Paul McCartney blew up the stage with a display of fireworks and pyrotechnics as he ascended to the chorus of ‘Live and Let Die,’ the second-to-last tune before his encore. The whole arrangement was beautiful – an unbelievable way to cap off a nearly three hour set from one of music’s most mystic legends. But I was preoccupied. Some chick, severely intoxicated, was being carted away on a stretcher just a few feet away from where I was sitting.
As live music continues to lap up the entertainment dollar, summertime music festivals have exploded in popularity. With mega-festivals like Coachella and Lollapalooza selling out in seconds, these once tame events have become the all-encompassing parties of the summer, with a weekend festival popping up in almost every major city. Economically, the argument makes sense: spend $300 on a weekend ticket, and get a taste of all kinds of well-represented subcultures, rather than drop $50-$100 to catch McCartney, Nine Inch Nails, or Red Hot Chili Peppers on their own tour.
But I cant help but think, as our friend was carried off by half a dozen police officers, that with the notoriously shit production and too-short set times, festival culture is, at best, only really half about the music. Hundreds of teenaged and twenty-somethings took Golden Gate Park this weekend by storm, wearing their best in Americana and swigging from Aquafina bottles filled with shitty $13 vodka, looking for a party that really wasn’t hard to find.
I’m no stranger to a bit of recklessness. The economy is shit, especially for us “young people,” and a certain degree of escapism is beyond understandable. But to all the people out there dressed in tribal garbage and licking molly off your boyfriends-roommates-older brother’s pinky: calm the fuck down. Life is short, but it’s also really long, and you’re going to want to remember all of the radical things that happened this weekend.
Matt Berringer of The National, for example, paired his swag with a fantastic tribute to San Francisco’s rich musical history by bringing the Grateful Dead’s Bob Weir out for their set-closing rendition of “Terrible Love.” Weir made a second cameo during Willie Nelson’s set, too – a special moment indeed. Side note: Willie is now 80 years old, and he closed his set with “Roll Me Up And Smoke Me When I Die.”
Paul McCartney peppered his unbelievable three-hour set with personal and flooring anecdotes about things I’ll never quite understand. Stories about Hendrix in the flesh, playing in Red Square, and a touching tribute to the late John Lennon were as important to his set as the incarnations of the historic songs themselves, making his three hours equally intimate and vast.
Chic, featuring Nile Rogers, doused the “Sutro” stage audience with a helping of straight and wholesome soul, causing even the stiffest of hipsters to jiggle around a bit. Hearing “Le Freak” live in the middle of a field brings that out in people, I suppose.
Motherfuckin’ Hall and Oates brought down the HOUSE late Sunday afternoon, with a one-two punch “encore” of “Rich Girl” into “You Make My Dreams Come True.” Yeah, they might have been the only mid-afternoon band that I saw to include a full-blown walk off, huddle in the back, walk back on encore, but fuck it – Hall and Oates, ladies and gentlemen.
Up and comers worth noting include Nasvillians The Kopecky Family Band, who’s ATO-released “Kids Raising Kids” was brought to life on the solar-powered “Panhandle” stage. The ever ethereal Daughter and folk-pop group Houndmouth graced that stage earlier in the weekend, and both did it equal justice.
Festivals are what you make them. There are beautiful moments around every corner: from the half-pound peanut butter cups available in “Choco-Land” to the way Kurt Vile’s psych-tinged lo-fi goodness sounded in the San Francisco fog, $300 buys into what young people’s dreams are made of. Just remember: put down the beer if you can’t remember the last song that was played, and only take drugs if you know roughly where they came from. And put a fucking shirt on.
