The Cave Singers at The Earl (Atlanta - 6/5/12)

Seattle-based folk-rockers The Cave Singers are a band born from the ashes of others.  Founded in 2007 by former Pretty Girls Make Graves bassist-turned-guitarist Derek Fudesco, vocalist Pete Quirk of Hint Hint, and drummer Marty Lund of Cobra High, The Cave Singers have cobbled together a distinctive sound that is very much their own.

It is a sound both balmy and bleak, delightfully twangy and occasionally raucous yet quietly melancholy at the same time, all blended together with a shrewd maturity that could easily confound them for an act far older than five years. It’s the kind of music that’s perfect for a melancholy Sunday—just lively enough to brighten your mood, just weary enough to appeal to your hangover.

Recording their first album, Invitation Songs, mere months after the breakup of Pretty Girls Make Graves, The Cave Singers have been on a steady track ever since, following up with two more excellent records—2008’s warm and breezy Welcome Joy and 2011’s rather darker No Witch—both of which have become personal favorites of mine. The band has passed through Atlanta several times since then, most notably as openers for  fellow Seattlites Fleet Foxes, but somehow I kept missing them. In fact, it was not until this past Tuesday evening at The Earl in East Atlanta that I was finally able to experience The Cave Singers live.

The show began with two very different but not particularly memorable opening acts: the mellow country blues of Shane Tutmarc and the spastic garage punk of Dan Sartain.  Finally, after a bit of hemming and hawing, The Cave Singers took the stage.

The night’s lineup included the three founding members plus Fleet Foxes bassist and flutist Morgan Henderson, who rounded out the quartet quite nicely with his rich, multi-instrumental sounds. However, it was vocalist Pete Quirk, looking like the long-lost towheaded cousin of the Luigi Brothers with his small stature and baseball cap, who really set the tone for the night.   Quirk’s lovably awkward between-song banter and spasmodic little dances endeared him to the audience and provided an interesting contrast with the rawness of his vocals, along with a whole slew of instruments he’d pick up, play, and throw aside—guitar (electric and acoustic), tambourine, harmonica, melodica, maracas.

Drummer Marty Lund provided the steady heartbeat behind Quirk’s warm warbling while guitarist Derek Fudesco was nothing but a mask of shaggy brown hair and sound, completely immersed in his music with no audience interaction whatsoever. The music, however, was great, from the clambering stomp and swagger of “Black Leaf” to the wistful amble and creak of “Swim Club” to a sun-dappled rendition of “Beach House” that made you want to pick it up and wrap it around you like a warm blanket. 

Ultimately, the performance was an apt re-creation of their recorded work, but didn’t really bring anything new to the table, aside from a few unfamiliar songs that hopefully indicate a new album in the works.  The Cave Singers turned out not to be a band that really jams out live, which was a bit frustrating as they seemed like they could be capable of doing so.  As such, while they played a fair number of songs, the entire performance, encore included, lasted only a little over an hour.  Perhaps they forgot that this time they were, in fact, the headliners we all came to see.

tUnE-yArDs at The Basement (Atlanta, GA)

Review & Photos by Hilary Cadigan

I was initially surprised that tUnE-yArDs, the blissed-out brainchild of one-woman melody machine Merrill Garbus, would play in a venue as small as The Basement.  Located underneath East Atlanta Village mainstay Graveyard Tavern, the venue is an awesome but small and somewhat hidden place, with little name recognition since it’s so new.  However, my doubts soon proved unwarranted.  In retrospect, I can’t think of a better place than The Basement—with it’s intimate size and understated allure—for what turned out to be one of the most epically wonderful concerts I’ve been to in a long, long time. 

The sold-out show began with opener Pat Jordache, a Canadian quartet whose creator/bassist, Patrick Gregoire, was once a member of Garbus’s original indie-pop outfit, Sister Suvi.  Jordache’s performance was good, particularly in the percussion department, but weakened by mumbly vocals that sounded like when the guy from The Knife sings in that weird atonal way that only works when it’s sporadic and well-placed.  In this case, it was neither sporadic nor well-placed, only mumbly. It distracted from the skillful melodies that almost but not quite obscured it.

However, these shortcomings only highlighted the flawlessness of what came next.

At last, Merrill Garbus mounted the stage, decked out in a snug black dress with pink feathered sleeves and her characteristically asymmetrical face paint/mullet combo and fiddling with an array of microphones, instruments and wires.

The DIY set-up served as one of the many reminders that for Garbus, tUnE-yArDs is and always will be a truly solo project.  Since she began writing and performing as tUnE-yArDs in 2006, she has melded unbridled creativity, brawny self-sufficiency, and undeniable talent into something utterly unique and deliciously refreshing.  Her first album, BiRd-BrAiNs, took two years to create, and was self-released as a pay-what-you-can download on her website.   

This year’s W H O K I L L emerged as the quintessentially perfect follow-up, and made a huge splash amongst critics and enlightened listeners alike.  Despite the fact that Garbus recorded this album in a studio and added bassist Nate Brenner to the mix, the finished product preserved the untamable charm of BiRd-BrAiNs, and brought to the table an even funkier and more refined sound.  It was my personal favorite album of the year, so needless to say, I had very high hopes for this show.  However, I did wonder how the patchwork production of the album would translate into a live setting.

Quite perfectly, as it turns out.

From first note to final gasp, Garbus had the entire tightly-packed room in a state of elated hypnosis.  Accompanied by Brenner on bass and a Blues Brothers-channeling duo that alternated between saxophone and aluminum pan banging, Garbus shone like an imperfect and thereby infinitely more fantastic Princess Odette (the lead ballerina in Swan Lake—thanks Google). Or King Midas, since everything she touched—from her drums to her ukelele to a row of glass beer bottles to the pipes hanging from the ceiling—turned to sonic gold.

Best of all, however, was her voice itself.  Soulful, funky, and unabashedly eccentric, Garbus’ miraculous vocal chords can transition from a tribal howl to an earnest croon to a low pitched growl to a piercing scream in the span of about one second.  Her expertise in live looping allowed her to build layer upon layer of vocals into an altogether stunning castle of sound, which would suddenly fall away to reveal the kind of self-effacing litotes that clench around your heart and jam it into your throat: “What if my own skin makes my skin crawl?”

Garbus’ true genius lies in her unending ability to build a magnificent sense of wholeness by gathering up and retaining the individual charm of a thousand sparkling pieces.  Tied up in everything she does is the kind of magnetic yet humble personality that could hold a room captive even without musical talent.  Barely pausing for breath after the final line of the night’s last song, Merrill announced that she’d had to go to the bathroom “soooo bad” since the beginning of the show.  Then she dropped the microphone, jumped off the stage, and ran through the crowd toward the public restrooms, shouting, “I CALL FIRST DIBS!” 

Darling, you earned it.

Chromeo at Masquerade (Atlanta, GA)

What do you get when you combine a tall and skinny Canadian Jew named Dave 1 with a short and tubby Canadian Arab named P-Thugg?  No, this isn’t one of those jokes about guys who walk into a bar, although it could be.  Rather, it’s the self-described “only successful Arab/Jewish partnership since the dawn of human culture”: Chromeo.

This electro-funk duo is so damn lovable—from their sitcom-esque disparities to their earnest lyrics to their catchy melodies to the palpable sense of enthusiasm they exude on stage—that one simply cannot have a bad time at one of their concerts.  Even if the venue is devoid of air-conditioning on a particularly sticky night in Atlanta, and the people around you smell like they made a group decision that deodorant may cause cancer and should not be worn.   

At Masquerade on Thursday evening, after a bout of similarly endearing and surprisingly great white-boy soul from opener Mayer Hawthorne, it was time to get the party started.  The crowd—a diverse group of everyone from the polo-wearing UGA contingent to the ATL scenesters to the highly enthusiastic 50-something lady who was getting her groove on right next to me (this review is dedicated to you, madam!)—was visibly amped, diving into the “CHRO-ME-O, OHHHH-O” chants the moment the stage crew brought out the light-up leg keyboards. 

Finally, the impressive array of colored lights began to flash, and the duo emerged, dressed in outfits (Dave 1 in tight-fitting skinny jeans and Wayfarers; bearded P-Thugg in an open vest with his Buddha belly proudly spilling out of it) that only intensified their resemblance to non-evil versions of Aunt Spiker and Aunt Sponge.

What followed was an all-out electric funk-fest, with Dave 1 schmoozing it up on guitar and vocals and P-Thugg unabashedly voiceboxing and synthesizing up a storm.  From “Needy Girl” to “Tenderoni” to “Momma’s Boy” to “I’m Not Contagious”, the duo rocketed through a catalogue of greatest hits from their three LPs (2004’s She’s in Control, 2007’s Fancy Footwork, and 2010’s Business Casual) and had the whole crowd dancing throughout.  They paused only to deliver a heartfelt tribute to their friend and peer, the recently deceased DJ Mehdi, with whom they worked on the song “I Am Somebody” a few years back.

The show ended with a shower of silver confetti, which seemed perfectly designed to coat our sweaty bodies in Dalmatian spots of glittering mylar.  A successful evening, indeed.


Review and Photos by Hilary Cadigan

Glitch Mob at Masquerade 7/15/11

By Hilary Cadigan

FLASHING FLASHING LIGHTS LIGHTS BASS BASS BASS.

If you asked me for a seven word review of The Glitch Mob’s show at Masquerade in Atlanta this past weekend, that would be it.  Unfortunately, my actual word count requirement is a bit higher than that, so I will try to dig through the layers of glowing, pulsating bliss to eke out a slightly more comprehensive account of Friday’s extravaganza. Here goes.

With their seemingly effortless ability to hit a genre-defying sweet spot between hard-hitting hip-hop basslines and cinematic electronic noise, Glitch Mob has created their own brand of raucous dance music with a metallic edge, a more sophisticated precedent for the ubiquitous Dubstep scene that reigns today.

Since 2006, this Californian trio (formerly a quartet—founding member “Kraddy” left the Mob behind in 2009 due to “creative differences”) has been burning up dance floors and blowing minds at clubs, music festivals, and underground raves across the globe.

On stage at Masquerade, after a mysterious last-minute venue changeover from King Plow Arts Center in Westside, the evening began with two perfectly selected openers to get the crowd warmed up in doses.  First came chillwave wunderkind Com Truise, who we unfortunately just missed.  We arrived just as New York-based trip-hop duo Phantogram took the stage, masterfully melding the woozy, haunting vocals of keyboardist Sara Barthel with scratchy-smooth melodies and mesmeric beats.  My only complaint about this performance was for the sound guy—the vocals were often drowned out by the music, which was a shame given how excellent they were.

Then, it was Glitch Mob time. Against a pulsing backdrop of multi-colored LED squares, the three DJs, “edIT”, “Boreta” and “Ooah”, collaborated behind three individual turntables bedecked with their trademark LED light squiggles.  And, from there on out, it was a non-stop dance party.

Glitch Mob had the crowd simultaneously entranced and unable to stand still as the unstoppable trio churned out a seamless sequence of back-to-back gems, from the industrialized groove of “Animus Vox” to the orchestral bleeps and blips of “Fortune Days” to the grand whir and boom of “Drive It Like You Stole It”. The set list, comprised almost entirely of original material, included the majority of their latest album, this year’s excellent Drink the Sea.  And when the Mob did venture outside of their own catalogue, the results were nothing short of spectacular—an explosive rendition of “Seven Nation Army” had the whole crowd screaming and stomping along.

All in all, a seriously great evening. I only wish it could’ve lasted longer.

Yeasayer (Masquerade, Atlanta 4/6/10)

At Masquerade on Tuesday, Brooklyn-based indie-rockers Yeasayer propelled their already fantastic repertoire into something even greater, striking a fine balance between earnest sincerity and playful gratification. With both vocalists dressed in jumpsuits—Chris Keating in monochrome, Anand Wilder in multicolor—and a backdrop of large vividly colored cubes of ever-shifting light, the band’s fun-filled vibes had the sold-out crowd keyed up and eating out of the palms of their hands throughout their short but powerful set. Case in point: the guy next to me who kept chanting, “this is THE BEST show I’ve EVER SEEN.” There was more than one moment when the floor was literally shaking so hard I thought it was going to cave in, and I probably would have gone down cheering if it had. 

With a particularly funkified rendition of murky opener “The Children,” Yeasayer quickly set into motion an energetic sequence of feel-good sonic confection, including upbeat and unsinkable crowd favorite “Ambling Alp” (word of wisdom: check out the music video, it’s insane and filled with nudity).   The guys played the entirety of 2010’s synth-heavy, dance-friendly sophomore gem Odd Blood, smoothly interspersed with hits from their first album, the gorgeous, genre-bending masterpiece All Hour Cymbals, as well as winning Dark Was the Night contribution “Tightrope.”

Photo Credit: Guy Aroch

Yeasayer reached that utopian middle-ground that few live acts master, staying faithful to their quirky recordings while bringing a special kind of freshness to the show that makes concertgoers feel like their experience is unique.  There was nothing contrived in each band member’s motley form of infectious enthusiasm—Keating jolted and swayed and smiled and closed his eyes as he crooned into the mic; Luke Fasano seemed ready to get up and dance as he beat away at the drum set; Wilder and bassist Ira Wolf Tuton played their instruments like extensions of themselves, completely focused and completely at ease in the stratifications of sound they were producing.  The guys didn’t need to resort to any kind of gimmicks or over-the-top stage antics—they had nothing to prove but everything to show why they’re a band worth following.

The set concluded with a short and sweet encore twofer that featured buoyant, synth-drenched Odd Blood closer “Grizelda” followed by the haunting percolations of All Hour Cymbals’ more organic-sounding “Sunrise.”  These two tracks stood well together, both layering sinuous vocally-driven melodies over snappy polyrhythmic syncopations. 

Like that of many bands, Yeasayer’s compositions have evolved into a decidedly more synthesized realm—sometimes to the point where you miss their more tribally-minded beginnings—and yet the artful progression and sheer exuberance of the band’s live performance proved to me that they are not only aware but in control of their own transitions, and far from selling out.  The passion exhibited by every individual onstage coalesced nicely into an overall sense of mutual respect, both between band members and between band and audience.  Further proving their down-to-earth charm, the guys actually came down and hung out with fans at Masquerade’s modest little bar after the show.

Continually compared to more well-known indie-rocking peers MGMT, perhaps due in part to the timing of their respective 2007 debuts, Yeasayer outshined the latter by a long-shot, cutting the patronizing bullshit and inexplicable resentment that MGMT tends to bring to their own lackluster performances and replacing it with hard work, humility, and a whole lot of enthusiasm.  In other words, whereas MGMT makes you kind of hate them after seeing them live, an encounter with Yeasayer just piles on more reasons for unconditional love. 

Review by Hilary Cadigan

Vetiver & The Clientele (The Earl, Atlanta 2/25/10)

In a gray fedora, button-down shirt, and jeans, Vetiver frontman Andy Cabic stands as a portrait of classic cool, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would brag about it. Vetiver, a band often characterized by their association with Devendra Banhart and the rather contentious “freak folk” label, surpasses pigeonholing with a unique style that is simpler, yet more nuanced than any one particular genre. In concert, however, the band outdid even their own skillful recordings, extending delicate melodic structures into rollicking jam sessions without batting an eye. Much to the delight of an affably bearded crowd, Vetiver at times came across as a scaled-down reincarnation of the Grateful Dead, except with less hair and more synthesizers.

To remove any doubt (and effectively supersede my comparison), the band ended their performance with a nimbly-rendered cover of the Grateful Dead’s “Don’t Ease Me In.” But don’t write them off as just another bunch of Deadheads. Even their most Garcia-tinged tracks, such as the countrified B-side “Wishing Well,” were inculcated with small yet defining details—an electric organ opener, a mournful harmonica solo, the gentle caress of synthesized piano—setting them apart from their predecessors. Tracks like the infectious “Another Reason to Go,” a classic drifter’s anthem, featured an unexpected combination of rocksteady beats and blistering synth-horns that illustrated the band’s dexterity.

Vetiver provided their successors, The Clientele, with a very tough act to follow. Both bands began with correspondingly mellow vibes, but Vetiver’s performance set up expectations of escalation, starting off slow and spiraling into full-on rock-out, while The Clientele proved unable to fulfill these expectations.

The Clientele’s new album Bonfires on the Heath constructs a painstakingly maintained atmosphere of slow-motion reverie. Exemplified with the cooing undulations and smoothly enhanced xylophone of their title track and the tender vocal repetitions of the swooning, wedding-ready serenade “Never Anyone But You;” the power of the album lies in its ability to sustain this atmosphere, cradling listeners within it like a room full of pillows.

Somehow, this power did not translate into the live show. Despite the lovably British temperament of frontman Alasdair MacLean and the Alice in Wonderland languor of gorgeous keyboardist/violinist/percussionist Mel Draisey, The Clientele’s portion of the concert fell curiously flat, sounding like what Bob Dylan might resort to if influenced by Coldplay and consigned to adult contemporary. Plagued by technical difficulties, including a squealing mic that kept disrupting what should have been a dream-like flow, the band seemed somewhat deflated from the get-go. This deflation escalated into a sense of mutual boredom for the band and the audience, transforming hypnotic ambience into the monotonous chore of trying to stay on one’s feet.

I probably would have enjoyed this music a whole lot more if I was sitting down, maybe in a grassy field on a sunny afternoon, maybe in a room full of pillows, maybe tripping on acid, but the Earl just didn’t feel like the right venue to fully appreciate what the band has to offer. Moreover, perhaps because of the contradictory crowd-pleasers they had to follow, it seemed like The Clientele had grown too disenchanted with their own work, or at least this particular presentation of it, to garner the confidence they needed to pull it off, setting themselves up for what can only be described as a self-fulfilling prophecy of mediocrity.

Review & Photos by Hilary Cadigan

Tegan & Sara (Variety Playhouse, Atlanta 2/23/10)

When Tegan and Sara first stepped out onto Variety Playhouse’s vividly lit stage Tuesday evening, I was reminded of that iconic Diane Arbus shot of those creepy little twins standing side by side. With matching oversized gray button-downs, skinny black jeans, and brown pixie-mullets, the duo initially seemed somewhat mechanical, if not a little gimmicky. In an, “ah, the lesbian twins from Canada have arrived” kind of way. Nevertheless, the crowd—picture Lillith Fair gone hipster, with a sprinkling of enlightened teenyboppers and middle-aged Grey’s Anatomy fans—went wild. I, on the other hand, sandwiched between a particularly boisterous Lillith contingent and what appeared to be some kind of specially designated area for couples to make out, was alone, sleep-deprived, and slightly grumpy.


So there I stood, a lone sourpuss in a sea of amped-up superfans, wishing the individual behind me would aim her catcalling slightly away from my eardrum, when Tegan and Sarah strapped on their guitars and suddenly launched into an eclectic series of vibrant tracks from their new album Sainthood. Between the sparkly synth-driven electro-pop of “Alligator,” the pre-Blitz Yeah Yeah Yeahs vigor of “Northshore” and the delightfully volatile lyricism of “Sentimental Tune” (“Hard-hearted, don't worry, I'm ready for a fight/Unnerved, the nerve, you're nervous/Nervous that I'm right”), the new tracks were well-received and got the show off to a lively start. The band then moved into a stretch of older favorites, such as “Walking with a Ghost,” “I Bet It Stung,” and their biggest hit, “Where Does the Good Go,” inciting a surprisingly melodic audience sing-a-long that demonstrated the ardor of Tegan and Sara’s loyal fan base without alienating any of their more cursory supporters.

Tegan and Sara keep their songs short and sweet—nothing on Sainthood lasts more than 3½ minutes—allowing them to power through quite a few tracks in their 2-odd hours of stage time. Then again, a good chunk of that time transpired in their supposedly notorious banter. While the initial between-track comedy routines were of the lame “So this is Hotlanta? Feels more like COLD-lanta” variety, they eventually established with the audience a sense of mutual appreciation and affection deep enough to make the spacious venue feel intimate. The sisters took turns sharing youthful anecdotes and cultural musings, from stories about adolescent relationships (“a slippery slope to gaydom”) to anti-middle school tirades (“my best friend became a middle school teacher, and I asked her, ‘are you out of your fucking mind?’”) to ruminations on the apparent extinction of the slow dance (“now all the kids just want to, like… grind up on it”).


Like their repartee, Tegan and Sara’s sound remained highly accessible and all about blending, whether through their incongruent mix of crunchy guitar riffs and bubbly synth hooks or the uniquely familial harmonies of their almost-but-not-quite-identical intonations. Likewise, their lyrics—which they write independently, each singing lead on her own songs—managed to sound at once beseeching and authoritative, heartbroken yet sensible, passionate yet guarded. They were constantly whipping out new instruments: a series of different guitars, keyboards, tambourines, even a maraca.

I’ll admit it, I was impressed; especially during their stripped-down encore set, when the duo managed to pull off a gorgeously layered, sans-Tiësto acoustic version of their deviant trance hit, “Feel It In My Bones.” In fact, Tegan and Sara kept me engaged enough to withstand not one, not two, but five near-tramplings via 300-lb security guard inexplicably hurling himself down the aisle, and that, my friends, is saying something.



Review & Photos by Hilary Cadigan

Girls - Concert Review (The Earl, Atlanta 2/5/10)

How’s this for a new twist on the old coming-of-age narrative? Christopher Owens was raised in a 60’s-spawned pseudo-Christian sex-crime-promoting cult called the Children of God by a globetrotting mom so brainwashed that she let one of her own sons die of pneumonia because the cult didn’t believe in hospitals. At 16, Owens escaped to Texas, where he worked for minimum wage and got into the local punk scene before a local millionaire took a liking and brought him out to San Francisco. While living there, Owens teamed up with guitarist Chet “JR” White, started a band called Girls, and released their debut record Album (2009)—an LP that caught both critics and fans by storm, earning them a spot among last year’s breakout indie darlings.

This stranger-than-fiction saga is no gimmick, but seeing Owens perform live—this little grungy guy in his red sweater and skinny jeans, long matted hair gleaming greasily in the colored lights—you immediately get the impression that there’s something going on beneath his slipshod veneer. While his comparatively clean-cut bandmates smile and seem to enjoy the jangly, often buoyant melodies they’re generating, Owens grasps the mic tightly, eyes closed and face screwed up like somebody who just got his finger slammed in the car door. Or like somebody who’s dealt with a lot of pain in his 30 years of life.


The sold-out show illustrated how quickly Girls have gained popularity in the past few months. The Earl does not usually sell out. People are excited about Girls, and at a small venue usually reserved for lesser-known up-and-comers, the audience felt particularly eager to engage with the artists. Following two opening bands that Owens dubbed his “myspace dream team”—prepubescent garage-rockers Smith Westerns and exuberant hipster-glam indie-poppers Magic Kids—Girls kicked off their set with a nice true-to-form delivery of jaunty post-break-up apology single “Laura.”

Owens’ maintained a rather visceral reserve throughout his performance. Each song was followed by a meekly humble “thank you,” as he crooned his way through the characteristically convivial dysphoria of Album. The eager audience sang along with a notably stirring rendition of “Hellhole Ratrace” and attempted to start a mosh pit in the throes of giddy pre-encore closer “Lust for Life.”

Girls deftly bulked up their small but potent catalogue with new track “Heartbreaker” (“a song about how people suck”), and B-sides “Life in San Francisco” (“when all your friends are self-centered eccentric weirdo junkies”) and “Substance” (“this song is about drugs, which, if anyone has any, please give them to us”).

Overall, the show did not set off any fireworks, but it was moving and enjoyable, and well played for a band that is more prone to individual emotions than theatrics. Girls proved that they’ve earned their credibility, not through gimmicks or showmanship or even Owens’ ubiquitous back-story, but through a rare ability to meld opposites, to create an authentically rendered contrast between the bright and the broken, the harmonious and the dissonant, the good times and the suck-fests. And who can’t relate to that?

Review by Hilary Cadigan
Photos by Max Blau

All Points West - Music Festival Review (7/31/09-8/2/09)

All Points West is a three-day music festival at Liberty State Park in New Jersey, right across the river from New York City. The venue was beautiful and the line-up fantastic, but the weather did not cooperate—turning the venue into a rain-soaked mud pit for most of the weekend. The population was an interesting mix of hipsters, hippies, and confused citizens. One of the best sightings was a girl in stilettos trying to wade through about 3 feet of stanky mud.

There is a major difference to be noted between the kind of music festival where you camp out and live there, and the kind where everybody goes home at the end of the day. All Points West really illustrates this disparity. At a festival like Bonnaroo or Rothbury, there is a sense of community that comes out of actually creating a temporary home, centered around the things that the temporary citizens hold most dear: music, freedom, and good times.


APW had two out of the three, music and good times were definitely there. Friday got its momentum going with a gorgeous Fleet Foxes set, enhanced by a gentle rainfall that seemed almost perfectly synched with Robin Pecknold’s haunting falsetto rising like smoke from the stage. And then it poured. Later in the day, Karen O made me forget that I was soaking wet and freezing, wearing a tank top in the middle of a 50 degree rainstorm when the Yeah Yeah Yeahs took the stage. Jay-Z wrapped up the night in top form with an awesome “No Sleep Til Brooklyn” tribute to the Beastie Boys, for whom he was standing in due to MCA’s cancer scare.

The single greatest show of the weekend, in my humble opinion, was Sunday evening’s Ghostland Observatory. They played on the smallest of the three stages, a sparsely populated tent that harbored comedy acts by day and dance-heavy electronica by night. Their infamous light show was everything I’d heard about and more, and paired with the invigorating beats of Thomas Turner and hilarious stage antics of cross-dressing frontman Aaron Behrens, this show was definitely the most fun I had all weekend. Crystal Castles provided a similar counterpart for Saturday—Alice Glass is a maniac in the very best way.

Other notable winners were The Black Keys, who may be the single coolest straight-up rock band playing today, The Pharcyde, who proved that old-school hip-hop is the best hip-hop, and the back to back sets of St. Vincent and Neko Case, who beautifully illustrated the range of talented female indie musicians on the scene today.


And then there was MGMT, with their usual bullshit. Now don’t get me wrong, I love MGMT. But that’s the very thing—usually when I love a band that much, when songs make me feel that fucking great every time I hear them, I’m willing to cut some slack on their live performance flaws. But this is the second time I’ve seen them and felt like Andrew and Ben were taking a giant shit on my excited little face—at Bonnaroo the crowd was so amped up that I barely noticed the lack of energy onstage, but at APW the lackluster nature of the performance became painfully clear. In the audience, the jaded youth were out in full-force, pumped up and ready to be blown away, and while it’s quite possible that the band is trying to make some kind of statement on the very jaded-ness I speak of, honestly, MGMT, I’m not in the mood. Give me something I can feel. Apparently they were rushing off to see Coldplay which is why they ended their set early (a move that everyone and their mom knows is very uncool at a music festival). The song they played from their upcoming album “Celebration”was nothing to write home about, and they completely slaughtered “Kids”—it sounds better on my car speakers and one of them is busted. I don’t know if this is a calculated downfall or just the result of too many hit singles in too short a time, but something is awry.

I was far more impressed by Tool—while a lot of people wondered what they were doing at the festival at all, they are an example of a band that is truly passionate about its work, and it showed. The gorgeously mind-bending, stomach-turningly bizarre Alex Gray visuals on the screens were epic and the music was real and true and the fans were doing their thing in ways you’ve seen no fans do their thing before. It’s kind of inexplicable, and I wouldn’t believe me if I hadn’t witnessed it either, but there was just something about it, man.


Ultimately, despite the music and good times, there was a frustrating disconnect between what the festival seemed to stand for and the reality of the situation. There was the annoying multi-vehicle trek to get there each day, the Azkaban-worthy pat-down crew at the entrance gates, the cage-like beer tent where attempting to go in through the out door would bring the full wrath of Jersey bureaucracy down upon you… These things didn’t ruin the overall experience for me, but they kept it from reaching that Utopian state of wholeness that the best festivals seem to create. I enjoyed APW, but at $239.00 for a three-day pass, in addition to $15 a day for the ferry, I wouldn’t pay to go there again.

Review by Hilary Cadigan
Photos by Tracy Mayer & Hilary Cadigan