Blood, Sweat, and Hipsters in Chi-Town

The only way to survive these sorts of things is by picking your battles, so thank God most indie rock bands suck.

At this July’s Pitchfork Music Festival, the heat was blistering, the humidity covered those blisters in a thick layer of sweat, and festival-sponsor Fuze Beverages™ were only handing out their free samples in tiny cups, so this reviewer took much-needed naps during lame acts like Tapes ’n Tapes, Chin Up Chin Up, and The National.

However, those aforementioned naps were merely charge-up sessions for some of the most joyous thrashing and tastiest grooving that Chicago had seen since the ’68 riots.

The four biggest highlights were easy to pick out, and anyone with a brain stem should try and catch each when they next come through the Boston area code.

Number one, by far, were recently-reunited-after-forty-years Brazilian legends Os Mutantes.

They got top billing on the second day of the two-day-fest, which was exactly where they belonged. More than a few spectators probably had no idea who they were listening to. Of course, that didn’t prevent hipsters with no knowledge of the band from talking about how “influential” they were.

But Os Mutantes transcended any of that crap. They’re all middle-aged Brazilians who made a revolution in sound forty years ago when they combined Anglo-American psych-rock guitars with distinctly South American tropicalia. They’re too damn happy and wise for pretension.

And boy howdy, could they rock a groove.

It’s interesting—when they were young bucks in the ’60s, they made a conscious effort to be as wild and new as they possibly could, but now, with age, they seem to have realized that they can get less fuzzed-out and more like traditional South American music. Watching them was like watching an aging, agnostic Jew rediscover the power of scripture, and dance with glee as he intones the blessings.

Speaking of Jews, highlight number two was a huge surprise. The Silver Jews is a band that’s been around since the early ’90s, but had never toured until last year. Initial reviews of their live shows had been tepid, at best, so we all had our doubts.

Jesus Christ, were we wrong. Frontman David Berman is, first and foremost, a poet, and songs like “Dallas” and “Trains Across the Sea” were heart-wrenching and earnest to the point of goosebumps.

Even a line like “I love you to the max” was total, front-on honest, and the shockingly tight musicianship drove all that honesty like an old-timey steam-train to our hearts.

Lyrics are the also the stock-and-trade of the third superstar on our list: John Darnielle, aka The Mountain Goats. His set was perfect. Fans got to hear unbelievably obscure nuggets like “Lady from Shanghai,” casual listeners were taught the words for a sing-along version of “No Children,” and John maintained his reputation as one of the most charismatic and audience-focused dudes in the singer-songwriter game.

Last, but not least, we got an adorable set from an adorable man who comes from an adorable country, has an adorable accent, and plays with a band of six of the hottest women this reviewer has ever fantasized about. The performer in question was, of course, Sweden’s Jens Lekman.

Wearing a silly fedora and telling the stories-behind-the-songs in order to make everyone feel welcome (a particular favorite was a tale about being roped into pretending to be the boyfriend of a lesbian in order to impress her parents), Jens and his band of Swedish beauties rollicked through plenty of delightful little ditties before leaving all too soon.

There was a rumor that he played some songs on an acoustic guitar in a park somewhere in the city, later on. What a sweetheart.

Some other bands also played.

Word was that Yo La Tengo were pretty amazing, but I was asleep during their set (it had been a long day). Devendra Banhart, who’s usually incredible, was awful and boring. Man Man were a lot of fun, but, like their name, pretty redundant. Mission of Burma kicked all of our asses, and were a close fifth on my list of great acts. Danielson was predictably weird.

The Futureheads and Spoon were fine, I guess. The Walkmen were totally irrelevant. Aesop Rock and Mr. Lif were in the wrong place at the wrong time, being rappers and all. Liars were noisy and silly. Art Brut were very British. Ted Leo was rather dull, but he did break his skin on a microphone, so I guess that was cool. Destroyer is not an interesting band.

And that was that! It was, overall, a delightful weekend at the old ballpark, and Pitchfork continues to throw the best party of the summer for people who, like you and me, read Pitchforkmedia.com every day.

—Staff writer Abe J. Riesman can be reached at riesman@fas.harvard.edu.