Jersey City Serenades Miss Liberty With a New Rock Festival
By NATE CHINEN
Published: August 10, 2008
JERSEY CITY “Where is the statue?” the Welsh retro-soul singer Duffy
asked, squinting into the afternoon. “There she is.” In the crowd a few
heads swiveled toward Liberty Island, following her gaze. Then it was down
to business.
It was Friday, opening day, at All Points West, the brand-new multistage
rock festival held over the weekend at Liberty State Park here. And as Duffy
started into her tune, “Warwick Avenue,” a mass migration was taking place
nearby: fans of one tuneful indie-rock group, which had just finished its
set, were streaming across the grass to hear another one, which had just
started. (The first band was Mates of State and the second, New
Pornographers.) The rain had let up, and things were running smoothly and
more or less on time. So why wasn’t everybody having more fun?
There are surely many answers to that question, none of them adequate. What
became clear, during the festival’s first two days, was the give and take
needed to sustain such an event in the metropolitan area. Presented by
Goldenvoice, the company behind theCoachella
Valley Music and Arts Festival,
All Points West was extremely well organized for a maiden effort. But almost
every pleasure point came with a trade-off.
The festival site, a long strip of green within view of the Statue of
Liberty and the New York skyline, was duly breathtaking. But because it is
in a state park, there were firm restrictions, especially regarding alcohol.
(Anecdotal evidence strongly suggests that the overcrowded beer pens were
not popular. On the other hand, fresh tap water was readily available.) And
while many festivalgoers enjoyed a breezily scenic ferry ride to and from
Lower Manhattan, not everyone enjoyed the long lines, or the surprising
distance between the ferry slip and the festival gate. (There was a
different set of minor hassles for anyone reaching the park byNew
Jersey Transitor
light rail.)
But every rock festival comes with a few logistical caveats. Coachella is in
the California desert; Bonnaroo is in a remote pocket of Tennessee. By this
measure All Points West was a miracle of convenience, even setting aside the
issue of gasoline consumption, one of the chief environmental selling points
in a festival expressly full of them.
The greater source of ambivalence, then, had to do with the lineup: a small
handful of great acts, a heap of decent acts, a few flat-out clunkers, and
no discernible vision to make them all cohere. On Friday and Saturday the
festival felt like a consecutive pair ofRadioheadconcerts,
with bonus features which is essentially what it was. That wasn’t a
problem for most in attendance, who, judging by the numbers, had come for
this purpose. (Sunday’s headliner wasJack
Johnson,
a mainstream folk-rocker known for his environmental activism. Advance
ticket sales for that day were less robust.)
Radiohead has the clout to command a main attraction’s spoils: a slot after
dark, when the skyline and the statue are lighted; full-stage production
values, complete with Fortress of Solitude décor; respectful silence from
the two smaller stages. Each show was triumphant, stretching past two hours,
with two encores. Half the songs were the same from night to night, but
otherwise the shows were strikingly distinct.
The sound of the band is atmospheric, potent and at times operatically
intense a good fit for the majesty of the setting and on both nights it
conveyed both gravity and depth. Most of the songs from “In Rainbows,”
issued last year, landed gracefully, with Thom Yorke’s vocals soaring or
seducing against a cold glow of keyboards and guitars.
Two of the best younger bands on the festival demonstrated affinities with
Radiohead’s musical temperament, but in wildly divergent ways. Grizzly Bear,
performing on Friday, was melodic and utterly engrossing. On “Little
Brother,” the members of the band engaged in a four-part vocal harmony; on
“Two Weeks,” a new song, Daniel Rossen played an electric piano ostinato
while Edward Droste sang barbed reassurances. (“I told you I would stay,” is
a refrain with a hint of reproach.)
Animal Collective,
which played as a trio on Saturday, ran with harshly disruptive experimental
urges, taking them much further than Radiohead ever has. Panda Bear and Avey
Tare, the band’s two singers, took turns with the lead, and with percussive
detail. At times the music was merely grating, but when things clicked as
on “Fireworks,” with its tussle of jackhammer-triplet rhythm the pull was
unmistakably powerful.
Various other groups reached for more straightforward rock ’n’ roll uplift
Kings of Leon, the Virgins, the Felice Brothers and others, like Andrew
Bird, settled for something quirkier. (Mr. Bird’s one-man violin
orchestrations and theremin-like whistling, impressive in measured doses,
got cloying after a while.) There were modest flashes of hip-hop, from acts
like the Roots, which imbued its set with jazzy abstraction, and the Somali
rapper K’naan, who spent much of his set unspooling self-affirmative rhymes.
The likeable New Jersey-born singer-songwriter Nicole Atkins managed some
local flair in her set, preceding her song “Maybe Tonight” with an
announcement: she was bringing on a special guest, someone any New Jerseyite
would appreciate. It turned out to be three people, dressed up as a pork
roll, egg and cheese, an allusion to the regional delicacy also known as a
Taylor ham sandwich. (Ms. Atkins might have reconsidered her song choice as
she reached the line: “I’ve been informed you could be the death of me.”)
And in the end there were a few bands viciously intent on starting a party.
Metric dropped a strong dance-rock set, with its lead singer, Emily Haines,
strutting across the stage in gold lamé; CSS turned its performance into a
riot of driving backbeats. And Girl Talk, a Pittsburgh dance-music
collagist, quickly had his stage crowded with freak-show partiers, oversize
balloons, and a generous spewing of toilet paper. (Apparently he didn’t get
the eco-friendly memo.)
Girl Talk’s music amounted to an attention-deficit D.J. set. But he whipped
the crowd into a froth, something that hardly anyone else managed all
weekend. At one point he got site-specific, playing a fast-cranked version
of “Paranoid Android,” a Radiohead tune. Never mind that he paired it withJay-Z’s
“Roc Boys,” in a musically strained mash-up; it was a show of deference to
his host, as well as a show of impudence. Only one of those things will
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