Coming into cool, sweet Colorado from the heat-scorched earth of Austin, Texas was a lesson in extremes.
It felt like nature had abandoned us at home - just relentless heat, little rain, no change. In Morrison, Colorado, we watched the weather change from a soaking downpour to a nearly day-long stretch of sun, and we did it all in the shadow of the magnificent Red Rocks amphitheater. This is the Monolith festival, and MadeLoud was back for year two.
We flew into town on the Day of Infamy and stayed in nearby Denver. Each day of our visit, we were up obscenely early to get the most out of the two days of music and madness. Our stage (the Madeloud.com stage, of course) was parked neatly by the entrance - an orange, shell-shaped vessel where artists serenading those arriving. We won for Most Quaint Stage by far, as it's the only one where you'd expect an undersea orchestra or a string quartet from the '20s to start rocking at any minute.
The music began around half past twelve. Both the Depreciation Guild and Generationals were given the bittersweet marching orders to open the festival. We headed down to the Woxy stage to watch the latter. A four-piece evenly divided between ladies and fellas, the group were poised but fun, with a fair amount of vocal and instrument swapping. The songs weren't particularly distinguishable from most indie rock output these days, but the kids had potential, and certain elements of their set stuck out. The boys who led the band - Ted Joyner and Grant Widmer - were no slouches, and they harmonized nicely. A band worth keeping dibs on.
From that point we hustled back home to see The Roadside Graves. Good god, who knew this rag tag, self-described "bunch of drunks from New Jersey" were going to rip it up so? The weather was tilting towards uncomfortably chilly when they began, but the swinging, neo-Americana strains of the Roadside Graves would be tempered by nothing. The set always seemed on a verge of a jamboree or impromptu hootenanny of some kind, as they blasted out songs that were a little Pogues, a little the Boss (maybe that's just a Jersey bias, but doesn't everyone there HAVE to love Springsteen?) with a blast of electric/acoustic willpower and no set direction for where the songs might head. The drummer broke his snare mid-set but no matter - they took their instruments into the crowd for their final number, elated and all singing in tandem. This was the first act on our stage. Holy shit.
A much more restrained follow-up, Avi Buffalo work within restraint and not vice-versa. Their coiled, reflective songs unravel with shared vocal duties between lead man Avi and keyboardist Rebbecca Coleman, whose singing voices could easily be mistaken for one another. After the comeuppance of the Roadside Graves, the music of Avi Buffalo couldn't help but seem timid.
We then made one of many, many treks of the weekend up the 7,000 stairs to see These United States at Woxy. This bunch of ruffled dudes seemed set on playing the part of outlaw rocker country, complete with the standard uniform of western wear, beards, and saloon lyricism like, "One for the money/ Two for the snake...oil" that was just the wrong combination of cynicism and nostalgia. Much more refreshing was the pointed tongue and sweet voice of Danielle Ate the Sandwich, back down at our stage (no bias, we promise!).
The artist formerly known as Danielle Anderson was joined by upright bass player, the lighthearted butt of many a jab from Danielle. Leading us on a binge of lovely, ukulele-led songs like originals here or the strangely poignant cover of "Scrubs" and Hall and Oates' "Rich Girl," Danielle cracked wise with the audience, teasing one fan for lip-syncing incorrectly and leading an older man in front of us to wistfully remark, "They can get away with ANYTHING these days," meaning, I guess, uke-wielding songstresses. But if Danielle's humor is undoubtedly sarcastic, her songs are open and wistfully sincere, save for maybe her "Scrubs" cover.
We jetted over to the Southern Comfort stage to watch The Pains of Being Pure at Heart (interview forthcoming!) after having missed them play over 13 shows at SXSW last year. To further thwart us the cold rain began coming down, but the sudden uncomfortable switch in weather was accompanied by smart rejoinders like cheap ponchos, zip lock bags and other tricks for keeping the rain from soaking concertgoers to the core. And of course, a guy in front of me was just wearing shorts. So there's that. The Pains of Being Pure at Heart ripped right into it with a set of harmonic but fuzz-laden pop songs that recall adrenaline-racked twee, like Felt with a kick in the pants. Still, something was softer and murkier about the set than we were hoping. The guitars were indistinct and the muscular rhythm section was underrepresented. Maybe it's a sound thing, because the SoCo stage was the most lacking in that area. Vocalist and keys player Peggy Wang was also lost in the fuzz, and the punch of the band's hard-hitting, euphoric tunes were muffled. On the plus side, the group's frenetic new songs were a blast, and they closed with the anthemic, "Gentle Sons" - but not before cracking wise about being The Rains of Being Pure at Heart.
While they retreated to warmth and Ok Go lamely warbled from the Esurance main stage, we found ourselves in the rain with five dollar SoCo and cranberry mixes while awaiting The Walkmen. The New York five-piece was unsurprisingly sharply dressed and commanding. The band sometimes has an air of aloof coolness about them, from keys player Walter Martin's set-long gum chewing on down. And yet, they blew into one of the strongest sets of the festival, mixing it up with clavicles and triangle, and basically knocking out a series of gut-wrenching new and old material that showcased - more than anything - the passion of lead singer Hamilton Leithauser and the unbridled drumming of Matt Barrick. "He's singing his heart out!" said a stoned guy next to me. And yes, Leithauser's voice could cut through glass. It's an experience in itself to see him reach in and pull out that gritty, sweet sound. "He's singing his heart out!" said the stoned guy, again. And speaking of repeats, the sound was not perfect, though the sound guy seemed to have thought nothing of it. The guitar was ephemeral and weirdly dense. Classic Walkmen numbers "The Rat" and closer "In the New Year" were undeterred crowd pleasers, though, sounding as fresh as when they first grazed our ears.
Throughout the day we grabbed pricey beers or hot dogs when we could, and I retreated for a short while for some coffee and a shot of Jameson's (hello!) inside. The mood inside the building was a mix of optimism and lethargy, with the cold rain sapping spirits from even the most calloused concertgoer. Security was unusually tough about letting us even sit on the floors, and the wet heat of unasked for body warmth felt like the final throes of a fever. After chatting with Pains we made it to the main stage for our first real rush of that amphitheater feel, with stars and rain above us and the huge monoliths set on both sides of the stage. Like last year, festival planners thought a DJ set (last year was Justice) would be a compelling idea, so they asked the frenetic wildman Greg Gillis (a.k.a. Girl Talk) to bring his laptops to a stage that had once held court to The Beatles, The Allman Brothers Band...and Mister Mister. To put it nicely, that stage has acts that vary in caliber from legendary to forgettable. Mr. Gillis' performance fell somewhere in between. Relying on the pastiche of contemporary hip hop, Top 100 and classic songs mishmashed into an immediate, recognizable nugget of ear candy, Girl Talk's live set parroted everything he's been doing on record or live since his arrival into public consciousness. The stage was quickly flooded with enthused fans, Gillis removed clothing, and parlayed "Juicy" into "Tiny Dancer" once again. His stagehands unraveled toilet paper onto the stage and blew up balloons, which made it hard not to think about waste. It was an odd thought to be having while just barely post-jailbait gals gyrated to Gillis' Frankenstein set, but it not too odd. After all, other than the creepily voyeuristic task of watching the onstage bacchanalia (what is this, a whiter, drunker Soul Train?) and humming along to "Lip Gloss," what else is there to do?
A spectacle more than a performance per se, Gillis' thing would be much better suited to anyplace but an amphitheater, which might explain the cottage industry of mash-up djs that began popping up in all major cities following the success of Night Ripper. Nothing stops Gillis, though, which is great in its own way. The man looked like he was on a treadmill, and sincerely could not help himself from shedding clothing or jumping onto the table to exorcise the demons of both Missy Elliot and Ahmed.
At this point, large portions of the crowd were soaked (Gillis' mantra of "Fuck the rain!" only worked to a point) and uncomfortable, but the promise of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs helped lift spirits. Much to our delight, the stage included a huge inflatable eyeball frame by some sort of purple vortex, and the band was on. Critics agree that the direction of It's Blitz into more electronic territory was somewhat unexpected but a boon to their discography, and their set included a healthy mix of newer and older songs. Karen O's colorful tunic(?), onstage moves and face paint were arresting to the eye, but Nick Zinner's moves and thrashing left little to be desired, as did the always-incredible drumming of Brian Chase. The minimal but powerful assault of the YYYs was a much better example of what works on the main stage, and the added inclusion of a fourth instrumentalist (primarily on keys and bass) only gave more flex to the songs. Questions about the identity of the earth-toned player persisted, especially as she seemed the antithesis of Karen O's extroversion. The band of course performed "Maps" which O referred to as the "Yeah Yeahs love song" as well as the unbridled "Date with the Night." We learned that Karen O's speaking voice is seemingly as gritty and guttural as her singing one, and that this band knows how to end a night of music - if we had any lingering doubts. After that, it was just a matter of punching our muscles back to live and emptying our shoes of water. We had another day of music just over that rainy horizon.
