Treasure Island Music Festival 2008
September 20-21, 2008;

{Day 1}

A bus with beautiful leather seats delivers us across the great silver highway in the sky to Treasure Island, a man-made island just off the coast of San Francisco, originally built for the 1939 San Francisco World's Fair. Since then, this island has housed the military, the projects, and now the Treasure Island Music Festival.

"Where are the people?" says Robyn the Photographer. Militaristic buildings and an eerie emptiness make Treasure Island feel like the North/South Korean DMZ. Or a ’70s sci-fi thriller. The strange quiet — even though people do live here — only lasts until we reach the bayside pasture where the TIMF is already alive with bright young stars.

The mechanism in place to check papers and provide infrastructure is impressive and well-organized. As I walk in, Heineken serves samples of beer in tiny plastic cups.

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- {Aesop Rock}
2:06 PM: As much in support of turntablism as he is in support of rap, Aesop Rock spins, pops, and scratches out a dignified opening for this festival, which in that moment has the flavor of an MTV Spring Break party — and I mean that in a good way!

Aesop Rock announces himself as, "One of the only hip-hop acts here." He is supported by DJ Big Whiz, an astonishing turntablist.

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- {Nortec Collective}

A blend of Norteno and techno, Nortec Collective is like listening to Mexican radio on ecstasy. Cheesy, high trumpet, cloying 2-beat sizzles spicily along with psychedelic echoes and bassy beats. The DJ looks like Yul Brenner in Westworld with his 10-gallon hat, western jacket, cowboy boots, and bolo tie jangling as he rocks the block with laptop and sampler.

Nortec Collective is weird, but beautifully ass-kicking. I pass someone with a vintage NES controller for a belt buckle. Another girl sits bug-eyed and nervous like it's her first time on acid. Is this the feeling of "indie"? Contradicting systems and references swirl around me.

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- {Antibalas}

A 10-piece with horns, bongos, afro-cuban grooves, Maynard Ferguson screaming jazz flamboyance, and the requisite nerdy, bearded, 4-eyed frontman, Antibalas is an exercise in polyrhythm. The frontman asks the audience to chant a counter rhythm, and they do, while the horn section kicks and punches a little booty shakin' out of this slightly sluggish afternoon crowd.

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- {Hot Chip}

Some independent thinkers bought Erasure albums in the ’80s.

Hot Chip's harmonies are as beautiful and well-executed live as they are on the album. Gentle synthesizers and heavily-delayed guitars dance and bobble around me like so many barely-legal strumpets in hot pants. Fueled by a second or third afternoon beer, a little ironic disco bumping and grinding commences in the crowd.

These guys are awesome. Long live synth pop! Someone yells.

Someone who sounded like Ringo Starr introduced Hot Chip as having come from "all the way across the pond." And now, this is finally a party.

Eventually, Hot Chip covers "Nothing Compares to You" and the crowd sways, the mood is dreamy. Life seems beautiful.

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- {Amon Tobin}

At last, an electronic music legend, my IDM hero, my MySpace friend: Amon Tobin quietly takes the stage. Echoes and burbling, watery tones (tones that sound like they are submerged in water) swirl from speaker to speaker. Random screams bubble up from the crowd. They're eager for the beat to drop.

A beautiful girl smiles at me (or maybe someone right behind me). Her shirt caresses my arm, and I am struck by the sensuality of Amon Tobin, whose swirling echoes give birth to hip hop beats. "His secret is a combination of audiophile-approved blips and beeps, art-o-phile-approved post-structural order-from-chaos-style sound-collage, and hot-girl-approved dark-eyed smoldering Brazilian sexy man-ness" (Igloo Magazine 05.25.07). It's the kind of music that makes hips circle slowly left, then right. Unlike anyone I've seen here yet, Amon is alone on stage — a gaggle of photographers crowd below, eager to click the man who made IDM sexy.

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- {The Portapotty}

Long lines. Really long lines. A girl in line who happens to be holding the same mid-size bottle of Jameson that I am tells me about a recently discovered city hidden beneath Machu Picchu, thousands of years older than the ruins there now. We talk about Graham Hancock and the 2012 apocalypse as I awkwardly dance the pee dance — from one foot to another — until we pee at last. We are pee at last! Let freedom ring.

I emerge and Amon Tobin has switched to drum and bass.

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- {Goldfrapp}

The band wears all white. Goldfrapp are dreamy, heroin shimmers. There's a harp on stage. The bassist's guitar is transparent. Blond and dreamy, Mrs. Goldfrapp wails a haunting falsetto, and I'm transported to Merlin's England where dragon's breath hangs over a magical wood.

I share a joint with a wood sprite.

The instruments blow like so many rivers to a sea of soft, elegant, radiant dream pop. They're something like the Cocteau Twins, but not as weird. Does Mrs. Goldfrapp even know Esperanto? In the early ’80s, I think Goldfrapp bought Blondie's Autoamerican and The Cocteau Twins Garlands and listened to them at the same time.

Alison Goldfrapp asks the audience, "Are you okay?" Everyone says, "Yeah!" And she sings, "You're my number one…" Somehow, I feel like she is singing directly to me, as I wander away from the stage to the perimeter of the festival grounds.

Resourceful kids sit on the rocky rim of Treasure Island, outside the fence. Security guards scowl and yell things at them. I sit.

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- {Mike Relm}

Earlier, I was lucky enough to interview Mike for three and a quarter minutes:

In his mashup set, Mike mixes Linus and Lucy with Rage Against the Machine's "Killing in the Name," which he mutes on the chorus so the crowd can chime in with "Now go do what they told ya!" so enthusiastically, like they'd been expecting and practicing their part.

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- {TV On The Radio}

"Thank you for your time." Drums, horns, fuzzy guitar pours like honey into a cup of tea, or over an eager audience. I am immediately aware that TV On The Radio is on a different level, a higher level of talent and experience than the other groups here. They've come all the way from the East Coast to educate these kids who are picking up the indie rock torch that TV On The Radio helped to light. The last time I saw them, they were reminiscing with the audience about SF experimental rock groups of the early ’90s. Yesterday, I read a story about them in the New York Times about their über-cool Williamsburg studio. So it goes. Good for them.

These songs are always running as fast as they can possibly go. The tempo pushes and shoves ahead not like fast music, but like a volcano. Kids keep shoving past me, toward the front, eager to leap and burn in TV On The Radio's molten sonic goo. Members of Antibalas play horns with them on a few songs.

"This is a song for San Francisco!" the heroic singer says before playing "Wolf Like Me." "We have a new record coming out on... Tuesday," he says. TV On The Radio is, as always, so good I don't know what to do. I just stand in awe. They talk about how good the other bands have been, and I'm charmed. They're right. Everyone here has been amazing.

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- {Robyn the Photographer}

Robyn the Photographer has managed to get another gentle photog uproariously drunk on the absinthe she brought in a thermos. I offer him a sip of my Jameson bottle: "Hell yeah, my nigga!" he says. Familiar systems of reference are disrupted, and I experience bliss.

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- {CSS (Cansei de ser Sexy) – at last.}

The photogs argue: Who is better: Justice or CSS? I assert that my respect is with Justice, but my heart is with CSS — who are beginning now.

Lovefoxxx releases a huge bunch of balloons into the air, and the show begins. Known for outrageous outfits, Lovefoxxx does not disappoint: thousands of ridiculous curly tubes hang from her body. Her hair is like Evita.

"San Francisco is the home of beaches and gays... and gay beaches... and bitchin' gays!" Lovefoxxx is so adorable, so endearing. She entreats the crowd with a sweet, girlish voice, making little quips between songs. And during the songs, she dances like Tina Turner.

"This next song is called ‘We like Obama.’ It's called ‘We cannot vote but if we could we would vote for Obama,’" and they play "Music is My Hot, Hot Sex." She walks atop the crowd like Jesus on water, and a halo of digital viewscreens surround her. She is pure goddess, pure holy power, pure good, pure evil. She speaks, my heart skips, I gasp. The power of Lovefoxxx compels me.

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- {Justice}

Two angels grab my hand and scream, "Justice!!!" and I'm whisked away from CSS to the front of the Justice stage moments before they begin. Writing is difficult here, dear reader, but I press on for you.

Justice are surrounded by Marshall cabinets, nine stacked on each side, with their signature glowing cross in the middle. The bass is so powerful that it rattles my insides and threatens my ear drums. Justice is the Guns and Roses of electronic dance music. They are like Daft Punk, but with penis and testicles.

Like Daft Punk, this is minimal house, with the emphasis on making their simple basslines the biggest, most destructive, disembodying, divine sound of all time. The audience shrieks with glee, and a thousand digital viewscreens elevate in front of me.

There's really no way to describe the bass — so huge, so immersive. Like enormous, blubberous whales falling from the sky; thousands of them cascading down on so many holy, hopeful, tiny dancers. We drown in bass, we are redeemed in bass. I soak in bass and my wounds are healed. Suddenly the Marshall cabs burst in light! They're lit from the inside!! Everyone goes crazy. The shadows of a thousand hands dance on the white gauze stage curtains.

"We…are…your friends, you'll…never be along again, so c'mon..." Then synth sizzles, guitar strums, and magnanimous bass erupts to free the slaves, give birth to the soul, and enlighten the masses in holy, holy vibrations.

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...

{Day 2}

Hungover and tired, I had the foresight to bring two flasks today. I start the day exploring the myriad of booths. The Treasure Island Music Festival celebrates independently produced music as well as independently produced art, writing, crafts, and even education via Dave Egger's own 826 Valencia, who have a booth there, too.

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- {Okkervil River}

So much guitar! Okkervil River seem like they're having fun. Will Sheff does that thing that The Killers (and many others) singer does where he opens his mouth real wide when he sings his vowels: "She can't hi(iiioooiiiiyyyeee)de!" Everything sounds like a sensitive "Oiyeee!"

They're interactive. Singer encourages audience to clap, sing along:

"C'mon! It's early in the day. You've still got a lot of energy to clap! I know you have the energy deep inside you to clap! I want to see all of your hands!!" (Sheff's candor is actually really endearing.)

I, for one, don't clap. Day one was electric and exciting. Day 2 starts as a chore. This will not be helped by the fact that today's pastiche of bands are largely indie rock, so therefore they emphasize irony and sadness (which makes me feel self-conscious), while yesterday's more electronic dance-oriented groups emphasized dancing (which makes me want to live, love, be free).

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- {Fleet Foxes}

A strange cacophony of beautiful (and well-executed) harmonies. At the beginning, they are The Doobie Brothers, but then they turn into dreamy, droney, echo-driven post-rock.

And then they turn into Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. They are perfect Sunday afternoon music: gentle, delicate, undistorted, with locomotive shuffle snare and golden cymbals to emphasize the golden harmonies. Like so many of these classic rock-inspired indie rock bands, you think you're getting soft rock radio, until they do something weird. The irony is subtle. It never breaks a smile.

The band pauses between songs to argue about what genre they are.

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- {Vampire Weekend}

Darlings of indie pop, Vampire Weekend draws the first big crowd of the day. Photog is unable to get into the pit to click Vampire Weekend. Their managers are fussy. They take themselves very seriously, it turns out.

Wow, Vampire Weekend play these songs really well. They are pure honey-sweet bouncing afro-pop — just like on the album. Self-importance hangs over the stage like a whiny storm. But this is kind of their shtick, right? Snotty, preppy, Upper East Side kids? Life imitates art and art follows suit.

The fan kids have the fancy jeans, and even though it's windy, girls are wearing skirts. From where I sit, tired and beer-scented on the grass, I can see up their skirts.

I stew while Vampire Weekend performs certainly and elegantly — just like on their album. So, it's a good show, but they don't want my love like Okkervil River did. So, maybe something is lost. But maybe I'm just not a teen excited about my jeans anymore.

"Vibrations straight from fingertips to larynx and out the nether chakras," says Robyn the Photographer.

Where's the balls? Where's the sex? Where's the transcendence?! Where's the sheer, childlike beauty? They left it in the studio. I become distracted. The audience is entertained, but not inspired, lulled but not moved; except for the pack of douchebags nearby, who are eager to sing the album word for word, right along with the band.

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- {Dr. Dog}

Dr. Dog was gracious enough to give me 7 minutes of their time for an interview earlier:

Dr. Dog played like warrior poets: beautiful, dreamy, Beatlemania.

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- {Tegan & Sara}

Even though they can't be more than 11 or 12 years old (j/k!), I get the feeling that Tegan & Sara are part of the old guard here. They're sweet and sentimental. They are bright and brilliant, and they push the tempo like the Indigo Girls do when they play live, with harmonies quavering like Liz Frazier.

Next, on Bridge Stage, is The Kills. I'm wondering if it might be better to skip them so that I can get to the front of The Raconteurs show.

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- {The Kills}

I decide to forgo The Kills show. Robyn the Photographer goes. They ruled, apparently:

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- {The Raconteurs}

I'm finally here: crowded at the front with the other folks who have forsaken The Kills to cram up to the holy Jack White pulpit. We cram up there for an hour-and-fifteen minutes.

Suburban mom rubs against my left side. I offer her some whiskey. She accepts. We share a nice moment. And then she tells me that this is her daughter's (15) and nephew's (14) first concert. They turn out to be crammed in right behind me. Her husband is crammed behind them. It's a family affair.

And after a school of attentive roadies have turned every nob just so, The Raconteurs take the stage. Cherry chapsticked mouths squeal, pimpled faces light up, bright eyes open wide.

Jack White is like Robert Plant: he wails, ladies swoon. No matter what the publicist says, Jack White is the front man of The Raconteurs. This is his band.

Anyone can see why Jack White has chosen these extraordinary players. They possess the extraordinary talent and disciplined musicianship that Jack White has been longing for.

Brandon says, "We're The Raconteurs from Nashville, Tennessee," and I'm confused. I thought Jack White was from Detroit. They must be trying to be cute. Fucking clever steam punks.

At times, they are corny classic rock, but in spite of it all, they are just so fucking good. These are the best musicians in rock today, and they are all here to prop up the master: Jack White. Jack White who bleeds like Jesus, Jack White who hunts the great white whale, Jack White who entreats all the girls in the audience to come on over get some Coca-Cola. And he tells the boys in the audience to put on a collar, a tie, and to pray.

Holy gospel pours from beautiful harmonies and elegant rhythms. Power from electricity, power from sex, power from the pure joy of rock ‘n’ roll. Jack White might be better than any human has ever been on that guitar of his. (It's called "hyperbole")

"Though I always seem to win, I always play to lose," he sings. "That's why I think I've got the rich kid's blues."

As their momentum builds, they start to sound a bit like MC5 — but the way MC5 always wanted to sound.

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- {The End}

I'm tired, but I go home electrified. Thanks, Treasure Island Music Festival! I love you!! An exercise in creative contradictions and wholesome, shameless talent, the Treasure Island Music Festival charms the pants off of even the bitterest and hippest of the bunch. I can't wait to see what these kids cook up next year.

[Photo: Robyn Johnson]

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