All Signs Point to WEST

Lady Liberty may have her back turned on Jersey, but for a few thousand concertgoers this August 8th at the All Points West music and arts festival, the freedom to light some “torches” of their own and dance like idiots (err…maybe that was just me) was to be found across the bay in Liberty State Park. Indie favorites Radiohead, Girl Talk, Andrew Bird and the New Pornographers carried the bill on the first night of the three day festival, which, unfortunately was the only date I could afford. The City ain’t cheap and here at First Call…well, I’m still waiting on that first paycheck.

Like most in attendance I was there primarily to see the Greatest Band in the Universe at what may very well be the peak of their career. If you’ve read my column in the past or heard me speak consecutive sentences, you’ll know who I’m talking about. I was born with two ears and a soul, so scraping enough cash together to see Radiohead has been one of my more pressing desires for a long time. This summer’s North American tour in support of their latest and (in this writer’s opinion) greatest effort, In Rainbows, was not something I was prepared to miss, and I wasn’t going to let a minor inconvenience like living in New Mexico, the forgotten outhouse of America, stop me.

Radiohead has become a brand name and starry-eyed, flannel-garbed gushing over their greatness is an unquestioned hipster cliché, but I could really give a shit. Anyway, I’m no hipster, clichés are generally established for a reason, and (surprise surprise) I’m actually devoting most of this issue’s column to the slightly lesser known acts who stole the show earlier on in the afternoon (not least of which was the Venezuelan lady selling Arepas at the far end of the park.)

After braving the half mile line to board the ferry, managed by a toolish, haggard-looking attendant with a bad facial hair problem and an attitude to match, we arrived at the side stage in time to see husband/wife duo Mates of State. I had heard lots of good things about them, and I was looking forward to hearing some of their material. They definitely didn’t disappoint. Jason Hammel banged away at the drums like Meg White with chops, and Kori Gardner (wo)manned the synth/keys with gusto. I really enjoyed the energy they brought to the stage. I could tell they genuinely loved to be up there together, and that translated to a very tight synergy, especially in their vocal harmonies that contrasted pleasingly with the frantic pace and meandering structures of their music.

Afterwards we ventured across the park to see Canadian “supergroup” The New Pornographers, fronted by alt-country artist Neko Case and A.C. Newman, formerly of Zumpano and Superconductor. Sandwiched around a bevy of Canadian in-jokes, the Pornographers performed a very passable Cars pastiche, highlighted by the hook laden “Use It” and “Sing Me Spanish Techno”, two favorites that I could listen to over and over without feeling punished, unlike Newman’s lament in “Techno”. They closed off the set with a sing-along rendition of ELO’s “Don’t Let Me Down.”

Brazilian dance-pop band CSS could appropriately be described as “all flash and no cash”, with functionally danceable but all-too-predictable beats and a stage show highlighted by two instrument free girls hopping around in neon jazzercise unitards. Fun, but definitely my least favorite act of the day.

I left their set early to go see Andrew Bird, one of my personal favorite artists. Although my friend Margaret accurately pegged him as “pretentious”, pretention has never sounded so sweet. I’ve been enamored with Bird’s music since I saw him last September at the Austin City Limits festival, his performance there being one of the most awesome solo performances I’ve ever seen. His classical training shines through in his sweeping violin-driven sound, but he really sets himself apart in the distinctive looping and layering effects he employs live in his attempt to recreate his lush studio sound. Whistling like his namesake in one moments, furiously attacking a guitar or a violin in the next, it is truly a delight to watch and listen to. Any lover of words can also appreciate his clever turns of phrase, punctuated by his soaring baritone.

By far the most entertaining all-around performance was given by mash-up artist Girl Talk. Sporting a red jersey, hot pants, and a wall of matted, greasy hair, Greg Gillis looked every bit the sort of dude who spends a lot of time in his basement dissecting Top 40 hits, but he managed to enlist the help of some friends to put on one hell of a show. He invited a large portion of the audience up on stage with him to augment his sparse set up, and scantily-clad breakdancing, ball tossing, and toilet paper pitching ensued, all set to the tune of Gillis’ frenetic and unabashed pilfering of pop favorites.

To close the night, Radiohead was sublime, although I was too short to see much of the stage in the packed crowd, and I can’t say much about them that you don’t already know and I haven’t already stated in this column, but I can definitely say that I got to see them at the top of their game. Overall, the trip was worth every penny, and I encourage whatever readership I have to go out and support these artists by going to their shows and purchasing their music. But you don’t have to take my word for it; after all, if it’s good enough for America’s favorite statue to raise a light to, it’s good enough for you.