum and Balance stages I was absorbed into a sonic continuum darting in and out of phase, in what was inadvertently the most truly psychedelic event of the entire weekend. The local Chicano rockers brought on special guest guitarist Trevor de Brauw of Pelican, who played the very first Pitchfork shebang back in 2005 when it existed as the Intonation Music Festival. Despite Allá's metallic firepower, CAVE commanded the Balance stage, draped with dozens of trees still dripping rain from the momentary storm. Barreling through one riff-heavy number after another, the foursome paused long enough for frontman Cooper Crain to give a shout-out: “This one goes out to all the people who still live at their parents' house,” before diving into the throbbing "Teenager" off its recent EP, Pure Moods. In a sense it was foreshadowing that local label Drag City has throw their weight behind the jerk chicken–loving rockers, when taking into account that the same imprint helped launch tonight's headliner and fest centerpiece Pavement two decades ago. The ironic flipside is that CAVE was one of the tightest, most in-sync bands of the three-day affair while Steven Malkmus's posse has always been shambling at best, and today was no exception (more on that later). “Hope to see you at Bitchpork later tonight,” Crain chuckled, referring to the relatively anonymous underground afterfest.

Just as with CAVE, a bizarre, faux-accented tirade introduced Connector Stage guest Cass McCombs—this one, not this one—a one-time Chicagoan whose lovely latest album for Domino, Catacombs, cemented the arrival of a new voice, one that's at times painfully enigmatic. Album cuts like "Don’t Vote" were satisfying if subdued, oozing calm over the already-sedated audience. A dreamy set from Best Coast on the Balance stage went over stronger, made up of singer-guitarist Bethany Cosentino and Bobb Bruno, the ebony-clad stoner metal–looking ax man anchoring the mild power trio along with drummer and recent Vivian Girls vet Ali Koehler. As on the band's celebrated new Crazy for You, Cosentino's incandescent pipes soared over sticky-sweet and fully-stoned garage-pop—approximating the breezy, feline-friendly tropical paradise depicted on the new album art.

This year's endeavor coincided with the glo-fi/chillwave don't-call-it-a-movement, often turning Union Park into a virtual chillaxation station—a vibe that continued with Beach House, making its sophomore Pitchfork appearance after debuting in 2007 with a tent set. The dreamy Baltimore twosome beefed up to a trio here with a live drummer pounding away in tandem with the pre-programmed (and kinda prehistoric) beats centering the bands first two full-lengths on Carpark Records. Here the Charm City combo played from both those and its more optimistic and uptempo new Sub Pop platter, Teen Dream. Glitter-splattered stage props were mildly distracting from the ennui subsuming the last third of the group's set—not a huge surprise given the often trudging tempos of older material, but props to the group for forestalling the inevitable.

Lightning Bolt were one of the biggest question marks going into the weekend. The Providence-based twosome is best known for eschewing stages, often setting up in the middle of the audience and launching into a set before the previous act has finished. Lucky for Beach House, the longrunning art-punk duo played it safe here, appearing on the actual stage and allowing BH to quietly wrap up. (Lest anyone accuse the proudly underground LB of selling out, know that it played the aforementioned Bitchpork bash on Friday, somewhat in violation of the Bitchfork code claiming no two acts shall ever rock both fests in the same year. CAVE may have also ignored this not-so-sacred oath.) The punishing mid-day set brought a much-needed crunch to the otherwise mellow proceedings. As always, drummer-singer Brian Chippendale's face remained hidden for the duration of the high-energy set behind an intimidating hand-sewn mask fitted with an old-school telephone microphone inside, rendering the lyrics indecipherable—not that the dozens of flailing crowd-surfers would've noticed. Even whistle-happy troubadour Andrew Bird strolled over to the Aluminum stage to see what all the fuss was about.

Here We Go Magic frontman Luke Temple is one of the rare musical guests on hand for whom this festival might've felt like a step backwards. Just a few years ago he found success as a songwriter in the Hotel Cafe mode, landing a song on the sappy lynchpin that is Grey's Anatomy, despite clearly being a cut above that program's often over-emotive coffeehouse folk-pop soundtracks. Since then he's linked up with an eclectic kitchen-sink ensemble named for last year's Western Vinyl LP. Temple's casual croon calls to mind Paul Simon—an accusation that's long dogged another Pitchfork Fest vet, comparisons to which are impossible to ignore once Temple and co. began clapping out an Afro-Cuban clave. Not that there's anything wrong with a little Latin flavor. In fact, here the synced-up polyrhythms translated into something communal and sublime.

Major Lazer followed on the Aluminum stage with what was in many ways a glorified DJ set, but what a DJ set it was! M.I.A. associates Diplo and Switch are the selectors behind the cartoonish creation, flanked by oversized Chinese dragon puppets and hype man Skerrit Bwoy plus dancer and daggering buddy Mimi. A mix of dancehall and pop followed—Rihanna into ABBA and so forth. Jamaica spawned both dancehall and its controversial groin-thrusting descendent, and Caribbean native Skerrit Bwoy, the face of Major Lazer, ensured that no one misunderstood where his affections lay: “I love daggering. I love Chicago.”

TOC cover star Big Boi hit next. One of this year's most anticipated acts, the OutKast rapper didn’t screw around, stalking the stage nearly from the onset. No ego-stroking intros, just straight-up Southern rhymes backed by a DJ, guitarist and horn section. It was a given that the ATL MC would deliver plenty of OutKast cuts, which led to somewhat of a catch-22. As the rapper born Antwan Patton confessed in his TOC interview, fans would likely "throw eggs" were he to deny them the hits that brought him to this point. But the unpredictable half of the group, André 3000, wasn't booked for this gig, and Dre-less flights through OutKast classics like "Rosa Parks," "So Fresh, So Clean," "B.O.B.," and "Ms. Jackson" only drove home his absence even more. Though his casual duds—baseball cap, oversized black tee and shorts—seem positively pedestrian compared to the fashion-conscious André 3000, Big Boi's immense creativity is witnessed more verbally than visually, evident as he spouted off a hilariously broad list of aliases including “Daddy Fat Sacks” and "Hot Tub Tony" before arriving at the titular nickname from his long-awaited solo album, Sir Lucious Left Foot: The Son of Chico Dusty. Cuts from the new Def Jam release followed, including the single "Shutterbug" and "You Ain't No DJ," for which record guest Yelawolf made a surprise appearance on the heels of the previous night's darkroom afterparty. Even the young movers and shakers in Chi-Town Finest Breakers were on hand, marking the weekend's first repeat cameo.

A latticework of low-slung white Christmas lights adorned the Aluminum stage, framing Drag City employee Rian Murphy's seemingly endless satirical intro, which went over most audience members' heads. Like a colleague said to me about five minutes in to the shambling speech—"This is inside baseball." Referring to himself as Q101 DJ "Rockin'" Rian Murphy, the longtime Drag City sales manager hammed it up, explaining that he'd spent years trying to secure radio play for Pavement, before making some amusing and provocative remarks about Pitchfork being like Lollapalooza with training wheels, eliciting a drone of boos from the crowd. Invoking other indie institutions like Merge and Matador (the label that took Pavement off Drag City's hands in time to release its first two celebrated LPs: Slanted and Enchanted and the subsequent breakthrough Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain), effectively mocking the Pitchfork-molded BitTorrent-happy audience that has yet to equate album ownership with album sales. Murphy and the other folks behind Drag City have a deep history with Pavement, first working with the band 20 years ago, and as Murphy later joked, he’s waited that many years to work his way up to the penthouse of one of the high rises forming Chicago’s skyline. No doubt it's exactly the sort of wry humor you'd expect the often aloof Steven Malkmus to get a kick out of, but once the reunited band blasted through "Cut Your Hair" (after a false start), Murphy's rant was quickly forgotten. Pavement sounded relatively tight but still as slacker-chic as ever, spotlighting the frontman's limp-wristed guitar solos and even name-checking Loop staple and TOC neighbor Beef & Brandy. “Get the beef and brandy,” he deadpanned, before strumming his Fender Jazzmaster through a set heavy on nostalgia, reminding us all just how many memorable tunes came out of the group's impressive 90s run, pulling jangly guitar-heavy gems from the band's entire discography including "Debris Slide," "Greenlander," "Frontwards," "Range Life," "Shady Lane," and countless others. Multi-instrumentalist Bob Nastanovich danced between his roles as slacker hype man, cowbell guy and second-rate second drummer, while the rest of the band—guitarist-singer Scott "Spiral Stairs" Kannberg, bassist Mark Ibold and drummer Steve West—seemed to be having a blast. Malkmus, ever the reluctant rocker, largely seemed indifferent. The Portland, Oregon, transplant never took all the attention too seriously. Why start now?

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