In its first year, Pitchfork Music Festival began on a Saturday. While the festival itself is just four years old, the original intention did provide an interesting barometer for what to expect Saturday’s set. With younger fans in mind, Saturday is Pitchfork’s breakout day, with a smorgasboard of the latest, most interesting offerings indie rock and music fans have at their disposal. Of course, it’s never perfect. At the Saturday set of Pitchfork 2009, there was a freakishly large number of bands with just one album under their belt, which produced plenty of misses to go with the hits. It also featured a bunch of bands that seem like they’ve been around forever, but have yet to expand beyond cult appeal, even within Pitchfork's relatively limited audience.
Nonetheless, Saturday is supposed to be the wildest days of the fest: Friday is for the older, more venerable bands, and by the end of Sunday people (theoretically) have to go to work the next day. At the Saturday show, fans will just go out drinking, maybe see another show, or better yet, hit up an after party.
It was impossible to give each band the attention that I gave yesterday’s four featured players. Allow me to do my best, and apologies to those I missed.
Bands of Note:
Plants and Animals
An unexpected gem in the early portion of Saturday’s set, Plants and Animals are one of the better off-the-radar Canadian bands working today. As soon as I say “Montreal,” the band’s hometown, Arcade Fire, and Wolf Parade will immediately immediately spring to mind (it won’t make you think of Celine Dion unless you’re as obsessive over Carl Wilson’s book as I am). Yes, Plants and Animals have loose ties to Arcade Fire, but the music sounds at lot closer to Neil Young via Sloan. If you don’t want to stay Canadian, it’s like a less dejected Bon Iver or a more relaxed Fleet Foxes. Either way, they made the best of a mainstage show they were very lucky to get after one full-length album that got the attention of few outside Pitchfork. It was exactly the kind of band needed for an indie rock brunch.
Fucked Up
There wasn’t blood or vomit, or any major fluids other than sweat as far as I could tell. But Damian Abraham did do his best to keep things insane, even with a voice that is clearly showing strain after months of globe-spanning performances. No matter what your thoughts are on the hateful strains of hardcore punk, I think we can all agree that beach balls have no place at a Fucked Up show. Appropriately, Abraham bit off as many balls as he could chew, and made a hat out of one.
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