Inside Outside Lands: Saturday

Our west coast correspondent braved the clouds of rain, dust, and funky cigarette smoke at this past weekend’s music and arts festival in San Francisco.

 

We awoke the next morning in our own beds, tired but basking in the afterglow of Paul McCartney. We took our time getting ready and went out to breakfast. We sipped our coffee at a streetside cafe and walked back home to prepare for the day.

 

Yeah, I think I can get used to urban festivals.

 

We were among many other concert goers as we took the train back to the park, and it seemed the only thing anyone was talking about was, again, Paul McCartney. It had been a great night, and we had all set our sights on having a great day. I find that the middle day(s) of these multi-day festivals are usually the most debaucherous, likely due to the increased level of comfort that comes with getting the first day under the belt – you know your way around the grounds, you have a feel for how to balance your day, and, most importantly, you know how the security works. In the case of Outside Lands, ‘security’ was mostly an eight-letter word on the back of a yellow shirt, and not much else. I’ve heard harrowing tales of the car searches that go on at Coachella and witnessed myself the intense pat downs done upon entering the concert grounds at Sasquatch. At Golden Gate Park, a typical exchange went something like this:

 

“Open your bag.”

[Feels the bottom of the bag]

“What’s that?”

“A water bottle.”

“Is it empty?”

“Yes. Do you want me to open it up?”

“No, I trust you.”

 

Needless to say, people managed to bring things in on the “don’t bring” list. I’m not revealing anything to you right now, other than that my breath smelled like cinnamon for most of the afternoon. That is all.

 

We kicked off the sunniest of the three days with Gary Clark, Jr., who I’m pretty convinced is the best sunny afternoon act out there right now. There’s a few artists whom I listen to fairly frequently without actually knowing any of their songs, mostly because their repertoire is very effective at capturing a certain mood. I’ll thrown on Phish if I just want background music to chill to. Rodrigo y Gabriela comes on if I’m feeling sassy (I really don’t know what other term to use there; flamenco makes me feel sassy). I put on Gary Clark, Jr. when I want to hear someone shred. And that’s exactly what he did. He only played six individual songs, but my goodness, the man knows his way around a guitar.

 

Midway through the set, I noticed a familiar face was there as well. That silly little monkey.

 

Back for more, huh monkey?

I love Gary Clark, Jr.

What does it say on that banana you’re holding?

I love bananas.

Of course you do.

 

After the set we hustled over to catch the end of James McCartney, mostly to see if his dad would show up to play with him. He didn’t, and from what I could tell, the crowd was not really into the set. Kind of a rough shadow to live in throughout your life, but then again, if my father was in The Beatles, I would probably consider a different career choice. Since we were over in Hellman Hollow anyway, I decided it was about time to visit the place where I wish my parents had sent me during my summer breaks instead of sign language camp.

Sierra Nevada had brewed up a couple of small batches that found their way to the festival, a delicious Outside Lands Saison and an IPA known simply as #93. I got a pint of each, and then moseyed over to the camp’s next door neighbor.

Wine Lands had become quite the shitshow, completely packed and questionably organized. First you went up to a booth. Then they told you they didn’t accept money; you had to buy tickets. So you waited in line and bought tickets, only sold in packs of ten for ten dollars (what a great exchange rate!). Then you went back to the booth and asked for wine. They asked you where your glass was. You didn’t have a “glass” because you didn’t want to pay extra for a plastic cup. They had cups right next to them. They said they’d been using them for tastings (even though this wasn’t an issue yesterday), and weren’t sure if they could use them for a full serving. Seriously, dude, can you just pour some dry riesling into my mouth?

 

We crossed back over the pass and met up with some friends for the Young The Giant show. Other than some preparatory listening I had done in the week leading up to the festival, I hadn’t been too familiar with Young The Giant. This was a mistake. Their show absolutely exceeded my expectations, opening strong and building to the propelling drum beats and catchy vocal lines of “Cough Syrup”. They tried out a few newer songs they have been working on including “Anagram”, and closed the set with a rocking rendition of “My Body”. The crowd was bouncing, and YTG officially won the coveted “Band I Didn’t Know Much About But Now Pledge Allegiance To” award, a title also captured by Tune-Yards last summer.

 

It was time to upgrade from Beer Camp to Beer Lands – 9.4 ABV North Coast Brother Thelonious? Don’t mind if I do! – but I first had to tackle another issue.

During what seemed like an endless wait, a woman next to me commented on how great it was that everyone had lined up in front of each individual stall in such an orderly formation. I’m going to go ahead and disagree with you, Miss. Ten lines for ten stalls (just as an example) means I am committed to whatever line I select. If the girl in front of me has to poop – and let’s be honest, she’s not going to share this – my kidneys are doomed. Take that down to two or three lines for those same stalls, and you’ve got options and anonymity (and something that did, in fact, occur at Sasquatch). Just throwing it out there.

 

Next up on our docket was Jurassic 5, the token hip hop group of the festival. I don’t say this to be stereotypical; I say this because it is often what happens. I’ve seen J5 twice now, and despite being a fan of their records, I’ve sadly been underwhelmed both times I’ve encountered them at a live show. Perhaps outdoors on a lawn in the early evening isn’t the right forum for them. Ho hum.

 

We ended up leaving the Jurassic 5 set early and journeyed back to the other side of the grounds, as I had a burning question that I needed answered. The question: What happens when Harlem Shake is ‘performed’ live? The man who would answer it: Baauer himself. We got to the stage exactly as the first “con los terroristas” came over the speakers, learning that it basically just works like a live version of the meme – nobody moves until being told to do the Harlem Shake, and then no one does the actual Harlem Shake. They did get wild though, and reacted similarly to all the subsequent remixes and mashups that followed. He ‘closed’ with “Drop It Like It’s Hot”, and you know what? Everyone had a great time.

 

We went back to the opposite side of the park again (a lot of walking today), passing by some of the live art pieces that were being worked on throughout the day.

 

They grew.

And grew.

And were eventually ready for their closeup.

Would Karen O be ready at our destination? Three words with bad grammar: Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The frontwoman emerged in a glittery pharaoh hat with clown tear makeup and a purple and gold suit, and she and her band kicked things off with “Sacrilege”, the first track off of their new album. Things continued on in a rocking fashion, the crowd jumping and dancing, mimicking Karen O’s energy. A roar went up as “Heads Will Roll” began to play, but the younger members of the audience began to depart at its conclusion, only halfway through the whole set. Seriously, kids? They certainly missed out, as the soft singalong to the chorus of “Maps” that came a few songs later served as the most tender moment of the weekend that far. “Date With The Night” came last, and at that point, it was time for us to have one with it as well.

 

We quickly made our way over to the hill on the side of the Sutro Stage to catch one of my favorite bands to emerge in the last couple of years, The Head And The Heart. Their song catalog is a bit limited since they’ve only had one album as of yet, but when that one album is phenomenal, quality trumps quantity. “Sounds Like Hallelujah” became “Cats and Dogs” which became “Coeur d’Alene”, the second song marking the only time I’ve ever barked in unison with a singer at a concert. They played a new song or two – which thankfully sounded similar to the old stuff – and the crowd really picked up around “Lost in My Mind”. Once we hit the closing tracks of “Down in the Valley” – seriously, a gem – and “Rivers and Roads”, the rain had started to come down to thank the Seattle transplants for gracing us with their presence.

 

For the evening show, we made the difficult decision of seeing Phoenix rather than Nine Inch Nails, as we had never really gotten into the latter but were very familiar with the former. We needed to grab dinner, and since NIN started prior to Phoenix, we did a walk-by of their set.

 

The moment the stage came into view, I was transfixed.

The music was hypnotic.

Like a bug to the light, I was drawn in.

“Where are you going?”

I couldn’t hear her.

“We’re supposed to be getting food.”

I drew closer.

“Seriously?”

I was gone.

I looked up. A dark shadow in front of a deep blue light. A pulsing beat.

I looked down. An empty tinfoil wrapper.

“Wow, you were hungry.”

My ears perked up. “Lisztomania” was playing.

Where was I?

I looked up. A similar silhouette.

The monkey.

Had he guided me here?

 

We drank in the Phoenix set from the back of the crowd, dancing with the other twentysomethings who wanted nothing to do with the teenage hysteria going on much closer to the stage. They sounded fantastic, although I did a double take when Thomas Mars addressed the crowd, having not realized that Phoenix is actually from France. There was a confusing amount of geography in that sentence! They closed heavily and strongly, with “1901”, “If I Ever Feel Better”, and “Rome” leading into a reprise of “Entertainment”, in which Mars ran into the audience and crowd surfed his way back to the stage as everyone present sang along to the choral chant. People danced in the neon light, and then it was time to depart.

 

We decided to go back through McLaren Pass to see what was happening there in the nocturnal hours, and to see if there were any Outside Lamps (see? I can make puns too). The Hell Brew Revue was still rocking, the carnies were giving out hugs, and the whole area was eerily lit in the middle of dense trees.

We emerged on the other side of the pass to witness Trent Reznor playing the final chords of “Hurt”, and the trees on the other side morphed shades in the rain.

There’s something about seeing the silhouettes of people in the crowd against the backdrop of colorful stage lighting. It’s like a live iPod commercial. You have no idea who those people are. They’re anonymous shadows moving to the beat. But you see their bodies move, and you can tell how they feel. You know exactly how they feel.

 

Want to know how they spent the day:

Friday

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