Reports from Friday, day one at the Pitchfork Music Festival in Union Park, from Greg Kot (GK), Bob Gendron (BG) and Tracy Swartz (TS):
3:41 p.m.: It’s raining, which is appropriate for the overcast perspective in many of Will Toledo’s songs in Car Seat Headrest, and yet the mood is decidedly affable during his set. Two mosh pits break out on opposite sides of the stage, as noted by his particularly alert drummer, and Toledo chats with the audience like the relatively well-adjusted leader of a band with an acclaimed album to promote. He’s turned his one-man-band bedroom project into something bigger and brisker, his voice toggling between near-screams and exhausted spoken word passages as the guitars ebb and flow. The music consistently builds to big crescendoes, and even lyrics such as “I cry walking home” are underlined by exuberant performances. No moping allowed. In many ways it’s all been done before — from Husker Du to Nirvana to the Strokes. But each generation needs to find its own variation on guitar-bass-drums angst, and — for this year at least — Car Seat Headrest is it. (GK)
4:22 p.m.: Whitney breaks into a cover of Bob Dylan’s “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here With You” minutes into its set. The decision is apt. The band, comprised of former Smith Westerns members Julien Ehrlich and Max Kakacek, aims to channel the spirit of the legendary Nashville musicians that played on countless country and rock albums of the 1960s and 70s, including Dylan’s “Nashville Skyline.” Yet that tall order remains out of the reach of the competent albeit laconic instrumentalists onstage. Their casual vibe touches everything from Ehrlich’s overly sincere singing to a short noodling jam session. The presence of a lounge-leaning trumpet provides needed color amidst shout-outs to parents and other slack banter. “Aren’t they cute,” Ehrlich asks as guest vocalists join the ensemble, which later expands again with the addition of a string quartet. Indeed, cute, and pretty, serve as the operative devices for the material, be it the laidback “Follow” or pleading “Dave’s Song.” They arrive with all the petsonality of a content sigh. If Whitney was an emoji, it would be a happy face with a bandana wrapped around its head. One-time AM radio favorites America would be proud. (BG)
4:53 p.m.: Pitchfork attendees may notice a change to the festival before they even enter the gates. Last year’s main entrance was on Ashland Avenue by Maypole Avenue. The entrance is farther north on Ashland this year. Pitchfork publicist Jessica Linker said organizers wanted to reduce congestion. But when gates opened at 3 p.m., festivalgoers appeared to form blobs at the entrance, not lines. (TS)
5:09 p.m.: Julia Holter’s nuanced chamber-pop compositions would sound great in an acoustically perfect room, but they have a tougher time making at a big outdoor festival. For those paying closer attention, the rewards are many. She blends Renaissance Fair airiness, avant-garde scrape and drone, and oddball hooks. Classically trained on keyboards, she develops counterpoint melodies underneath her lustrous vocals, while viola and bowed upright bass split the difference between dissonance and beauty. And she writes sneaky good pop melodies. The whistling solo in the midst of “Sea Calls Me Home” is going to be running around in my head for a few days. (GK)
5:45 p.m.: Whether they like it or not, the fans clustered in front of the small stage at the southwest end of Union Park for Moses Sumney are getting a big dose of the mighty Twin Peaks from across Union Park. “How do you like the other band?” Sumney asks. His set skirts the edges of silence, with its delicate high-pitched vocals and layered electronics. It’s a distinctive sound, but as with Julia Holter, it’s probably best experienced in a more intimate space without the garage-rock mash-up. (GK)
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5:45 p.m.: Twin Peaks deliver a much-needed wakeup call to what’s been a very sleepy start to the festival. On the first handful of tunes, the Chicago quintet rattles and rumbles along, loosely attacking notes as if they were dented metal trash cans waiting to be kicked down a back alley. Two years ago at Pitchfork, the band delivered a breakout performance replete with the breakneck energy typical of guys not yet of legal drinking age. Here, that chaos gets tempered in favor of glimpses of sincerity and vulnerability. Twin Peaks also pays attention to matters such as tuning and proper progression. The addition of Colin Croom’s keyboards and organ give songs extra dimensions, along with an ambling swing that wouldn’t be out of place in a dueling piano bar. What hasn’t changed? Gang choruses (“Flavor”), groggy bass lines (“Telephone”) and drummer Connor Brodner’s steady beats that put everything in the same orbit. Still, his bashing doesn’t prevent the tender “Wanted You” from resembling Simply Red’s “Holding Back the Years.” Maybe it’s just too early in the day. Or perhaps the lads need to suck down more beer. But the carefree attitude the group showed just a few months ago at Lincoln Hall seems dimmed. The appearance of a horn section lends unexpected heft and class, the latter characteristic the last thing anyone probably anticipated from Twin Peaks at a hometown festival. It’s the sound and look of maturity hitting a garage-rock band head-on. (BG)
6:33 p.m.: Carly Rae Jepsen gives multiple generations that missed — or were too young to remember — the ’80s their own version of “Borderline”-era Madonna and Debbie Gibson. And she’s doing it without any irony. Jepsen, who has become the pop darling of the Pitchfork set, remains best-known for her smash “Call Me Maybe.” As such, aside from R. Kelly, she’s the most mainstream artist to ever perform at this fest. But the Canadian singer continues to try to leave her teen-idol identity behind. She transcends the label here with sparkly, sharp tunes and a chirpy voice capable of more than just single-dimensional bubblegum. A guest appearance by Blood Orange leader Dev Hynes, who collaborated with Jepsen on her last record, recently nominated for the Polaris Prize, lends additional credibility. Their performance of “All That” ripples with dark, deep funk currents. Jepsen could use more tracks like that. A majority of her love-crush-happy tunes — many of which address boy problems, the title of one of her songs — feel as anonymous (and programmed) as her high-pitched voice. Splashy, bubbly and bright, she could be one of a hundred different pop artists. Magically, she also seems to maintain the same volume level and pitch throughout — usually a tip-off of behind-the-boards trickery. That said, Jepsen has an A-rate soundman/woman. Clear and dynamic, the sonics match the arena-level professionalism of the video board and slick band. (BG)
7:05 p.m.: Mick Jenkins takes the stage 25 minutes late, starts to build some momentum, then turns the microphone over to the Mind, who puts a damper on the whole affair with some ill-advised Auto-Tuned vocals. Jenkins returns, and does his usual late charge. His sets typically build to a rousing finale, and this is no exception. His demeanor is that of a troubled philosopher who threatens to boil over — he cuts an imposing, athletic figure at well over 6 feet tall. His drummer, Noah, conjures off-beats and jazzy textures that underline the knotty issues with which Jenkins wrestles in his lyrics. And when he turns up the firepower with “Martyrs” and his pogo-frenized ode to “water” (as in “truth”), he brings an energy that had been lacking for most of the day’s performances. (GK)
7:32 p.m.: Broken Social Scene (BSS) bonds with the crowd by announcing its ties to Chicago. The Toronto collective talks about crafting “Forgiveness Rock Record” in the city, a process that took place more than six years ago — and not too far removed from the group’s last U.S. show in 2011, a mark that stood until its gig at Metro last night. Not surprisingly, a healthy whiff of revivalism flavors the performance. Comprised of a rotating cast of members of various members of Canadian bands, BSS represents a golden era of indie-rock possibility and elasticity that occurred in the mid-00s. Alas, two of its finer contributors — Leslie Feist and Emily Haines — aren’t part of the current incarnation. Stars singer Amy Millan does her share of heavy lifting, but new addition Ariel Engle seems tentative and lacks Feist’s charms. Similarly uneven is an untitled new song that needs more woodshedding — or some of the bottom-up crescendo build realized on the sensitive, slow-developing “Anthems for a Seventeen Year-Old Girl.” Uptempo material, such as the political “Fire-Eyed Boy,” swirling “Cause = Time” and horn-stoked “Superconnected” effectively move in take-notice directions that, with upwards of nine instrumentalists and vocalists creating an echoing swell, BSS doesn’t always manage. For all the kinship and creativity potential offered by the ensemble’s open-ended configuration, it also leads to messiness, sprawl and choppiness. Nobody ever said nostalgia was tidy. (BG)
9:15 p.m.: Shamir says when he performed at the festival on the same small stage last year, the summer heat wave made him “feel like an animal.” Tonight, the evening is considerably cooler, and he celebrates the “more humane weather.” The temperature isn’t the only difference between the performances. He’s retooled and expanded his band, which gives the proceedings a more in-the-moment energy. And he’s become a more confident performer, interacting with his backing vocalist and pacing his set to avoid some of the slower momentum-stoppers in his 2015 show. His sense of dynamics are dramatized in “Sometimes a Man,” which shifts from tortured ballad to driving disco burner. The one-two punch of “Call it Off” and the gospel-infused “Head in the Clouds” bring things to a rousing finish. Next time, Shamir deserves a bigger stage, no matter what the weather conditions. (GK)
9:26 p.m.: Note to the organizers that booked Beach House as headliners: Seriously, what were you thinking? Already dealing with a smaller crowd, the opening day of the fest closes with a protracted yawn. Ideal to be enjoyed while soaking in a bubble bath, putting away laundry or falling asleep, the Baltimore band traffics in gauzy atmosphere, cavernous reverb and melancholic moods. Vocalist Victoria Legrand acts as if every syllable she sings and coos causes her great pains to utter. Once out, the airy words largely become swallowed up in hazy effects. Guitarist and creative partner Alex Scally slumbers in the same daydreams, maintaining a lackadaisical pace in which nearly every song appears to blur together. To make matters worse, Beach House isn’t a mobile band. Cloaked in dark lights, the members remain largely stationary and focus on choral lullabies. Their harmless space odysseys drift, ache and twinkle — but never threaten to escape repetitive, new-age trappings. The biggest signs of life? Ocasional fuzz-tone slide lines from Scally that pour over the dominant synths, ever-so-slightly quickened drum beats and treble-saturated flourishes to end a tune. Any beauty gets trumped by the boredom. Somebody please, pass the pillows and blankets. It’s nap time. (BG)
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