Sasquatch!: Of Montreal Amazes

The Gorge

Quincy, WA

on May 23 2009

Alyssa Noel (CHARTattack)

05/29/2009 3:05pm

May 23
I'd prefer to start my day with a Rolling Rock than Starbucks.

Cracking the former before noon indicates you're going to spend a day in the blistering heat enjoying a magical spread of the biggest buzz bands of the year. Pouring the latter into your mug means you're back at your desk cranking out doomsday copy in the moderately warm prairies.

Tons of Albertans, and even more British Columbians, shared my Sasquatch! hangover this week after another year of the ever-growing three-day festival in Washington wrapped up on Monday.

The fantastic lineup convinced me and my sister to make the 900-kilometre drive from Edmonton to The Gorge again this year, but the biggest push came from Animal Collective. My sister flew to the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival last year with a friend of ours with dreams of seeing the freak folksters, only to have our friend inadvertently act out the mayhem that unfolds in The Hold Steady's Chillout Tent (minus the drugs and creepy hook up). So, remaining in good health and relative sobriety until they played at 5:40 p.m. on Saturday was a priority.

Thanks to an insanely long lineup, we burst through the gates in the afternoon, just in time to catch Passion Pit, the first of many on-the-cusp bands that festival organizers had the foresight to book.

Not only did Passion Pit attract throngs of people, but they also managed to rouse about a dozen wannabe wizards in full blown capes and body paint to their feet for the geekiest dance circle this side of Burning Man. Alas, Michael Angelakos' shaky falsetto was too weak to keep them, and others, for the whole set. In Passion Pit's defense, it was only the fourth time they played several of the new songs.

M. Ward and his been-around-the-block band of refined musicians created the perfect afternoon on the main stage. The light, bluesy songs off of his latest album, Hold Time, coupled with the cascading canyon backdrop — complete with distant speed boats in the river below and ridiculously perfect clouds hovering above — formed the epitome of what a summer festival should be.

Then it was time to start drinking.

A few hours and even more back alley margaritas later, anxious kids (including one particularly young boy sporting a T-shirt from Animal Collective's Strawberry Jam tour who clearly hadn't yet been chastised for being "that guy") had congregated on the floor. Anticipation was high. Then one hour and a mere five songs later, hopes were dashed.

For many, including my sister, the hype surrounding this show simply wasn't fulfilled. The Collective played a set with favourites like the airy "Summertime Clothes," "My Girls" and "Fireworks," but it always felt like the crowd was only on the brink of losing their inhibitions. It never reached the heights everyone felt they'd been promised.

Plus, Avey Tare was wearing a bucket hat and what my sister is convinced was a rape whistle, which is kind of a dealbreaker.

Luckily, Bon Iver were there to pick up the slack with a lovely dusk performance. The show quickly turned into a singalong with singer Justin Vernon urging the crowd to pick up the swelling refrain of "what might have been lost" on "The Wolves (Act I & II)" while he wailed his sweet, signature falsetto (take notes, young Angelakos). He also blew my mind by covering Ottawa darling Kathleen Edwards' "Mercury."

Unfortunately, all of this took back seat to the mohawked fellow next to me who was crying into a Camel Pak with a plush toy monkey attached. Did he just get dumped? Did his close friend who adored "Skinny Love" die in a car accident? Was he high on illicit street drugs? What's certain is that he was a major distraction.

Although most people would dedicate the most ink to headliners Kings Of Leon, there isn't much to say. No, I don't hate them just because they can now sell out all the good seats at Edmonton's Rexall Place. They simply played an adequate rock show, not giving much more than what was required. They dipped into older songs like "Knocked Up," but there were no surprises.

May 24
While Sunday's lineup looked like a mere sidebar to the day before, it wound up surpassing it.

The Walkmen played a solid afternoon set in crisp dress shirts, and somehow managed to avoid embarrassing pit stains in the stifling heat.

St. Vincent won over hearts with a performance that didn't quite match her recorded material, but managed to be endearingly quirky.

TV On The Radio (whose set I only watched half of because I had tickets to see them at home three days later and the excellent M83 were on at the same time) tried their darndest to fill the massive space, but could only capture about half the audience. Granted, the other half was likely only there to catch Nine Inch Nails afterwards.

But the highlight of the entire two days was Of Montreal's otherworldly, forceful performance. I heard a rumour that they sold "Wraith Pinned To The Mist And Other Games" to a steakhouse in order to finance this tour. They can sell a kid, kidney and soul along with it if it produces such results.

When singer Kevin Barnes came sashaying out in a yellow waist scarf and bright blue make-up, it was enough on its own to elicit screams. But each song came with another set of performers in bewildering costumes. Giant pigs covered in blood traipsed out and thrusted around the stage. A group of clay creatures waddled up. At one point, Barnes was outfitted in a jacket that billowed plumes of smoke. All the while, a screen with psychosis-inducing images whirled in the background.

Oh yeah, and they also played some songs.

While I love most of the tunes off of last year's Skeletal Lamping, "An Eluardian Instance" played live, with its jubilant trumpet riff, made my skin want to burst, nudging it to a definite first place. No one — save the stone-faced security guards — stood still.

Sadly, we, along with an estimated quarter of the 30,000 festival-goers, packed up our dust-covered tents and skipped Monday's shows. At 24 years old, ye old back can only handle two nights lying in a sleeping bag on a farmer's field. Furthermore, ye old liver was starting to sound like my mom, who wants me to grow up and have babies already.

So, begrudgingly, we drove off in a mysteriously puke-streaked car in search of some Starbucks, with our leftover Rolling Rocks clinking in the back seat.