Has anyone heard of this guy Ryan Gosling? He’s been in a few movies I think, kinda handsome or whatever, looks like he might cry at any moment like the mom from 7th Heaven. You know who I’m talking about? No? Okay well, the director of Drive wants to blow this man hard — with teeth even — and he dragged me along for the ride. This movie should’ve been called Ryan Gosling’s Vacant Stare. This movie should’ve been called Extended Nondescript 80’s Music Video. This movie should’ve been called Eye Rape Ryan Gosling For Two Hours (If That Appeals To You — or Don’t Cause I Mean, It’s Whatever). It felt like Lost in Translation had a three way with Collateral and Snatch — but a loveless apathetic three way in which none of the participants are really into it, but some creepy old guy paid to watch them, so they’re like, ‘Let’s just get this over with.’

That was a sort of harsh dismissive way to start a “review.” This movie has a 93% on Rotten Tomatoes, which disturbs me because it makes me feel like my reaction is incorrect or that I failed to view it in the right mindset. I want to be a part of the zeitgeist, I want to like good things, and honestly, I enjoyed a huge portion of the first half of the movie. The opening scene with its suspenseful slinking car chase reassured me that this would be a realistic tightly crafted action flick. Then it slowly devolved from a Pains of Being Pure of Heart music video into a gory pulp flick with close-ups of heads exploding, heads getting stamped to bits, and filleted arms spraying blood, and something about this tonal shift — the hyper stylized nature of it, the coldness, the emptiness, the pointlessness — caused me to recoil.

Ryan Gosling just doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who stamps on heads till they crack open like pumpkins. Even when Carrie Mulligan’s boyfriend confronts him about spending time with his girlfriend while he was in prison, he retains a dopy smile on his face; in fact, the camera locks onto his dopy smile for a disconcertingly long time. Even when he’s about to take a hammer to a guy’s jaw, there’s no trace of anger or concentration. His near muteness, his perpetually blank expression — it didn’t strike me as cool so much as dumb, like one of those austere hipster kids who seems mysterious but actually has nothing to say for his existence other than, “So what’s your major?” That’s probably an overreaction, but it seems true. Maybe I’m just jealously lashing out at Ryan Gosling due to bitterness/ loneliness/ out of control cynicism; it’s hard to tell.

Also, the women in this film have nothing to do other than look pretty. Carrie Mulligan exists solely to be coveted and defended chivalrously. Christina Hendricks exists (SPOILER ALERT) solely to be super fine before having her head blown off like a ravioli filled balloon. When Ryan Gosling calls to say, “I’m off to kill some gangsters. Probably won’t be coming back alive,” Carrie Mulligan stares vacantly into space and says, “Okay.” That’s all you have to say? “Okay”? How about, “Hey don’t do that. We can just go to the police, explain what’s happening, and get ourselves into witness protection,” or “Please don’t! I love you! Let’s run away together!” No, just, “Okay, I don’t have a single thought in my pretty little head other than a vague gloominess.”

To combat my growing indifference, I imagined Louis C.K. cast in place of Ryan Gosling, a middle-aged man who’s terrified of everything, confused by the plot holes, wondering why Albert Brooks won’t just take the million dollars and leave him alone — I mean, he keeps trying to give them the money, and they keep trying to kill him for the money. It’s nonsense. Louis C.K. would’ve acknowledged this; he would’ve called Albert Brooks and said, “Look, just take the money and leave me alone. I mean, if you’re going to try and kill me even if I give you the money — and why would you risk that after I killed like five people — I’ll just dump it all off the balcony of a football stadium while yelling ‘Make it rain!’ because f–k you, man.” Casting Louis C.K. would also lend the romance a more poignant tragic quality because, of course, Carrie Mulligan would have no attraction to a middle-aged comedian who spends ten minutes describing his balls. After all, I don’t think there’s anything particularly surprising or interesting about two attractive people hooking up, although if you can place yourself vicariously in the position of either Carrie Mulligan or Ryan Gosling, which I can’t, I’m sure it’s comforting in a fluffy sugar-sweet way like a bowl of warm marshmallows on a cold night.

Then I imagined a fat Ryan Gosling driving a smart car with a concentrated facial expression, fat Ryan Gosling smiling creepily at Carrie Mulligan, fat Ryan Gosling shooting guns and stomping on people’s heads, fat Ryan Gosling trying in vain to fit a mask over his enormous head, fat Ryan Gosling wearing skinny Ryan Gosling’s much too small scorpion jacket, fat Ryan Gosling ranting in Alfred Hitchcock voice at Walter White, fat Ryan Gosling chasing after Albert Brooks, getting winded, sitting down, laying down, taking a nap on the beach, roll credits. It was perfect.

In conclusion, Drive left me feeling dismayed and disheartened, but worst of all: it caused me to contribute to the gallons of (virtual) ink already spilled in regards to the man-god Ryan Gosling. It had to happen sooner or later I suppose. Might as well get it out of my system now.

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The second day of Bitchpork Festival 2011 kicked off with a handful of veteran acts, much buzzed about bands, and Animal Collective.

First up, Brooklyn freak folk outfit A Cloud Becomes Your Hand. Though the pitch-distorted violin and marimba fused together to create polychromatic musical pieces, the drums and bass were buried deep in a muddy mix. We overheard audience members agreeing that this was not “a live band” and they simply could not recreate live the magic of their latest record. Grade: C-

Next, noise drone act Brain Paw. Two slightly aging former metalheads made squealing and squelching noises with guitars, a toy keytar, and at one point one of them played two recorders at once. While the audience appreciated the first half of their piece “Untitled Improvisation #338,” many were understandably disappointed that Brain Paw refused to play the second more complex half of that movement. Grade: D+

Between sets, a performance group took the stage and entertained the audience with food smashing, fantasy battles, and blackface sadomasochism. But you know, we’ve all seen Gallagher, Game of Thrones, and Forbidden Zone. There’s nothing especially new on offer here. In the end, we simply didn’t feel much more aware that we have Sexual Issues with our mothers, and that seemed like the whole point. Grade: D-

A musical venture called Ono blended falsetto vocals, trippy textures and some jam-band excursions into a thoroughly pleasant, pastoral set, but stuck to one amiable tempo for the most part. Before it was too late, they cut loose, doubled the pace and finally achieved lift-off. Next time, don’t wait so long, guys. The old man in the wedding dress sang “My girl loved me so much it made her daddy angry” and then pulled off his veil. Grade: B

We heard LA natives Castle Freak from the alley behind the venue, and they sounded as loud as a band should sound from the alley. There we spoke with the author of I Hate William Howard Taft about living the Writing Lifestyle. “When I make something good, it freaks me out and I can’t make anything else for a while,” she told us. She also admitted to belonging to the demographic of people who are “bored at work and generally sad.” Grade: B-

Then we voyaged over to the side stage to see what sludge noise punk-rockers Mayor Daley were up to. To our dismay, they were subpar and lacked the same driving power and tenacity they possessed during their 2010 Bitchpork set. Maybe it was where we were standing or that after 20 years, Daley is no longer the mayor of Chicago. But, sound/ political issues or not, a good band should be able to make you feel at least something with their set, no matter where you’re standing or who is in office. Grade: C+

Chandeliers is true DIY. In fact, they recorded their first album with a handheld recorder and released it on cassette tape. This time around they used a more traditional means – a production studio in Oakland, CA. Chandeliers told NPR’s All Things Considered “We love to see how we can stretch using limitation to its farthest reaches of musicality.” They certainly did that at Bitchpork. Chandeliers used a ukulele and drum beats and looped it all under their own sky high vocals to create polychromatic musical pieces. Their vocals shouted above flute-like keys and slightly afro-pop feel on chorus, lifted by lightness of looped noises. Grade: A-

There was a firebreather/ dancer in the alley. She was short and deformed in the face. She did a good job both fire dancing and fire breathing. Some people walked in front of her while she was performing, and later she complained about them getting in the way and disrupting her show. She seemed excited and happy to be there with people and breathing fire and dancing with fire. NO GRADE

The disappointment of the evening had to be Fat Worm of Error’s lack of Giant Worm Costumes, which had been a staple in the veteran noise band’s stage performances. That coupled with the restriction of roof access gave the proceedings a somber air. The host opened the set with the story, “So I’m Down in Wal-Mart, Sucking my Dad’s Pussy” and fans waited for the hip hop jester trio to start. One mischievous, albeit timely fan, led the charge screaming “I say Harry, you say Potter!” and all the other fans followed suit laughing as we all shouted back and forth. Grade: A-

The culmination of the evening had to be Mahjongg’s final set. They opened with a contemplative piece, then swung quickly into banging lo-fi dance territory. To close their set, Mahjongg thanked the various sponsors they’ve had through the years, including a major beer corporation and a car manufacturer. Vocalist Hunter Husar described a new model of Luxury Van as a “breakthrough in restructuring your travel spaces” and “the next step forward for bold restraint.” The lights burst and he spoke evenly into the darkness. He said, “You can either have a child or be a child, you can either have a child or be a child.” From behind the recreated Price is Right set, women emerged holding babies. The babies wore what looked like hearing protection meant for the shooting range. RIP+

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For the final day of this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival, I ran about Union Park to try and catch most of the bands scheduled to perform. I treated it like a live sampler that record labels hand out, catching a couple songs here and there, only to dash off to another stage soon thereafter. I managed to catch only a couple sets in full, and while Kurt Vile and the Violators and TV on the Radio put on two of the day’s better shows, other sets stood out as well.

Darkstar helped opened the day at the blue stage, and their oft-ambient spin on dubstep proved to make for a solid performance despite the fact that the three dudes in the band weren’t much to look at. Perhaps the heat drove a larger-than-usual crowd to the shady area near the blue stage, but Darkstar’s pulsing tunes appeared to keep folks interested.

Out on the main stages, The Fresh & Onlys jangly garage-pop sounded as if it had been melting in the blazing heat. British indie-rock act Yuck didn’t fare much better: Their lo-fi slacker rock shtick made for a low-energy set that made me think of a number of better situations to listen to their music, most of which involved air conditioning.

Later on the blue stage was getting prepped for an unexpectedly impressive stage show by electronic R&B act How to Dress Well. Main dude Tom Krell recruited a string quartet, a drummer, and a conductor to help him flesh out his muddied songs into some intruiging, minimalist slow jams.

Kurt Vile and the Violators started up soon after Krell and co. took the stage, putting on a strong set filled with gorgeous, head-nodding folk tunes. Vile makes some pretty intimate music that might sound better playing on a turntable in your bedroom than on a gigantic elevated stage, but for some reason everything clicked with Vile and his backing band on the stage.

Yet, Vile’s set probably didn’t register to a large portion of the fest’s crowd that camped out at the red stage and began chanting “swag” the moment Yuck wrapped up their set. Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All were scheduled to perform immediately after Vile, and if the past five months of national headlines (and past year of Internet hype) were any indication, every ticketholder should’ve been facing the red stage since doors opened at noon. It certainly felt that way with divergent chants of “swag” and “wolf gang” traveling through the crowd like waves, with eager onlookers awaiting the presence of the great Tyler, The Creator and the rest of his crew.

Perhaps if I had been one of those kids in the center of the crowd, eager to finally witness the coming of this group of kids I looked up to, a collective whose mixtapes I gobbled up and listened to non-stop, a band of rappers who stood for something I could immediately related to, maybe then I would’ve been enraptured by Odd Future’s set. Instead, I went into the performance with more curiosity than fandom, and once the novelty of “OFWGKTA in the flesh” wore off, the set felt pretty run-of-the-mill. Perhaps with a few more useless curse words than the average act and a shockingly minimalist beat. And with Tyler on crutches, even the onstage “antics” felt tame. But, really, how many groups whose careers are driven by a combination of overwhelming hype and cultural controversy could actually pull off a set that fulfills every idea pushed on them?

Sunday’s other hip-hop act, Shabazz Palaces, performed to a smaller crowd over at the blue stage, and those funky, head-nodding songs made for one of the day’s better sets. Every festival provides ample opportunity to test out musical acts that—for some reason or another—you never listened to prior to the very moment you see them play, and a select few will bowl you over. Needless to say, I’ll be grabbing Shabazz Palaces’ new Black Up pretty soon.

Baths followed Shabazz Palaces with another highlight of a show. For a project that’s basically just one guy that sings and plays a laptop and an MPD controller, Will Wiesenfeld put on an engaging performance. He cranked out scatterbrained experimental hip-hop touching on chillwave with magnetic glee, grabbing the mic with a great force to belt out wistful lyrics about love. If other laptop acts took note of Wiesenfeld’s stage skills perhaps they wouldn’t get such a bad rap for their live shows.

The rest of the performances leading up to festival closer TV on the Radio were pretty solid. Superchunk and Kylesa convinced me to check out their recorded material after delivering some energetic, endearing live sets. And though I’m hardly a fan of their music, I do admire Deerhunter for their ability to throw down a solid set of doo-wop flavored noise-rock. On the opposite side of the spectrum, Toro Y Moi sounded like cheesy contemporary adult rock that lacked any hooks. The group took their sweet time too, exiting the stage two minutes before Health was scheduled to perform and making it impossible for me to catch a group I wanted to see for fear of missing TV on the Radio.

It wasn’t the finest hour for TV on the Radio, but it wasn’t bad either. Fighting off sound issues that muddied their music, engaging a crowd that spent an entire day exposed to the heat, and closing out three days of music, TVOTR still put on a great show. The group has transformed into an act primed to play arenas, and as such they were a far better choice to close out the festival than Animal Collective and Fleet Foxes. They rolled out the bombastic, manic tunes early, and jams like “Halfway Home,” “Dancing Choose,” and the skronky blast of “The Wrong Way” made their presence known.

The band did sag towards the middle, when they brought out selections for their new Nine Types of Light. Though the album is generally underwhelming, it’s got some songs that have a nice hook to them. Unfortunately, the band’s collection veered towards melancholy, producing a string of low-energy songs that fed into my growing lethargy.

Though it would be wrong to say the set dragged on, I felt fatigued to the point where even singer Tunde Adebimpe’s caustic flailing couldn’t incite much of a reaction. Midway through the eighth TVOTR performance I’ve seen, I felt torn: I enjoyed witnessing the songs live all over again, but I felt like I needed to get away and hear them in the comfort of my home. Fortunately, an unexpected cover of Fugazi’s “Waiting Room” brought things back to life and got a nice cheer out of the crowd: The art-rock band knew how to recreate the anthemic feel of the classic post-punk tune and mix it with just enough of their distinct blasts of sound to make it feel like I was listening to a new TVOTR single. It put a smile on my face and left me feeling invigorated as the stage lights went down and the festival came to an end. And that’s just about all I could ask for at the end of a three day music extravaganza.

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The musical acts that rose to the top of the pack on the second day of this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival all had one thing in common: Energy. Specifically, they knew how to wield it. Whether they brought it themselves, infused the crowd with it, or did some combination of the two, Saturday’s lineup had a nice slice of groups that kept the energy high: Chrissy Murderbot, No Age, OFF!, The Dismemberment Plan, and DJ Shadow.

Chrissy Murderbot kicked things off at perhaps an inopportune time for a DJ: 1 p.m. Though gates opened an hour earlier (to a big cheer from eager attendees who packed the fest’s main entrance long before things got started), the crowd at the blue stage was fairly meager. Fortunately, Chrissy showed up guns blazing. He spins what he describes as “juke-rave-jungle-disco-dubstep-hi-NRG-gangsta-dancehall-ghetto-garage-core.” Which basically means anything that can get your body moving without second thought. The Chicago DJ had an excellent hypeman in the form of MC Zulu, who got the growing crowd to move without much trouble, at one point shouting a simple mantra everyone appeared to understand: “This is not our show, this is our show.” Chrissy’s set was all about an inclusive experience—his crew even tossed lip-shaped kazoos into the audience so concert-goers could make their own noise—and it worked wonders. Chrissy Murderbot set a pretty high bar for the rest of the bands to follow him throughout the day, and left me feeling pretty exuberant after an anxiety-filled first day of the fest.

Though they couldn’t top Murderbot’s dancefest, Philadelphia synth-pop act Sun Airway put on a satisfying set. As far as indie-pop goes, these guys are like meat and potatoes: It’s filling and enjoyable, but it hardly tops your “favorite foods” list. Still, they did wonders bringing their quasi-introspective ditties to life with a good bit of force and some spot-on execution.

Another synth-based band couldn’t quite keep it together: The black-clad members of Cold Cave didn’t seem to mind that the heat had cranked up a couple dozen degrees since Friday, nor did they seem to mind that their set was in disarray. Their noisy, ‘80s-biting tunes sounded sloppy and the underwhelming set had me caring more about how sweaty the dudes wearing black leather jackets were than the actual reason they were onstage.

With the sun beating down on the crowd, No Age appeared primed to get rolling with their set—technical difficulties be damned. Seconds after wrapping up some sound issues, the duo launched into a raucous set where they appeared (at least, at first) hell-bent on making up for lost time and anemic sound issues. That anger from the set-up issues soon faded, and the band treated the crowd to punk tunes by classic acts—Black Flag, The Misfits—and their steadily-growing back catalog. Though this band has gotten plenty of props for mixing up cut-and-dry punk with some arty songwriting, their set came down to pumping up a whole lot of adrenaline and spraying it on a gleefully moshing crowd.

Wild Nothing and Gang Gang Dance became casualties of my own scheduling conflicts. Though I didn’t mind only catching a brief snippet of Wild Nothing—their hard-on for New Order felt, well, rather flaccid in execution—I would’ve loved to have seen the rest of Gang Gang Dance’s odd, endearing musical pastiche. Still, I wouldn’t have missed the chance to catch OFF! over at the blue stage, and they did not disappoint.

Frontman Keith Morris opened the band’s set with a lengthy introduction that saw him recount the musical experiences of the other three members of his group. Morris is a loquacious fellow, which is starkly different from the quartet’s hard-fast-loud style that recalls the singer’s early work in the hardcore punk scene. Just as soon as he finished talking about his band-mates’ accolades, the group launched into their first tune that seemed over before it began. And yet, it left a pretty indelible impression, one marked with the image of a gravity-defying Morris hopping around stage and screaming until his eyes seemed ready to burst out of his head. The group had plenty of muscle to pull of these mini-punk anthems, and suffice it to say they killed it.

I left OFF!’s set a bit early to scarf down some food and recuperate before The Dismemberment Plan took the stage. This being the final show on the quartet’s reunion schedule—at least, for the moment—I wanted to leave a little time to line up to take some photos and mentally reflect on the situation while standing in the blazing heat on a sand-covered plot of land normally used as a baseball diamond. I may have missed one particular band some of my friends have been hyping for months (The Radio Dept), but catching the D-Plan in full was well worth the wait.

They opened with “Do the Standing Still,” a song railing against a certain type of concert-going activity that’s become synonymous with the stereotypical Pitchfork reader—not dancing. Whether or not the band meant this to be a sly joke to fans or for themselves is besides the point: It helped set up a lively, goofy, entertaining, and, yes, energetic set that absolutely hit the mark. Sure, some things seemed amiss because of the setting—in particular, the inability for the band to continue the tradition of hosting fans onstage during their performance of “The Ice of Boston”—but they doled out one great song after another with a playful glee. Certainly my unabashed love for the band kept me thrilled, kept my fists wildly pumping during “What Do You Want Me To Say,” and kept me prodding my fellow cohorts in bowl of the crowd to just dance, but the guys in The Dismemberment Plan exuded such a warm, friendly charm it would’ve won me over even if I’d never heard the cathartic “Gyroscope” before Saturday.

I’d only heard bits and pieces of DJ Shadow prior to Saturday, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying a string of new and old danceable tracks. DJ Shadow isn’t for everybody, and perhaps the average dance fan might have been miffed that the evening sun prevented his usual light show from going down. And hell, the fact that he performed within a giant orb might not have gone over well with the rock-ready set. But DJ Shadow’s funky grooves made for one great soundtrack to dance the sun away.

Then came Fleet Foxes. The group has garnered a massive audience for their folk numbers driven by vocal harmonies, and those intricately sung parts were just about the only thing worth noting during the band’s set. Fleet Foxes aren’t an arena band, and the big stage dwarfed some of the emotional frailty behind their best material. It also seemed to suck what life the group might have out of them, as they appeared to merely bob in place while carefully putting together these delicate ditties.

Something seemed lost in translation with that group on such a big stage, and even the tremendously moving “Your Protector” just wafted away. Fleet Foxes make intimate music, the kind of tunes you want to play while you relax with a good book on a rainy day. But closing out a day of bands far more engrossing and entertaining? Not so much. And so I found my thoughts and body wandering, waiting for the last song to come around so I could head home and rest up for the festival’s final day.

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Sometime after 7 p.m., Das Racist killed it. For every other act performing the first day of this year’s Pitchfork Music Festival, the K.O. came when the Brooklyn rap trio dropped their infectious new single, “Michael Jackson.” The tune’s chorus is simple, kinda dumb, hilarious, and downright catchy:

“Michael Jackson/A million dollars/If you feelin’ me/Holler”

I didn’t expect this to be a line that would fester in my head for the entire day, and yet that’s exactly what happened. That hooky tune lifted a good chunk of the anxiety I felt running around the festival all day, which had peaked during an epic Tune-yards and Battles face-off around 4:30 p.m.

I arrived at Union Park a little before the gates opened to the press at 2:45 p.m., my stomach slightly in knots from feeling the calm before the storm. In the weeks leading up to a big event like Pitchfork—a three-day blowout featuring a slew of bands constantly in my headphones—the hype surrounding it all also brings to mind some concerns. Will I see every band I want to see? Will I be able to cover the fest to the best of my ability? Will I get a chance to rest before my body fails me from running around the park all day on little to no sleep?

These were the thoughts plaguing me as I walked to the press tent to see a couple kids from 826Chi—a local non-profit literacy program—interviewing the dudes in Das Racist. They were still haunting me around the corner at the CHIRP record fair—a sprawling space where record labels, music stores, and local artisans sell their wares—when I spotted Thurston Moore perusing the music selection. They stuck with me as I tried to take in the creepy sounds of dance production duo Gatekeeper. Things did not bode well for that act battling my rising anxiety: Hearing Gatekeeper’s dark tunes in the middle of the afternoon ruined any chance they had at making their atmospheric sounds stick.

I quickly moved onto EMA, the solo project of former Amps for Christ and Gowns member Erika M. Anderson. I’ve been digging EMA’s new debut album, Past Life Martyred Saints, but for some reason most of the tunes couldn’t quite capture my attention, which was getting monopolized by texts from friends trying to find a meeting spot. Between coordinating meet-ups by the first aid tent, I’d hear a clip of “Milkman” or another tune from the album and pump my first in approval. But as EMA’s set ended and I made my way to take photos of Tune-yards, those dreaded thoughts came roaring back.

Technical difficulties kept Tune-yards from starting right on time, which made me wonder if I’d be able to run and catch Battles in the photo pit. That wasn’t a concern for many of the folks at the blue stage waiting for Tune-yards: A number of fans in the crowd streaked their faces in tribal-esq lines just like Tune-yards frontwoman Merril Garbus, a surefire sign of hardcore fandom. That thought got confirmed with every cheer that erupted whenever Garbus made a quip about the stalling soundcheck.

But, these fans had good reason to be so devoted to Tune-yards: From up close, Garbus and co. had a wealth of energy to bring “Gangsta,” a highlight from the band’s new whokill, to fleshed-out light. Having caught that song, I felt free to dash off to catch Battles, who were halfway through one of the brightest spots from their new record, “Sweetie & Shag.”

I didn’t make it to the stage in time to snap some photos of Battles up close, but it didn’t stop me from enjoying “Atlas,” the standout tune from their debut record, Mirrored. Something felt a bit off, though: The band replaced Tyondai Braxton’s warped vocals with a recording of a chorus, removing some of the sinister excitement the song first had. Yet, I felt vindicated for having caught the tune anyway.

I spent the remainder of Battles and Tune-yards sets straddling the area between the two stages, catching bits of songs, though never quite feeling comfortable with the situation. If I spent too much time watching Tune-yards from the back of the blue stage’s enclave, I felt bored, and could just hear Battles teasing me with a live rendition of “Ice Cream.” Sure, I caught Tune-yards performing “Bizness,” but I’d always wonder what I’d be missing around the corner.

I took a break to scarf down some food when Curren$y hit the stage, and only caught a small portion of Thurston Moore wailing on an acoustic guitar. I know I made the wise decision to rest up when I saw folks starting to drop like flies, sleeping on whatever patch of grass had enough shade. And I know I made the right decision once Das Racist took the stage.

Confident, cunning, crass, charming, and a bit crazy—to liberally borrow from Philip Roth, that’s just the “Cs”—these dudes absolutely nailed their set, and they did so while exuding air of effortlessness. It’s hard to imagine that these guys once got ripped for having an awful live show: They owned the stage, keeping the energy high even while debuting new tunes from their forthcoming official debut, Relax (that carried through with a guest appearance by Detroit rapper Danny Brown, who is on one of their new songs). And sure, “Michael Jackson” pleased the crowd, but they rolled out some of their well-known jams that absolutely killed—specifically “Who’s That? Broown!,” “You Oughta Know,” and “Rainbow in the Dark.”

The same cannot be said for James Blake—sure, his smooth, buttery voice and his soulful quasi-dubstep jams are something to admire, but his music practically vanished in the open air of the outdoor festival. Same with Neko Case, though her alt-country songs seemed to stand out a little even if they didn’t quite hit.

Closing out the night, Animal Collective made good music to peruse records. All things considered, their set was a pleasant surprise: I’d heard that their jam-centric live sets were louder than they were interesting, but they created a warm, lush ambience to welcome the night. The only problem is just focusing on the music unto itself. Sure, “Did You See The Words” and some cuts from Merriweather Post Pavilion—“Brother Sport,” “Taste,” “Summertime Clothes”—piqued my interested and certain portions of the crowd prone to dancing. But the rest just kind of floated by as their synth-heavy set lurched forth. At the very least, it provided a nice background soundtrack to a return visit to the record fair. I took off shortly after Animal Collective finished their proper set—some 15 minutes before the festival’s designated curfew—without bothering to stick it out for any potential encore: Not even a “big” smash hit like “My Girls” would’ve made the wait worth it. With two 10-hour days ahead of me, I felt it wise to jet and save my energy for some sets that could reach the high mark Das Racist set early Friday evening.

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I have tried to watch things that are hip. I went through a phase of spending beyond my means on Criterion DVDs and watched The OC and The Sarah Silverman Program, neither of which “holds up” along artistic lines, at the respective moments of their coolness. Now I mainly watch things to entertain myself, which is why I’ve been watching a lot of baddish comedy films and The Larry Sanders Show on Netflix.

The Larry Sanders Show hasn’t gotten as much praise as HBO shows that came a bit later—certainly it’s not as widely nor as attentively watched as The Sopranos or even Six Feet Under. It’s not a magnet for the sort of at-least-people-are-watching vitriol (and merchandising) as Sex and the City or Entourage. It’s a show out of time—it ended before HBO was quite legitimate, and its subject matter makes it the opposite of timeless. Its signifiers are impenetrably uncool to the first-time viewer; it’s like watching a period film about the 1990s by filmmakers overly devoted to accuracy.

Larry Sanders (as played by Garry Shandling, an actor, unlike, say, Sarah Jessica Parker, with no significant onscreen work besides, and so one to whom one can attach no real stereotype) is a host of a late-night talk show that somehow coexists in the same universe as Jay Leno, David Letterman, and (this was some time ago) Arsenio Hall. The concept of the inner workings of a late-night show as the makings of what are only somewhat ironically presented as genuine problems for Larry is an unrelatable premise. Last year, during the Conan-Jay imbroglio, most people I knew viewed the sparring over airtime and tradition unfathomable, irrelevant. Who cares about what late night show airs when?

Larry cares, and is defending his position and his creative freedom. Creative freedom here usually amounts to not having to capitulate to network demands to make his show more lucrative, if not appreciably better or worse. “Quality” here as smooth command of one’s domain, not actual comedy in the mold a Conan-Colbert-Stewart viewer would recognize. What we see of Larry’s show is uncompelling—his jokes’ lameness is compounded by a staleness added by time (surely the Bill Clinton jokes had the shock of the new, if not admirable construction, in the early 1990s). The monologue is negligible, the banter with so-nineties stars painful. But that’s sort of the point. There’s something soothing about it all, especially for the viewer unfamiliar with the late-night format. Late-night talk shows send you to bed calmly; the intrigues grafted onto such a soporific form are, given Larry’s peculiar mix of perfectionism and caprice, intriguing, but also ironically fascinating. All this, for this show?

Calling this show a “period piece” may not be fair; Sex and the City, the HBO series that came a bit later, is emblematic of 2000s New York (materialism, cupcakes, waxing) as much as The Larry Sanders Show is of 1990s Los Angeles (Michael Ovitz, steakhouses, booking wars). But Sex and the City hit on a few universal themes; its characters quested to find themselves through love. Larry Sanders cares little for love. He wants merely to find a larger market share. It’s this divorce from human reality as I know it, as well as from television-as-uproarious-entertainment as I’ve viewed it, that makes Larry Sanders so nicely entertaining. It’s never quite my first choice, but when I’m on Netflix Instant right before bed, it sends me off pleasantly. There’s just enough self-awareness in the mindlessness to make it the late-night talk show I never knew I wanted.

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Last night, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, the celebrated post-rock band from Montreal, Quebec, played to a sold-out crowd in Detroit. This was the last American date of their reunion tour. I was lucky enough to be a part of the experience and learned a couple things along the way.

How to Endure “the wait”

The plan was to meet some out-of-town friends before the show. I hadn’t seen them in a few months, so I looked forward to this. I found them at the bar next to the venue, wanting to drink there instead of inside the stage area where we could have had a good spot in the crowd. This was not what I had in mind. Having waited almost a decade to see Godspeed, I was not about to spend my time getting drunk in a bar. One of them shared my sentiment and together we headed for the stage, where we began “the wait.”

“The wait” is what happens when you enter a venue early knowing full well that the music won’t start for at least an hour and a half. Buy an overpriced beer (or two) and claim your spot in the crowd. If you have a friend, feel free to banter with them on the idea of “reunion shows,” fanboyism and people in the crowd who are not like you; if you don’t have a friend, attempt to make one or just stare idly at your iPhone. Be sure to speak loud enough so that everyone within a two-body radius can hear your conversation. Do this to boost your ego or give loners the opportunity to join the conversation.

In a sold-out venue, if you move from this spot for any reason, you will lose it. This means no going to the bathroom, no smoke breaks, no additional beers. Should you choose to partake in any of these activities, you will need to claim a new spot or become “that person,” the one who pushes through the crowd muttering “excuse me” in order to reclaim an original spot. Please, plan ahead and don’t be that person.

People of All Ages like Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Hate Noise

There were a lot of people there. The smell of sweat and pot combined to form a noxious gas that wafted around us. I noticed that there were a lot of X’s on hands and wondered where all the underage kids came from. I wondered how many of them had heard about Godspeed from seeing the Pineapple Express. This thought made me laugh, a lot.

I also stood next to an older, gray-haired man with a woman at his side and someone who was presumably their son. Are these progressive parents or are they just accompanying their kid? The son seemed of age, so they must be here because they want to be, I thought. When the opening act, a one-man noise band, took the stage, the father yelled, “it’s about time!” I decided that I did not like this guy.

My initial reaction to seeing a noise act open this show was, this is not the right place. A theater filled with 1500 people ready to see some “totally epic post-rock”—how will they react? Within the first two minutes of the set, everyone around me decided that they hated what was happening. I heard this opinion repeat itself in pockets around the theater and eventually the collective speech became louder than the noise.

I would have felt bad for the performer, Sick Llama, if his set wasn’t so damn amazing. The audience may have not understood him, but he understood us. The tones he created were about feeling and tension—just as the music Godspeed creates is about feeling and tension. I knew that this was true when he overcame the audience’s chatter and my empty beer cup started to vibrate in my hand. After the set, my friend commented that she could feel the bass thumping her chest. This was true, I felt it as well.

When Godspeed came out and began their set, the older, gray-haired gentleman near me started to rock back and forth, and shake his head as if he could not believe what he was hearing and seeing. I decided that, maybe, this guy was all right after all.

Moments that Pass Can Be Found Again

On my drive to Detroit, I had an introspective moment: this concert would have meant much more to me if I had seen the band play when they were last in the area, eight years ago. At that time I was a Godspeed fanatic and wanted desperately to be there. I forget the reason why, it may have been that I couldn’t find a ride or had school the next day, but I wasn’t able to make it to the concert. That is one of my biggest regrets, musically speaking and otherwise.

Now that I had the opportunity to see them, I didn’t know how to feel. I should have been excited, but I wasn’t. I would say that it was more of a curiosity. For years I built this event up in my mind and at no point did I think it would actually happen. I wondered, had my moment passed?

I thought about other moments. I thought about 20-somethings who “miss out on” the college experience because they decided to commute instead of live on campus and women who “miss out” on motherhood because they never found “the one.” Suddenly my moment seemed insignificant. I tried to not think about this and instead turned up the volume on my phone, playing Lil B loud enough so that I could do nothing but rap along with “I’m On My Grind.”

When the band performed, I let these thoughts go. Twenty minutes into their set, I began to feel the way I did when I was a teenager—skeptical, hopeful. Being hopeful in Michigan right now is an interesting, warm sensation. It feels new. I melted a little as everything burned itself out around me. I started to lose focus on time, hypnotized by images of old blueprints, billowing smokestacks and a single word, “hope,” as it flashed on the wall behind the band. It was 11PM, then 11:46PM, then 12:25AM. Then it was over.

After I shuffled out of the venue to meet up with my friends from earlier, we walked to our cars and talked about things unrelated to the show, like how the steam spewing from Detroit’s manholes burns skin and briefly turns you into the Toxic Avenger. Despite how disturbing and sad it appeared, I liked this.

On my drive home I didn’t put music on. Instead I allowed the “full” feeling in my ears to spread. Ultimately, moments that you miss allow the creation of entirely new ones. This concert might not have affected me the way it should have years ago, but still, it affected me.

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Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s new film, Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, opened at New York’s Film Forum on Friday. Boonmee won the Palm d’Or at the latest Cannes film festival, and like Weerasethakul’s other films, is widely acclaimed by critics. It is yet another cerebral, enigmatic masterpiece by one of the world’s best filmmakers working today, and it is surely the movie to go out and see right now.

Boonmee centers on the last fews days in the life of a farmer (Boonmee) dying of some sort of kindey disease. He is visited by his sister-in-law, his late wife in ghost-form, and his son who disappeared seven years before – his son comes in the form of a man-ape with glowing red eyes. Boonmee reminisces with his visitors, contemplates the nature of death and past lives, and reflects on why he is dying to begin with. There is also a side story involving a princess traveling in a forest who mates with a mystical catfish in order to become beautiful. Obviously, the supernatural element is prevelant in Weerasethakul’s latest film, certainly more so than in his other work.

But Boonmee is no simple ghost story: it’s meditation on life, death, and the power of film to uncover a different level of reality. In a gesture that recalls Antonioni’s classic Blow Up, Boonmee’s son notices a ghost-like apparation in one of his photos taken in the jungle, and ultimately transforms into one of these apparations and enters in to some sort of alternate world.

It does not really do justice to Weerasethakul’s film just to describe its story. In fact, as with his other films, it is more the total experience that counts, anyway – it’s as if he brings us into a different level of reality. As with his other works, great attention is paid to things like sound design and composition. A soundtrack is created both with the natural sounds emiting from the jungle, and from low ambient rumbling that add to the eerie quality of many sequences. Each frame is painstakingly composed and deliberate.

For a visual and aural experience unlike any other, go see Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. It might be slow and cerebral, but it will take you to another plane of existence during its two hour duration.

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There are virtually no men in pop music. If you take a listen to the pop soundscape, you’ll notice two things: first, it’s practically dominated by divas and their various spinoffs which, of course, I’m totally into. Second, you’ll see that there are probably only 11 people making pop music right now: Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Britney Spears, Rihanna, Bruno Mars, P!nk, Justin Bieber, Ke$ha, Usher, Nicki Minaj, and Beyoncé. That’s great for radio domination, but not so great for creating a diversity of sounds.

Lenny Kravitz’ loud new single “Come On Get It”—his first since 2009— hit the airwaves last week, and if you really listen, you’ll hear how raw it sounds against the whining and crooning all the other male pop singers do. This serious hard-funk joint, equal parts Sly Stone, James Brown, and Jimi Hendrix, pries open mid-sentence with a roaring saxophone and pulsating guitars. Before the song even begins, it’s getting us ready for the wall of sound that goes up when Kravitz first screams “Yeeeeah!”

“Come On Get It,” which has the potential to be Lenny’s most explosive hit since his cover of “American Woman” in 1999, is a kind of raunchy love song. Kravitz wants his lady to know that he’s coming to get it—such as: “I’m in love with your love/And I’m coming to get it” or “Can I go from behind/Love It/Com’ On and Get It.” With his new single, a certain edge and virility returns to popular music, maybe a swagger that only rock and roll can provide.

I’ve looked up to Lenny Kravitz for as long as I can remember. He’s a black and Jewish fashion kid just like me who doesn’t care about gender norms, wears Rick Owens, and carries a purse if he needs to, also just like me! Remember back in September when the Internet went totally ballistic on him for wearing “high heels” on the streets of New York? Did he give a fuck? No. Why don’t we have more dudes like this on the pop music scene?

“Come On Get It” is the lead single from Lenny’s ninth studio album Black and White America, out this summer.

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As the words “From the director of TWILIGHT” appeared on the screen, the theater full of Harry Potter fans erupted in titters. Despite the attractive lead actors and starkly stylistic cinematography of the trailer for upcoming attraction Red Riding Hood, it appeared that few were convinced of director Catherine Hardwicke’s attempt at an edgy adaptation of the fairy tale by the same name.

For a fable and folklore junkie like me – whose love for the genre extends far past Disney and further into the realm of retellings by Francesca Lia Block, Robin McKinley, and Gregory McGuire – I suppressed both my excitement and judgment. I enjoy the comeback of fairy tales and mythology in the worlds of cinema and literature (and popular music – although one may question Taylor Swift’s true knowledge of the term “fairy tale.”) At first glance, the image of the lovely hooded girl (played by Amanda Seyfried), awash in clouds of white and red, embedded itself directly to the romantic part of my soul that seeks archetypal visions. The other half of my
soul, the part that thrives on depth and theoretical analysis and was much molded by my background as an English major, immediately sought an allegory.

After all, the original purpose of fairy tales, as far back as ancient Egypt, was to frighten and educate children about the perils of the world. Western tales, primarily those such as “Little Red Riding Hood,” were directed almost entirely at young girls to prevent them from indulging in the dangers and thrills of sexuality. To an even marginally perceptive reader, the colors in the tale represent much of the subtleties – the red hood of the young protagonist not only symbolizes, in several ways, her virginity, but also the standards of oppression under which she is held. The path on which she is to embark is a pre-paved rode of her life’s journey. The wolf, like any beast, functions as a seductive creature whose desires stir in syncopation with hers. Her demise occurs when she falls victim to her own human nature.

I want Red Riding Hood to delve into this rich opportunity to provoke thought and discussion about the views of virginity and sexuality in our society. Some faith is to be had; Hardwicke’s film Thirteen was a far cry heavier than the Twilightfranchise, and she is not a stranger to the delicate and brutal inner workings of teenage girls.

Because it is this percentage of the youth population who will flock to this film, it is a chance to reveal sexuality’s truths – the many beauties of it, and the many obstacles girls still face in their attempts to express it. A film can be visually stunning and maintain its meaning; such is the case of whimsical movies such as Pan’s Labyrinth or The Fifth Element.

I fear its shortcomings – if indeed Hardwicke chooses to indulge the Twihards – will produce a Sofia Coppola-esque adversity (à la the pretty but pathetically shallow Marie Antoinette) and further the appeal of astonishingly pale and passive lead characters engaging in very surface level intimacy.

If the former is true, if Hardwicke’s chromatic and picturesque vision is indeed an intricate adaptation that enthralls and evokes, then perhaps the recent influx of mythical creatures and folklore in the media will prove beneficial for youth thirsty for darkly luminescent cinema. Perhaps Leonardo DiCaprio’s role as producer will have influenced maturity of the characters with personalities that progress throughout the course of the film, rather than characters who function only as handsome mannequins, further promoting unrealistic expectations of what constitutes romance.

But perhaps viewers will be too transfixed only on the sweeping and saturated setting, the wide angle shots of lovers exchanging forbidden glances, and the gorgeous detail of the costumes to critically analyze the underlying morals that are at stake in the tale. As teenage fans of Twilight have proven, the lure of sexuality, the indulgence in faux intimacy and a Victorian-era view on romance, takes priority over any opportunity to evaluate society’s views about it. Unfortunately, those who seek to gain the most from this opportunity are the very ones who suffer most from the silence.

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