2008's Five Best Summer Festivals

The road doesn't really go on forever, and the trip back from Austin City Limits marked the final leg of our summer festival spree. In the past three months, Pete and I have spanned more than 20,000 miles in North America, attempted to see the best of some 600 bands, braved twelve-hour days under the scorching hot sun, and nearly wanted to kill ourselves -- and a few especially crappy Canadian drivers --after sitting in three-hour traffic in Whistler, BC.

Don't get me wrong. It was a pretty incredible way to spend a summer, and we were definitely spoiled: In addition to getting to hang backstage, where there's plenty of beer to guzzle and rock stars to ogle, we got to see Radiohead three times, Beck three times, Tom Petty twice, and one stupendous performance from Rage Against The Machine. And though all eight of the major events we attended this summer will always hold a special place in our hearts, we are not Dick Van Patten, and we don't mind choosing favorites. Here's a list of 2008's five best summer festivals, in order of awesomeness:

1) Lollapalooza: Chicago's Grant Park might be a giant schvitz in August, but it was worth sweating through our clothes each day when the sun went down and we joined the masses of fans to watch killer headlining performances by Radiohead, Rage, Wilco, and Kanye West. (No disrespect to Nine Inch Nails. We hear they were amazing. We just didn't make it over to see them because we were so gripped by Radiohead's black magic.) Also, major props to Lolla organizers C3 for making the backstage experience not suck. Whereas most fests are difficult to cover because it's hard to get from one stage to the next in time to see everything, Lolla (and ACL, too, which C3 also mans) has a fleet of golf carts to shuttle VIP-types across the park. I told you we were spoiled!

2) Outside Lands: One of this year's freshman festivals, Outside Lands sounded promising from the start. Staged at San Francisco's Golden Gate Park and produced jointly by the dudes who do Bonnaroo (Superfly) and an SF promoter helmed by a Bill Graham protege (Another Planet), Outside Lands brought the 'Roo's chill hippie vibe to the city that invented it. The festival had all sorts of cool local food vendors, a super earth-friendly set-up, and video games in the artist hospitality tent! Oh yeah, there were also some great performances. We were especially blown away by Devendra Banhart, Toots & The Maytals, Broken Social Scene and Wilco. Plus, when Steve Winwood came out onstage with Tom Petty and they did "Can't Find My Way Home"? I plotzed!

3) Pemberton Festival: Pemberton was the first festival we covered this summer, and at the time I wouldn't have predicted it'd be ranking as my third-favorite of the season. Because this was the event's inaugural year, there were a couple compelling logistic problems that dampened my initial enthusiasm. The aforementioned traffic was a nightmare. Plus, it was really dusty in the field where the festival was staged, and a lot of folks spent the weekend with scarves tied over their noses and mouths. But, man, what amazing scenery there was surrounding that field! Whistler's snow-capped mountains circle you, and they even served bottled glacier water distilled from that very mountain right there. But Pemberton's real appeal was its performances. However great Tom Petty was at Outside Lands, he was even more incredible at Pemberton. Even in the confines of a forty-five minute set, My Morning Jacket were nothing short of revelatory at Pemberton. And, as many times as I've seen Vampire Weekend now, the New York band's Pemberton set top-notch.

4) Austin City Limits: I had always heard great things about the Austin City Limits festival, and I can see why. It's a remarkably well-organized event -- same promoters as Lollapalooza -- that attracts major national acts like Foo Fighters, Beck and Mars Volta while retaining oodles of local flavor. And, in Texas, that means lots of rootsy rock music from artists including Band of Horses, Conor Oberst, Jenny Lewis, Gillian Welch, Robert Earl Keen and John Fogerty. The Foos and Mars Volta both impressed, but I found myself gravitating toward the Americana stuff. Glad I did: Lewis, Oberst, Welch and BOH blew the roof off the joint. Plus, I got to hang out with Bill Murray. Yeah, you heard me.

5) All Tomorrow's Parties: For this one, I defer to my colleague,
Kevin O'Donnell, who covered ATP while I ran around Los Angeles on
another story. He writes: ATP -- an intimate 2,700-capacity fest held at the dilapidated Catskills resort hotel Kutscher's -- felt a lot like going to sleep away camp: Fresh mountain air! Rowboating on the lake! Mystery meat from the outdoor eating area! So the food may not have been great, but the indie-rock-heavy line-up was super tasty: U.K. synth-rock act Fuck Buttons, drum-and-bass noise-rock duo Lightning Bolt, Dinosaur Jr., Yo La Tengo, and dozens more. (Personal highlight: Thurston Moore performing one of my favorite albums of all time in its entirety, 1995's Psychic Hearts.) Still, nothing beat Sunday night's headlining set from Irish shoegaze legends My Bloody Valentine, performing for the first time on U.S. soil in sixteen years. True to their reputation, MBV's mind-blowing set was unbelievably loud. The crew ripped into psychedelic jams from Loveless (highlight: "Only Shallow") and capped off their hour-and-a-half set with a sixteen-minute noise jam that sounded like a fleet of jets taking off. Were it not for the complimentary earplugs handed out by the staff beforehand, I'd be permanently deaf. Backstage the night before their set, I got the chance to chat with MBV's notoriously shy frontman Kevin Shields. And there's good news: the band is set to start working on their first album in seventeen years. " Even if it goes badly," Shields said, "we're going to do one." -- JENNY ELISCU

Austin City Limits Festival Day Three: Tegan and Sara find redemption; Foo Fighters find an ending

Photo: Brian Birzer

There are, apparently, two kinds of closure when it comes to Austin City Limits Festival: There’s the personal kind, as in an emotional closure; and then there is the literal kind, as in you and your band are the closers of this festival. Sign here please.

Tegan and Sara sought the first kind, after a cowboy-shirted Tegan—who’d changed from her earlier black-on-black uniform when guesting with Against Me!—shared with the Austin crowd that the last time they’d been in town was years before, for SXSW. It was a gig that had, in Tegan’s words “really sucked.” Redemption they sought, then, and redemption they found, as a solid portion of ACL’s masses chose to watch them over the rather adored Band of Horses across the way. Spending less than their usual stage time bantering, the sisters instead focused on sharing material from last year’s The Con, as well as their two previous releases. The long time T&S fan might have even recognized an old school song, 1999’s “Superstar,” inserted in The Con’s “Hop a Plane.” The pair also covered Rihanna’s “Umbrella,” and played their own, original version of “Walking with a Ghost,” which, ironically, Jack White could probably hear from the Raconteurs’ proximity the next stage over. One crucial piece of banter did, finally, slip through; when Tegan was struggling with the beginning of “Where Does the Good Go?” Sara spoke about the first few weeks of the twins’ lives, spent in hospital because they “didn’t have a sucking reflex." Deadpan, she added: "Take from that what you will.” Not sucking then, not sucking now. Closure complete!

When it’s your job to finish a festival, you may choose the quick and dirty route (as Beck’s day two closer did the night before) or you may choose to befriend the audience by suggesting that you won’t leave until the cops chase you away. Dave Grohl chose the latter, and the Foo frontman may have meant it—he seemed genuinely surprised and pleased by the caliber of festival he was attending, and said as much. And so, he did the closest thing to an arrest-worthy set that well-established acts can do, and that’s play the shit out of as many songs as possible in the time allotted. Newer singles like “Long Road to Ruin” and “Let it Die” figured prominently, but the Foo Fighter hit machine churned out many more still. Pleasant surprises for those on the audience end included a rich backup band (complete with violin, cello, accordion and even triangle), a Foo-ed up cover of The Who’s “Young Man Blues,” and an epic drum solo from Taylor Hawkins that served as an interlude to “Stacked Actors.” Still, at the scheduled ten o’clock mark, the Foo Fighters left, as they were contractually obliged to do. But then, they came back and played an encore, because they can. And nary a cop was in sight. Case—and show—closed. -- KAITLIN FONTANA

Austin City Limits Festival Day Three: Gillian Welch is a hillbilly, Against Me! are more than just punk, Silversun Pickups are…in a jar?

Photo: Brian Birzer

Day Three in Austin was about heat: who had it, who didn’t and who was suffering as a result of it. Day Three was also a banquet of many flavors, and the discerning concertgoer (or the crazy one, depending on your definition of such words) could trek from earnest country to punk rock to indie in a matter of scorching strides, were said goer so inclined. To wit:

Gillian Welch came calling from just ‘round the bend in Nashville, stopping by with long time band mate David Rawlings to give an unlisted set that Rawlings promised “would be become boring pretty quick,” as soon as they started forgetting songs they wanted to play. This, luckily, did not come to pass, as Welch’s bluegrass/country/beautiful hybrid provided for a pleasing entrypoint for many of Austin’s arriving early afternoon crowd. Welch was charming and affable through her set, relaying the benefits of being a banjo-touting female (“Everyone loves a chick with a banjo. It may be just a fetish, but there you have it,”), and cursing the heat for making Rawling’s guitar “spazz.” She made a clear-as-a-bell go at “My First Lover” and the adopted child’s lament “No One Knows My Name” before noting that her set was being overshadowed by the nearby BMI stage. “How do we sound with a rhythm section?” she asked, and receiving a huge cheer of encouragement, explained that she and Rawlings were there to “uphold the hillbilly quotient.” Smiling at the notion, Gillian Welch took up her banjo and carried on.

Downfield, Against Me!’s set provided the answers to two potential festival questions: Where are all the teenagers at this festival? And who has all of the pot? Ahem: They’re here! And they do! But perhaps another question should be, How does Against Me! do it? By most accounts they appear to be a face value punk band from Florida, the exact act the Kids with Pot would love. And they are that, but Jesus—they’re much more. They’re a stellar live act, with a massive output of energy that’s not to be sneezed at, even while you’re inhaling Zilker Park dust. Most material stemmed from 2007’s New Wave (“Thrash Unreal,” the trippy “The Ocean”) but with that record only clocking in at 30 minutes, they pulled from older material as well. An appearance by Tegan Quin of Tegan and Sara (“Borne on the FM Waves of the Heart”) was a welcome diversion, but the boys in black hardly needed help winning Austinites over. To most, whether Kids with Pot or not, it felt like Against Me! was transmitting at a higher, cooler frequency than most of ACL's other acts.

On the subject of frequency, Silversun Pickups may have a thing or two to say. Like, "How frequently will we play a set that sounds like we’re inside a glass jar?" To this the crowd would like to respond, “Hopefully only the once.” The Pickups show was plagued by a strange technical issue that kept the sound low and the mix muddy; as a consequence many, grumbling, headed for some shade in frustration. It’s too bad, because it looked like Brian Aubert was enjoying himself immensely, and that his band was most likely playing a fantastic set behind the glitch. As Aubert later explained (his vocals were the one thing that didn’t sound like they were coming from inside a fishbowl), this appearance was the last before the band releases new album Swoon, in October. Even through the problems, “Rusted Wheel,” and “Lazy Eye” conjured cheers and raised arms from the crowd; here’s hoping that when Silversun Pickups return with new material, they’ll be returning with a new sound crew, too. -- KAITLIN FONTANA

Austin City Limits Festival, Day Two: Spiritualized takes a side; Conor Oberst takes pride; Beck takes off

Photo: Mary Sledd



Day Two of Austin City Limits Fest was a study in strange behaviors. A thicker crowd meant clouds of dust began to swirl, and with that came the more ornery edge of the audience. And then there were those curious performers.

To wit: A shoving match, apparently over accidental drink spillage, occurred and quickly dispersed, just as Spiritualized found their way onto the Dell stage. Singer Jason Pierce followed the rest of his band—including two white-clad backup singers—and lodged himself firmly behind a microphone at stage right. It was from this position that they recounted nearly ten years of Spiritualized backstory: “Shine a Light,” “I Think I’m in Love” and “Ladies and Gentlemen We are Floating in Space,” among others. All the while Pierce shied behind sunglasses, seemingly disaffected by the space rock shimmy he was inspiring in some. Sometimes though, as with “Soul on Fire,” from this years Songs in A&E, Pierce blossomed, his stance widening and his body threatening to lurch from side stage to proper front man position, up front. Sadly, that vacuum created by his absence front and centre was noticeable. Word on the street has touted recent shows as the band’s creative best, but under the Texas sun, Pierce was a little too subdued and sidelined to be truly striking.

Photo: Brian Birzer

A quick hop across the ever-cloudier field was a chance to see Conor Oberst, sans Bright eyes and plus the Mystic Valley Band. Suited, in a shiny tie and bearing a white flower in his lapel, Oberst put on a rather handsome show even as he stood apart from his considerably more casual bandmates. After greeting us “Dusty Texans,” he slipped into an alt-country mode, peddling shiny wares from August’s Conor Oberst, most notably “Danny Callahan,” “Milk Thistle” and “Eagle on a Pole.” Oberst looked comfortable heading the MVB, and something akin to pride even tickled the corners of his eyes at times. Perhaps to illustrate this, he danced, a slightly more charming version of the white man’s underbite, and chided the crowd for not cheering loud enough when he introduced his Mystic Valley band mates. He meant it, too—you could see it in those suddenly darkened eyes. Still, he had to admit, this was a “Real nice festival,” and one he’d probably come back to. And hey, if he was looking to eat later, an eager fan’s front row sign proclaimed she’d happily buy him dinner.

It’ll be interesting to see how word of Beck’s closing slot on day two carries; Mr. Hansen came to the stage ten minutes late—a forgivable offense, but not when coupled with leaving 20 minutes early. Simple math says that shortens a promised 90 minute show to a mere hour, an argument that’s tough to make to a bunch of fans with schedules in hand. Having seen Beck a month ago at Outside Lands, the test was in how he would shape his set differently, and how he would morph from side stage alternative to mainstage draw. Through that curiously dispassionate face, he delivered, for the most part, simply by upping the intensity a smidge. He’s cultivated a pleasing arc to his shows: bring it hard and fast to start, throw in some mid tempo sways, bring band centre stage for electro freak out, and then ease into the ending with the slower bits. On this framework he can hang his set list, picking and choosing from his catalogue at will. It’s only when he lets the freak flag fly that you remember that this organized musician is a weirdo at heart (for example: a call and answer in which he begged us to “Say Sergio Valente! Say Jordache turn it up!”) It’s freak Beck we love, but we don’t see enough of him. Increasingly, too, his band, particularly mulitasker Jessica Dobson, threatens to upstage him. And then of course, there was the leaving early thing, and the whole huge group of us blobbing towards the street wondering about some harder math—just how 20,000 or so of us would squeeze through that tiny exit. -- KAITLIN FONTANA

Austin City Limits Festival Day One: Gogol Bordello Gestures Lewdly; Jenny Lewis Emits Cuteness

Photo: Mary Sledd

While the sounds of recently departed summer festivals—and, indeed, recently departed summer—ring in most of our ears, the folks at Austin City Limits Festival shrug off such seasonal limitations. For a lucky few thousand Texans, summer reigns, even in the first week of fall. And in 90-degree heat, it’s pretty easy to forget that summer’s gone.

The first day of ACL fest enjoyed such spoils, as bikinied and be-shorted types traversed Austin’s Zilker Park. Some conscientious souls traveled with bags of cans in tow (not a completely selfless act—there was a free t-shirt on offer for every full bag), while those seeking a cool down could stand in a water-spewing fan, lovingly titled the Sister Mister. Get it?

Of the multitude of acts available on day one, the one most in need of a misting may have been Gogol Bordello. Something suggests, however, that gypsy punks are averse to misting. They’re not averse to perspiration, after all, and there was plenty of that to be had in the intense, mid-day direct sunlight Gogol received for the majority of their set. Front man Eugene Hutz quickly dispatched his rainbow shirt in favor of a bare chest. He and his energetic crew, including his sterner counterpart, black-clad violinist Sergey Ryabtsev, then charged through a set packed with Gogol’s usual finesse: screaming, acrobatics, and scantily clad female band members. Hutz paused between a flurry of songs that included “Sally” and Super Taranta’s “Supertheory of Super Everything” only to give the audience a quick scan, chug wine from the bottle, or offer a series of lovably lewd hand gestures. The latter had an unintended effect--it left the festival’s sign language interpreter momentarily without a job. (Swearing: the true international language.) Gogol Bordello then departed, having made swift and sweaty friends in Texas.

Photo: Brian Birzer

Over—or should I say, under, since we’re talking about a tent—at the WaMu stage, a sizeable crowd gathered to see Jenny Lewis, whose new album Acid Tongue had just debuted three days earlier. Whether those assembled were excited to see Jenny unleash new material or whether they were just attempting a heat escape under the tent is up for debate (probably both), all present got the same effervescent treatment. Lewis made for an irresistibly cute hostess to her own party, offering material from 2006’s Rabbit Fur Coat (“Rise Up With Fists,” “You Are What You Love”) and pronouncing how “psyched” she is about new songs (“Acid Tongue,” “Carpetbaggers”). She even managed a non-silly, acoustic cover of “Love Hurts,” while simultaneously courting a new fan in Bill Murray, in Austin to shoot a film and singing along from the side of the stage. That her band introduced their leading lady as “the one you came here to see” may have only been true for some when they arrived at the shady WaMu tent, but by the time Jenny Lewis bounded off stage, it was true for all. -- KAITLIN FONTANA

McCabe's Guitar Shop Celebrates 50 Years, Throws a Big Coffee-n-Cookie Party

“We’ve done things our own way this whole time. We’ve somehow survived the Guitar Centres and all of that,” says Lincoln Myerson, the concert director at McCabe’s Guitar Shop in Santa Monica. “Here we still are, the little shop that could.” Myerson is, incredibly, only the fifth concert director that McCabe’s has had in over 40 years of shows. A quick visit to their website reveals that in its long history, names like Jeff Buckley, Jackson Browne, Tom Waits and many, many others, have all dropped in to play in the back room of what started as just a guitar store. It’s a past that Myerson feels acutely—he first discovered McCabe’s when he followed friend Nels Cline (now of Wilco) to a gig there in 1985. It was a double bill with the Minute Men, and Myerson was hooked. “We don’t have a bar, just coffee and cookies, and so everybody really listens,” he says. McCabe’s has long been praised for providing intimate (read: drunk free) opportunities to see the world’s best.

And now, McCabe's is celebrating fifty years of making folk rock history with a huge show at Royce Hall at UCLA, on October 2nd. Headlining is Jackson Browne, who was the shop's first official performer, back in 1969. The UCLA show will also have “special guests,” that Myerson refuses to reveal. But they will be friends, and that’s all that matters to McCabe’s. “Our mantra is that when a musician walks in the door for a gig, this is now their home,” says Myerson. “We’ll get them whatever they need.” – KAITLIN FONTANA

All Tomorrow’s Parties: Day Three Wrapup

Photo: Jason Bergman

First, a few more details on the festival’s most buzzed-about show. My Bloody Valentine really seem to be as fierce and put-together live as they ever were: Though their dreamy tunelets sometimes got lost in the mix, the guitar sound Sunday night was manicured, ferocious and otherworldly. Bob Mould and Patti Smith came out to see the show; in fact, Smith and Kevin Shields were milling around Kutsher’s Country Club together beforehand.


Photo: Jason Bergman

Sunday featured several other highlights, including two dissimilar-sounding East Coast acts: EPMD, a hip-hop duo that's been active for more than two decades, turned out a solid, boisterous set. Before launching into “Headbanger,” MC Eric Sermon said, “Here’s some childhood memories for all the underground ‘heads,” which could have described most of their show. Later, Yo La Tengo played to a full house, finishing with a ten-minute version of “Tried So Hard.” During the song, Ira Kaplan turned out some intense guitar squall, as if to give fans a taste of the friendly apocalypse of noise set to come later in the evening.


Photo: Jason Bergman

Some parting shots:

*Sunday appeared to be the most well-attended of ATP’s three days. (It was also the day where the male-to-female ratio shrunk a little, from about four-to-one to about three-to-one.) But though the rooms were packed during My Bloody Valentine and a few other shows, ATP always felt relaxed and comfortable: The grounds were never terribly crowded, getting around was easy and there were no sponsors or VIP areas.

*Props to All Tomorrow’s Parties and My Bloody Valentine for putting together a strong lineup. Can you ATP folks get Pavement to reunite and curate next year? Please? -- CHRISTIAN HOARD

All Tomorrow’s Parties, Day Three: My Bloody Valentine Close Out ATP; Ears Are Still Ringing

Photo: Jason Bergman

At 12:38 this morning, My Bloody Valentine walked onstage at Kutsher’s Country Club to play their first American concert in sixteen years. In brief: It was seriously, incredibly, mind-numbingly loud – pulling off my earplugs during the set meant instant pain. Perched in front of several Marshall stacks and a screen flashing psychedelic images, the band turned out 90 minutes of innovative psych-rock, covering a good chunk of Loveless, their beloved 1991 album. They also played sixteen solid minutes of unadulterated white noise just before closing their set. A brief, informal poll taken post-show suggested that, unsurprisingly, the crowd was more than sated.

Check back here later this afternoon for a more in-depth recap of day three at ATP. -- CHRISTIAN HOARD

All Tomorrow's Parties: Our Crack Video Team is on The Case

Between rowboat excursions and rounds of mini-golf, the Rollingstone.com video team has been shooting both live shows and interviews with performers like Thurston Moore, Mogwai and Les Savy Fav. See the videos here. -- CHRISTIAN HOARD

All Tomorrow’s Parties, Day Two: Lightning Bolt Puts Lightning Bolt in a Corner; Shellac Deny the Existence of God

Photo: Jason Bergman

Saturday at ATP was all about smaller-name bands – smaller names than Sunday’s headliners, at least. When noise-punk duo Lightning Bolt went on around 12:3O in the morning, they set up, as is their custom, on the floor near a corner of the main room. Unless you were among the sweaty throng pressed up to the band, it was damn-near impossible to see what was going on. But hearing Lightning Bolt was no problem: Drummer Brian Chippendale drove the bus with the pedal to the floor and sometimes crashed the shit; he also sang eerie, high-pitched tunes while bassist Brian Gibson matched his speedy, twisting assault. It was complex, entrancing stuff, and it seemed to entertain My Bloody Valentine’s Kevin Shields, who looked on intently. Earlier in the evening, several bands drew devoted, if not terribly big, crowds: Shellac, a Chicago trio featuring producer Steve Albini, turned out spiky minimalist rock and took questions from the audience -- sample query: “Does God suck?” Bassist Bob Gibson’s reply: “There is no God” – and Bristol, England duo Fuck Buttons pumped out trancey electro-noise and tossed in some heavily-distorted vocals that sounded like ululating. -- CHRISTIAN HOARD