Upon arrival at 5:00 p.m, I promptly headed to the beer garden through the more hipster-congested than usual fashion promenade that is Pike Street. No complaints; the people watching was as hypnotic as the day was gorgeous. I sat on the curb with a $5 High Life, enjoying the fact that one can casually and legally sit on the curb with a beer at a main intersection in Capitol Hill exactly two days per year. My first destination would be 11th Avenue and Union to catch a bit of Flexions at the Vera Stage.
Flexions, a local two-piece, set an appropriately summer tone and effectively inspired some cute and cuddly sidewalk-chalk artwork happenings on the pavement in the midst of a not yet too-dense crowd. Though I caught only the last three songs, and missed the tracks with vocals entirely, these guys were dynamic enough to keep one who normally tires quickly of instrumentals (namely, me) alert. Flexions’ sound vacillated easily from lounge, to tropical, to surf, with Clinic-esque beats. Devin Welch on guitar and Robin Stein on bass laid down a blanket, so to speak, for sunny daydreams and moody breakdowns.
As in years past, Cha Cha lined up a full schedule of unadvertised bands from 5 p.m. on. With a bathroom at least one step up from the Honey Buckets, cheaper drinks, and a break from the sun and crowd, a stop into Cha Cha can be transporting. Of course the crapshoot factor of walking in on a mystery band called Pipsqueak was also a drawing point. Pipsqueak’s abrasive gutter-punk folk offered a diverting change of pace from the usual Block Party fare. (A quick internet search did not turn out too many specifics; apparently they are from California.) The current line-up consisted of a cello/acoustic guitar duo with the addition of a decapitated nude mannequin laying prostrate across the bench seating. Singer/guitarist Pip’s marble-mouthed vocals contrasted nicely with the cellist’s lovely lady harmonies. I’ve got a soft spot for dueling disparate voices, and in spite of (or maybe because of) too earnest, heart-on-sleeve lyrics, Pipsqueak served the transient moment well.
Earlier in the day, a member of Nick Jaina’s band had given me a tip on a secret show location behind the Via Tribunali pizza vendor in Caffe Vita’s storeroom, within the confines of the beer garden. Surprisingly, this storeroom featured a vaulted ceiling with skylights, which diffused the room with an atmospheric, early evening, barn-in-the summertime quality. And an open bar. Was this unbelievable gem a reward to those lucky enough to happen upon the place? Or had we crashed a private KEXP party? Different sources told different stories. Amid the stacks of burlap sacks of beans, a KEXP volunteer explained that Nick Jaina’s band’s original plan had been to come up from Portland to busk at Block Party, but they had been invited to play the secret show upon arrival. Nick Jaina’s bland, standard folk songs benefitted greatly from the addition of jazzy drums, upright bass, and most notably, an adorable and engaging violin player, Nathan Langston, who stole the show by gliding around the room while sustaining an intriguing brand of eye contact with everyone in his general vicinity.
Though they were scheduled to play until 6:30, when I arrived back at the Vera Stage at 6:15, I made it on time to hear only the last 10 seconds of Bow + Arrow’s last song, followed by their doubly-ironic last words, “Sorry for being a jam band!” This was locals Bow + Arrow’s last show and it’s a damn shame I missed it.
Despite rumors that The Black Lips had been detained at the Canadian border, their set started promptly at 6:30 on the Main Stage and featured one of each: a mustache, a baseball tee, and a wildly unassuming golden grill. The Black Lips’ music, jangly garage rock, with the occasional 60s girl group aesthetic, sounded great, but the live show was missing some of the antics I’ve come to expect from these Southern boys. Guitarist Cole Alexander performed his signature moves of spitting straight up into the air and playing his guitar at unwieldy angles, but there was an overall lack of urgency compared to the time I’d seen them live prior, several years ago at Neumo’s. Could this be an issue of festival setting versus dank, dark bar setting, or are these guys turning into old men? Both, I’d say, but the crowd was happy. “Cold Hands” persuaded scantily clad girls into crowd surfing to their hearts’ content. The psychedelic transition into “O Katrina” inspired serious high fives. I would have preferred to be up in the balcony of one of the few apartments overlooking the street, though gazing up at the lucky folks staking out those vantage points was almost enough to live vicariously through their views. The Black Lips did make reference to some trouble in Canada. Fittingly, the story was shrouded in a drunken veil of mystery. Said he of the golden grill, Ian Saint Pé, “Jared and Cole got beat up in Vancouver last night...Joe and I chose to eat pizza. They ate this foreign thing called poutine...”
The longstanding Block Party tradition of Nuemo’s intolerable crowding prevented me from staying within its walls for more than five minutes. The weather was too nice outdoors besides. Back at the Vera Stage one last time, Michachu and the Shapes were in full effect. Their snappy, lo-fi dance pop failed to move the masses, but it wasn’t for lack of original beats. Mica's sexually ambiguous voice added yet another layer of interest to this London group’s unique take on the current DIY pop aesthetic.
At 9:15 on the Main Stage, Built to Spill brought some closure to the day by providing a transitional soundtrack to the shift from daylight to night. Singer/guitarist Doug Martsch looked almost youthful with a shorter than usual beard and black baseball cap. He slugged on a Heineken while the other wooly guitarist, Brett Nelson, partook in several bottles of O’Doul’s. The calm sentiment of “Liar” opened the set. The Northern sky started to look overcast: a promise of both sonic and meteorologic change to come. Sure enough, “The Plan” erupted next, contrasting and gently aggressive compared to the mellow open. Apparently the entire set that night was predetermined by a fan’s ability to vote for songs on-line. Nevertheless, shouts for “Car” between each song chimed like clockwork. With whammy bar primed, “Randy Described Eternity,” in all its undeniably brilliant lyrical goodness, enabled an effective transcendence out of the intersection, with its traffic light and Shell station backdrop, and onto a rooftop in the middle of nowhere, where one might wave a feather freely into the massive sky. “You Were Right” wailed regretfully through references to cliche rock song’s bad advice. The precious lullaby that is “Kicked It in the Sun” made me want to live Martsch’s memories, were it possible, almost as much as I want to see movies of his dreams. The best way I can think of to describe the kinetic breakdown is to say it’s like sleepwalking to the convenience store for ice cream sandwiches and romance novels. As “Big Dipper” commenced, the cloud cover turned noticeably complete, as if the smoke machine on stage had manufactured it. Light rain fell with the force of dust particles. During “Else,” the rain maintained its vague consistency while the lights of the enormous red crane on the corner of Broadway and John pulsed steadily. The crowd barely moved, which was slightly disappointing. Were they hypnotized? This song is absolutely soaring in both vocal and guitar melody. A complete package. The pure sunshine of it drove the raindrops back up into the clouds. The rain fully died before it had truly materialized, just as the band began playing “Goin’ Against Your Mind,” a performance which acutely exhibited Martsch’s jerky, charmingly Muppet-like, head bobbing. And finally, the bittersweet driving pop of “Car” quelled the impatient hollers, as Ballet Teriyaki’s neon sign reflected romantically off the moon-like surface of the bass drum. During their last song, “Carry the Zero,” I realized the best way to summarize Built to Spill’s set would be with one of their own lyrics (one of my favorites because it always feels true in the moment): “Count your blemishes...You can’t they’re all gone.” Oddly, as the band exited the stage, the D.J. busted out the Full House theme, which was too jarring to be anything but inappropriate. I did not stay any longer than that.
