The New American Music Union Festival Report
NAMU — DAY 22:15 P.M.
A cab drops me off at Southside Works. I've come to think Pittsburgh is much nicer than I thought it would be. The real part of the city is full of character, fairly hip and very friendly. Folks here actually talk to each other, which is amazing to me since in L.A. all anyone ever does is gather to exchange head shots and screenplays. While I was buying a much-needed energy drink at a convenience store, the clerk and I get into a brief discussion of the vastly underappreciated acting talents of one Francis Albert Sinatra.
I amble through Southside Works to the free bike-powered cell phone charging station situated next to the Cheesecake Factory to find nobody using it. I ask the girl running the booth how many people have come by to charge their phones via pedal power. Her polite smile is all the answer I need. A few feet away is the also-free and very novel "bicycle valet parking" tent cosponsored by Bike Pittsburgh. A bearded gentleman who looks like Grizzly Adams tells me they expect to securely park up to 100 two-wheelers by the end of the day. I begin to wonder if putting these two tents over in the corner by the Cheesecake Factory is really attracting the bike-riding demographic.
3:30 P.M.England's own the Duke Spirit comes out for a quickie. From beneath her blunt-cut blonde bangs, vocalist Liela Moss gazes over the crowd like a jungle cat, and displays her modest harmonica skills on a very crisp and fluid rendition of "Dog Roses." Though they're the first band on and there are at most a thousand people in attendance, you can feel the crowd falling in love with her with every passing second. After the third song, I want to stay and check out the rest of their set but can't. Some genius scheduled the day's artists's press conference at 4 P.M., so we all have to hustle back to grab seats and get set up. On the walk over Mr. Connected and I decide to start a betting pool on how long before Liela Moss releases her first solo album.
4:20 P.M.
Since it's a press conference with rock stars, of course it goes off late. Compared to Friday's presser, Saturday's conference is a total snooze. Kiedis is lively, but the local press, which has quadrupled in size, isn't. After some brief remarks, Kiedis opens it up to the floor for questions, only to get complete silence for 10 full seconds. The stage fright, it seems, is on the media. While they wait, the artists decide to just banter among themselves. I ask Gnarls what they're going to wear and get a shrug, which I interpret as code that it will be something special. Later, I ask the Tiny Masters which album they first heard that made them say, "I want to be that." It's my off-the-cuff version of a real rock journalist question.
"When I was in my stomach at a Nirvana show," answers Ivan. Kiedis jokes that he was there playing his umbilical chord like a stand-up bass. It's a nice moment for Kiedis, who has obviously taken the Tiny Masters under his wing. The moment later becomes slightly awkward when he tells 12-year-old Ava he has a special treat for her, something for her to eat. I half expect Chris Hansen and a "To Catch a Predator" film crew to burst into the room, until Kiedis reveals he is talking about one of those single-serve boxes of Frosted Flakes. During the session, the guys from Spoon say almost nothing except when asked what they thought of the festival setup. "We got here 10 seconds before the press conference," answers Britt Daniel, with a face that tells me he's in need of a grande latte. They are definitely not the Marx Brothers.
From the back, an attractive brunette asks Kiedis if he'll perform tonight since he didn't last night. Before he can answer, Gnarls loses all control of his internal monologue and blurts out, "She's hot!" which wouldn't have been heard by anyone else if he hadn't been holding a live microphone at the time. After the question of performing pops up yet again, Kiedis claims that if asked, he would be happy to guest with any of the acts. Three feet in front of me I can see Spoon bassist Andy McGuire elbow Britt Daniel, and the room holds its breath waiting for someone to ante up. Nobody does. As the presser breaks up, I make one last plea that if anyone does pony up the invite to make sure it happens during the first three songs of their set so I can shoot it.
4:45 P.M.
By the time the press conference is over, Black Mountain is too deep into their show for us to be allowed to get any shots of them (again, kudos to the moron who won't let us even shoot from the crowd). We get to the backstage entrance just in time to catch their last song. Sorry, Black Mountain. What little I heard, however, sounded good and LOUD.
5:25 P.M.
The photogs kill time by picking up random crowd photos. The secret of getting your picture taken in a festival crowd? Wear stupid-looking sunglasses if you're a guy or be really beautiful or enthusiastic if you're a girl. Lenses out toward the crowd, we urge them to claim their celluloid moment, yet to our chagrin nobody flashes us. Later, I have to explain to one of the photogs that Gnarls Barkley is not actually the name of anyone in the band and Danger Mouse is not the upcoming Pixar movie.
5:30 P.M.
Will it be Olympic-themed attire for Gnarls Barkley? Steelers Jerseys? Turns out Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse go for neither, instead opting for the "Century 21" realtor look with matching gold jackets. However, no home sales agent in the history of time is as funky as these guys. Things definitely kick up a notch during the third song as Danger Mouse gives up the ivories for the xylophone and the band launches into their killer cover of the Violent
Femmes's "Gone Daddy Gone." The crowd goes nuts. By far the highlight of the set is when they ease into "Crazy." Cee-Lo channels Al Green perfectly, and the way the band drops into this groove reminds me of a coastline drive along Pacific Coast Highway back home. Maybe it's the heat, but Cee-Lo appears to tire quickly. And a dreamy version of "Neighbors" signals the moment where things go awry, and the band's cohesiveness falls apart for the rest of the set, sounding more like a chaotic wall of noise than they did during the set's groove-alicious opening. Since this has become a theme from act to act, I start to wonder if the guy running the performers stage monitors for the entire festival has fallen asleep at his mixing board. Even so, the mostly 18- to 25-year-old concertgoers don't care. They came for a party, and Gnarls delivers. 6:45 P.M.
Spoon is boring. There I said it. They do that retro thing with earnestness that guys like Josh Rouse would give his left arm for. But right now after Gnarls, Spoon's set doesn't put lead in my pencil. The band sounds great on "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb," but there's zero chemistry onstage between singer Britt Daniel and the rest of his bandmates. Even with a real three-piece horn section, "The Underdog" kind of feels like the Spoon guys are phoning it in today, with a set that is probably just as enjoyable for those listening outside the venue as inside. I'm thinking someone should have stuck a fork into Spoon because it was obvious from the afternoon's presser that their enthusiasm had flatlined. Afterward, I am not alone in thinking it would have made for better flow to have Gnarls go on after these guys rather than before.
8:00 P.M.
The Raconteurs open with 110 decibels of "Consoler of the Lonely." For the first two minutes Jack White pulls a Miles Davis with his back to the audience, and I nearly go into a panic thinking none of my photos of him will be of his face. But he's only milking it. Once he turns around, the crowd goes nuts. No disrespect to Brendan Benson, who turned in one of the strongest rock vocal performances of the festival, but the crowd's reaction to Jack White's face reveal very much underscores whose band this really is. Nevertheless, these
guys play like a band that's been together forever with a rock festival worthy of the gauntlet thrown down by the Black Keys the previous night. Momentarily, I step in front of the stage left speaker tower to position myself for some shots of bassist Jack Lawrence (who looks like a goth Corey Feldman), and the volume is so loud that not only can I feel the hairs moving on my arms but my DNA reconfiguring itself. With the photo embargo on Dylan, this is the photogs last chance to shoot anything, and the pit has turned into a total scrum to get the best positioning. I end up taking more than 300 stills during their performance, and eagerly rush back to the venue after stowing my camera to catch the rest of their flamethrower set. It's been a long day and I'm exhausted, but a seemingly 15-minute-long version of "Steady, As She Goes" gets my tired heart pumping again. For one glorious hour, the Raconteurs are in full force. The twin vocal and guitar assault of Benson and White is tremendous, especially on "Rich Kid Blues," which sounds like "Tommy" era Who. Their set is like great Hollywood drama — unpredictable, full of rich characters and deeply satisfying. I can't wait for the sequel.
