Still tired from our Chicago trip this weekend, and really it's all this 2AM show's fault. Word floated through the Pitchfork Festival on Sunday that a warehouse at Wolcott and Walnut (mnemonic device of the day: "Think 'Wall' ... then think 'CotNut'") would host the two acts accused of "stealing the festival" this year for an insane, post-midnight anything-goes afterparty. Sure, we had posts to do and an early morning flight to catch, but no way were we missing it. And sure, the threat of the cops coming and/or floor collapsing in the barely converted warehouse (in a definitely-not-residential area) was entirely real. Still, being there was the best decision we made all weekend.
We've talked about how Dan's shows are straight joy, how he's hilarious, etc. -- you've heard it. What we got to see on Sunday at 1:30AM was just how hard this guy hustles for these impromptu "house party" type gigs: searching for cords and outlets; fashioning together makeshift tables and supports for his speakers/pedals/lights, just to play for a few songs, just for the thrill of spreading the thrill.
A few bars into "Okie Dokie," the frenzied dancing started, followed by a splash of a mystery liquid onto Dan's rig. Music cuts. "Okay, if any liquid is thrown up here again, I'm stopping. I'm serious; it happened last night and I got electrocuted and it really hurt." Folks laughed, but he was serious, getting the shock treatment at an afterparty the night before (after getting firemarshalled at P4K, helluva day). Music stopped again later, as the way-too-packed crowd had the Deacon gut flush against his pedal table. "Guys, can we not push?! Just remember dancing doesn't mean pushing people around you. I'm not saying take a 'chill pill,' just take a 'we're not dancing at a satanic ritual pill." Thankfully, the liquid-tossing/crowd pushing ceased, though the kids didn't heed his "don't hang from the hot water pipes!" warning. Like, what else were they gonna do to get a view?
Minutes in, we noticed parts of the rig were toppling. "Hold this!" Dan yelled between vocodoered shouts to a fan standing in front of his table, insecure parts of his sonic contraptions wobbling from severe dance-impact. "This really is not a good idea," he looked up, smiling uneasily.
He may have been right, but the set went on, windows closed to minimize street noise. Had to be 110º in there. Basically a sweat sauna, other people's moisture in the air, saturating our shirts and jeans. Gross. But pretty much perfect.
Deacon's work wasn't done after closing with "Wham City," though (complete with sopping wet lyric sheets) -- at least, he didn't choose for it to be. Deerhunter arrived just as Dan finished up, and he followed his sweaty set by helping set up Deerhunter: lugging around PAs, running cords, etc. As soon as Bradford's mic was live, he said while crouched next to his loops: "Dan Deacon is the hardest working man in show business!" We cheered.
What to say about Deerhunter. The set was unreal, a personal Top Five concert experience. The set started like a séance, Bradford saying: "We'd like to dedicate this to the Germs ... We'd like to dedicate this to Brian Eno ... We'd like to dedicate this to David Bowie..." The performance corner of the room had some tree-pictured wallpaper and a random faux moose-head (see pics after the jump for a funny moose/hunter pic), with the band squeezed against the wall, fans forced to stand right on top of the band. Packt like sardines beyond all levels of safety, full of post-P4K attendees, random Chicago kids, a smattering of admiring artists (including Girl Talk and Jamie Lidell). We stood between Bradford and guitarist Colin Mee (literally), picking up an electric shock each time we were pushed into Colin's arm/shoulder, taking home a jolt like licking a 9-Volt. Think that justifies our describing the set as "electrifying," though maybe not the hyperbolic descriptor "legendary" -- which, it totally was.
Everything about Cryptograms and Fluorescent Grey becomes more intense live -- the swirling, ambient elements of their tunes turn into mystical, storm-summoning sheets of noise ("White Ink"); the pockets get deeper ("Cryptograms," "Octet"); the thrashing climaxes more ... climactic (pray for "Spring Hall Convert"). And then there's Bradford: instant vintage, utterly charismatic, totally lovable, equal parts shrieking amp-perched gargoyle, mic-fellating madman, straight-up pedal-enhanced rock hypnotist. They jammed through LP and EP tunes for an hour, Bradford taking hugs and high-fives for the next. We walked home at 5AM, off to the airport five hours later. Our ears are still ringing.
They were amazing at P4K Fest too (Grizzly Bear joining on a killer "Strange Lights"), and between the two sets -- and from the lips of most artists we chatted with -- Deerhunter were the weekend's MVP. Shit, they may be the year's MVP. See 'em live and you'll probably catch the fever. Maybe you'll get a dress (this weekend at the festival, not the warehouse), maybe you'll get a meltdown, maybe you'll see an intra-band BJ -- but here's hoping you don't. That stuff's fascinating, sure, but don't get it twisted: Deerhunter rocks harder than most, right now. More Deaconhunter warehouse pics after the jump, also a massive spread of the Bradford band's 'Fork fest photos with which to freak out your coworkers.
DAN DEACON
JAMIE LIDELL
DEERHUNTER
DEERHUNTER @ PITCHFORK FESTIVAL
