11:14 a.m. Theres not a cloud in the sky, and the official air temperature at OHare is already a balmy 87 degrees. A dank smell emits from the damp field. As the early birds arrive, carts carrying dozens of bags of ice race to their destinations. Its going to be a good day for vendors selling anything cold. (BG)
11:51 a.m. A Southwest wind blows vocalist Petter Ericson Stakees hair into his face. Viewed straight on, he resembles Cousin It from the Addams Family. The Alberta Cross leaders elongated, nasal vocals suit his bands guitar-propelled Americana, which is as retro as the quintets 70s appearance and flavor. ATX and Old Man Chicago could pass for songs played by the fictional group Stillwater in Almost Famous. Unfortunately, little else about Alberta Cross is memorable. An aborted attempt at gospel adds to the blah impression. (BG)
12:33 p.m. It seems like an odd bit of psychological torture when Friendly Fires bound into the cowbell-fueled thump of Jump in the Pool. Singer Ed MacFarlane soaks through his paisley button-up by the third song (Skeleton Boy, augmented by a two-piece horn section), yet continues dancing for the entirety of the quartet's set in a spastic manner that makes it appear as though he requires medical attention. I might pass out by the end of this, he says only half-joking as the performance nears its close. I'm just warning you. He doesn't, but frantic dance-rock anthems like Kiss of Life do force a number of worn-out concertgoers to the nearby water fountains. (AD)
12:55 p.m. If you want to just close your eyes and think about winter time, thats what this song is about, says Ra Ra Riot front man Wesley Miles (right), thinking of ways to keep the crowd cool. Not that the Syracuse, N.Y., groups showing offers much to get worked up about. Dressed in cut-off shorts and a yellow T-shirt, the geeky Miles looks and acts as if just sauntered in after sunbathing at Oak Street Beach. His light, wispy singing never fully projects over Ra Ra Riots rather tame chamber pop, and the precious Oh, La and syrupy Can You Tell are better suited for a romantic candlelight dinner than an outdoor festival. Cellos and mallets fail to generate steam. Underwhelming, the defanged set succumbs to politeness. Miles leaps off of the stage to greet front-row fans during the bittersweet closer Dying Is Fine, yet its too little, too late. (BG)
1:28 p.m. Portugal the Man offers a patchwork of folksy vocal harmonies, organ-fueled freakouts and thundering psych-rock. John Gourley has a feminine quality to his voice that adds to the otherworldliness of songs like The Sun and Lay Me Back Down. There's a back-to-nature vibe to many of the songs (Slip out to the mountains where nobody knows me; Born of earth and light like all these others), but the music is anything but pastoral, especially The Home, a foot-stomper that combines wildcat yelps of guitar and a bass line best described as elephantine. (AD)
1:35 p.m. Natasha Khan (right) opens Bat for Lashes set by reminding us of the obvious: Yeah, its really, really hot out here. But then she proceeds to play a mesmerizing set in which her multi-octave voice plays off an array of percussion, from skittering, jazzy fills to tribal thumping. She writes aural cinema, starring in the dual role of the storm-tossed heroine/vixen. She even plays a solo on a zither --- now theres something you dont see everyday at a rock festival.
2:21 p.m. Wasted already? Nah, but Cage the Elephant vocalist Matt Shultzs wobbly movements and reckless abandon have all the trappings of inebriation. Before the Kentucky quintets lively set is over, Shultz will crowd surf, stand on the outstretched hands of fans, scale a stage banner and jump from the stage more than half a dozen times. The bands disheveled garage rock and unhinged basement punk encourage such antics. Imperfections abound. What matters is the vigorous energy, and songs such as the punchy Tiny Little Robots and scathing Lotus provide potent releases and raucous fun. Sounding as if hes got two hands around his throat, Shultz doesnt sing as much as he yelps, screams, barks and vibrates. Combined with Cage the Elephants Detroit-bred stomps and galloping tempos, Shultz serves as proof of why theres no substitute for live music. (BG)
2:50 p.m. Chicagos He Say, She Say play their MySpace hit, Crash Dummies, and its enough to ignite a dance party in the mid-day heat. Drea Smith has enough sass to command the stage, and her partner Mano orchestrates beats with a drummer and guitarist. The sound is as much rock as it is electro-dance, a hybrid that suggests a harder-edged Santigold in the making. They close with a cover of Foo Fighters Everlong.
3:30 p.m. Incoming cloudsthick, fat and lazyblock the sun and offer a respite from rising temperatures. Security personnel spray the first few rows of the audience with water and toss half-full bottles deeper into the crowd. The weather doesn't appear to have any effect on the Raveonettes. With her shoulder-length, platinum blond hair and simple black dress, Sharin Foo could be a femme fatale from a James Bond film. The Danish group, playing here as a quartet, takes a simple setup (the drummer even stands at a barebones, three-piece kit) and transforms it into something far grander by layering their songs with electronic noise and thick guitar reverb; at times it sounds like a garage band bashing out raw-nerve Buddy Holly covers. Foo and guitarist Sune Rose Wagner share singing duties, their voices intertwining like vines on the Lust and slow dancing on an eerie Hallucinationsa title that almost perfectly describes the spooky guitar sounds emanating from the stage. (AD)
3:38 p.m. Security emerges from behind a fence and hands a young, heat-distressed girl free water. Shes sitting on the sidewalk with two wet towels on her shoulders, trying to recover. The preparation for potential emergencies is commendable. No matter where you go, someone has their eyes out for problems. (BG)
4:04 p.m. Gang Gang Dance abruptly changes course and breaks into a discordant freak-out that Sonic Youth would admire. The New York collective never pauses, sewing together primarily instrumental sections into beat-dominant collages that seek a balanced intersection between organic and manipulated noise. Constructed around percussion and an armada of wires, buttons, pedals, processors and keyboards, the pulsing sonic graffiti spans calypso, techno and crunk. Bollywood melodies and video-game bleeps share the same space, and the free-form results are good as any excuse to get down. Exotic and unpredictable, Gang Gang Dance updates the Grateful Deads hoary Space sequence for a new generation that doesnt mind occasional messiness. (BG)
4:15 p.m. I dont know if this is a surreal experience for you, but it certainly is for us, says Dan Deacon (right). Indeed, consider that three years ago he was a one-man band who single-handedly energized the Pitchfork Music Festival in Union Park. Now hes got a small army with him on stage. The set begins inauspiciously with some technical glitches, so he simply starts over, and then its pretty much a string of crescendos from here on out. Multiple drummers and keyboardists layer increasingly frenzied beats, and then a dozen-strong brass section turns the set into Mardis Gras. In Chicago. In August. Deacon gets the crowd involved too, orchestrating the fans as well as the band. At one point, he organizes the festivals longest conga line, which snakes its way through a tunnel of upraised arms around the northern half of Hutchinson Field. Aint no party like a Dan Deacon party. Best set of the festival so far.
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