When I reached the Ashland Green Line station at 10:05pm, spent and elated, I spotted orange and yellow confetti scattered across the wooden platform slats and rail lines. I smiled. And did the math in my head: That’s a solid block and thirtysomething feet up from the main stage of the Pitchfork Fest. Chalk it up to a whole lot of joy. Or wind. Or gimmicks.
Photo: Martha Williams
See, it varies depending on who you talk to. Some folks see balloons, confettis, cute girls dressed as snow-bunnies, acid-trip videos of naked go-go dancers, a band enter the stage through a throbbing electric vagina, a human hamster ball and go, “Holy fuck!” Other jaded folk (and there are a good number of them at an indie festival) yawn. I’m glad I don’t feel dead inside just yet. (But I would imagine the folks who had to have Union Park clean by 9am didn’t share the sentiment.)
I was reminded of Knocked Up, which was on HBO late the night before, and the scene where Paul Rudd notes, “I wish I loved anything as much as my kids love bubbles.” Wayne Coyne and co. are dead set on putting that feeling into adults (and, well, the children of the adults, which are in growing number at this festival). The Oklahoman icon sums it up perfectly with the title of an unreleased rarity performed that night: “Enthusiasm For Life (Defeats Internal, Existential Fear).”
Photo: Martha Williams
Before the show, Coyne was huddling up with and hugging his costumed cuties backstage, shooting confetti canons into the crowd and waving to people in the crowd. Balloon technicians and roadies in emergency orange jumpsuits and tiger-striped hard hats prepped the stage, which resembled a cross between a construction site and Stargate.
But strip away all the popsicle-colored accoutrements—the Lips still kicked ass. Kliph is an insanely great drummer, in a band with another trap-killer on guitars and keyboards, and hearing him freak on the two new raucous kraut-inspired cuts, “Silver Trembling Hands” and the live premiere of “Convinced of the Hex,” was a joy. The band dug deep for “Bad Days,” and spelunked to the core of their discography for “Mountain Side,” from 1990’s In A Priest Driven Ambulance, feating the white-suited Zappa Claus frontman on a bugel.
Photo: Martha Williams
Coyne cut through the opacity of the “Write the Night” conceit, announcing before each tune where it ranked on the fan-voted poll. Of course, “Do You Realise?” and “She Don’t Use Jelly” topped the list. I mean, their popular songs are most popular, and most people there are young (a guy behind me marveled at how Coyne actually played guitar, something he’s holding on the cover of Clouds Taste Metallic). Go figure. The deep cuts split votes, superfans.
Yes, Coyne rambled at length, but that’s part of his M.O., and what makes him, you know, interesting. It was the biggest climax of Pitchfork Fest’s short life, and one that will be hard to top, lest they start tapping into big money bands beyond the site’s scope and underground mission. But I hope they continue to cheat a little when it comes to finales.
I must have been at the same festival in a parallel universe. I was with a group of people that like myself had seen the great Flaming Lips around 15-20 times and we all felt let down by Waynes performance, the usual magic was gone.
It’s a shame you didn’t catch The Very Best. Biggest and best surprise of the festival.
I did catch the Very Best—really great set, excellent dancehally vibes and stellar MC-ing/singing. It is really a shame that this crew wasn’t booked for a main stage set during the day. But it was a nice break from the Lips circus.