A contrast in political discourse
Spending some time resting, I venture to the Ray-Ban stage to one act I wanted to surprise me, that I honestly wanted to do well. Kathleen Hanna walked on stage with her gang The Julie Ruin, and the first thought in my mind was “good fucking hell, she still got it.” Probably the liveliest set and crowd of the festival, basically anyone who entered the area was somehow compelled to dance, even those passing by to another stage. There was this power and joy that I hadn’t seen or felt throughout Primavera up until that point.
And leading it was Ms. Hanna, who has grown wiser yet hasn’t lost her feisty attitude with quips like “I’m 46! …What? I’m still punk!” and “The ghost of riot grrrl is coming to get you!” She also made pronouncements about new feminist rock initiatives that the crowd supported. It goes to show how much she still wants to make a difference in what she does. Her efforts and open-hearted, yet independent, attitude represent a political fighting spirit that is lacking in this day and age, in spite of the flak that she got from her own flank. She is fierce and unrepentant, and I can appreciate that.
Those among the movement who wish her ill would’ve rather gone to Perfume Genius instead, which immediately followed The Julie Ruin at the nearby Pitchfork stage. That’s all because of some performance on David Letterman that elevated Mike Hadreas’ stage persona into some social justice mimetic sex god. Yet for all the clickbait doofishness that followed, the performance I saw only demonstrated how they inadvertently overhyped him. A decent flavoring of chamber pop and soul, Hadreas nevertheless gave off an underwhelming vibe, harmed again by the stage outsizing the act. However, part of it may be because his performance, through his voice and eerie movement, carried hints of subtlety and sophistication. It was the sort of performance that is antithetical to the people who write thinkpieces on him: complex, uneasy, thoughtful, and humble.
Sleater-Kinney enters the uncomfortable middle between these two contrasts. Ms. Hanna may have hinted at this group during her banter, but it seemed like they didn’t particularly acknowledge it. Getting the most off-kilter introduction song in the form of Andy Stott’s “Violence,” the band who walked on the Heineken stage asserted a more combative stance than what they’ve been for a long time. At the same time, it was an aged combativeness, expressing anger at stuff that middle-aged people get all cranked up about. It was strange to see such weirdly expressed hostility to driving on the freeway. They kept things professional, and the fury they projected was appreciable. Yet, I felt they were walking a tightrope. I somehow imagined Patrick Stickles scribbling a tale of sympathy for them. (ZP)
By the way, it seems like the way Damien Rice does songs is blast multiple guitar loops while screaming “IT TAKES A LOT!” to infinity. At least, that’s what my impression was when I walked by his last song.
A tale of imposed narratives
How does a mixed-race reporter from the poorest country in South America end up watching the “avatar of white supremacy” in indie that Belle and Sebastian purportedly are? And, on top of that, enjoy their show? Must be the same reason why a Bolivian band tackles identical lyrical subjects as Stuart Murdoch’s crew, instead of talking about their identity as a minority act in a world as dominated by white, Western paradigms as “indie.” And here’s where I should argue that our aesthetic choices correspond more to the experiences we share as a socioeconomic class, rather than ethnic oppression — particularly if one comes from a(n upper) middle-class background, as most indie fans happen to do.
But, for Pete’s sake, all I want to do is dance, and sing about taking photographs on sunny days, posh isolation, and Truffaut-grade unrequited love! And that is all thanks to Belle and Sebastian’s many charms, who played on an early Friday evening for a large and diverse crowd. I could never relate to Belle and Sebastian’s themes on a personal level, but appreciate some of their tunes enough not to regret having chosen to see them. (JR)
On generations and their weapons
Bouncing through a hodgepodge of styles and timelines, we realize there is nothing accidental in the gravitational pull Patti Smith holds over the whole of Primavera Sound’s 2015 line-up. From the get go, she built herself (her persona, her career) as the link between rockn roll’s first wave and punk’s generational stir. Her music was equally at home with Bob Dylan and Tom Waits as with Richard Hell and The Ramones. What’s more, Smith understood rock n roll as a metalanguage, and made her art as much about Hendrix, Morrison, or Blue Oyster Cult — all names she dropped during her Primavera set — as it drank from Rimbaud, Blake’s visionary poetry, William Burroughs, or the Beat Movement’s performative modes. For her, there was no difference between Lou Reed and the Psalms, and that’s the attitude that makes her timeless — or, at the very least, one more in Primavera’s online-native crowd.
It’s hard to describe the feeling her show induced in the audience. It was an overtly historical occasion, celebrating Horses’ 40 years — hence her playing the whole album in sequence — but the show had no hint of behold-the-myth compulsion. Neither is Horses the type of album to generate nostalgia in the emotional-longing way The Replacements would. Her show was, perhaps as Smith intended, something very much of the moment. That’s rock n roll’s (and poetry’s) risky nature, the secret behind Smith’s decades of powerful performances. Sometimes railing the crowd with political messages, other just saying she was here to party, she even teared-up for a moment, while remembering her late friends and husband. It all sounds tacky when looking back from here, but Smith sold it right there and then, making you forget she’s probably played these songs thousands of times, eulogizing everyone from Allen Ginsberg to Kurt Cobain, John Nash to Roberto Bolaño.
Smith closed her show with a fired-up rendition of her still controversial “Rock’n’Roll Nigger.” It was an exceedingly obvious reminder that it is no longer possible to do what Smith once did — her language, in the broadest sense of the term, cannot be used anymore, with rock n roll depleted of the meaning it once had. Smith’s role, in righteousness and defect, is unique in Western art history, and must be treasured for that. It is no coincidence at all she’s found a right-hand man in Lenny Kaye, her guitarist and the archeologist of (American) rock n roll’s essence: the garage band. Smith’s early work somehow is the culmination of that legacy. Sure, Bruce Springsteen — roughly her contemporary — may want to have a word on that, but what separates both as ultimately twin vessels of rock n roll incarnate, is Smith’s proximity to the underground. See, where the Boss would pick up a child to sing with him onstage, nearing the end of her set, Smith pulled out an electric guitar, held it aloft with her left arm and shouted: “This is the weapon of my generation! The only weapon you need!” and proceeded to smash the strings, finally pulling them out one by one. And she’s right once again. (JR)
An overanalysis of Catalonian culture
There have been other reports on Primavera that have made note of the 4 acts out of 215 that were explicitly hip-hop. Some people have made arguably ignorant criticism for the sake of causing a ruckus where there needs to be none. Going toward Run The Jewels — only to run away when they started blasting “We Are The Champions” for no reason — this is definitely something that comes to mind. But when we actually take the time to think about this situation, it’s important to remember that Catalonia is not America. Their lack of hip-hop is simply a reaction to Spanish and Catalonian disinterest in the genre and not of some “problematic,” in part because of very limited historical interactions in Africa that led to virtually no cultural exchange, not to mention that certain characteristics of hip-hop and Spanish music culture don’t mesh all that well, even if you force it with Don Quixote’s wooden lance.
Interestingly, an exception to this is the hybrid genre of reggaeton, which not only wasn’t present at all at Primavera, but to which there is a dearth of criticism in many of the publications who pointed out the lack of hip-hop at this festival. This presents more questions than answers.
If there is a thing that Catalonians and Spaniards do love, it’s metal, particularly mainstream metal of the late 80s to mid 90s. It’s noteworthy that when we walked into the Parall-el Metro station outside the working class neighborhood of Poble Sec to go to the festival everyday, there was a man in the station playing Metallica songs on his guitar while a boombox was playing the same tune. His bucket was filled with Euro coinage. I am reminded of this while watching Voivod, one of the great speed-metal acts, an otherwise strange addition. Having incorporated Jason Newsted briefly into their ranks in the 2000s, it feels like all the vestiges of classic speed metal remain. Technically, they’re still as solid as they were 30 years ago, so there’s really nothing to fault them on. That the majority of the crowd spoke Spanish seems to indicate that this was an important act not to miss for many locals. (ZP)
Ummm, question, Ariel Pink: When did Pharmakon join Haunted Graffiti?
Trying to find that fine dance sound
Around 1 AM, we hit up the Ray-Ban stage, where we stumbled upon an anomaly. We thought we were going to catch an electro act of certain mythos. Instead, we were treated to a man in white overalls playing on drums, his friend staring at his guitar incessantly, and an odd bunch of tape loops that sounded like they came from the Canadian film archives or something. It was a hardcore act in the weirdest sense. The whole effort sounded… off. Finally, I opened up my mouth and asked the question everyone was begging at that point: “Is this really Death from Above 1979?” We waited for the entire set to see if that act actually appeared. Despite faint glimmers of a past, we were forced to settle with a jarring shift that had no context.
We sought to find an answer to the quandary we were in, so we hovered above the Pitchfork crowd to listen to The Juan McLean make an electro stand. It worked, for their sound hasn’t changed all that much from back when people thought they were an electronic act to see and be seen in the mid-2000s. The audience was buying it, no longer feeling obligated to look cool in front of their friends, and shaking their ass off to some degree. That said, the duo of Nancy Whang and John MacLean started feeling repetitive towards the end, which makes one wonder whether acts can actually evolve beyond what they’re pigeonholed into. Especially in this day and age.
Finally, we shuffled over to catch Ratatat. While we have discussed how many artists were just too small to fit their stages, what we witnessed here was quite the opposite: The guitar duo was just too big for this small stage. The crowd was easily the densest of the night: After their first song, the crush was the entire standing area, and it was impossible to move. Playing favorites off LP3 and the venerable Classics, the visuals projected of liquid gold pouring on statue heads and digital dreamscapes. It opened the possibility of them being inspired by PC Music and vaporwave. Either way, it was designed to please crowds, and it was enjoyable in that basic sense of the word. (ZP)
Obnoxious screams of the past
When we did arrive, later than usual, we passed by the Ray-Ban Unplugged stage, a tiny stage for stripped down plays of acts playing on the bigger stages at some point. The Sleaford Mods, one of 2014’s supposedly breakout British acts, were up there screaming about fucks. We decided to ignore them for now.
DIIV finally did make an appearance at the Pitchfork stage, though a day late. Why they showed up at all is a bigger question. Despite being told they were shoegaze, the only aspect of that genre that even qualified them to that appellation was the fact that they were staring at their feet a lot. Instead, we had a nostalgia trip of 80s college rock, with the guitars being played by members of The Cure, or one of their many fanclubs. I wanted to feel impressed, but it just lacked any sense of energy that could make it stick out. It was falling back to something familiar, in the worst possible way.
While coalescing at a park bench and thinking of buying a crepe, another act that hinged on nostalgia appeared at the Primavera stage, teetering on complete inanity: Ghost Of A Sabre Tooth Tiger. I had to wonder why the act, led by Sean Lennon, still kept this going. His work lacked any sense of sophistry, not to mention understanding. All there is to that band is a name, and that name is one that functions as part of a personality cult.. The sooner we can forget about it, the better off he might be.
The only nostalgia trip that felt salvageable was Mac DeMarco. The main reason for that is someone in that band actually figured out how to do more with the guitar chorus effect that was so pervasive in what we considered alternative back in the 80s and early 90s that merely pepper it over everything. The sound was decent. Not wowing, but it worked very well in the live setting it existed in. Despite the fact that they were clearly bro-rock that was set to evolve with a Thunder Stone to dad rock in about, say, 10 years, the band’s definitely trying to be something worth more than just that.
Wandering away from them, I looked toward the Mediterranean, and as the light of the clouds converged with the sea’s reflection, I could swear that I was staring at the edge of the earth. I hadn’t felt so unnerved in a long time.
While scribbling down notes about each act in my notebook, a certain gentleman of German-speaking disposition complimented me about my practice. He then proceeded to explain The Sleaford Mods to me in a nutshell: “Some old guy yelling at a laptop.” I wanted him to be wrong, but it was true. Absolutely nothing changed in the previous set that we saw. (ZP)
For Spain’s sake
With the crowds either hitting up the soccer telecast or The Strokes, we went to something less evil and caught some metal act. It was an interesting setup with synths and other instrumentation. More importantly though, there was this strong intensity coming out of them that didn’t feel nauseating, which is a good start for any act of that nature.
We followed that with an act that has since been blacklisted from discussion for being dolts. Following that, we caught Mourn, a Spanish punk act that had roots in one of the biggest names in the local indie scene. It was fun and very punchy. (ZP)
Everything shrinks eventually
It was clear that the whole of Primavera crescendoed with The Strokes and Copa Del Rey. The first exception we noticed to this was Dan Deacon, who came on around midnight. To Deacon’s credit, he kept a jovial spirit, maintaining his principles of getting the audience to participate at every opportunity with such choice zingers as “Two cisdudes, not great, but we’ll make do” and “We’re watching over you. Trust me, I’m American.” More importantly, despite the logistical improbability of getting the crowd to perform the way he wanted to — something he himself acknowledged repeatedly — it got them going and enjoying themselves as he played off both classic and newer material. Some things never change, and we have to be thankful for that sometimes.
HEALTH also suffered from few people showing up, at least initially. The crowd would turn into something respectable by mid-set, but it felt like they too suffered from the fact that the festival was unofficially done, and was still too big by many standards. Not that their continuous attempt to sound like Nine Inch Nails was helping: Their IDM at times came across as too brutal to be danceable. It just became inane noise, which was demonstrated by a couple napping on the ground next to us for half the set.
Wandering to the adidas Originals stage for what seemed to be the last time, we caught Hookworms just as Thee Oh Sees concluded their set at ATP. Except most probably didn’t notice the difference between the two at this point: The latter band was doing everything in their power to be the former in spirit. However, the synth-laden punk just didn’t match up with the garage-rock revival, which led to moments where the sound was just loud for the sake of being loud, with piercing effects that sounded really annoying.
We walked back and briefly watched Single Mothers, which was arguably the tiniest crowd we’d seen at the festival. Less than 1/8 of the area around the Pitchfork stage had people and you could count everyone close to the stage with little effort. We were essentially treated to a sea of crushed beer cups behind a backdrop of standard hardcore fare. The stage and area felt cavernous, and reminded us of just how big can become too big.
With my exit from Spain literally only a few hours away, we stuck it out for one last act, Caribou. The area was just as packed as Ratatat the night before, but the reason seemed more that people wanted to stay yet they weren’t sure where to go beyond the DJs that were concluding the night for the clubbing types. Granted, the psych act gave them something to dance to, but it felt dark. I sensed a darkness, something ominous in their playing. It was as if they knew something drastic was to come. Along with some bits of Jessy Lanza being pulled in for good effect, it was as good a point as any to conclude the festival. (ZP)
As we sat at the Metro station near the Parc, on a barren platform opposite of where 96% of the crowd was looking to leave the area, we continued wondering if where we had gone was just too large. We understand that economies of scale are important and sheer numbers are what keeps the festival on the successful side of their yearly business evaluation; that with both TMTers on site nearing their third decade, we are certainly older than when we either first got to enjoy the festival (in 2009) or attempted to escape Berlin and enter the Parc some four years ago; and that there was a lot of non-musical activity that Saturday because of the football match.
But still, at 15 years, perhaps it’s time for Primavera Sound to reconsider the point where its scale and its ethos begin to conflict. It was once a single day event on two stages. Now it covers two cities in the Iberian Peninsula over six days, attracting hundreds of thousands. Not long ago, it would go out of its way to convince the last flamenco legend Enrique Morente to perform a rare fusion set in the Parc, or give Half Japanese a primetime slot in the festival’s second largest stage. Now it relies on acts it previously derided, to sell tickets and keep the event afloat.
We barely scraped the surface in our attempt to cover the whole festival, but therein lies the crux of the matter: How can you even possibly cover something of this magnitude? With the festival’s stages engulfing the entirety of the Parc del Forum, there was too much going on, and a lack of focus seemed evident from the start, despite the festival’s claims of a theme of escapism. Heh, escapism. Looking at the throng, we ourselves escaped by virtue of taking a different path to the same place. A different direction may be what is necessary for the organizers of Primavera Sound to continue functioning as something meaningful. Otherwise, what we witness here will be not a path of escape, but of surrender.
