ULTRA MUSIC FESTIVAL 2011

Miami’s Ultra Music Festival is not exactly a model citizen in the world of music festivals.  It’s no Burning Man, no Woodstock, not even a post-Kanye Bonnaroo. There’s no overt mission of sustainability or charity aside from the rather half-assed “Eco Village” shoved behind the Heineken Dome in the back corner of the park. The food options are narrow, unhealthy, and wildly overpriced ($15 for a sub-par plate of chicken fingers and a handful of undercooked fries? Yikes).  The bathrooms are few and far between (waits reportedly lasted up to half an hour). There’s no source of free water, which is a huge no-no in my book (water = survival when it comes to spending all day dancing in the hot sun, and forcing parched, Molly-driven ravers to pay $5 cash for every puny bottle is downright lethal). There wasn’t even a recycling facility (come on).

Bienvenidos a Miami.

Then there were the unexpected and unintentional issues: a massive and very poorly timed fuel fire at the Miami airport that canceled nearly 200 flights; scheduling conflicts with the Winter Music Conference, Swedish House Mafia’s “Masquerade Motel” show, and Chromeo’s performance at the Juno Awards; Bicentennial Park construction that forced organizers to make do with a venue size 30% smaller than last year’s…

And yet, wow. UMF 2011 triumphed.

At a time when many festivals focus on drawing in the maximum number of people with the widest variety of musical offerings—the “something for everybody” approach—Miami’s Ultra Music Festival seems to have known exactly what it wanted to be since its nativity on the shores of South Beach thirteen years ago.  Despite or rather because of its complete unwillingness to compromise on this very particularized vision, Ultra seems to have achieved self-actualization in a way that few other festivals have in this day and age.  The result? A three-day, sold-out wonderland of bass-laden, booty-shaking, face-melting EDM that showcased the very best of an industry in its prime.  With a line-up ranging from hot-off-the-press buzz-makers (Afrobeta, Beardyman, Trentmoller) to legendary standbys (Chemical Brothers, Carl Cox, Underworld), Ultra ran the gamut without ever veering too far from its molten core.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that Ultra Music Festival is not for everybody.  But it is for anybody who loves electronic music enough to be blasted with it for three solid days without reprieve. And therein lies the beauty of the whole affair. 

FRIDAY:

We arrived to find the party in full swing, with what would soon prove to be a permanent sea of speedy die-hards blanketed across the mouth of the Main Stage and shaking their fists along with the endless pulsations of Benny Benassi, who seemed to take his midday placement as a chance to chill out, and was even spotted texting onstage during his own set.  Not that it mattered; crowds were way too amped-up to notice, and it’s unlikely that anyone who noticed would have cared anyway.

After checking out the scene a bit, we skipped over to the Live Stage, Ultra’s second biggest and best situated arena, where Norwegian downbeat duo Röyksopp was spinning some seriously spellbinding ambience that kept everybody moving.

Next up, an entirely unexpected and seriously danceable dubstep-derived nosh-up from classically trained house mastermind BT (a.k.a. Brian Transeau).  It was exactly what I’d been looking for all evening, with my energy level still sky-high and booty aching to swivel and swim.  BT would be playing a second set on the Main Stage on Sunday afternoon, but unfortunately it was scheduled for 1:30 p.m., hence I already knew I wouldn’t be making it unless I happened to wake up there.  Regardless, despite the small stage size of his Friday set, it was clear that this British club favorite and all-star producer knows how to deliver exactly what the people want, exactly how and when we want it.

Rave-style hypnosis.

We were riding high until we headed back to the Main Stage, which was all but deserted thanks to the Duran Duran buzz kill that was happening on it.  This is not to say that Duran Duran is not worthy of a listen, or that they shouldn’t be applauded for making a comeback, or that their rendition of “Notorious” didn’t put a smile on my face, it’s just that they didn’t fit in with the otherwise airtight line-up that Ultra created, and it was too early in the weekend for people to be ready for a break from the pulsing electro we had come to experience.

Then, right when we began to wonder if live sets were a no-go at Ultra, here came Pendulum, with epileptic, industrial noise layered under live drums and vocals alongside skin-crawling big-screen visuals that brought the energy and the crowds bouncing back to Main Stage. 

When Pendulum got overwhelming, it was over to STS9 for some downtempo electrojams and a rare break in the pulsing base. But you can only sit for so long at a place like this, so we ran over to Tiesto, god of trance, who’d come all the way from the Netherlands to hypnotize 50,000 of us into a state of pure euphoria.  Now that’s a great way to kick off a weekend.

EMTs can party too.

SATURDAY:

We rambled back over to the festival grounds just in time to catch Dutch dance DJ Afrojack, who has been drawing quite a bit of buzz lately for his ability to take crowd-pleasing pop songs and amp up their danceability factor by about a thousand.  When we arrived, he was doing just that to an already thoroughly sweaty crowd at the Main Stage.  Even the EMTs constantly roving the crowd picking up ravers who raved too hard were partying on their EMT mobiles.  We immediately joined in. 

Suddenly, we looked up to see a plane tracing out billowy white smoke letters across the cloudless blue sky: L... A… D… Y… It was like that scene in Matilda where the whole classroom of kids is reading out Magnus’ chalkboard message to Miss Trunchbull from beyond the grave (right? Anyone?  Never mind).  G… A… G… A… Suddenly you could feel the communal energy shift, everyone staring at the sky, cameras pointed, breath bated.  This was by no means a crowd of teenyboppers or Lady G diehards, but the woman’s a superstar, and a surprise appearance, we all agreed, would be epic, indeed. But no.  It was just a promotion for B…O…R… oh.  Born This Way. S a bag of D’s, Gaga.  The only way I’ll be obtaining your newest album is by pirating it.

Next, on the Live Stage, Simian Mobile Disco duo James and James (Ford and Shaw, respectively), clad in simple all-black ensembles, fully embodied their own indie-tech duality by producing a hip-shaking lesson in sleek and shiny minimalism via clunky analog DJ equipment that looked like something David Cronenberg might’ve dreamed up in 1983.  Hipsters and ravers: two birds, one stone.

As late afternoon seeped into early evening, my crew and I formed something of a disco train that bumped and grinded through seas of sweaty, smiling, dayglow-swathed revelers before pausing in the central dustbowl to rock out to San Fran house master Kaskade.  Kaskade’s always-awesome assortment of expertly-fused party tracks includes everything from classic dance riffs to spanking new samples from dub’s newest it-kid, Skrillex, whose own performance was regrettably missed by me.

From there, it was over to the multi-level Carl Cox & Friends arena, a brand new addition to UMF and “the largest enclosed sound structure ever featured in Florida.”  Here, spinning his heart out, was one of the most controversial figures in techno—although you definitely wouldn’t know it by the looks of him.  Quintessentially bald and bespectacled, this would be Moby, the guy who made electronic music mainstream in the early 90s, and who continues—as he proved on Saturday—to stay at the zenith of the game, churning out electric dance magic as vigorous as it was dynamic, as classic as it was fresh.

Bright like neon love.

 Then, it was time to head back over to the Live Stage, where two of the acts I was most looking forward to were scheduled back to back: Cut Copy and Empire of the Sun.  Unlike distant cousins Simian Mobile Disco, Cut Copy occupies an entirely different section of the indie-electro soup.  Actually, picture that soup as one of those kinds you can get in Asian restaurants that’s shaped like a yin yang, and think of Cut Copy as the yang to SMD’s yin.  Whereas SMD surfaced as a paring down of experimental electronic rock band Simian, Cut Copy evolved out of DJ/producer/songwriter Dan Whitford solo project, to which he added bassist/guitarist Tim Hoey and drummer Mitchell Scott to fill out his synth and sample-based sound. The pre and post-addition album titles say it all: “I Thought of Numbers” transformed into “Bright Like Neon Love,” a phrase that accurately sums up the band’s performance on Saturday, despite the fact that their set list drew most heavily from their two latest albums, indie-darling “In Ghost Colours” and this year’s equally awesome follow-up, “Zonoscope.”  Regardless, the band kicked off a welcome hiatus from the rotations with some good (albeit not so old-fashioned) live music that had crowds dancing and singing madly and brightly as neon love itself.

Empire of the Sun

If Simian Mobile Disco and Cut Copy are a yin-yang shaped soup, Empire of the Sun is on another plate entirely.  And by plate I mean planet.  (I know, that was a good one.) With their experimental yet pop-minded electric revival, the Aussie duo’s music sounds much like that of American counterparts MGMT—that is, until you compare their live performances.  Completely blowing MGMT’s notoriously lackluster shows out of the water, Empire of the Sun delivers exactly what you’d expect from a band whose album art resembles a space-age theatrical poster for Labyrinth. I have no earthly idea about the plot that unfolded onstage, but the mesmerizing spectacle of glammed-out costumes, interstellar backdrops, and Cirque de Soleil-style choreography left me far too entertained to care.

Next, we raced over to Main Stage to catch the tail end of what was clearly an incredible live set by British electronica veterans Underworld.  Luckily, the duo closed out with the soaring melodies and neck-breaking beat of “Born Slippy,” the song from Trainspotting that seems to best capture the gritty glamour and brash tragedy of the 1980s Edinborough club scene depicted in the film. The fact that this was one of Underworld’s last-ever performances made the experience particularly cathartic.

Deadmau5

To conclude Day 2, last year’s top headliner and the reportedly antisocial wunderkind of today’s EDM scene: Deadmau5, a.k.a. Joel Zimmerman.  Complete with a blinged-out version of his dementedly grinning mouse head and lit-up cube—notably brilliant elements that set him apart visually from the hundreds of other skinny white guys standing at turntables—Zimmerman spun his distinct brand of dark and bouncy techno for bouncing masses rife with homemade recreations of the Mau5’s iconic head.  Heavy on the bass, heavy on the synth, heavy on the flashing lights.  

Deadmau5 has a real person face.

Zimmerman’s bromance with Tommy Lee continued as Lee and his drum kit emerged on a raised platform, and Lee’s girlfriend Sofi Toufa (as in, the one who needs a ladder) strutted around below and yelled into the microphone, alternating between what some might describe as singing and what most would describe as prattling on when all we want to hear is the music.  At the end of the show, a blizzard of confetti shot out into the crowd, the lights went white, and we all trudged back to our respective hotels, condos, and, as the case may be, all-night after-parties that kept the city throbbing ‘til the sun came back up.

SUNDAY:

Sunday was spent flitting around like moths to a series of flames (the flames being any beat we could shake to), in a dance trance that didn’t stop until the music did. It began with an electro-house stopover at Wolfgang Gartner but quickly moved into an official State of Trance.  And by this I mean that for its third and final day, UMF decided to transform the Carl Cox tent into an enchanted grotto reserved exclusively for back-to-back performances from some of the greatest trance DJs in the world. 

Fake Blood

After getting down to British progressive trancer Gareth Emery, we scooted over to Live Stage to the beat-heavy house party of another talented Brit—Theo Keating, a.k.a. Fake Blood, a personal favorite that we’d first discovered at Ultra last year.  Despite his preoccupation with another music project called The Black Ghosts with Simon William Lord, Keating’s lively beats and computerized vocal hooks remain addictive as ever. 

A State of Trance.

We danced until Steve Aoki emerged and disappointed us all by eliminating the one thing we loved about him—his delicious Lion King intro.  And he didn’t even replace it with anything cool. So, the disco train left the station, and we made our way through twisting passages, grassy knolls, and strung-out hill-dwellers back to A State of Trance, where Armin Van Buuren promptly showed us exactly what the phrase meant.  Soaring synths!  Astronomic drops! Flashing lights! Rainbow glasses! Vick’s Vapo-Rub! Heart-melting rendition of “Use Somebody” that had the entire crowd singing along with our arms in the air!  When I emerged from the tent I felt I’d lost all five senses, and I wasn’t even mad.

The only thing that could tear us out of our tranced-out state was the Crystal Castles set happening back over at Live Stage, so away we went.  As you may know, I’ve already seen (and reviewed) Crystal Castles more times than necessary, and though I love them dearly, they’re pretty much the same every time: Ethan spins and Alice screams and everybody wears a lot of black. This time, Alice had a bum leg, so she couldn’t even crowd surf.  But I still danced my pants off. 

Not Beardyman, but a man with a beard.

Next up, something truly new and different: London-based beatboxer extraordinaire, Beardyman.  This guy is pretty incredible, folks—his entire show consists of off-the-cuff beatboxing and live looping technology.  As in, every sound that comes out of his speakers is a sound that he made with his mouth while he was standing there in front of us.  You’ve got to see it to believe it—it’s a feat admirable enough to forgive the shameless self-promotion in the form of Windows ‘95-style graphics that came along with it.  Expect to see big things from this up-and-comer.

After Beardyman’s 20-minute set (apparently he was a last minute addition), it was time for MSTRKRFT, the Canadian dance duo comprised of Death from Above 1979's Jesse F. Keeler and producer Al-P. With a slew of expertly crafted remixes and rollicking beats, these guys just know how to make people move, and we love them for it.

The Chemical Brothers

MSTRKRFT provided the perfect warm-up for what was without a doubt the most epic performance of the entire weekend.  The fact that it happened to be the top headliner performing the final set of the festival just goes to show how great UMF’s organizers are at their job.  Enter the pioneers of big beat; the original unifiers of dance, rock and rap; the granddaddies of arena-sized electronica: The Chemical Brothers. Living up to every expectation and then some, Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons put on the show of the century: back to back to back flawlessness, like a thousand moving parts all coming together into a perfect machine.  As mind-melting visuals flashed across the screens—a mechanical horse, a human body made of light bulbs, the most terrifying clown in the history of the world screeching, “YOU’RE MY CHILDREN NOW!”—sound and vision melded into one big bursting sensation that seemed to coat the inside and outside of every single body in the park.  Walls of blood-curdling sound seemed to reach down and scoop up the entire crowd by our earlobes, lifting us until it seemed like our ears would tear away from our skulls, and then at the last possible second dropping us back down into a featherbed of liquid beats, the kind that makes you look over at your friends and scream “OH SHIT!” into their beaming little faces.  Pure bliss.

Ultra = Bliss.

A confession: when it comes to music, I’m a hedonist.  I seek out sounds that bring me pleasure, that I can feel deep down in my belly, that radiate from my flailing limbs. This is why Ultra is so incredible to me—and also why it’s so difficult to capture it in writing.

Novelist Nick Hornby says, "I love the relationship that anyone has with music: because there's something in us that is beyond the reach of words, something that eludes and defies our best attempts to spit it out.  It's the best part of us, probably, the richest and strangest part."  In Ultra, we sum it up in just two words: “TOTAL FACEMELT.”

The End.

By Hilary Cadigan
Photo Credits: Hilary Cadigan, Rob Royall, Stacy Komitor

Countdown to Hangout Music Festival: An Interview with Festival Founder Shaul Zislin

In October 2009, serial entrepreneur Shaul Zislin had an idea: he would create a music festival.  And not just any festival.  This would be something exceptional, something huge: the first and only major music festival held on a beach.

Seven months later, this crazy idea became a reality, and Hangout Music Festival was born.

“I have no history in the music industry,” Zislin confessed in a phone interview. “I love music, but ultimately, I’m the only rookie in a room full of experts I hired to make this thing possible. I wanted to create an event notable enough to put our sleepy beach town of Gulf Shores on the map, to become a major player in the same category as something like a Bonnaroo or a Coachella.”

Already the owner of a 24-unit retail chain called Surf Style and The Hangout, a hugely successful restaurant and family entertainment complex located in the sleepy beach town of Gulf Shores, Zislin says that his initial reason for creating the festival was simply to stretch the tourist season. 

“For me, the venue is the main event,” Zislin said.  “It’s part of a multi-year plan to make Gulf Shores not just a tourist destination, but a destination for music lovers and music makers. Our biggest challenge is convincing the rest of the world that we’re for real, that our venue is for real, and that our beaches are still clean and beautiful, despite the oil spill.”

In fact, it was Zislin and his team who created the beach venue itself, making it the destination not just for Hangout but for a summer 2010 music series called Concerts for the Coast.  Free performances by everyone from Jimmy Buffett to Bon Jovi brought thousands of visitors and much-needed economic stimulation to struggling Gulf area businesses after the spill. 

“It’s important to create a memorable experience for not only the audiences, but the artists too,” noted Zislin. “Jimmy Buffett told me afterwards that it was the best show he’s had in 20 years.  That kind of feedback is why we’re able to book the big names that we do, even as a brand new venue.”

That and some serious work ethic (not to mention some serious cash). 

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Zislin told me. “Nothing about this project has been easier than I thought it would be.  It’s all been harder.  You can’t imagine the amount of work and the number of crucial little details that go into putting on an event like this, and it takes awhile for it to become anywhere near profitable. But you know what? It’s worth it.  There’s magic stardust associated with rock ‘n’ roll music, and that’s something worth making sacrifices for.”

So far, so good.  In only its second year of existence, Hangout Music Festival 2011 has snatched up some of the biggest and brightest names on the scene today, not to mention a significant portion of Bonnaroo’s top headliners, including The Black Keys, My Morning Jacket, and Widespread Panic.  Oh, and the Flaming Lips.  And the Foo Fighters.  And Cee Lo Green.  And Paul Simon.

Okay, let’s cut the formalities for a moment and break it down.  When I first viewed this brilliant line-up, I hyperventilated and did a little jig.  Then I had a panicked feeling, noting the eerie similarities between this list of performers and the so-called “leak” of the Bonnaroo 2010 line-up I saw last year, the one that ignited the fires of musical utopia in my loins and then left me devastated when I found out it was a total fraud.  But no.  Hangout Music Festival is for real, ya’ll, and it’s happening in Gulf Shores, Alabama, May 20-22, 2011.  So be there, or be a square.  I rented a goddamn condo.

For info & tickets, visit: http://hangoutmusicfest.com/


By Hilary Cadigan

Dark Star Orchestra @ The Variety Playhouse in Atlanta

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, the Grateful Dead were and are a force to be reckoned with—the blissed-out crystallization of a culture devoted purely to bliss itself. The Dead spawned not only the jam band concept, but the jam band culture, including the raggedy, tie-dyed legions of ubiquitous yet unassuming fans that remain still today determined to keep the dream alive.

Enter Dark Star Orchestra, self-described only as a band that “recreates Grateful Dead shows, song for song, live on stage.”  Yet to call DSO a mere cover band would be doing them a major disservice.  This aint no wedding ensemble folks, this is the pinnacle of devotion, supported by sheer talent and validated by the acceptance of preexisting fan base with very specific tastes.

Since 1997, DSO has performed hundreds of shows across the country, drawing heaps of critical praise for their impressively obsessive attention to detail. The band is known to actually recreate specific Dead shows in their entirety, with ardent artistic loyalty to the original pieces that has been said to wow not only the critics, but even the fiercest of Deadheads, including 5 members of the original band that have played alongside DSO. 

Stepping into the Variety Playhouse for Friday’s show, my first thought was, where did these people come from?  One thing’s for sure, the Deadheads are alive and well, and either I’m not going to the right places to find them in Atlanta or they’re a traveling contingent, following DSO across the country just as they followed the Dead in previous decades. Grizzly old guys with grey manes and foot-long beards mingle with young jam band-aids in dreadlocks and baja pullovers, swaying around like underwater plants and illustrating the 

incredible breadth of influence the Dead still hold, even sixteen years after their demise.

About halfway through a five-hour set that truly blew me away, the bear-like man behind me shot his Red Stripe-bearing fist in the air and yelled, “October 27, 1980! Radio City Music Hall!”  This man definitely did not have an iPhone anywhere on or around his person—he just knew.  As did the majority of other diehard heads in the room, I soon discovered.  “The next three songs will be ‘Truckin’,’ ‘Scarlet Begonias,’ and ‘Fire on the Mountain.’  Then there’s going to be a really epic drum solo.”

Sho’ nuff, there they were, nearly as clear and true as they must have sounded back in 1980, judging by the reactions of a crowd filled with people who would know much better than I.  Coasting along through the catchy shuffle of “Truckin’” to a rousing, jammed out version of “Johnny B. Goode” to a drum solo that was, indeed, epic, to a melt-in-your-mouth rendition of “Casey Jones” for dessert, DSO proved that they have earned their reputation as the next-best thing to a live Dead show.  And really, what could be better for the ultimate Deadheads than masterfully recreating the magic of their idols amidst a riled-up crowd of their own brethren?  These six grey-haired dudes are not only keeping the dream alive; they’re living it, too. 

Review & Photos by Hilary Cadigan

The Walkmen @ Variety Playhouse 1/13/10

Nearly busting my ass trying to get down my ice-encrusted front steps and all but skating to the Variety Playhouse through the virtual ghost town that is Atlanta four days after a five-inch snowfall, I arrived at The Walkmen concert very much in need of some musical defrosting. After enduring The Lower Dens’ underwhelming and rather cacophonous-in-a-bad-way opening set, it was time for Hamilton Leithauser and his men to take the stage.  A lovely stage, I might add, draped in velvet and bathed in soft aquatic-colored lights.

The Walkmen’s music triumphs in its ability to intertwine vocals and instrumentals in a way that feels at once intricately arranged and casually slapped together.  Hamilton’s voice gyrates from the dissonant, bellowing indie-rocker moan to the bluesy, woozy swoon of an old-time crooner.  There are flickers of anyone and everything—a Dylan lilt, a Waits rasp, a Sinatra swing—that come together into something uniquely familiar and familiarly unique.  And the band plays on: sometimes with seas of rolling drums and clanging guitars crashing up against walls of organ (second encore, “The Rat”), sometimes with buzzy little landscapes of spunky percussion and catchy hooks (Lisbon stand-out “Blue As Your Blood”).  It works.

In person, The Walkmen aren’t exactly what one might expect.  Which is to say, they weren’t what I expected. Hamilton Leithauser is undeniably a cutie-pie; however, he looked like he was dressed for a first meeting with his girlfriend’s parents, and aside from his O-face singing contortions, behaved accordingly, with a likable but slightly anemic stage presence bolstered by inoffensive clips of between-song banter.  “Every time we come to Atlanta, which has been about eight times, people always want to take us out after the show.  And every time, it’s always the same place… a strip club. What’s it called, the Carmichael? The Clearwater Club?” Hamilton racked his brain whilst unknowingly inciting a Clermont Lounge chant in the crowd below, which is in and of itself an accomplishment, if not necessarily a difficult one ‘round these parts. Finally: “Oh right, right! The Clermont Lounge!  Yes.  Well we’ve never actually been there, but maybe this time…” 

Something tells me that today Hamilton remains still tragically unaware of the fact that Blondie the 53-year-old stripper can crush an entire PBR can with her boobs. But I guess strip clubs are best referenced only in passing when dining with potential in-laws, so I’ll give him a break.  He also talked about the weather, but given the fact that our little snowpocalypse was enough to shut down the entire Atlanta public school system for a week, I’ll give him a break there too.

Overall, the show was a surprisingly subdued affair, albeit suffused with a not-unpleasant sense of timelessness.  Featuring a good chunk of their newest album, 2010’s Lisbon, amidst a smattering of earlier favorites—including whimsically anti-nostalgic gem “We’ve Been Had,” the first song the band ever wrote and the last one they played on Thursday—the show felt intimate and satisfying, if a bit lackluster.  Straightforward in the same way that Spoon shows can be (and not just because Hamilton looks like a slightly more nourished version of Britt Daniel), The Walkmen delivered a perfectly adequate rendition of their much-loved tracks, but didn’t manage to propel them to any mind-blowing new levels.  

Review by Hilary Cadigan
Photos by Max Blau

Austin City Limits 2010

Austin City Limits will celebrate its 10^th anniversary next year, and inexplicably move from the seasonal perfection of October to the sweltering clutches of September. Mistake, in my opinion. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and ACL 2010 certainly wasn’t broke. In fact, the three-day festival managed to pull together all the elements to create what was perhaps the most ideal situation possible: clear skies, temperatures that never went over 90, cool evenings, and not a drop of rain, mud, or even much dust.

FRIDAY:

Per usual, I arrived at the festival later than planned. After much butting around, we finally managed to get our crew over to Zilker Park and walk the few blocks it took to get into the festival grounds. Unfortunately we took a “short-cut” that ended up being a long-cut, and managed (yet again) to miss most of the show I was most looking forward to: The Black Keys. (Note to all of my tardiness detractors: if this isn’t proof of my inability to be on time, I don’t know what is.) I’ve seen Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney rock out before, but not since they released Brothers, and if you take a look at the ode, I mean review, that I wrote about that album you would note that it holds a very special place in my heart, to put it mildly. But I’m not one to dwell, especially at a music festival, so after a brief sadness I put it behind me, and enjoyed the last few songs of their set... I can’t really talk about it anymore. Let’s move on before I start dwelling.

Beach House is a band I love but mostly listen to in the darkness of my room when I am moping about something. I was delighted by how naturally Victoria Legrand’s wistful lullabies blossomed out of the massive speakers and over the sun-drenched grass, with the tensile strength of spider silk, which according to Wikipedia is greater than the same weight of steel and has much greater elasticity. And that is my educational simile of the day.

Spoon rocked as always although I wish they would at least try to do the live beat-boxing on “Stay Don’t Go.”

Next up, Phish. (Click to check out my full-length review of Phish's show.)

SATURDAY:

Day 2 began with Mayer Hawthorne, a guy who just recently came onto my musical radar. I’m absolutely obsessed with “Green Eyed Love” (if you haven’t heard it yet, do that now; seriously, just stop reading and Google that shit), but this impish little number is a diamond in the rough, or rather, a diamond in the all-too-smooth white-boy soul goo that makes up the bulk of 2009’s A Strange Arrangement. Which is not to say that his performance wasn’t an enjoyable way to spend a Saturday afternoon; it just didn’t wow enough to keep me from ducking out after a few songs to check out the Black Lips, who I’d heard would be playing horn with a human skull. Sucks to go up against that.

Guitarist/vocalist James Mercer from the Shins and producer/artist/musical genius Danger Mouse from just about every awesome music project of the last decade struck gold with Broken Bells, an eponymous debut filled with haunting, mournful melodies that felt at once achingly familiar and inconsolably detached. However, their Saturday performance on the AMD stage started out feeling little more than detached. The sound seemed off and I was almost offended by the lackluster nature of my personal favorite track, “The Ghost Inside,” although it was impressive to watch the imperturbable Danger Mouse move from keyboard to guitar to drums without batting an eye. Then, all of a sudden, a miracle happened: Broken Bells covered The Black Key’s “Everlasting Light,” which redeemed all prior mediocrity and restored hope and beauty to my world.

Torn by my desire to linger over the gorgeous panorama of Australian sound emanating from The Temper Trap’s stage, I eventually gave in to the need to station myself as close to Jim James and his heart-melting falsetto as possible in preparation for the Monsters of Folk performance on the Austin Ventures stage.

In case you don’t know, I am Yim’s #1 fan. That being said, I must admit that as much as I appreciate his tendency to experiment, I love him best as My Morning Jacket’s frontman, so it’s a bit difficult to watch him sharing a stage with effing Bright Eyes. But I’ve ranted about this before, so I will just say that the best parts of this performance was the on-stage camaraderie between Yim and M. Ward and the three MMJ songs they were gracious enough to play for me. Ultimately, my loyalty to Yim Yames and all that he does prevented me from leaving MOF’s two-hour set, even though LCD Soundsystem, another Top 10, was playing at the same time on the other side of the park. Luckily I got a chance to rock out to James Murphy & co. in Atlanta earlier in the week.

Next, we shopped around the Art Market to the pulsations of Deadmau5 until we had to start dancing, which we did until his set—which tends to start rocky and end orgasmic—was over. Then we danced over to check out M.I.A.’s set on the AMD stage.

Maya Arulpragasam is, in my opinion, not a bit overrated—she’s totally brilliant and a little fucked up, which just makes her even cooler. Not even the New York Times can change my mind about that, even after her Saturday night performance. True, for some reason the giant screens showed cartoonish visuals and even just blue rectangles for the majority of the show, so from far away it was hard to tell if anyone was even onstage. And true, her vocals were a bit jumbled and hard to hear. But the beats were delicious and the lights were flashing and the energy was high, right up to the over-the-top virtual blood bath of her surprise encore. Maya jumped around with her name written across her forehead (literally), wearing shorts, thigh-highs, and a half white, half black shirt which I’d guess is meant to symbolize the fact that “my mum is a saint, and my dad is insane. That's exactly what I am—I'm a split personality between my mum and dad.” Who knows exactly what the nature of her relationship with the Tamil Tigers really is, but M.I.A. is a brilliant musician and a vigorous performer, and at ACL on Saturday night, even if you couldn’t exactly see her, you could definitely feel her.

Muse ended the night with their perfected brand of high-energy arena rock, as their soaring vocals and searing melodies etched their way across the sea of fans covering Zilker Park like a living, breathing, dancing blanket.

SUNDAY:

We began Day 3 with Foals’ rippling electro-math-rock, which swirled and swooped around like a robotic bird in the sun. They sounded like a smoother, more British version of TV on the Radio, which is a good thing.

Next up, Devendra Banhart, which turned out to be one of my favorite performances of the weekend. Brightly eccentric and understatedly fun, Devendra is the kind of guy you see in concert and just want to hang out with afterwards. The coolest part of the show happened when Devendra suddenly shouted into the mic, “Okay, is there anybody out there who’s written a song that they’ve never performed before?” Enter Shane Bill, a small pale kid with a mop of dark hair and sunglasses, who played his part so perfectly it almost seemed staged: after the briefest moment of awkward tuning and clear shock at looking down to see a massive sea of people below him, Shane got down to business, crooning out a song about Jack and Jill and some kind of violent occurrence that included the word motherfucker, which he sang in a jangly, Devendra-esque voice as we all cheered and clapped and chanted with the kind of communal affection and support that makes one happy to be alive. During Shane’s performance, Devendra and his band left the stage entirely, watching from a back corner like proud parents before returning for a nice moment where Shane and Devendra put their foreheads together and said things that Shane was probably too dazed to recall. I actually somehow came across little Shane as the crowd cleared away right after the show, and found him still a little shell-shocked. He told me his real name was Shane Zwiner and he was from Houston but wanted to move to LA to be a singer and an actor. You go Shane, you go.

Next up, the Morning Benders looked even younger than Shane Bill but provided a nice wash of melodic vocals to sit in the sun to as we watched a security guard snatch a freshly-rolled blunt away from a shocked group of hippie kids. The guard went backstage and came back about 5 minutes later, giggling. I’m onto you, sir.

For Yeasayer’s show, I found myself on the far right of the stage with a perfect view of the badass lady who translates not just words but sounds and feelings via sign language whilest rocking out onstage—my sources tell me the same lady was at Lollapalooza, which means this must be the greatest traveling gig in the world and a very good incentive to learn sign language. Suggestion for future festivals: two sign language ladies, one on each side of the stage, battling.

Edward Sharpe looked like the ultimate oddly-sexy hippie in a stained, once-white muumuu and his characteristically raggedy beard as he leaned off the stage and into a groping crowd of unnervingly young kids wearing braces and Silly Bandz aplenty. He and his large gang of Magnetic Zeros frolicked in front of a Wizard of Oz-themed backdrop that fit nicely with their jangly, neo-psych, “magical mystery kind” of indie-pop, but I’m way past my word limit so let’s end it there and hustle.

Flaming Lips: awesome, as always. What else can I say that I haven’t already said?

Once “Hotel California” was said and done, it was time to head out. I hate the fuckin’ Eagles, man.

But I loved Austin City Limits.

Written by Hilary Cadigan

Photos by Max Blau & Hilary Cadigan

Phish Rocks the Phuck Out at ACL 2010

Due to their living legend status and cultish following, it’s hard to review a Phish show without stating your credentials up front. It’s intimidating. People live for this shit. So, I’d like to state right here that while I’ve liked Phish since middle school and did in fact experience them live at Bonnaroo in ’09, I consider myself a Phish noob. According to iTunes, two out of my top three most-played Phish songs are from Farmhouse, and one actually is “Farmhouse.” In short, I am very low on the totem pole of Phish credibility, and therefore have probably not earned the right to even review one of their shows, let alone eulogize about why Phish is special.

However, this is my blog, and in this land, I am queen. So here goes, from the mouth of the recently converted: one noob’s tribute to the greatness of Phish.

Phish is special because they picked up where the Grateful Dead left off, forming the axis around which a whole network of smaller jam bands orbit, and channeling the energy of an entirely peaceful subculture based only on a shared love of jamming and everything that comes with it. Of course, things can start to feel exclusive and intimidating, because this is one of those cases where you either get it or you don’t, and the transition from general enjoyment to “getting it” is more like an epiphany than anything else, sustained by the communal energy that surrounds any Phish concert, like walking into a room full of people and suddenly realizing they’re all your best friends. Once you’re in, you’re in for life.

A friend of mine once told me that I’m the kind of person who would accidently join a cult and not realize it until I’d sucked down half the poisoned Kool-Aid. I will not deny that she’s probably right, but again: my review, my rules. If I’m drinking the Kool-Aid, you are too.

From what I gathered, Friday’s performance was a solid (albeit noob-infested) paradigm of Phishness, complete with prime covers of Talking Head’s “Cities” and Velvet Underground’s “Rock and Roll.” According to a 200-person-strong Facebook group called “Texas Needs Phish Too!,” it was the first time Phish has performed in Texas since their September 1999 show at South Park Meadows 11 years ago. As such, the band aimed to please, the audience was dancing and spirits were high—whenever the guy behind us screamed “PHISH IS THE GREATEST BAND OF ALL TIIIIIIIME!” we all raised our fists in solidarity.

At a Phish show, everything makes sense. Yes, Trey’s funky chord progressions and ecstatic noodling will put chills down your spine, but half of what makes Phish so awesome is how much their fans love them. The appeal of their shows is a more purified version of the appeal of music festivals in general. To me, there is nothing more wonderful than the chance to come together with a whole bunch of people who love what I love, and just love that love together under the sun for a few glorious days. That love is music, but it is more than music—it is the very specific culture of the music festival, which is music in its largest and most sociable form, a celebration of music and what music can do, which is to bring people together to dance or bob their heads or shuffle their feet or even just stand still beholding the explosions of sound and spectacle bursting and gushing and coursing around them like a supersonic hailstorm of awesome. Phish provides a special outlet for this love because the live experience is so firmly embedded in the music they produce.

In simpler terms: if you believe, as I tend to, that a band is only as good as their live show, and that a huge part of that live show is shaped by the passion of its audience, then you really just can’t beat Phish.

So Phish, here's to you. I am yours, phorevermore.

Setlist:

1. Down with Disease
2. Cities
3. Possum
4. Wolfman's Brother
5. Chalk Dust Torture
6. Rock & Roll
7. 2001
8. Backwards Down The Number Line
9. Harry Hood
10. Light
11. Suzy Greenberg
12. You Enjoy Myself

Encore:
1. Cavern
2. First Tube

Written by Hilary Cadigan, Photo by Max Blau

Last Aurora and Hollywood Heartthrob at Vinyl (Atlanta, 10/2)

Atlanta-based up-and-comers Last Aurora are a band with enough heart to fill a room much larger than the one they performed in at Vinyl on Saturday night.

Band photoshoot by Hilary Cadigan

Rocking their way through a short set of powerful tracks, the fervent foursome—including vocalist Robeen Dey, guitarist/synthmaster Alex Lafley, bassist Donnie Dey, and drummer Charlie Blevins—forged an instant connection with their small but equally feisty audience.

Frontman Robeen managed to come off lovably despite the bro-two punch of popped collar and Wayfarers-at-night, an impressive feat in and of itself, as he unabashedly Auto-Tuned his voice into a metallic wail that jutted against Lafley’s deft guitar work and Blevins' ferocious live percussion. Noted and appreciated: the drum kit's refreshing placement at the front left corner of the stage rather than hidden in the back as it usually [unfairly] is.

Last Aurora traverses rocky territory with the quick-footed resilience of a young band just starting to get comfortable in a newfound niche. Their sound ricochets between trance, rock, post-grunge, and whatever genre Chromeo is in, but finds cohesion in its consistently compelling delivery, particularly strong on tracks like “List of Men” and “Waiting a Long Time.” The result is a highly enjoyable wash of sound and light that draws you in, wraps you up, and makes you realize that being drenched in processed audio isn’t nearly as offensive as you thought it would be.  In fact, it rocks.

The offensive part of the evening didn’t come until a group of trust-funded ass clowns in tight pants and chemically straightened hair mounted the stage and punished us with a rain cloud of regurgitated pop-punk that pretty much summed up everything I dislike about music. And while I’m at it, I might as well finish my tirade by stating the fact that Hollywood Heartthrob (I know, right) bought all the tickets to their own show in order to tout it as sold-out. Boom. Outed. Cut to me throwing a glowstick at the frontman’s face and finishing my Bud Lite on the sidewalk.

Needless to say, Last Aurora should have been the last performance of the evening.

Download their EP at https://www.mavaru.com/artists/last-aurora/, a pay-what-you-want online music retailer created by Last Aurora’s own Alex Lafley!

Review and Photos by Hilary Cadigan