aahahahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHa haHAHAHAhahahaHAHAHAHAH AHAHahahahaAHAHHA HAHaaaaa... ungh, efpb, blelrssteprhrlps ahaAHAHAHAHA HAHahahahahahaha, oh god, oh no, oh SHIT, AHAHAHAhaha AHAHAHAhahaHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHahahahahaAHAHAH AHAHAHAhahahaha hahaAHAHHAHAHAHA... [rub tears of laughter from eyes, wipe dripping nose] OHGODOHCHRISTAHAHAHAHAHAhaha hahaHAHAHAH AHAhahahaAHAHAHAHAHAA HAHprfptopsptssrltri slaafppfftffppftpff ptrfrffptprfpftpt... [gross].
Oh man, I'm sorry, but this is SO FUCKING HILARIOUS. I'm reading Sasquatch coverage on the web, and it's SOOOO obvious that none of these ‘concert reviewers’ were actually there. I just read that there was “no hip-hop” at Sasquilla 2-double-O-Silla -- which featured sets by Blackalicious, Beastie Boys, Saturday Knights, Gabriel Teodros, Mixmaster Mike, and Common Market, more hip-hop than 'squatch has ever hosted before -- and my side is cramping so bad I could swear there's a shovel, hoe, or some other sort of farming device poking it. BUT THERE'S MORE, oh shit man, peep this: Patrick Wolf's set was the BEST OF THE WEEKEND, AHAHAHAhahahAHAHAHAHA... but wait, nowaitwaitwait, there's more! I've also just been informed that Beastie Boys' funky, low-key, tossed-off instrumental jam session on Saturday night was FAR SUPERIOR to their real fest-ending Sunday-night set, which contained, well, rapping. What a goddamned riot, what a sham, what a... LAUGH. Man, it's like I was at a different show or something!
But hey, these things happen all the time. Sometimes you become too hip to cover a festival. As you grow progressively above-it-all, your ability to observe goes by the wayside. Then you spend half of your time taking lame, cute-as-a-spaniel, cocker, backstage Pixxx, and before you know it, you're wondering how in the hell you're going to cover this sprawling festival, spread out over three stages.
And you didn't expect the killer gusts of wind, didjya? Man, for a pampered non-West Coast puss-puss that must have put quite the damper on things. In fact, you probably spent most of your time in that Press trailer, didn't you? I stopped by and there were several of you tappity-tapping away on your laptops when real, in-the-flesh bands were playing outside. And you know what? I could tell you'd spent most of your time in the trailer; hell, everyone that attended the festival and read your recap on the following Tuesday morning can tell! Hey, it's not ALL your fault -- besides, didn't you have to stop-gap the article so it could run the following Tuesday? Yeah, see that's your biggest problem. Why rush it? Punching out a vaguely observational paragraph for each band that played might get you to press faster, but where's the LUV? Where are the harrowing personal stories? Where are the personal attacks? Where are the... opinions? Oh, right, you... you didn't... have anyyyyy. Well, I'm gonna do you a big favor and tell it like it izz like Freddy fuckin' Fender, with grainy, absolutely SHEEYAT photos and on-the-spot illustrations to boot!!! Hey, who knows, maybe my recollections will dredge up some brief memory flashes so you can write a good article too... Sound like funnnn?
GOOD, 'cause we're talkin' 'bout Sasquilla; I hopes yooz can diggit. Unless I'm tripping balls this was my fifth-straight year at 'squatch. It would have been my sixth, but I scalped my (free) tickets to the first year for $100 each and went to a Mariners game instead. Trust me, you would have too (Jack Johnson/Ben Harper were probably the best acts there). So I marched into a half-decade of memories this time 'round, and I'm happy to report that it was again a fun-oozin' doozy of a good time. The only real problem in writing articles about this event, year in and year out, is knowing where to start. So I'll just start from the beginning.
First off, I must mention that Sarah Silverman, who was supposed to host this edition of Sasquilla, was missing in action like MIA (who again had visa troubles and couldn't perform), but with no excuse. YOU SUCK, SARAH SILVERMAN (love yer show). Also, I must admit I was a little reticent about bringing my wife, Carolina Purdum, to Sasquatch, pregnant as she is (six months). A friend (you might remember his as Joel the Drunken Gimp from last year's Sasquatch review) even asked me about it a few days prior to the show after he informed me he wouldn't be able to provide drunken antics for this year's article:
All right man, have fun at the show. Is pregnant Carolina going to be able to handle the trip for two days straight?! And camping too? Hmmm...seems doubtful...
HA! My woman shirked all expectations by belly-walking through the entire weekend like a feisty land-crab, at one point even soldiering on while I caught a short, unplanned nap. She even contributed the DRAWRRRINGS you're seeing throughout. Will wonders never cease? This staying power, above ALL else, is why I married this woman... well, that and her cobb salads (though I should mention she sat down during Interpol)...
Back to the action: After thoroughly lecturing my passengers that the Purdum train -- taking the Road to Purdition -- was leaving promptly at 8 AM, I found myself rolling out of bed at 8:30 and feeling like a jack-cock. But being the shake 'n' bake driver I am, I knew we wouldn't be late and miss {Blitzen Trapper}, I just knew it. I'd missed Sasquatch's noon O'clock bands every year prior, but this installment was going to be different. I stuffed the gas pedal into the ground like the neck of a dude who owes me $10 and looked out for greasy pigs with my third eye. Unfortunately, packing, a stop for some delicious Arizona raspberry ice-t, and a quick pre-show tent set-up prevented us from arriving at noon, so I missed Blitzen Trapper. Oh, and I got pulled over for speeding by a Cock. No, seriously, the cop's name was Mr. Cock. NO, I'm SUPER-CEREAL, why won't you believe me? We seriously, honestly witnessed the true power of... Cock. I mean, only a real Cock would write me a $100 ticket on the way to Sasquatch, right? Man, that Cock had balls. I guess I should just be thankful though; at least I didn't get slapped, gagged, or spit on by Mr. Cock; that would been messy for all concerned.
And anyway, this [balls] story isn't [cock] about policemen [balls] named Cock [er, balls?] or speeding tickets [cock] issued by [balls] phallic Cock namesakes. I have integrity dammit, so PLEASE, allow me to focus [cock]. HEY! Zip it. So anyway, we got their too late to see Blitzen Trapper, which is a shame because a) I love reindeer, b) I love trapper keepers, c) I love noxious rock 'n' roll, and d) I think Donner is overrated. The sinking feeling in my chest when I repeatedly glanced at my ever-ticking watch was similar to how I felt when I missed Rogue Wave last year. It really hurts. I promised myself I wouldn't cry, but sure enough I let the waterworks fly on the way to Press Will Call, wiping my nose on my wife's dress, making ‘pfffft’ sounds and babbling things like “Wammy wanna watsch Tristen Blapper wink-wonk.” But, just as my wife said over and over, my tantrum wasn't helping the situation. It was time to grow up and face the music.
And face the music I did. My tears had been dry for maybe a few seconds when the bloated chants of {The Hold Steady} hit my ears, and I had to ask: Who did they blow to get where they are today? I went into their early afternoon set with an open mind and walked away promising myself to never, ever give them another chance to win me over. As I will periodically throughout my Sasquilla 2007 experience, I now refer you to the notes I scrawled while watching:
Jello Biafra, that dandy from Matchbox 20, that guy that fronted the band from the first Hellcatt: Give 'em the Boot comp – the one that sang about skating, shit what-the-bloody-hell band was that? -- and John Belushi = Craig Finn. Huck he ain't. Bass player's strings popping like G-pa's hip-bone; where did he learn to play?... After 20 minutes onstage Finn is sluggish, winded and mumbling. Not that it's a huge difference... he doesn't sing anyway; he talks, sorta shouts sometimes. People always say, “At least the lyrics are good!”; then again pretty much anyone could sing about drinking and drugging and receive a pass, so I HOPE The Hold Steady have more to rest on than that. I hope I hope I hope... Hoping... still hoping... Bob Hope springing eternal... Hope-ity Hope-Hope... Hopesville. Annnnd it's settled: The Hold Steady officially have nothing more to rest on. How quaint... Shitty band. Longing for Blitzen Trapper being replaced by hatred for The Hold Steady...Wondering if Heidi Vanderslice will quit TMT over this scathing indictment... Wondering how many liters of anger-drool my Springsteen friends would emit if they heard all the 'steen/Hold Steady comparisons. Wishing I could get high for no reason other than to blast Finn's slurring out of my mind. Anger. Wrath. Self-pity. When does Ozomatli start?
And that, my friends, is all I have to say about that. But my Great Pale Hope still burned within me, as I knew the worst was over. Wasn't it? Well, we'd see. For now we had {Ozomatli} to scrub and drip-dry the atrocities of the previous set, and the large ensemble didn't hedge its bets, delivering exactly what I expected: A diverse set of Latin-tinged tunes that non-Grants can dance to, with sprinkles of salsa, waltz, hippy-yam-jam, funk, and even calypso thrown in for good measure, not to mention snippets of instantly familiar songs such as “Love Will Tear Us Apart” squeezed into their at-times too-long jammy jams. The many dancers were egg'd on no-doubt by the consistent and plentiful rhythms offered by the, to have All Music Guide tell it, ‘hip-hop collective.’ But I feel otherwise; more on that later.
As soon as they took the stage, a woman began sauntering around on the grass with her baby in tow, so I took a picture to capture the mood, all-the-while thinking, DAMN, I COULD BE TAKING PICTURES OF THE BLOW'S KHAELA MARICICH HOLDING A PACK OF BUBBLICIOUS!! But hey, sometimes you gotta leave the real coverage to the ‘otha guyz,’ right? Ozomatli cranked through a half-dozen side-steppers and I realized the rapping was becoming awfully cliche'd, a dated facsimile of the truly gritty stuff a full-time rapper would deliver. That's a tough one, though; how many vaguely hip-hop ensembles get their rapping right? Very few. If I had a suggestion, it would be for Ozomatli to ditch the rapping. My notes agreed (imagine that!):
I remember that track Ozomatli did with Cut Chemist and that deeeeeeep-throated dude from Jurassic 5. Yeah, THAT guy, the one that's gonna go solo now that J5 called it a day... man, that was some hot gravy, but that was in 1998. Now the rapping just sounds dated; Chali 2na these dudes ain't. Moving on... Instrument round-up: Two singers/rappers, two trumpets, bass, guit, keys, two percussionists, drummer w/ full set. COOL! It's strange how so many bands resemble large gangs these days... It's like Steve Harvey said on Kings of Comedy: “Thirty-eight motherfuckas on stage and every one of them's gotta mic!” Ozo have enough members to pull off a West Side Story remake... Unlike The Arcade Fire it seems like every member has a reason to be here though; a nice touch... Love the brass. It's refreshing, the environment this band seem to bring with them wherever they go. Plus, they should teach university classes on how to hype up a crowd. None of that ‘throw yo hands in the ahyur’ shit; this is the real deal. Oooh, scored a weeeed cookie! Going to eat it during Björk so tinymixsenses remain strong. REMINDER: don't tell P you did drugs; then again he's probably got spies planted all over this place, so fuck it...
As the 'matli crew finished up their diverse, altogether-impressive set, I got ready to fix my eyes on the First Lady of Alt. Country Song, {Neko Case}. But it turned out Ozomatli weren't done. A member of the collective plunged into the crowd with a drum and incited several-hundreds of people to jump up and down with him, chanting a refrain I couldn't understand from up-top. Honestly, I'd never seen anything like it. Extra points awarded to Ozomatli; quite a group of firebrands, them. Where was I? Oh yeah bitch, Neko, aww muther-fuck it's Neko! No, she ain't model-pretty or Germanic or a former member of VU, but she's got heavier, thicker pipes than a plumbing outlet. After being forced off the stage by dint of hail last year, Case was back and ready to make the best of her slot.
And capitalize she did; her voice took flight from the notoriously sound-spotty Gorge stage, ringing in every nearby eardrum. “We're gonna try to make it through a whole set this time,” she laughed as she launched her spare, unsatisfying band – where are The Sadies when ya need em? -- into a few banjo-led numbers accompanied by banjo, with banjo. Did I mention there was banjo being played? I repeat the word because the ban-to-the-jo was mixed exceedingly high at first, distracting from any momentum Case's voice was building. In the end it was like a paper-mache damn attempting to hold back a tidal wave, but it was nevertheless distracting as hell and probably drove the Case-unaware away from the mainstage. And I self-quote:
Neko's voice is fresh as farm-grade funk, but what's with the cotton-pickin' banjo? That thing sounds like a mini freight-train, small but wicked-annoying/dangerous... I just told some nearby Canadians that I write for Tiny Mix Tapes. One of them lifts her head and says, “Oh yeah? Cool, I love music blogs.” Just shoot me in the teeth right now; I'm done with this world. Ooh, looks like they're finally replacing that goddamn banjo with an electric geetar. Lovely, but where's the bass? Hey, since I'm apparently ‘bloggerati’ do I get free shit?
At this point, my notes were discontinued because Case was holding my psyche captive. A wonderful version of “Favorite” combined her aching croon with a back-up singer for one of the most riveting harmonies I've heard in, shit, an embarrassingly long time. It was shocking the way her voice grabbed attention; as the people around me tried to talk to me about “blogging” I couldn't even pretend to listen, instead uttering, “Man, I just really love Neko Case” every so often to show I at least knew there were other people communicating with me. A sly cover of “Buckets of Rain” from Blood on the Tracks did little to dissuade my enthusiasm, though I found that once the backing vocals dropped out I lost interest somewhat, hoping they'd be back sooner than later.
Case was one of the weekend's bright spots, and it couldn't have come at a better time. I needed all the strength I could muster to withstand the sheer shock of seeing a man I thought I recognized in the crowd. He wore the same brown ‘artiste’ hat, warm-ups, goatee, and friendly fat-guy wobble, and I quickly realized that YES: He was the guy that sang several Lionel Richie songs, karaoke-style, on the Carnival honeymoon cruise I'd been on in April. WHAT THE FUCK! Did I mention that the jag-off had taken up so much stage time that my wife and I couldn't get our karaoke on? His rendition of “All Night Long (All Night),” while admittedly stellar, haunted my entire cruise. And how much cold cash did he bribe the song-chooser guy with? I tried to figure out what to do next: Do I confront him and risk a surefire Curb Your Enthusiasm moment? Do I walk away and remain forever haunted by his karaoke-rockin' half-bends and hand gestures? Do I just punch him as hard as I can and run away, hoping his bulbous stomach doesn't swallow my hand like a bologna sandwich with cheese?
I chose to slink away like the wuss I totally and completely am. Mercifully, by the time Case's set had concluded {The Blow} and {Visqueen} were both finished with their sets on the second stage, alas I wouldn't have to – ahem – I mean, get to watch them. HURRAH!!! At this point we stopped by the Press Tent, in all its glory. FINALLY, I AM AT ONE WITH MY PEOPLE, FREE TO ENJOY COMP'D GRANOLA BARS, SODA, AND THE WELL-COIFFED OPINIONS OF THE FELLOW BLOGGERATI. But then I was forced to abandon the idea of bonding with my fellow wordsmiths when someone at an adjoining table said, “I just read this GREAT article about the state of the industry!”... Are these people serious? The industry? Realizing that conversing with present company would lead to boredom the likes of which I'd never suffered before, I withdrew into myself, focusing on taking additional notes while gazing at the mountaintop windmills on the horizon. This strategy failed miserably, as I found myself scrawling the following incoherent half-poem:
Windmills spinning in the distance / Sebastian Bach monkey-biz beligerance / I saw Disturbed here in '99, Ozzfest / bad memories, curly-Q mullet diaper
WHAT THE FUCK, HAVE I LOST IT? I thought as I looked at the poem I had just written. But I got over it, somehow. From here all we had to do was watch a tiny snatchet of {Mirah}'s set before hoofing it to the Wookie Stage for Grizzly Bear. But this would be no small feat. Those who have become used to lugging their significant others to festival-concerts know the feeling all-too-well: SHE wants to watch Mirah, YOU want to watch Grizzly Bear, and for some ridiculous reason the two of you refuse to be separated. What to do? This is where I am forced to become The Great Convincer, the maker of deals, the threatener of withheld sexual favors. I will do anything to get my way, and get my way I will. So we agreed – after much ado -- to trek over to Mirah's stage and watch a few songs before embarking on a bear-sighting tour. On the way to see her we had the following conversation about attending Ozzfest this year (because it's free):
{Grant:} Hey, wanna go see Ozzfest this year? I mean, normally HELLS NO, but it's free... wanna go see it, for free?
{Caro:} What bands are playing?
{Grant:} Errrr, Ozzy Oz-something, ummm... Lamb Of... Lamb Of God?
{Caro:} Lamb Of God? What kind of band name is that? Our child will have nightmares in the womb. She'll refuse to come out until 2024, she'll end up being a Goth...
(Notice how I encounter her ignorant statement with something even wackier in hopes of offsetting it...)
{Grant:} Oh that's just fucking ridiculous. Besides, I think... I think Mayim Bialik is playing a solo set.
{Caro:} Who?
{Grant:} You know, Mayim Bialik, from Blossom!
{Caro:} That's... weirrrrrd.
Our important ‘talk’ was interrupted by the sublime sounds of Mmmmmmmirahhhhhhhh. After a few admittedly tight Mirah songs, including “The Dogs of B.A.,” we jogged away to experience the thrill of a good mauling, care of {Grizzly Bear}. And the Grizz did not disappoint. Their intertwining melodies cascaded through the air like Fourth-of-July fireworks, exploding into intense florescent colors and dazzling the ear with neon tones. It was strange the way their members snuck up on me. At first I thought their were only two members. Then I realized there was another dude tucked away to the right. Than I spotted yet-another member perpetually crouched below the others. While Grizzly Bear's sound itself was a bit spare considering that there were four people creating it, the exultant beauty that resulted was instantly memorable. And, as Scout Leader Kyle would say, they definitely “turned up the AC”:
Grizzly Bear. Clark Griswold. Grizzly Adams. The Gris Gris. The Montana Grizzlies college footbal team. Connected in some strange way? Naw... Unbelievable second vocalist is turning up the goddamn heat; actually he's sorta the lead vocalist but I hesitate to call him that because he mostly seems to contribute harmony. Either way I love this man, and I wager he is the secret ingredient that raises Grizzly above cub status. I'm noticing a heavy, unmistakable Avey/Panda influence... shit, while we're at it, Geologist and Deaken are probably in there somewhere... choirboy cathedral choruses... Black Heart Procession-like expanses of semi-drone movements... dubby, bubbly, tubby, tout-worthy... I'm loving the click-clacking, guitar-picking and sound swells that gush from their instruments like steaming-hot water from a mountain spring... when that thick-ass kickdrum enters the fray it adds a dark underbelly for those pristine voices... the chants of “chin up / cheer up” from “Lullabye” are causing my smile to add a few dimples to its curvatures...
You could almost say Grizzly Bear ruined my Sasquilla experience, because I knew it would be a daunting task for any band afoot to top them. Little did I know the {Beastie Boys}' instrumental set would carry a hefty portion of magic on its own, less ethereally pleasing than tha Grizz but perhaps more in tune with the fun-loving nature of festival goers. Along with -- I'm sure -- more than a few fellow attendees, I realized how much I love Beastie Boys all over again though hearing songs I forgot existed. All in all, it had been too long. Why hadn't I checked my head or visited Paul's bodega in so long? It's ridiculous how life's distractions can lure attention away from the important things.
Things like taking out “Time for Livin' ” for example. Here I was expecting mostly funky cuts -- of which there were more than a few -- only to hear some of the Beasties' best punk jams afforded new life. Not that the group are technically proficient, per se, but the songs themselves are bouncy enough to guarantee a reaction. I should also mention at this point that a young girl approached my wife and I and asked that my wife draw her some "sheep." Then we asked (FORCED!) the little girl to draw something, which she did (see both below). When we asked for her name she declined to give it to us. DAMN CANADIANS! Anddddd back to the show: A too-squealy version of “Sabotage” didn't come off quite right, but other than that there was little to complain about, as the Beasties' instrumental set was packed with enough ‘oomph’ to compete with most of the bands at the festival. And it wasn't even their Real performance! That would have to wait until Sunday, and it would be worth it, oh god almighty would it be worth it.
The absolute best thing about Beastie Boys' set, however, was that it allowed me to miss {Citizen Cope}, {The Long Winters}, AND {Aqueduct} (man, is there anything Beasties' can't do?), The Arcade Fire being the next band-of-interest on the main stage. Before the Fire got flarin' I witnessed {Manu Chau}'s last song, and boy, it was really something, a barn-burning strain of Latino punk that provided a direct antithesis to Ozomatli's fun-but-could've-been-better set earlier in the day. I'm not certain if the song I witnessed represents the Chau canon aptly, but it was red-hot, to say the least.
And, finally, there were {The Arcade Fire}. This was my second time stoking the Fire at a 'fest, and despite a album's worth of new material to pick from it seemed like the same show. I enjoyed their set, but I have a few problems with AF. First of all, even after extensive touring and performing, they still don't organize themselves very well onstage. As a result they often resemble an indie-approved Slipknot, with at least two members running around trying to look busy, maybe hitting a drum occasionally. It's fucking lame. Win Butler's kid brother William is the worst, spending half of his time throwing a drum up in the air then hitting it, once, over and over. At other times he ran around randomly or defiantly (?) hit a cymbal. It's all showmanship, and as a result The Arcade Fire only harness an iota of the energy they could if they ensured the instrumental trains were running on time.
My other problem with 'da Fire is that most of their songs are completely generic, somewhat moronic, and, worst of all, they don't seem to hold much power in a live setting, save a few gems (c'mon, you know what they are if you perused my review of Neon Bible). The crowd, which cheered adamantly when the whatever-piece unit took the stage, stood in puzzlement as curiously lukewarm renditions of songs like “Black Mirror” entered and exited the fray. What's worse, Win seemed scared, barely addressing the crowd and declining to really put his back into his lovely howls. The only thing worse than Win's hesitancy and William's unnecessary crowd-baiting were the depressing antics -- to put it kindly -- of Regina Chassaigne. Just who the fuck is this wench? Allow my notes to explain:
Regina seems to want attention, even more than thousands of people could possibly give her... She's mugging like a bartender, viciously mouthing the words to the songs even when she isn't assigned a vocal part. When she does add something it's a shrill “aaaaahhhhhhhh” or a squeaky chorus. She wants to be Arcade Fire's frontwoman really, really badly. Is she compensating for Win's reclusive stage behavior? Man, what a trainwreck. Now she's even putting her mouth up to the microphone as if to sing, then pulling away without uttering a peep. She keeps looking into the crowd like she's Maynard James Keenan, her nostrils a flare... I'm trying really hard to be polite but this girl is, to me, an annoying little Canadian piggie. Man, I thought that photo spread in Blender was cheesy but seeing her in action is even worse. Oh SHIT, she just said something in between songs. I think she said “thanks” but she moved away from the mic so fast you couldn't really tell. It was obviously a spur-of-the-moment thing that she thought better of at the last-minute. She should have just kept her mouth shut. In fact, I wish she would just let Win do the singing, she really sucks tailpipe. She's better off sticking to the drums.
Assuming I won't be murdered by a professional Canadian Indie-Rock Hit Squad after that little tirade, I'll close my Arcade Fire evaluation with a simple statement, one I've been making since, oh, 2004: Yes, the Arcade Fire are semi-decent, but, I mean, C'MON, GET THE-FUCK OVER IT!!! Phew, that felt good... With the puzzlement of AF behind me, it was time to let my senses be cooled by the frosty bite of a {Björk} peppermint patty. FUCK YEAH, I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO SAY THAT, BOOYAH! [clear throat] Anyhoooo, our expectations for the Great Icelandic Wonder were sky-high, despite the fact that I've never really given her much of a chance. Yes, I've heard sections of Vespertine and yes, Volta is amazing, but Björk and I just don't work as a pair; we're better off as casual friends.
Until now, that is; this lady's, in the words of a certain Mr. Show castmember, “got the gooods.” Running onstage in a strange yellow frock-looking get-up with an eight-member ‘chorus’ in tow, a spot-on rendition of Volta's “Earth Intruders” immediately tipped the crowd off: this was to be the highlight of the evening, Grizzly Bear or no. I can't really tell you much about the songs she played, save the obligatory “All is Full of Love,” but that was the beauty of her performance; it didn't matter if you were a fanatic or a detached observer. If you were at Sasquatch 2007, you knew Bjork's mettle to be authentic. Remarkably, her complete and utter lack of stage banter didn't come off as stilted or unnatural. In fact I'm guessing those in attendance felt a closer bond with Björk than they did with any other act of the day save possibly the Beasties. Her personality is displayed so nakedly within the guise of her songs. She's dark, bright, ominous, light-hearted, open, mysterious, simple, and complex all at once, and as she skips around the stage like a prairie-raised farm kid one can't help but wonder what planet she's from.
Maddeningly, the rigors of the day forced me to pass out for at least 20 minutes of her set. I woke up somewhat dazed and very, very disappointed at what I'd done. However, the magic still shone through even as my eyelids were clenched shut, and my ability to take notes, up to this point my greatest asset, went by the wayside. Through her entire performance, I only managed one sentence. Normally this sort of content dearth would freak me out, but it's still all I can really say about Björk's set:
This is one of the best things. Ever.
And there you have it! One day of concert coverage, stretched to the limit by an overzealous music reporter. BEANS! Stay tuned for Sasquatch 2007, Day II: Dust in the Wind, coming up as sooooon as I can get around to writing another novel. You won't want to miss it: impromptu make-out sessions, further Blossom discussions, J-lo name-dropping, more Canadians, 139 Beastie Boys-related performances... how can you go wrong?
[Illustrations by Carolina Purdum]
