How many licks does it take 'til you get to the center of your soft, porous brain? Day two raised the stakes with a marathon stretch of music, Asian inspired hot dogs and substance abuse. The clever pixies behind ATP knew we'd all be feeling fragile in the morning, so they had Sufjan Stevens ease us into consciousness with his heartbreakingly pretty Seven Swans EP. I sipped my Vitamin water, got lost in his dreamy eyes, and tried to ignore all the Christian overtones in the lyrics. Unfamiliar with Bridezilla, I expected some sort of rad, noisy, riot grrl bitch-fest but discovered a string-laden, moody affair that I might compare to a more conventional Rasputina (down to singer Holiday Sidewinder's porcelain skin and blonde up-do). I would have really dug them during my pinwheel-eyed, swoony, Lillith Fair period (shut up) but they sounded dated to my ears today. They would've been right at home playing the Bronze on Buffy circa 1997, a.k.a. the coolest club your 13 year old self had thus far had the pleasure of peeking into (note to Twilight: UR doin it wrong.) What made this weird is that they're all pretty young.
It's tough to describe what exactly Black Dice did to me, but there were trippy projections, bloodcurdling screams, clever loops and tones approaching dog-level frequency, and by the end I was quivering like pot Jello. The low-end reached straight through my brittle ribcage, and I thought to myself: more weird experimental electronic acts should catch this nightmare mojo. A little bit of twisted, scary energy goes a long way to keep me from getting bored as I watch shadowy figures fool with their peddles and doohickeys.
Performing solo as Atlas Sound, Bradford Cox delivered an unexpected set of folky, sad guitar songs. He did some interesting things with loops, manipulating his initial, simple chord progressions into something more complex. Layers of reverb and noise made him sound like the bummed out ghost of a dead folk legend. He talked a lot between songs, telling us how hard it was to get up onstage by himself and thanking us for being so nice and attentive. "I hope you can dig what I'm throwing down here," he said, "I wanted to be able to do it all live. Plus, I'm playing a fucking harmonica. I want you guys to know I tried." Then, in a characteristic Cox ego inversion: "I could get up here and jerk off, and by jerk off I mean fuck around, and you guys would probably like that, too." Oh, Bradford.
Antipop Consortium provided a nice change of pace with their rapid-fire, well-oiled, gizmo-laden hip hop, and it was cool to see all the bespectacled nerds in hoodies raising their hands in the air like they just didn't care. Particularly adorable: Will Hart from Circulatory System, cuttin' a rug. The a capella verbal acrobatics at the end of their set left me with no option but to jump in the pool and cool off from such a scorching.
Dead Meadow was probably my favorite act of the day, and they didn't do anything gimmicky; they barely even talked. Seriously fuzzed out psych jams are all the gimmick they need, scrambling as they did my bones, my brains, my soul. They sounded louder, tighter, and evil-er then I remembered, with epic riffs and sparse drumming giving the songs dynamics and room to breathe. These dudes have struck a perfect balance between psych-rock and metal that owes much to Black Sabbath, with some extra flange and grungy vocals thrown in. Pure, dark and joyful rock ‘n’ roll.
Shellac was back again this year, in all their loud and misanthropic glory. Minimal, pounding drums, jagged guitar, and Steve Albini's bitterly sarcastic growl were all as aggressively awesome as ever. At one point, Albini did his best borscht belt accent as he welcomed everyone to Kutscher’s; name-checking corned beef sandwiches and asking, "is this thing on?" before sliding back into punk rock asshole mode. "I've got 5,000 watts of power," he spat. "Eat my fuck, My Bloody Valentine, eat my fuck."
Boss Hog delivered their bad ass New York blues-punk in classic form, with a slithery leather-pants clad Christina Martinez growling out anthems with all her usual piss and vinegar. In a testament to the band's softer side, Jon and Christina flashed some rare smiles when sang out to each other in theatrical, bluesy fashion, "Baby, I dig you." Nothing like punk rock to keep that fire burning.
Deerhunter showcased a newly confident Bradford Cox bashing out loud, dreamy psych-pop, much of it from the excellent Microcastles. Sometime during the second half, Todd P appeared magically teleported in from Brooklyn. "I haven't communicated with them in years," he said of Deerhunter, "but this sounds really good." A noisy freak out of a finale showed they still mix in a good amount of punk with their polish.
Animal Collective closed out the night by scratching the itch Panda Bear had created in me to hear the best of what he and his cohorts have to offer. Rapidly shifting images projected on a large white globe and jellyfish-shaped lights twinkled throughout the house as they played out the best-case scenario for an electronics-based band's ability to create a gripping live show. Their vocals have gotten steadily more human sounding and relatable, and Avey Tare took full advantage of that tonight, selling every "I wanna walk around with you" to us thoroughly. At one point, several showers of glowsticks flew into the audience and folks waved them around enthusiastically as they grooved hard on whatever they had taken and jumped up and down to poppy numbers off the already iconic Merriweather Post Pavillion. It seemed like fewer people were slumped against the walls having mini freak-outs than last year, and I sensed generally good vibes all around, as well there should be at an Animal Collective concert in the mountains. Congratulations, everyone, on learning to handle your shit.
Dead Meadow- Photos by Abbey Braden © All Tomorrow's Parties 2009
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