The Post-Rockist

As the weekend wore on, Sawyer Point began to feel more and more like a real festival: short people tossing around Frisbees, captain’s chairs staked out in the shade, leftover Bonnaroo hippies prancing about with flower garlands, topless dudes.  But to give a true bird’s eye account of the events would be, of course, a woeful inaccuracy.  With full press access repeatedly denied to The Post-Rockist - passed over in favor of local rags of questionable repute, such as the Cincinnati Enquirer - this resourceful reporter did his best to overcome these obstacles, choosing instead to masquerade as a member of the general audience, partaking in the full plebian experience. 

Under the burning blue sky - without the benefit of a press tent, mind you - important distinctions began to melt together: songs, choruses, even bassists started to lose their unique identities in the hot, constant environment of the Desdemona Music Festival.  Take, for instance, the peculiar sub-genre of danceable indie rock. How many steps does it take one, truthfully, to get from the stylized moodiness of ’80s enfants Stellastarr*, to the politicized post-Clash stylings of Radio 4, to the deliberately post-ironic danceability of New York’s We Are Scientists?  The answer is nine, but that technicality is besides the point.  It goes without saying that all three sets were bracingly energetic and, with the exception of the occasional technical difficulty, consistently toe-tap-inducing performances.  But the preponderance of any one genre in a confined space can make even the DJ set of Louisville’s VHS Or Beta seem refreshingly original.  Click here to see a clip of Stellastarr* performing “Sweet Troubled Soul,” and then click here to see We Are Scientists go at it with “The Great Escape.”

Thus, when Norwegian pop sensation Annie marched onto stage Saturday night, high knees and short skirt, she commanded serious attention.  Dressed like a late night fantasy of a lady police officer, complete with badge and toy gun holster, she exuded cool authority over the googly-eyed, tongue-wagging audience.  For all the aches and pains of standing in crowded fields all weekend, Annie proved to be the crowd’s prescription-strength Icy Hot: icy, filtered vocals to chill their nerves; hot, sanguine beats to rejuvenate their adolescent loins. 

To my immediate left stood a sizable faction of teens and pre-teens whose bodies quivered with anticipation.  When the rock’n'roll electric guitar swing of “Chewing Gum” kicked in, the underage mass fell into a tribal lockstep of dance and handclaps.  They were feeding off each other’s energies like zombies from the Thriller video: eyes rolled back in their heads; shuffling down, clapping, swooping up, clapping again.  At the conclusion of her 30-minute set with the quickening pulse of “Hearbeat,” the crowd fell into what appeared to be largest collusion of simultaneous seizures since Mother Ann Lee’s Shaker communities in 18th Century England.  One young Vietnamese boy, no older than 11, collapsed near my feet, gasping with la petit mort.  Only with the promise of an encore did he spontaneously reanimate; eyes rolled back in his head, clapping, dancing.

With all this practice clapping it was no surprise when Dave Hamelin, guitarist for The Stills, complimented the audience of “sounding even better than Chicago,” where the ’80s post-punk-inspired indie dance band played Intonation Fest the night before.  He reasoned, “This city has grit.  Seriously, Cincinnati scares the shit out of me,” which was greeted with uproarious applause.  But there was nothing to be afraid of when couples were curled up in blankets listening to the cheery organ pop of Mates of State, or when people were politely rocking out to the catchy No Wave beats of Enon.  The police patrolling the event spent most of their time covering their ears and walking away, or posing for pictures for people’s MySpace profiles.

Chaos only came under the guise of The Fiery Furnaces.  With little more than drums; bass; one, occasionally two, guitars; and powderkegs of nonsense in extensia, the four musicians let out a non-stop barrage on my senses; alienating more than half of the audience, but bringing a select chosen few to a higher place.  TheFieryFurnaces.com explains their approach:

Given that both Rehearsing My Choir and Bitter Tea were tack-player-piano records, Matt thought it best to play only guitar on tour, at least through August.  He feels this quite simple change is needed to give the songs the necessary different cast.  We don’t like bands that attempt to replicate– or accidentally replicate– their records at their live shows.  And we feel well justified in this aversion to that sort of un-natural, un-necessary, mutant-izing or cloning.

Eleanor Friedberger sat perched atop her microphone with the bangs of a lionness, enunciating every syllable with violent precision, while the band plowed through amplified trout mask replicas of tunes like “Straight Street” and “Police Sweater Blood Vow.”  It makes you pause and wonder why it takes some musians a twenty-piece backing-band to create a played-out sound, while all it takes is a defiant power trio to shatter your preconceived notions of what rock music “should” be.  With simple adornment and genre-shifting ballsiness, the Furnaces managed to make the rest of Desdemona seem obsolete in under 60 minutes.

As the sun went down Sunday night, the remaining performances drifted by in the night.  Richard Swift’s gin-soaked set bobbed and lulled down the Ohio River.  The Walkmen’s organ-and-gourd-pounding drone set the twilight reeling, while a predictably throaty Hamilton Leithauser intoned, “I’m a lucky guy now, but I’ll never know until it’s gone.”

By all accounts, the Desdemona Festival appeared to be a success, hopefully one that will be repeated again next year.  And most amazingly, for one weekend in June, Cincinnati became an important stop in the Indie Rock Guidebook.