Ain't nothing but a rock'n'roll blog: New American Music Union Festival takes on Pittsburgh
By Jillian Mapes, Assistant Managing Editor
August 10, 2008 | 3 p.m.
Truth be told, I live for free stuff. Someone could offer me a free bag of used plastic silverware, and I’d probably be decently pumped. So when the organizers of American Eagle’s (yes, the store) New American Music Union Festival in Pittsburgh offered me a free press passes, I jumped on that opportunity like a diabetic five-year-old on a Little Debbie snack.
Taking place August 8 and 9 at Pittsburgh’s Southside Works, the festival, which Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers “curated” (whatever that means), was in its first year. Because of this, I expected disorganization and miscommunication. What I did not necessarily expect, however, was full access. And by full access, I mean furrow-browed security guards who let me wander backstage with one flash of the press badge hanging from my neck. Needless to say, it was pretty great.
It was refreshing to finally see a national festival setting up shop in a location such as Pittsburgh, a city that, size-wise, pales in comparison to festival mainstays New York and Chicago. Interestingly enough, the two stages were set up in what is now a parking lot in the middle of a residential and shopping centers, but what was formerly the spot of glass factories and steel mills throughout the 1800s.
The question remains, however, why would Anthony Kiedis ask an overpriced teen-clothing store to help him throw a music festival in a seemingly random location? Washes of bootcut denim you know, American Eagle, whose headquarters are in downtown Pittsburgh; music is another story completely. “Music is a defining influence in our customers’ lives,” reads the press release distributed in the American Eagle media tent. Yeah, because those suckers who shop at Hollister think music is like, “so last year.” But for the pricetag of $25 for student attendees, I guess festival staff couldn’t afford more poignant press releases.
The festival kicked off Friday night with performances from The Black Keys and The Roots. I rolled in Saturday to see performances from Gnarls Barkley, Spoon, The Raconteurs and, of course, Bob Dylan. A college band stage was also set up outside the festival’s front entrance for those who didn’t snag one of the festival’s 10,000 tickets. And also for the throngs of middle-aged creepers looking to buy spare tickets. How considerate of you, American Eagle.
5:15 p.m. – Gnarls Barkley
I arrived at the festival, received a whole bunch of free swag from the impossibly tan American Eagle kids working the media check-in and hoofed it over to the main stage to find the best spot for Gnarls Barkley’s set.
The set began with a thunderous smattering of bass, which thumped significantly louder than singer Cee-Lo’s scraggily-yet-soulful voice. I felt the bass vibrations move through my whole body and not in a good way. But the duo of Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse, joined by backing band clad in ridiculous-looking sweater vests, slacks and bowties, moved past the poor sound mixing.
Gnarls’ biggest hit to date, 2006’s “Crazy,” appeased the crowd in a major way. You’d think there was a half-price sale on Ugg Boots with the frenzied manner in which some of the festival’s female attendees were moving. Kiedis seemed pleased with Gnarls’ performance as well, as he could be spotted just off-stage singing along and beaming like a schoolgirl after her first kiss.
Observing Cee-Lo up-close allowed me to realize that the singer’s look is as funky as his band’s sound. He was adorned in stark white, randomly removing his endless layers of shirts and sweating profusely throughout the performance. He is completely bald with many tattoos covering his shiny, shiny head. His eyes look so deep-set that he appears to be wearily tired more often than I imagine he actually was, or at least I hope so.
Finally, Cee-Lo seemed out of it or potentially under the influence, but this did not get in his way of connecting with his crowd, especially on a cover of Radiohead’s “Reckoner.” The song’s instrumentation retained its delicate jangle, but Cee-Lo’s nasal vocal chords are an alternative to Thom Yorke’s high pitch. The lyrics, however, remained thoroughly incomprehensible, perhaps as a nod to Yorke’s infamous mumblings.
7:00 p.m. – Spoon
Britt Daniel and the boys of Spoon know how to kick off a festival set with a bang, gunning loose from the cannon with the first track from their album Gimme Fiction, “The Beast and Dragon Adored.” Some might say it’s conditioning, as the band has played its fair share of festivals over the last two summers, including Lollapalooza and Pitchfork Festival. What I’d call it, however, is a band that appreciates the importance of careful song selection that is optimized for audience enjoyment. Spoon’s August 9 set was a careful mix of songs from their last two albums, as well as a few hard-rocking nods to times of yore.
Daniel, clad in a black suit and Dylan shades, kept his cool like every indie front man is convinced he should, swaggering like a great at every strum. He downed a bottle of Miller High-Life moments before mounting the microphone and swigged from Red Solo cups throughout his band’s performance. He is tall and slim and wears the type of snug trousers that let you know that he realizes how wonderfully fit he is. He instantly won over the crowd with one measly line about liking Pittsburgh, despite the fact that he forgot the words to one of his own songs. And I would feel sick over finding Britt Daniel so very adorable if he were not the singer in one of my favorite bands.
There was a pathetic attempt at crowd-surfing during Spoon’s set. It begs the question: who crowd-surfs to the trumpet blare and keyboard patter of hand-clapping indie rock such as Spoon? For God’s sake, this isn’t Warped Tour.
But the crowd surfing was not all. Valley girls clad in skimpy sundresses danced aimlessly, texted on their phones and seemed altogether pretty bored amidst the crowd. “Like, yawn, who is this band? They are not played on KIIS F.M.,” imagining their inner dialogue before realizing how dreadfully elitist I sound. I was conflicted, as I wanted to both rid myself of snobbish judgments and continue to sneer at the Fembot situated next to me. She was talented, that’s for sure; she twirled her long, curly, blonde hair to the beat of one of Spoon’s more strummy numbers, “I Summon You,” while simultaneously fiddling with her precious cell phone. Did I mention she never lost the beat?
Britt and the boys regained my attention from the pesky pejorative thoughts percolating in my noggin, all thanks to a rousing rendition of “The Underdog,” a song that perfectly represents Spoon’s attitude toward the mainstream music industry.
8:10 p.m. – The Raconteurs
The raw musical talent behind The Raconteurs can only be described as impressive, solid or some other comparable synonym. This fact remains transparent to NAMU attendees, too, as the crowd doubled in both size and density between Spoon’s stage teardown and Raconteurs’ set-up. I feared for my life as I fought through the masses to the press/photo pit located at the front of the stage.
When I arrived, I was greeted by the loudest bass amplifier I have ever heard and the palest man I have ever seen. You must prepare yourself before gazing upon Jack White’s waxen skin, if you can actually spot the guitarist/vocalist. He managed to stay illusive, turning his back to the audience every chance he gets.
The four-piece rip-roared straight into its take on blues-inspired rock’n’roll with riff-heavy songs from their latest album, Consoler of the Lonely. The voices of vocalists/guitarists Brendan Benson and Jack White meshed well on Consoler’s cover of the Marianne Faithfull’s “Rich Kid Blues.” Who knew Faithfull, who is best remembered as Mick Jagger’s former girlfriend, had such a sharp musical parody of Hollywood up her sleeve all these years?
The Raconteurs slinked right into an enthusiastic, crisp version of their biggest hit, “Steady as She Goes.” Little did the audience know that what began as slight improv would catapult the song into an 8-minute jam session. Intoxicated youngsters and eager elders (also drunk), who were awaiting Dylan’s arrival as if he is the Messiah himself, appear stupefied by the Southern rock licks escaping the amps of White and Benson.
“Blue Veins” was also an extended ordeal. Never had White’s howl sounded so bittersweet and his guitar feedback so distorted. He shredded all remaining remnants of “Blue Veins” to death and flees the stage, which shone like a bright beacon against the setting sun and skyline.
The Raconteurs, unlike many of their peers, are fearless musicians. They have no reason to feel nervous traveling into unexplored territory while improvising because they truly understand their instruments. I was impressed.
10:20 p.m. – Bob Dylan
As I approached the festival’s front entrance again after slipping away to grab a meal, I was caught off-guard by the grizzly voice so clearly resonating the area. Dylan’s voice has gone through many incarnations over the years, but I was not expecting the sing-song quality to be so completely replaced by such a rasping timbre.
I finally spotted the bolero-clad legend, though he was a tough bugger to point out amidst the many musicians on-stage. He was seated at the keyboard, but also played the slide guitar and of course, the harmonica.
Dylan did not play games and he did not pacify his audience. He knows he is a legend, thus affording him the right to play whichever songs he damn well pleases. Modern Times was on his mind that night, so that is what we got. But seriously, would it have killed him to play “Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again?” I think not.
As Dylan played through his lazy blues and rockabilly tunes, the crowd seemed to diminish. One man behind me joked that we had just heard the swing version of “Tangled Up in Blue,” which sounded nothing like the original. Maybe it was just my aching feet clouding my head, but all of Dylan’s songs, albeit wonderful and fabulous and all that other junk Rolling Stone critics always say about Dylan, go on forever. Exhausted and disappointed, my attention began waiver.
That is, until I made a new friend: The Worm.
I found myself smack-dab in the center of all the loaded Dylan fans who decided that dancing, AKA full-body convulsions, was the most suitable way to enjoy his set. One woman in particular, The Worm, joined by her male friend, a Jeff Goldblum lookalike, distracted me for quite some time. The crowd backed off from these crazies, giving them a clear 5-foot radius to squirm, squiggle and shake. Jeff and Worm had no shame whatsoever, even attempting to dance with passersby returning for the beer cart.
I have always preferred the observational type of reporting, but The Worm would not allow me that. She asked what I was scribbling in my notebook, and when I responded that I am a journalist, her face became instantly blank as if she had never heard of such profession. She danced away, though, and soon after, I picked my weary self up and walked back to my car. What a day.
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