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