Portland is less gray than people tend to expect; we don’t have the endless rainy gloom of Seattle, and in any case, the dark days are confined pretty neatly to the winter months. The summers here are the exact opposite — near endless unbroken sun that comes up before 6 AM and doesn’t disappear below the horizon until nearly 10 o’clock. If it gets hot, there’s not much rain to break up the heat, but you’re only suffering if you’re standing directly in the sun. When the sun slides behind a passing cloud, every breeze brings immediate relief.

Yesterday, when I pulled up to Waterfront Park’s south end shortly after noon for Project Pabst (Stereogum is a media partner this year) the sky was slightly overcast and I began to wonder if I had gone overboard on my sunscreen application. I had not. The cooler temps lasted only through the first set of the day, Alien Boy (who were incredible). By 1:30 PM, a hallmark cloud of dust began to hover around the large unicorn statue in the center of the festival grounds. Groups clustered at the edges of the field in whatever shade they could find.
 
Two of the best sets of the day (and two of the best sets I’ve ever seen at Project Pabst, which is back after a seven year hiatus) turned out to be the early evening performances by Violent Femmes and T-Pain, legacy artists celebrating iconic catalogs. But it was in the afternoon — right in the beginning of the dust bowl, right as the heat edged up from simmer to boil — that Dehd gave the kind of performance this festival was made for. 
 
The Chicago indie rock trio makes catchy songs driven by a simple, insistent drum and bass rhythm section and sing-song melodies from Emily Kempf whose power and presence is arresting. Dehd’s output has always been enjoyable to me, but I think they really leveled up with this year’s Poetry.

From the moment album opener “Dog Days” begins, the band’s strengths are on display. Bassist Kempf and guitarist Jason Balla sing over and around each other, sometimes harmonizing, sometimes playfully echoing each other. They’re funny and loose and yet every melody is almost surgical in its immediacy and hummability. These strengths were further highlighted in a live setting.

In Pitchfork’s album review Ashley Bardhan wrote that Balla plays “like his strings are fruit-colored rubber bands.” So it was appropriate how, on the Captain Pabst Stage, he bounced around with a bright green guitar (reports of the death of Brat Summer appear to be premature). It didn’t seem like the band was using backing tracks, but Balla’s guitar still sounded like five guitars. Whatever effects he was running through perfectly emulated the album and filled the air with long shimmering trails of reverb. Eric McGrady’s drum setup was characteristically stripped down: He played standing behind three floor toms and one electronic drum pad, no cymbals. It absolutely worked. The songs were anchored by simple grooves that never got in the way of Kempf’s and Balla’s vocal interplay.

Speaking of: Kempf’s live vocals were, if anything, better than they are on record. The back and forth between her soaring melodies and the slightly more sneering refrains from Balla on songs like “Mood Ring” encapsulated what works so well about their sound — it all felt easy, comfortable and relaxed, but not lazy or tossed off. It’s the kind of casual you only get when you’re completely dialed in. The band members didn’t spend much time bantering, but they were clearly having a good time.

Kempf called “Hard To Love,” a beautiful and spacious tune that shows off her voice, her favorite song on Poetry. It had a lot of personality and a lot of range. “Smoking cigarettes and looking toward the sun…” she sang into the shimmering heat. “My baby’s body’s swaying / My hands shake as I watch him, huh!” We all swayed along, clutching $5 PBR tall boys and aluminum water bottles. Somehow the heat didn’t dampen Dehd’s set — it all became part of a pleasant sleepy haze that felt, somehow, energizing.