Crow’s Nest 55: 073023
Cool Tunes for some Hot Weather
Hello once again, and welcome to issue #55 of Crow’s Nest. I’m your host Ryan, thank you for reading. Let’s get to it.
Last weekend marked the 10th time I’ve attended Pitchfork Music Festival here in Chicago. I know the layout of the park close to the back of my hand, with the year-to-year changes primarily being booth shifts and other stuff on the periphery. I can’t say I was too excited for the lineup this year, but nevertheless I bought my usual 3-day GA right when it went on sale, and left each day satisfied by my choice to attend.
While the music is the primary point for paying at least several hundred dollars after drinks, food, transit and whatever else one needs to attend, over time the desire to get up close for the act I simply must see has faded in favor of more casual, open-minded consideration of who is before me, and otherwise hanging out with friends and friends-of-friends throughout the weekend. I spotted someone I knew, went over to say hey, and on the way was stopped by someone else I knew … twice … by 5 PM on Friday. I’m by no means a social butterfly but it’s hard to deny how nice it is to be a part of a community in that way, expensive exclusivity aside.
The first set I caught on Friday was from Grace Ives, an electronic singer songwriter whose current dirtbag-y look and ‘no checked bags’ gear setup cannot hide that she is undoubtedly a few albums’ artistic development away from making it; I have little doubt I’ll drop an ‘I was there’ if she comes up in conversation by the end of the decade. Axel Boman wisely brought along a saxophonist/flautist with him, adding an improvised live element to his tabletop of gear that helped things avoid getting dull, especially as you can’t see the light show at 4 PM anyway. Jlin was by herself the same way, but the energy brought by the crowd dancing to her music more than offset any lack of stage presence. Finding a spot beforehand, I crossed paths with the legend himself RP Boo in the GA crowd, setting off a small rush of white guys praising him, angling for selfies and thanking him for his music and pioneering footwork.
Indeed, it’s moments like this and even the fact that moments like this can occur that brings me back to Union Park every mid-July. As much as I might shrug at a particular day’s lineup, the fact remains that the majority of the lineup simply isn’t getting booked at many other music festivals. It’s unfortunate considering the wealth of talent available to bookers, along with the crowd’s open-mindedness to enjoy these acts. Who else would decide to close out their side stage with Charlotte Adigéry and Bolis Pupul? What other festival would go out of its way to accommodate an act like Palm? Disagree with an individual inclusion all you like; that Pitchfork remains open-minded to many unconventional acts is a testament to their willingness to take chances on them.
I only caught Perfume Genius’s set at a distance—as a straight man his music isn’t really for me, I needed to grab some dinner and one of my friend groups wanted to camp for a decent spot for Alvvays—but what I heard sounded gorgeous. Alvvays has never fully clicked for me, though I’m definitely in the target audience for their songs of young-adult yearning, but they did a very good job, particularly in their middle run of songs that leaned heavily on material from last year’s Blue Rev. The Smile, whose headlining booking would only surprise you if you also were shocked to learn Pitchfork was biased against acts like Katy Perry in 2010, were an intriguing proposition.
Thom Yorke, Johnny Greenwood and Tom Skinner aren’t making the kinds of anthemic tunes one would expect of a headliner—though perhaps the audience doesn’t yet view their work as anthemic—and there’s yet to be an explanation as to why the group really exists. Understatedly good nonetheless, my working theory for The Smile is that Thom wanted to play bass in an ambiguously jazzy vehicle without (to the extent possible) the baggage coming from putting his name or Radiohead directly on it. Or maybe he and Johnny are both bummed about scoring films in LA and want to re-capture that initial magic of making music together. Either way, they’re succeeding.
I knew my Saturday plan to be there for the first act, stay until the end, then hit up smartbar after would be contingent on factors a bit outside my control—namely, whether my body was up for such an endurance test—but I was still surprised at how it went. Deeper’s opening set was cut short due to weather: a storm which threatened to hit but never did. (A friend told me the regulation was 30 minutes stoppage for a lightning strike within 6 miles; my weather app showed a nasty looking pop-up thunderstorm just off the downtown lakefront, so that sounds about right.) Security kept us away from the stages despite fairly blue skies, and I spent it mostly shooting the breeze with some friends and friends/coworkers of the friend who helped subsidize my drinking by ferrying out cocktails from the secret guest/VIP lounge area. It was easily the most pleasant weather delay I’ve ever encountered.
The all-clear was given just in time to fully cancel Palm’s set, especially disappointing considering this was one of the band’s final shows. Their synth player shouted something from the stage about maybe getting re-booked to Sunday, which did happen, thankfully, and the day continued. The next act of note was MJ Lenderman, the consensus pick for the weekend’s most anticipated set. Spencer Tweedy sat in on a kit to double up the drum sound, and while the music isn’t fully my thing—my main takeaway is that the band’s van is surely one of the craziest smelling vehicles on the road today—it’s clear that he and his other group Wednesday are at the center of the most exciting singer-songwriter/indie rock/folk- and country-adjacent work happening today.
Things got weird afterward. Getting a spot for Panda Bear and Sonic Boom as MJ was wrapping up, security asked people to step back again—another weather delay. Conditions deteriorated some more—I whipped out my poncho once a few drops started falling—and an evacuation was called. My brother and I went to a bar a few blocks away to wait it out, ran into some other people we knew there, and returned after an all-clear was given. Any rain that fell wasn’t significant—a big chunk of the crowd seemingly decided to ignore the evacuation order—and by 6:15 things were back to normal, having run into yet more people I know getting back in.
Charlotte Adigéry & Bolis Pupul salvaged my Saturday. Adigéry had 2 requests for the crowd: ignore the rain (easy enough despite some drops); and if her tank top slipped and she flashed the crowd, flash her back (my shirt remained in place). Despite the seriousness of their dance music’s subject matter, the pair were in fine order, having a blast dancing and playing their work for the crowd. Between the body-rattling bass, Pupul dancing with his bass guitar, and Adigéry’s warmly infectious stage presence, it’s clear the pair are something approaching a supergroup.
Headliner Big Thief were another peculiar but not surprising choice of a booking for the slot. I cannot recall ever pulling out my earplugs for a headline act before, and the loud crowd chatter, a constant presence at Pitchfork especially at a distance from any stage, felt particularly strong and weird during their set. I mean, what are you doing conversing over the top-billed entertainment at 9 PM on a Saturday when you could, I don’t know, fuck off to a bar instead? They were, again, pretty good, especially their incredibly strong Simulation Swarm—Free Treasure middle run, and the crowd noise was never unbearable for someone whose legs work and avoids cheap online commentary from people who take a common reference point as leverage to attract attention to themselves. But I am again starting to wonder why some people, who seemingly lack the awareness that they’re not the reason why everyone is here, choose to go to live music when they’re more interested in verbalizing whatever’s on their mind.
I did make it to smartbar after—Laurel Halo at the controls remains underrated—though my body did not get the message and tried waking me at 7 on Sunday. (I was able to stay down until like 9:30 or so.) The aforementioned Palm were rebooked to open the Blue stage at 1:15 PM, and attracted a sizable crowd to see them one last time. This being at least the 3rd time I’ve seen them, I’m still struck by how impenetrable the internal logic to their music can be. I get some of the references—60s psych, Animal Collective, transposing the role of their instruments to one another—and the 4 members do in fact share a common language and reliably replicate their songs. I more than respect playing and leaving on their own terms, and considering the number of people there who might’ve rearranged plans last minute to catch them, they have secured their legacy as a confounding, mind-expanding group ripe for future dorm room discoveries and as listed influences.
I spent a lot of Sunday afternoon wandering the festival grounds, casually checking out other groups. Sitting in the shade off to the side for Florist, who sounded a lot like an acoustic Grouper ironed out into a bedroom-folk band—again, who else is booking acts like this for their festival?—I enjoyed the nice moment of respite, at least until Jockstrap’s bass from the other stage intruded. Soul Glo have definitely leveled up since I saw them, or, perhaps, an unapologetically Black hardcore band is better seen at a festival where security keeps an eye on the pit while handing out water to them than in a crowd of like 50 at a Miami beach bar. If you don’t think a 3-stage music festival could split a day between experimental electronic/indie music while soft-curating a lineup that appeals to a more Black audience, you should’ve been there to see it work in practice.
I should note that, lightning shenanigans aside, the weather was decent. Warm but not unbearably hot, I was keeping an eye on my hydration but not overly concerned by it. On the liquid front, there was no festival beer from Goose Island this year, but a couple new entries worth noting. The first was ‘hard water’: yes, really, flavored still water in a can with a 3.75% ABV. It’s like we’re trying to get kids to eat their vegetables by disguising them as other things, but for getting adults to drink more alcohol. Do grown adults really need so much propaganda to remind them to drink water? My favorite of the 3 flavors on offer (because yes, I am like that and wanted to try them all) was cucumber mint. If it weren’t for the fact that it was in a can, which meant I paid money for it, which means that I should savor and not chug it, there exists the possibility of not realizing there is booze in them and having that sneak up on you. I’m not sure how hydrating ‘hard water’ might actually be, or my desire to purchase one as a non-novelty, or the overall longevity of the product compared to spiked seltzers, but it exists. Yeah.
On the wine-ish front, BeatBox was present, selling juice box-like flavored wine beverages containing 3.38 servings of booze each for $14 apiece. I’m neither a wine snob nor a teetotaling moralizer, but that feels like it shouldn’t be a thing on festival grounds, and writing that is probably prolonging some post-drinking queasiness I’m feeling. I had 2 of the Avril Lavigne-branded pink lemonade flavored ones Sunday afternoon—remember, Pitchfork Music Festival lost all ironic pretense when it booked Carly Rae Jepsen in 2016—and knew it was time to stop and vibe.
Koffee’s set on Sunday proved a perfect match for this. I can’t say I checked her out beforehand—she got a lot of press proclaiming her reggae’s next biggest talent last year, then she was wickedly late to her Coachella set, and I stopped paying attention—but longtime readers should know me well enough to understand what a good time I had under the circumstances. Mdou Moctar’s masterful update of desert blues-style rock was undoubtedly great. Then there was Bon Iver as headliner. Again, not at all unexpected, though rumor has it Justin Vernon and co. were a last-minute substitute booking for D’Angelo. Still, even though they’ve spent as much time exploding the image their first 2 albums spawned as it took to build said image, my hope for a self-titled heavy set was squashed. You forget how weird and challenging everything after the Heavenly Father single is, and how their fanbase has stuck with them despite their intentional obfuscation. Better than when I saw them a few years ago though. For the third day in a row I found myself leaving Union Park not 100% sure what to make of the past day. From the number of people I was hanging with who came from out of state, for whom seeing a fraction of this weekend’s art less than an hour from their homes would be nothing short of a miracle, I realize I might be a bit spoiled to be in my situation. I’m not sure if I’ll make it to another 10 Pitchforks, but I remain thankful for such an opportunity every July.
Relative to its population, I can’t think of a country that punches under its weight culturally and politically more than Indonesia. The Indonesian music that comes onto my radar is often heavy and trance-indebted, both in the folk and electronic sense, which makes sense given the cultural origins of this album from Raja Kirik. (Seriously, read the accompanying description. And probably a book or two on Indonesian history in general.) This is longform experimental electronic work that’s utterly engrossing—something you might put on in the background and find yourself drawn into, or the type of music to put on in a state of intoxication and have a transcendent experience. I’m hesitant to say ‘sonically reminiscent of Shackleton’s recent work’ for a variety of reasons … for starters, this is a level above Western facsimiles. Get familiar.
Go to enough oddball shows in Chicago—I’m talking $15 or less covers, quarter full rooms, semi-performative 🤔 with a macrobrew in hand, up way too late for what you get on a weeknight shit—and you will likely see folks like Ben Baker Billington, Andrew Scott Young and Daniel Van Duerm take the stage in some configuration. Together, the trio perform as Traysh, which is certainly what many might call this if they found themselves subjected to it. Freak jazz through and through with questionable labeling as jam band adjacent, this is not your grandparents’ bebop, with the highlight after a few listens being Billington’s exceptional drum work throughout. (I should note that I did not know he drummed before spinning this. Damn.) Hats off to Riley Walker and his Husky Pants imprint for deciding to light some cash on fire to raise this freak flag to the … well not quite masses, but the ‘mass’ that appreciates this kinda stuff.
It’s rare for a contemporary artist to truly be able to say their sound is distinct, which is why I always make time to consider releases from Athenian artist Jay Glass Dubs. (0 points for correctly guessing his genre.) JGD’s hazy, aqueous productions are perfect for languid lounging and the occasional ‘what the …’ whether intoxicants are in your system or not, even as he draws from uptempo sources like jungle and d’n’b on this album-length EP.
Another deep cut from the deep listening queue, this 1980 (?) lovers rock single gets the 12” reissue treatment from the Isle of Jura Soundsystem folks. I can’t say I have a favorite mix among the 3 as they’re all great; I’d love to hear any of them coming out of a massive speaker stack, ideally with the sun bearing down and with a decent amount of sweat accumulating. Chill music for the hot weather, certainly. RIP Ms. Beecher.
I don’t have a unified understanding of what Smalltown Supersound is beyond ‘that Norwegian label’. Which is kind of to be expected for a label that’s been around for 20+ years and still puts out exceptional work. This remix anthology assembles quite the hodgepodge of figures who’ve crossed paths with the label over these years, from dancefloor mainstays (Villalobos, Four Tet) to noise figureheads (Thurston Moore, Merzbow) to unknowns to me (Jazzkammer, Tussle) to contemporary leading lights (Loraine James, Klara Lewis) to ‘wait what the fuck are they doing here’ entries (Sunburned Hand of the Man? Todd Rundgren?!). 40 tracks is a lot to digest, and by the time you’re done there will surely be a few more entries to consider alongside these.
NYC punk/no wave originals Bush Tetras may have felt compelled to call it quits after their retrospective box set came out 2 years ago, when original drummer Dee Pop also passed away. Instead, they recruited Steve Shelley to step in behind the kit and production boards. It’s a very dubby record, and weirdly it seems like Shelly takes up too much of the room in the mix, or, at least, that’s what I hear when I give this a spin. A solid record for a band that refuses to hang it up or give in easily.
I mentally filed Silicone Prairie under ‘another of those dang Midwest egg punk groups’, and while project mastermind Ian Teeple does indeed do a multi-state commute from Kansas City to play with Snooper, I was caught off guard by Vol. II here. While it does start off with motorik-y drums, oddball synth squiggles and plenty of guitar jangle, by the time Mirror on the Wall finishes it’s transmuted into something like a lo-fi flute-y ska number more properly classifiable as bedroom pop. Or the more Orange Juice side of jangle pop. This is a weird one to sink into.
Tech house producer Peach’s eponymous label is a great outpost for the somewhat maligned genre. This compilation is accurately labeled—the 8 artists included fit the stylistic bill but don’t appear to have a standalone release in the back catalog—and is a good spin. moodii’s Topcat Cinema is the highlight for me after a couple spins at home, and none of these would be unwelcome on many a dancefloor.
I wasn’t sure what to make of a pair of one-off singles Call Super recently released, featuring Julia Holter and Eden Samara, respectively. Decent but missing the cut for earlier issues, Call Super then put out additional mixes under their Doves of Discipline moniker, turning both into extended run weirdo jam shit. I’m still not 100% sure what’s going on entirely here, but ~30 minutes of new Call Super isn’t exactly unwelcome.
I’m calling it an issue here as I’ve written enough, forgot to move stuff I enjoyed from recent Futurism Restated issues from my work laptop to my personal one, and am feeling especially lukewarm on including anything else. As always, thank you for reading, and I hope you found something within you enjoyed. Take it easy and keep up on the self-maintenance until next time.
Did you get to hear much of Deeper? I'm just now getting into them and I wonder how they are live.