Check back often for more updates from the Pitchfork Music Festival. See pictures of Mission of Burma, Sebadoh and Public Enemy from the first day in our Flickr photoset.

Wet, wet, wet: A 4:30pm downpour dumps a layer of humidity and mud on the proceedings but crowds are light so nothing’s going all Woodstock ‘94 just yet. In fact, things are so sparse that most of the crowd is caught off-guard as Mission of Burma starts off the fest - and the night - in a surprisingly punctual manner. - Scott Smith

Mission of Burma: Being the conscientious Bostonians that they are, Mission of Burma kicked off its classic album set for Vs. a bit early—5 minutes before 6pm on a grey, sticky night in Chicago’s Union Park. Vs., released in 1982 on Boston’s Ace of Hearts records truly is a classic in my book—but it’s far from chock full of hits. It was easily available in used record shops during the later part of the decade—MOB were a cult band for post-punk fanatics only. 

Vs. does not include the band’s best known tunes such as "Academy Fight Song." It’s a dense, noisy album, of inverted anthems, full of songs that decry the establishment in personal terms. It’s both no-wavy in its insertion of guitar skronk in the spaces between verses and choruses and incredibly melodic.

Tape manipulator Martin Swope has been replaced by Bob Weston, an old Boston pal who lives in Chicago and sometimes plays in Shellac—but otherwise the band is all original members, Clint Conley, Peter Prescott and Roger Miller. Prescott’s drumming propels MOB in unique tumbling fashion and he executes his pummeling tom and cymbal combinations with the original feel intact. Miller and Conley trade off on shouted vocals and buzz with verve through “Train” and the rest of side one. Miller, who once suffered from hearing loss due to the band’s incredible volume, wasn’t holding back, though he did stand behind one of his Marshall cabinets. The gaps between songs were minimal, but the band cleverly had Weston insert scratchy record noise between sides one and two. Three grown-men didn’t seem to have a problem griping about the Catholic Church on “New Nails” or joking about their age ("We forget things. We’re 80!"). Miller, in particular, looked comfortable as ever.

Side two, which includes longer dirges like "Einstein’s Day," (with a stadium-worthy solo from Miller), and the garage-y “Ballad of Johnny Burma” eventually leads into “Fun World” and the anthemic “That’s How I Escaped My Certain Fate.”—John Dugan

Sebadoh: Another band of “Massholes” (as Jason Lowenstein joked) promptly hit the stage at 7:15, appearing somewhat daunted that they were chosen to follow Mission of Burma. Barlow was quick to give props, telling the crowd how the band had grown up on Vs. Still, the ‘Doh put forth an admirable effort, coasting through their 1993 album Bubble & Scrape like it was just another day. And in a way it was, this was the second time this year that they’d performed their low-fi centerpiece (the first being this past May at All Tomorrows Parties in London).

I’m not sure why Pitchfork and ATP opted for the band to play B&S, with other classics like Bakesale looming in the periphery. But by the time they’d kicked into “Soul and Fire,” I didn’t really care. They were in fine form, with their classic (and best) arrangement: Lou Barlow on guitar, Lowenstein on bass, and Eric Gaffney drumming. The trio swapped instruments throughout the night, with Barlow on guitar and bass, Gaffney switching between drums and guitar, and Lowenstein jumping between all three.

Thankfully, the album, which can be plodding at times, was carried out with high energy—Barlow had even kicked off his shoes by the third song. As far as onstage banter goes, they completely raised the bar for the entire weekend. Aside from referring to the festival’s host as “Pitchfuck,” at one point Barlow launched into an a cappella version of Tom Petty’s “The Waiting.” Their romantic indie pop may be schmaltzy at times, but it was completely offset once they started hamming it up.—Areif Sless-Kitain

Public Enemy: It’s 8:15 and Sebadoh are still playing. Lou Barlow’s curly Kurt cut sloshes sweat across his face on the massive monitors. Yet, 70% of the masses on the field are facing the Aluminum Stage, where Hank and Keith Shocklee, a.k.a. the Bomb Squad quietly scratch their turntables through a soundcheck. The legendary Public Enemy producers are supposed to spin a short set before the main act, but Barlow’s scraping the bottom of the Bubble barrel. Sebadoh puts down their instruments. Hank Shocklee cuts into the silence with a sampled announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Bo-o-o-o-o-mb Squad!”

Problem is, Lou Barlow plops back down on a chair with an acoustic guitar. And commences singing. The Bomb Squad—coitus interruptus. Thousands in the crowd unleash a cheer of “Sebadoh sucks,” before demanding, “Bomb Squad! Bomb Squad!” Sebadoh pick up their instruments and fight back with a thrashing punk number. It’s awful. Finally, they give up the ghost.

The Bomb Squad restart their mini-set, unleashing a tidal wave of bass that washes away whatever memories of sloppy college rock are lingering in the heads of the crowd. Hank mixes punishing throbs of ragga and dubstep while brother Keith hyped the crowd on the mic. The bass is so thick and deep, my vision blurs. The low frequencies jiggle my vitrious humour like a T. Rex approaching a glass of water. I feel like a silenced cellphone in God’s pocket.

Then it is time for Public Enemy. DJ Lord, the ringer in for original member Terminator X, stands behind the boards, flanked by a drummer, guitarist and bassist. The drums kick in with force, but throughout the performance it’s difficult to pick out what the other two are adding. Instructed by the hype man (no, not that one) the crowd begins
whirrrrrring like a siren, mimicking the bomb shelter warning from It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. Then, “Bass! How low can you go?” Chuck D storms out, two mics in hand, with Professor Griff and a small troop of S1W soldiers.

Flavor is nowhere to be seen, but is heard. As the song finishes, Chuck asks, “Flav, where the hell are you at?” And out comes the man, part lightning bolt, part lightning rod. Whatever, nobody can take their eyes off him. If Sebadoh set the early bar for stage banter, Flav hurdled it, snatched it, broke it over his knee and used the pieces to conduct the crowd to his will. The (mostly white) audience bounced, pumped fists, waved arms, flashed peace signs, flicked birds, cursed the war and sang along to classic lines from "Don’t Believe the Hype,” “Cold Lampin’ With Flavor,” “Bring The Noise,” etc. Now, that, festival folks, is a classic album. Can anyone even name a song off Bubble & Scrape?

Flavor, being Flavor, plugs his sitcom, Under One Roof. The crowd boos him. Yo, careful, this isn’t Lou Barlow. Flav snaps back, “You muthafuckers boo me?! You haters boo me? Boo is what you call your spouse!” He has them back. Flavor stalks the lip of the stage, occasionally dipping into crowd, who reach for his clock like beggars while beefy private security guards hold him back. Despite his boast that they’re not lip synching, it becomes clear in “Show Em Whatcha Got” he is lying.

It doesn’t matter that Flavor can be heard when the mic is away from his face. It doesn’t matter that Chuck D rushes breathlessly to keep up with the dense rhymes of his youth. It doesn’t matter that Terminator X is now farming ostriches somewhere. Public Enemy absolutely kills it. This is spectacle. The band does a surprisingly nifty job of both honoring the record and offering a live, new take on tracks like “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos.” It becomes clear that nobody this weekend will be able to top this. The crowd is mesmerized and energized. In booking Public Enemy, Pitchfork has endangered much of what they hold dear: This isn’t a reverent recreation of a recorded work, it’s a group of A-listers entertaining the hell out of thousands of people. Sebadoh switches instruments? Ooooh. Public Enemy has SOLDIERS in CAMOUFLAGE with KATANA SWORDS doing push-ups on stage. Your move, Animal Collective. —Brent DiCrescenzo