A magnificently cloudy day in Seattle welcomes the weary returning from this year’s three-day wonderland of sunburn and debauchery, now safe within the confines of the day-to-day bustle of this, our Emerald City. The perma-dirt has been removed from underneath the fingernails, a mattress wrapped in clean sheets sits pretty at the top of the list of things to be grateful for, and a Bauhaus iced mocha helps clear the brain-haze lingering about.
Monday served as a perfect comedown from the sensory overload that is Sasquatch. First up was Deerhoof on the main stage, a last minute schedule addition for the better. (Mugison? Meh) Frontwoman Satomi Matsuzaki is a pocket-size bundle of awesomeness, guiding her band through golden 60s surf rock tones prismed out at obtuse angles, splaying tiny rainbows of angular guitar-play and pipsqueak vocals all over the slowly populating main stage arena.
Following Deerhoof came a string of underwhelming-ness paired with brain and body overwhelmed-ness. Black Moth Super Rainbow sounded close to exactly how they do on record, which is a good thing in their case. Grizzly Bear’s spaced out folk proved a little too spaced out and expansive for a sweltering 90 degree heat–this band remaining a great headphone band in my books. School of Seven Bells still failed to impress, though, to their credit, they sounded far more soaringly shoegaze than I remember them being on record, though they clipped the speakers on the high end and sounded far too same-y to hold my interest past three songs (as my editor Mark mentioned, “Same-y bands sounding 1000% more same-y in the boiling heat.”) Soon, it was time to head back down to the main stage to catch the Fleet Foxes’ Sasquatch revisit.
Last year the Foxes filled in at the main stage at the last minute for the National, as the Brooklyn band was stuck at the border. Then, the Foxes looked dwarfed on stage, huddled close and playing a yet-to-be-critical-darling-of-the-year album to a crowd that wanted another band to be on stage. This year told a completely different story; the boys spread out on stage, dropping the bass lines heavy and the harmonies extended and amplified. J. Tillman remains a creative genius on the drum kit, hitting crash cymbals with tambourines while singing and still keeping perfect rhythm on the kick drum. The band played a few new songs, which, though they sounded great, seemed to be lost on the amassed crowd. The Foxes’ music is definitely best heard at home first; when heard live and loud–with the backing bright sun creating halos ’round their heads–those familiar songs become absolutely immense. Other way around? Not so much. Regardless, this was the perfect way to wrap up the festival for this sun-fried writer, still needing to brave the traffic-riddled trip home.
Having witnessed as much as possible in a 72 hour time frame, the highlight of the fest remains M83 at magic hour–that perfect combination of time, place and a group of musicians poised to take advantage will linger long in my mind to provide that satisfying feeling of being able to say: “I Was There.”
Until next year, Sasquatch…
Photo by Tracey Cataldo