Ratatat, Will You Civil Union Me?: MFNW Breakdown

Fuck Buttons play yr demons




Ratatat melts face.

Sept. 3-6 in Portland saw a slew of good looking youths pouring in and out of venues and their pants. Here, the transcendence and regret that ensued.

Fuck Buttons:

Yes.
These two British geniuses at the end of the world didn't look up from their raging laptops for the entirety of their amazing set. My neck still hurts.
Related: Portland, why don't you dance?

Mogwai:

This whole lyrics thing should be re-evaluated.

Bodies of Water:

If an unknown band should only be remembered for two things, they might as well be a female keyboardist in a unitard and the greatest bowlcut since Heaven's Gate drank the kool-aid, and sounding like the New Pornographers while not being Canadian.

Starfucker:

Conventionally attractive people should not front bands. Especially party bands. Especially called party bands called Starfucker that are not good.

Deerhunter:

Anyone under 30 who currently has a pulse could write their masters thesis on this performance and how it sums up "youth culture" in early twenty first century America.
Artists chose one of two paths: misunderstood genius who keeps his integrity by holding his head high while playing to his adoring audience (Bob Dylan), or aggressively antagonistic toward the audience he holds in contempt (Lou Reed). Deerhunter's lead singer, who hasn't eaten since America's biggest woe was it's president's illicit sex life, has decided to go down the dark path of Lou Reed, or what I only hope that Lou Reed was pulling mid-heroin, pre-tai chi. In the twenty minutes before he started playing, this disturbingly gecko-like human ran his mouth off to an increasingly drunk and restless crowd. He (while wearing a faded ghost-busters T and face full of narcotics) called his audience "fucking hipsters," who probably just moved to Portland two weeks ago, told us all he was a Republican, and sneered that he was just giving us all something to write about in our independently published reviews of the festival. Thanks!
The music itself was pretty good if you have to give a band credit for sounding like My Bloody Valentine, but being held in contempt by anyone who's not Lou Reed loses its appeal quickly. But this guy did give me a lot to write about. Gratuitous and mind exploding volume of cultural analysis: 2001-2008 coming soon.

Britt Daniel:

Britt sans Spoon is kind of like being served a bowl of vanilla ice cream. You're not going to say no, but you can't help but wish there was some chocolate sauce or nuts or bass to go along with it. But, Britt has the advantage of his relative boringness being still consistently better than most acts who unsuccessfully rely on an annoying gimic. Plus, Britt is sort of an elder statesman in this crowd and it's kind of nice that he shows up in all black, alone with his guitar, and can fill a room with appreciative fans. Janet Weiss joined Britt on drums and the pairing was pretty epic-- if we have legends, they are. While they were playing, I remembered why live music is necessary: sometimes it's a lightning flash that illuminates just how worthwhile life as a human can be.

Built to Spill:

I have no authority to comment on this band other than using the phrase "socially acceptable jam rock" paired with a thumbs up. Also, Built to Ill would be a cool cover band name.

Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson:

Despite their unfortunate name, these guys were impressive. Anything vaguely reminiscent of Fleetwood Mac gets a few points: two girls, three guys and the lead singer sounded British.

Jaguar Love:

I could say that this was the worst band I've ever seen live, that I would have been embarrassed for them if they possessed any sense of self-awareness, that the lead singer was a cross between Truman Capote and Vince Neil with a really grating voice. But instead, I'll keep it to: the only thing that should be salvaged from this band is the bassist's mouth.

TV on the Radio:

I didn't think it was possible to like any band less after seeing them live, especially a band that routinely blows my mind with lyrics about postmodern anxiety. I guess a writhing mass of moshing seventeen years olds will have that affect. I don't have insurance, don't step on my face.
(Redemption: “I like pop music,” Mr. Malone said in a telephone interview. “I also like the sound of a dying refrigerator. I can listen to that for an hour and a half if I’m in the mood.” Thanks Merez!)

Ratatat:

Ripping guitars in a cloud of pink and orange transcendence. A digital Exploding Plastic Inevitable; Warhol would be proud. Ratatat should be our generation's Rolling Stones: no one wants to listen to words anymore, and life at its best for all of us is one big undulating, sweating dance party.

Medicine For the People

(not part of MFNW): If Jeff Magnum had Joanna Newsom's babies: killer vocals and trumpet set to poems make beautiful guitar music about nature. And they served cookies and CDs!

The Shaky Hands/ Thao with Get Down Stay Down:

The Hands were impressive and did a cover of Bad Moon Rising and Thao was a much needed change from bored dudes listlessly wading through their own genius; she was having a great time and everyone else was too.

Need a long vaca from guitars and bearded dudes playing them. Time for Stevie Wonder.