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In a sharp programming shift, Day 1 went from the psychedelic pop of Olivia Tremor Control into the mixtape hip-hop of A$AP Rocky. The only similarity I can think of between the two acts is that there are higher than average odds that both their listeners partake of illicit substances.

Walking into the photo pit at the start of Rocky's set, the presence of pot smoke went from occassional to all-encompasing. Photographers were even smoking joints while jockeying for position in front of the stage- the only time I've ever seen that.

The crowd quickly doubled in size, but quadrupled in excitement. Women in elaborate bathing suits suddenly appeared among the fans. Kids in front knew every word of every song. All this for a rapper who still hasn't released a proper album (but did recently sign a $3 million deal with RCA).

As an outside observer to the hip-hop mixtape world, this set reminded me of Odd Future's performance at Pitchfork 2011.

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Tim Hecker, tell us how it was hanging out in the rain, because I definitely didn't make it to your set as it downpoured (through sunlight?). Which seems appropriate, given how half of outdoor festivals is talking about and braving the elements.

But as for fellow Canadians Japanroids -- moshin', ya know? I didn't go into this weekend a fan of Brian King and David Prowse's particular brand of sweaty punk jams. But man were they effusive and by the end of their set I was, if not converted, questioning. Perhaps that was because of King's boyish charm. Any sign of recent turmoil between the two was gone; the duo seemed incredibly thankful to be at the festival, talking so fast it was hard to hear what they were saying.

"You're going to want to pay attention because there's a f*cking drum solo in this one by yours truly, David," said King of his bandmate as they charged into yet another song.

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The best thing about Outer Minds was definitely Gina Lira on tambourine, and I can't believe I just wrote that. Lira convinced me that it was a legitimate instrument with her enthusastic tapping in time with her vocals. The look wasn't bad either; she not only had some of the best red lipstick on I've ever seen, she enthusiastically threw confetti into the crowd. It didn't go far but the effort seemed to be there; keyboardist Mary McKane was prompted to say, "Sorry, Security Guard people" as they bore the brunt of the attack.

The meaning of the confetti remains unclear (it was thrown out of a brown paper bag with what looked like an evil eye sharpied onto it) but the best thing about this Chicago psych band remained the rhythm section, as drummer Brian Costello stood out from songs like "Always In My Head."

But at the end, the '60s sound morphed into some sort of ghoulish, haunting sound, which felt very Addams Family (and worked with the Cousin It hair of several of the male band members).

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Following an intense, but brief thunderstorm the Pitchfork Music Festival opened their gates about a half hour behind schedule. The air was thick and humid as soaked fans trickled into the grounds.

They were greeted by washes of guitar feedback from Lower Dens, the current project of Jana Hunter, a Baltimore-based Texan who has a long musical resume already. Over two albums Hunter has transitioned from a card-carrying "freak folk" (remember that?) to something more like moody kraut-rock. 

Today, however, it took a few songs for the motorik beat to get revved up. No matter, though- as the park began to dry out the crowd couldn't handle much more than the slow feedback drones Lower Dens delivered for their first few songs.

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Record reviews roundup: A bounty of goodies

As Greg Kot and I enthusiastically gushed on this weekend’s episode of Sound Opinions, recent weeks have brought a bounty of fine releases in addition to oppressive temperatures. Here are my brief recaps of what we covered this weekend (minus Patti Smith’s Banga, which I reviewed here last week).

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As often noted on this blog, in other writings and to anyone who’ll listen, I have long believed that the best rock ’n’ roll happens indoors at night, preferably in close proximity to air conditioning and cold beer. As a listener, ultra-rare to nonexistent is the show that sounds better and is more comfortable to watch in an outdoor setting versus a club or a theater. And playing outside is usually even less pleasant for the musicians onstage.

 

I learned this early when one of my college bands, the Love Pushers, performed at an Anti-Apartheid benefit on the idyllic green campus of Princeton University circa 1986 or ’87. First on a bill of seven or eight acts, we went on when the sun and the early summer temperature both were at their highest.

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Though plenty of those who worship her every move with a devotion bordering on the religiosity that’s so much a part of her work adamantly disagree, for this longtime fan, punk-poet Patti Smith hasn’t had a great century. The last album that really measured up to the brilliant invention of her four classic releases in the ’70s was her first comeback/postcard from her sojourn as a mother and a housewife, Dream of Life (1988), and that only in part (“People Have the Power”).

Gung Ho (2000), Trampin’ (2004) and Twelve (2007) all have been more disappointing than the albums that preceded them, failing to answer the question I posed in my review of the middle of that trio—“Why should we care about this windy old hippie poet spouting all that drivel over bad, boring folk songs?”—and in general serving as “a better parody of Patti Smith than Gilda Radner’s infamous Candy Slice, only Candy rocked a lot harder.”

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