An art installation with the debris of human history. The new ruins of the 21st century and a monument in memory of the 20th. Such is the vision Johnny, Patti Smith’s archetype of youth rebellion in “Land,” experienced during this year’s Primavera Sound festival. So she let her audience know during the final song of her headlining set, in the most transfixing of the many monologues she intertwined with her music that afternoon. It might not be the best choice of words; instead of rousing the crowd, revealing the world Smith currently lives in — closer to poetry readings and vernissages than the CBGB and art squats she frequented in the 70s. However, it provides us with the articulating metaphor we needed to make sense of a festival as gargantuan as Primavera Sound.
Its most recent edition marked Primavera’s 15th anniversary, finding the festival ready for some introspection: an eye on its own history while trying to juggle with the challenges its present size entails. Having started as an event devised by a bunch of Catalan friends looking for a way to lure their favorite bands to town, Primavera has grown into a multinational venture, arguably the most prominent festival in Southern Europe. A decade-and-a-half is a lot of time, indeed. To give some perspective, 15 years after Woodstock, the entirety of its roster was either dead or retired.
In a similar time span, Primavera has transformed in more ways than mere vegetative growth. In 2010, the festival celebrated its first decade boasting the reunited Pavement, Mission of Burma, Circulatory System, and Beach House. This year the headliners were The Strokes, Interpol, The Black Keys, Ride, and ‘Don’t Look Back’ sets for Patti Smith and Underworld. That’s an undeniable, albeit not exactly radical, aesthetic shift. Yet, one wonders whether it’s a byproduct of trying to appeal to the widest segment of consumers possible, or perhaps something owing to the evolution of Primavera’s target audience.
The answer to that question may hold the key to it all. One of the festival’s most peculiar features has to do with its core audience’s age, approaching the senior-by-American-standards average of 32. Running from one stage to the other, one wonders what this audience was doing 15 years ago. Then entering their twenties, they were likely getting used to having immediate (and for all practical matters free) access to any music ever made, be it downloading leaks for albums months from hitting the shelves, getting promotional material in their own email, or cherry-picking through decades-deep music catalogs. Primavera’s audience is primordially composed by the first generation of music consumers whose habits are inherently online. They possess no handed-down nostalgia for specific eras or scenes, yet cherish a bond with the past configured through their own musical explorations. This is something Primavera understands well, allowing two very different persons to see American Football, Tori Amos, and Einstürzende Neubaten, or Tony Allen, The Julie Ruin, and Voivod, without ever alienating their concurrent festival experiences. To once again quote Smith’s recitation, more than a haphazard narrative, Primavera offers its audience a weekend through the rhythm of generations rising from the dust; a mutable and ephemeral construction we can traverse with the sentimental memory of a broadband connection as our very own Ariadne’s thread.
However, unlike the ambition of Primavera Sound, there was no grand design behind TMT’s idea of sending two writers to cover this year’s festival in Barcelona, taking place at the end of May. One of them is a Spain-residing veteran with 6 editions under his belt, the other an American who finally found a way in after a failure to do so in 2011. The combination could have turned into the an indie-rock version of a buddy-cop movie, but instead gave us two complementary perspectives on an event too large for any one person to handle. And believe us, we tried.
Short history, long memory
If we agree Primavera Sound is Europe’s first festival aimed at internet-native music fans, then one can predict the importance of reunions and “legacy” acts in its line-up. While it is possible to argue bands like The Strokes or Interpol, nearly 15 years removed from their most important work, already depend on the veneer of nostalgia, Primavera has always pampered its audience with unpredictable plunges into the past. For instance, this year’s opening show went to a supergroup of Arthur Russell’s friends and collaborators, who gave us a chance to revisit the late composer’s Instrumentals. A little known project bridging Russell’s minimalist singer songwriter facet and his interest in experimental/serialistic music, Instrumentals was first performed in 1975, including several of the musicians in Barcelona, as a potential soundtrack for Buddhist monk Yukio Nonomura’s art. Nevertheless, despite involving talents the size of Peter Gordon, Rhys Chatham, Ernie Brooks, Peter Zummo, or Nick Colk Void, the performance did not live up to Russell’s standards. Correct to a fault, the band tumbled over the melodic details that make Instrumentals so enduring, replacing any hint of charm with a workmanlike vehemence that may have been apt had the show taken place on a dance floor or club, instead of a seated auditorium. The hour-long tribute, while respectable, would have likely given people unfamiliar with Russell’s work something to shrug off.
Another band visiting Primavera in commemorative mode was Einstürzende Neubauten (EN). The German industrial legends are celebrating three decades of activity with a retrospective tour through Europe. Though they brought a workshop’s worth of power tools and metal scraps — all of which were used as instruments/sound sources through the concert— the setlist focused on the band’s last two decades, only including “Haus der Lüge” from before 2000. Sure, if by 1989 EN’s psychopathic edge had already morphed into a more sophisticated type of intensity, by the time F.M. Einheit departed in 1995, the quintet had completely abandoned any literal attempt at invoking industrial holocausts. That’s the version of the band we got to see, with Alexander Hacke’s bass as the sole melodic anchor, N.U. Unruh generating sounds from the strangest bits of hardware imaginable, and Blixa Bargeld leading the revue.
Known to some as Nick Cave’s longtime guitarist/foil, Bargeld’s own idiosyncratic style is implemented by Jochen Arbeit, who performs with the flair of the most accomplished untrained guitar-stylist, rarely strumming a chord the conventional way, preferring to play the instrument as a noise generator — at a point using a dildo to attack the strings. That’s the takeaway lesson from EN’s set. When we see them do a song only with Bargeld on vocals, Hacke on bass, and Unruh folding, ripping, and stretching a tinfoil sheet to provide a sonic bedrock, it’s clear industrial music is all about textures, and the inevitable juxtaposition of the mechanistic and the organic, rather than doing butt rock with a drum machine as most bands in the scene are wont to do.
Cementing Primavera’s idyll with reunions, Ride, an iconic band from the shoegaze/britpop era, decided to kickstart their reunion tour with their Barcelona performance, just like Pulp did back in 2011. With their reputation as the third arm in shoegaze’s classic triptych ensured thanks to Nowhere (1990), in theory Ride were summoned to extend Slowdive’s enchanting reunion show at Primavera 2014. Thing is, by the time Ride dissolved in 1996, they had been a run-of-the-mill britpop act for quite some years. That was the burden the Oxford group had to push against during their Primavera show, with their more atmospheric tracks hampered by a bludgeoning lack of subtlety, and their noisier cuts cleaned-up to unearth hooks and melodies from beneath the layers of distortion. The result was a bright-to-the-point-of-asepsis sound that, except for “Vapour Trail” and a bloodless feedback-interlude in “Drive Blind,” was far too prosaic to live up to the band’s promise; revealing instead the lineage one could extend from The Stone Roses down to Oasis, via the sometimes-adventurous, sometimes-populist work of The Verve and Ride themselves. (JR)
Out of time and place
An urban park designed for these sort of events, it is easy to underestimate Parc del Forum’s enormity when the place is most empty, giving off this sense of it being an incomplete city of some kind. The first act outdoors that took our notice was Ocellot, which opened up the Pitchfork stage Thursday. What’s interesting is that if I heard this act in 2011, I would have found them somewhat interesting. However, their sonic debt to mid-2000s Animal Collective just shows how much the sound has aged. While there were bits of jammy elements to it, it didn’t fit in this time and place.
Place took a weird turn when I walked by the ATP stage and noted a grassy knoll jutting out like a cliff overlooking two industrial plants. I wondered the purpose of this stub before turning to the Ray-Ban stage and listening briefly to Hiss Golden Messenger. However, it also felt out of place. The blues rock just didn’t jive well with what most of the crowd here wanted, sounding something like what you’d find some lazy afternoon at an American festival. It didn’t help that MC Taylor engaged in awkward banter about North Carolina, which seemed a universe away from Catalonia.
The first band that seemed like a fit was Exassens, who opened the adidas Originals stage. But as the most unnecessary intro indicated, it was more because they were Catalonian. Their brand of post-rock was something that worked the crowd, and while familiar-sounding to anyone who has listened to anything in that genre, still seemed enjoyable.
Twerps was probably the first act to struggle on stage. The cavernous Pitchfork stage must have felt overwhelming to them. While smaller than the Heineken and Primavera stages that are standard fare at big festivals, we saw a few acts buckle under the lights and pressure of being on such vast grounds with a powerful name attached to it, and this group was no exception. Their jangly kiwi-pop by way of Melbourne was classic, but they were out of their element.
The first act that really popped out was the opener to the ATP stage, Yasmine Hamdan. Admittedly, the Lebanese chanteuse’s vocals seemed overwhelmed by that stage’s size and the various instrumentals bouncing off of it, but she held her own. What made her stand out, though, was her flexibility: At some points she was gliding along to some mid-2000s indie rock, other times she was going with a latter-day Spaghetti Western sound. She even played around with post-rock, eventually shedding her traditional dress for more normal attire in the process. It’s a modernized Lebanese sound that works, and she is someone to keep an eye on in the coming years.
Of course, the problem with having such a large lineup is that you tend to miss out on a lot of acts, but you may also find yourself in a period where you’re just running through different performers because there’s nothing interesting going on, all of them being placed badly. The miasma stage on the first day happened just after the sun began to fall in with the skyline. One of them was Viet Cong, who despite having the most pointless controversy surrounding their name, really had nothing to go for it other than to beg the question of whether a garage rock was still relevant. (ZP)
Long history, short memory
Aside from Ride, this year’s Primavera’s big reunion coup was finally nabbing The Replacements; a task twice as difficult to pull given the ‘Mats’ distaste for flying. Over a year into their reunion tour, the alt rock originators jumped the pond for a very limited run of European dates — which eventually capped-off the Minnesotans’ tenure for the time being. Absolutely essential to understand the evolution of contemporary alternative/independent music, the Replacements at the same time are the perfect band for Primavera to book, and an uncomfortable match. On one hand, they are one of the reasons this whole thing exists, but they’re also an act built on nostalgia. The latter would seem to contradict our hypothesis on Primavera’s core audience, given how the ‘Mats yearn for a time unknown to today’s twentysomethings, when college radios and fanzines were the only way to consume “underground” music, and (classic) rock was a synonym for vital youthful expression. Hell, what’s ‘left of the dial’ even supposed to mean for someone who has never touched an actual radio dial?
Nonetheless, the Replacements are one of the easiest bands to form a sentimental bond with: their songs are a perfect encapsulation of the teenage experience; despite their punk roots, they’re an outstanding pop band at heart; and youth job opportunities are as fucked up today as they were during the Reagan years. For those still unconvinced, as soon as the band gets on stage, we can all feel they possess a special energy — given an extra push by a spotless back catalog and something that ain’t exactly band chemistry, but a sort of star quality that makes sense when “I Will Dare” or “Can’t Hardly Wait” start blasting from the speakers. The Replacements no longer are the raucous bar band they once were, though they look the part and are sloppy enough; neither do they drunkenly self-destruct on stage, but that’s not the sort of mystique one looks for in reunion shows. Sure, they mock-cover Joy Division, Paul Westerberg fumbles the lyrics and keeps the roadies picking up his mic stand, and that’s alright. What we are all here for, you know it when a few thousands join in for the chorus, is that killer closing spree of “Bastards of Young,” “Left of the Dial,” and “Alex Chilton.” The songs that guarantee a great show to celebrate a teenaged-festival, but also the type of music one needs to hear when one type of nostalgia begins to be replaced by another.
Roughly as old as the ‘Mats, Swans are anything but a reunion act. Playing Primavera for the fourth time in five years, Gira and his crew have no intention of reveling in the past, with at least half of their show devoted to unreleased material, never playing anything older than 2012. Swans’ relationship with Primavera is special — I’d go as far as saying their 2011 show started the band’s imperial phase, after a hesitant first comeback record. Swans know this, and have in fact released several live recordings from past Primavera concerts. All that made their 2015 turn noteworthy, advertised as a rare 3-hour indoors show. The catch being Swans played Barcelona, on this same tour, barely half a year before, and their repertoire in both turns was identical. One is entitled to ask what is so special this time around, then?
Being an old Swans fan who never expected to see them live, let alone so frequently, I’m not the one to complain. Yet, it is hard to ignore that they have been touring way too much. That does not affect potential enjoyment of one of their shows, but I have some qualms. That their recent Primavera show was announced as a longer-than-usual extravaganza, yet another sign of the risk of Swans’ shows becoming an endurance test instead of a creative act.
American Football’s is the exact opposite case: a recently reunited band basking in a newfound appreciation for late-90s emo — they were joined in this year’s Primavera line-up by Mineral and Brand New. No doubt booking American Football is another concession to the sentimental education of the segments of Primavera’s audience that were getting ready to leave their teenage years by the turn of the millennium; however, it’s also an example of the internet allowing a somewhat obscure band to endure, flourish, and (perhaps like Swans themselves, or Neutral Milk Hotel, who played Primavera last year) find a new audience — no matter if a decade or so “late.”
It’s a bit incongruous to hear these songs about emotional turmoil performed by happy-looking middle-aged men. I can imagine a 16-year-old’s life being shaken-up by finding American Football’s self-titled album at the right moment, but graying family men may have a harder time getting into it. That’s not a knock on the band, who have all the right in the world to be as happy as they want. God knows there is no one, true way to get into a band. Hell, there may have been some people in the audience who discovered American Football via a meme, and took a genuine liking to their melancholic guitar work. The internet is the most curious beast, you know. (JR)
When things grow too large
The size factor came ringing back as Thursday night reached an uncertain climax. At the Heineken stage, one of the two main stages, Antony & The Johnsons entered in a choir gown, playing with L’Orquestra Simfònica de Barcelona i Nacional de Catalunya (or OCB) on several different songs. That he could fill the area all the way past the front screen some 80 meters away from the stage was impressive. However, it was clear that, in spite of his vocal sophistry, beautiful accompaniment, and somewhat compelling art film, people seemed more interested in just being there than actually listening to the music. Recently I had spoken to Circuit des Yeux about the issue of crowds talking during a performance, yet this was far more prominent. It became an issue even in the crush, for the amount of noise drowned out his eloquent yet soft vocals, despite ample amplification. It was ruining the performance, and seemed to indicate he was better suited for a more indoor setting.
Frustrated, I wandered back to the Ray-Ban stage, a 10-minute walk from the Heineken stage, to catch Aussie breakout Chet Faker. At first he was impressive, dropping some beats that sound like Bibio’s lost potential with smatterings of Ratatat (who we’ll get to later). His slow jams for the slow were impressive as well, even cobbling together a solid cover of “No Diggity.” However, it became a little apparent that even a presence and sound as vast as his was still too small for the big stage, as he was slowly losing steam and even getting out of tune midway through his set. There’s a definite future for Mr. Murphy, but he needs to strengthen himself in this environment.
Eventually, around 1:30 AM, we hit something essentially equivalent to a headliner with James Blake, the first (but not last) person in this festival being chased by the ghosts he created. The beacon of dubstep is trying his hardest to step away from the brand, becoming something of his own character. At times, his voice and sound varied from the soulful to the mourning, pushing what he could do in different directions. I’ve been hard on this guy, but seeing him live helped me understand that he’s attempting to be more than just a figurehead to a movement that isn’t really his anymore. It may only be a matter of time before people start seeing Blake as something more.
Closing out the night, we meandered over to The Suicide Of Western Culture, a Barcelona-based name appreciated by many around Europe, at the adidas Original stage. The strains of electronic acts with word Fuck in their names are apparent here, combining the frantic pacing of Holy Fuck with the bombastic energy of Fuck Buttons, all the while sounding enjoyable, danceable, and nonrepetitive even at this time of night. This was one of the few acts we saw that was too large for its stage, rather than the other way around. There was a good vibe going even as we left at 4 am, leaving the DJs to the partiers. (ZP)
Why you gotta politic?
I will say this much: Maybe it’s my later age, but the idea of being up until 6 AM just to see the whole festival sounds really unappealing. Then again, the sun sets much later in Spain, so make of that what you will.
With the line to see José González obnoxiously long, and the line for the Heineken Secret Stage (which seemed like the ideal Tiny Mix Tapes stage: Obscure, tucked away, and next to a giant yacht perfect for smuggling copious amounts of marijuana) proportionally so, we wandered in and settled out first set on Brazilian hard rock act by way of Amsterdam Fumaça Preta. Their actions set the tone for a spell: Talking in Spanish and vague bits of Portuguese, their frontman made a blunt political statement by proudly wrapping himself in the Spanish flag, as if to bait the Catalonians into causing a ruckus. It didn’t really work, if only because they were saving their energy for His Royal Majesty Felip VI (more on that later). At the same time, the loss isn’t too surprising: Their twinge of hard rock just didn’t hit right.
Walking around, I thought I saw Ex Hex playing but later found out it was Nuria Graham. She played well, reminding me in many ways of Tennis. Then, after grabbing some food, I pulled back to the same stage to catch what I thought was DIIV but turned out to be Ex Hex instead. I heard mutterings among the Anglophones that the political machinations of Meredith Graves had something to do with the switch-up, but that proved false, as the band played the next day. Meanwhile, Ex Hex themselves had vibes reminiscent of the Dum Dum Girls, but without the Pretenders-like uniforms. It was 80s style girl-rock with some very strong guitars going on, but nothing too special.
It seems Catalonia was missing from the scene today, with the Ray-Ban stage occupied by one Sr. Chinarro, who played a lovely mix of Spanish folk. Interestingly, this guy happened to be who inspired Dan Bejar to created his Five Spanish Songs EP (which are all covers of his work) back in 2013. I mention this because I was heading by this stage to hit up the ATP stage, which was to feature The New Pornographers. Sadly, neither Bejar — who is currently prepping for the press peppering him on why he hates Taylor Swift, the poor sap — nor country chanteuse Neko Case were on hand, leaving the core band. I last saw this band 10 years ago, right when Kathryne Calder joined as the prodigal niece. With that said, she has grown into her position well. Her voice, while lacking Case’s vibrant air, was still powerful and forceful. It helps that the band took on a more rocking approach, stepping away from the poppy nature that they’re known for save for “Sing Me Spanish Techno,” which they no doubt did for shits and giggles. Things got weirder as the set took a turn into the early back catalog and frontman A.C. Newman deciding to sing Bejar-led “Testament to Youth and Verse.” With all due respect and effort, it felt like Sammy Hagar singing “Hot for Teacher:” It just doesn’t sound the same. (ZP)
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.
