Osheaga 2009 Showcases La Roux, New Wavers

Parc Jean-Drapeau

Montreal, QC

on Aug 1 2009

Erik Leijon (CHARTattack)

08/04/2009 2:32pm

It's a combination of the long lineups, the omnipresent enclosures, rigid schedules and overpriced wares, but nothing awakens my animalistic tendencies quite  like Osheaga, Montreal's massive weekend musical bash.

It's not really a "music and arts festival" because a festival would imply there's some sort of cultural celebration going here beyond rampant capitalism. The "arts" portion of Osheaga in four years has been reduced to a tent with two Kia rustbuckets and a mediocre tattoo artist specializing in Harley-Davidson designs.

I felt like a wolf locked in a noisy cage, my American Apparel T-shirt constricted bloodflow to my brain and my oversized stunner shades left me blind as a bat. The little things, like VIP seating and waiting an hour-and-a-half in line to buy hot dogs, left me feeling sour about the summer concert extravaganza format.

Still, the musical acts don't care about overzealous vendors along mailing list row, and were all so happy to see so many beautiful young people they almost all uniformly gave upbeat performances.

Saturday was dominated by a couple of leading ladies: Jimmy Neutron-haired La Roux frontwoman Elly Jackson and mysterious, far out Scandinavian pixie Lykke Li.

In her video "In For The Kill," La Roux's Jackson appears to be driving the time-travelling DeLorean, which makes sense considering her band looks like they came straight out of a Frankie Goes To Hollywood music video.

La Roux's synth-heavy pop stylings recall icy cool unisex groups of the '80s like Human League and Yaz, but Jackson is such an emotive singer with an empassioned voice, you never feel like La Roux are exclusively a retro act. Besides, overly-treated hair and flamboyant leggings don't seem outlandish in today's fashion climate, anyway.

As the sun set, Swedish songstress Li suppressed any doubt of her performing abilities, despite starting her set 20 minutes late (the punctual-heavy Osheaga's equivalent of Three-Mile Island).

Her soft coo as tremulous as ever, Li somehow managed to come through despite having her backing band considerably ratchet up the sound. Clad in a black cape and little else, (and looking like a fashionable version of the Abu Ghraib Christmas Tree prisoner) Li thrashed about the stage, occasionally smashing a drum cymbal and even rapping a few verses to Lil Wayne's "A Milli" and A Tribe Called Quest's "Can I Kick It?"

The sparseness that enveloped and gave weight to her debut album was nowhere in sight as she transformed "Complaint Department" into an apocalyptic electro-pop firestorm with smoke and ominous lighting.

One thing that isn't readily apparent on Youth Novels is just how aggressive and angry Li is as a performer, in a confident, punk rocker sort of way.

"If you want to complain, go get a beer over there," she grunted in an emasculating tone following "Complaint Department."

Then again, her singing of "Little Bit" contained all the sweet, cryptic atmosphere that made her debut so mysterious and sexy in the first place.

I and a few hundred outcasts skipped out on headliners Coldplay (who played to over 20,000), instead catching American-based mash-up king and non-stop party animal Girl Talk.

Shirtless wonder Gregg Gillis was conveniently performing during a truly magnificent unrelated fireworks display happening on the other side of the island. He did what he does best and has done countless times in Montreal already: invited some very attractive people on stage, jumped around maniacally and pulled no punches when it came to assaulting the crowd with confetti, giant inflatable tubes, balloons and toilet paper.

The visual spectacle, coupled with his ingenious pillaging of popular culture, makes for one of the best post-modern musical shows around. In a surreal moment, he started playing Coldplay's "Clocks" while the screen behind him mockingly scrolled "COLDPLAY!!!."

Not surprisingly, Girl Talk's Michael Jackson inclusions received the biggest pops, and his mash-up of Queen and David Bowie's "Under Pressure" and Jackson's "Remember The Time" is as poignant a combo as the DJ has ever made.

Sunday alternated between torrential downpour and blazing sun, so naturally the artists were as much of a grab-bag as the weather. The only constant was the still impressive, albeit smaller crowd, who in sun, surf and mud never sought shelter.

Vampire Weekend benefited the most from a brief period of afternoon sun, parting the clouds with their overly nerdy, Paul Simon Graceland-indebted jangle pop.

The hyper-literate band's own description of themselves, "Upper West Side Soweto," perfectly encapsulates their harmless, breezy genre splicing and their music fits the precise time and moment of college life. From the lyrical imagery to the unassuming instrumentation, it's the soundtrack to freshly cut campus lawns, mid-afternoon hooky, study sessions, bongs, foliage and argyle.

Although playing their debut album relatively straight, Vampire Weekend's live performance is more warm and human than the sometimes simplistically sterile record. Singer Ezra Koenig especially got the crowd bouncing to ska-revival cut "One (Blake's Got A New Face)" and I developed a new appreciation for "Walcott" with his fricative embellishment of the line "Fuck the bands from Provincetown." Nerdy, yes, but there's never been a better soundtrack to playing ultimate frisbee. They played three cuts from their upcoming album as well, which promises to have considerably more melodic keyboards and extended instrumental sections, including a surprisingly robust outro on "Cousins."

Arctic Monkeys gave a better performance than their horrid under-18 bomb at Olympia on their last tour, and gave Montrealers a steady helping of their latest record, Humbug.

The most noticeable difference between the Arctic Monkeys who became critical darlings in their homeland and the new, sly and weary foursome is just how much they've slowed down. The singles from their Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not debut are played at hyperactive, inhuman speeds — perfect for the rugby sweater set.

The rattlesnake and lost highway-evoking "My Propeller" and "Potion Approaching" are melancholy, cinematic epics that perhaps looked out of place compared to "I Bet You Look On The Dancefloor," but contain all the infectiousness and mod punk influences that made them prodigies only a few short years ago.

It's obvious now the hype heaped upon the group's first record was excessive, as evidenced by an emaciated Alex Turner's in-between song slurring and burned out look, but the Arctic Monkeys have developed considerably for a group under the microscope, and Humbug is their richest album yet.

They're still maturing as a live act, though, and largely play no-frills recitals of the album versions. They've also seemingly grown tired of some of their older songs, as Turner sleptwalked through "Fluorescent Adoslescent," only to perk up on new cut "Secret Door."

With the Beastie Boys cancelling their performance, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs more than picked up the slack. I skipped out instead, landing at old punk club Foufounes Electriques for a rare appearance by Northern California hard rockers Dredg.

It was my first, and likely last time to catch the cult band in Montreal, so getting a chance to see one of rock's truly great, expressive frontmen in Gavin Hayes and the technically impressive foursome was worth the trek from Notre Dame Island to downtown.

There were plenty more acts as well, so here are a few quick one-liners of the bands I managed to catch:

Parlovr: Montreal recession pop didn't translate well to the summer stage. It was missing that cheap-sounding amp hum and feedback.

Caracol: One of the few francophone acts, in the stoner California beach bum vein.

Eagles Of Death Metal: Hard rock parody starring a Mitch Hedberg soundalike. Fun and rocking.

Elbow: An elaborate setup with horns and backing vocalists, still middling dense Brit rock.

The Stills: Without Feathers remains their best, most understood work. "Helicopters" was the set's highlight. Guitarists Dave Hamelin and Tim Fletcher had a red versus blue fashion face-off.

Chinatown: Quebec's love of early British Invasion has its new torchbearers.

Winter Gloves: Frontman Charles F. synth-popped like he had a case of Red Bull in his system. They have a new album in the works.

Miike Snow: Sparse, lovelorn, textured Swedish pop from the team that brought you Britney Spears' "Toxic."

The Ting-Tings: With an army of tapes and an overdub pedal, the group's two members recreated the band experience by themselves.

Rufus Wainwright: One of only a handful of performers capable of capturing an audience with just a piano.

Cursive: Gritty middle America country rock with shrieking vocals, powerful enough to start a muddy mosh pit of all-too willing participants desperate for earthy rock.

The Decemberists: No surprise the rain was its heaviest during their set. Ornate folk Americana is better suited for an indoor venue — a lot of the small touches couldn't compete with the chattering rain.