After days of unrelenting rain, people looking for an excuse to take off their shirts found one in this year’s Virgin Mobile FreeFest, a newly minted end-of-summer tradition at Merriweather Post Pavilion. Whether by choice or out of necessity, the festival’s post-Labor Day scheduling likely contributes to its fluctuating non-identity: a spruced up presentation of left-overs from the summer concert season. But even if its line-up doesn’t quite meld together, the price is right, costing little more than a drive out to Columbia, Maryland and one last tube of sunblock.
Decked out in thick plastic sunglasses and day-glo bandannas, 50,000 fans came out for fan favorites like Empire of the Sun and DeadMau5. Both acts inspired legions of easily identifiable die-hards: the former with white face paint while the latter rallied behind over-sized mouse ears.
As with most festivals, the show was slow to start. Ireland’s Two Door Cinema Club was the second act of the day on the West stage, their sound indebted to the mid-aughts post-punk boom but without the bite — jittery, rhythmic songs that retain their manners (think Tokyo Police Club or Ra Ra Riot). The band’s anthematic choruses echoed over the muddy terrain, and even a brief rain shower left the sparse but rapturous crowd undaunted. Later, Texas’ Okkervil River tried its hand at the Pavilion stage, gamely doing its best to rise to the occasion. The band’s muscular, punchy renditions of otherwise somber confessionals allowed it to contend, if not quite compete, with the various distractions that surrounded attendees — carnival rides, corporate-sponsored activities and crowded beer lines.
Despite its popularity, hip-hop is still a rarity at these types of festivals—members of the Wu-Tang Clan notwithstanding—and Detroit’s Big Sean’s set was indeed an anomaly, one in which the 23-year-old extolled the virtues of familial piety, self-determination and lewd gestures, all in equal measure. Sluggish to start, he finally hit his stride on “My Last,” his hit single with Chris Brown. Cee Lo Green didn’t fare much better. His late afternoon set drew one of the day’s largest crowds but his booming pipes felt muddled. Green’s desire to entertain and croon left him easily winded and his Robert Palmer-like band of striking beauties upstaged his otherwise formidable presence.
Mostly, the kids just wanted to dance. The fevered response to Calvin Harris’ mid-day set over at the Dance tent added to speculation (read: mine) that the mid-90s electronica boom is once again en vogue, Hello Kitty backpacks and all. In a particularly unfortunate scheduling move, Cut Copy and !!! (Chk Chk Chk) split their overlapping audience, both offering their own distinct strain of dance music. Cut Copy’s spacious songs are catholic in their appeal, dreamy synth-pop meant to fill large spaces. !!!’s take was looser and more provocative, with singer Nic Offer preening on top of the speakers, thrusting his hips with Dionysian glee. The band’s energy was relentless and it helped make theirs one of the most entertaining sets of the day. James Murphy, back after last year’s performance with the now defunct LCD Soundsystem, performed a DJ set comprised of deep cuts that could be traced back to decades of crate digging, providing the connective tissue between current revivalists and their source material.
Often referred to as “the godmother of punk,” Patti Smith’s set reinforced the matriarchal role that’s been put upon her. Currently enjoying yet another renaissance in a storied career thanks to her best-selling memoir Just Kids, Ms. Smith’s presence in the line-up felt forced, as if organizers were providing a burnt offering to the gods of the good ol’ days. Her harangue regarding the police state that came in the wake of 9/11 was nearly as nostalgic as her rendition of “Redondo Beach;” both welcome but felt out of place.
New York’s TV on the Radio’s soulful, galvanizing performance made a compelling case for a band that’s lingered on the precipice of a crossover that’s never quite happened. The set, culled primarily from this year’s overlooked Nine Types of Light, finished on a cathartic note with its two biggest hits “Staring at the Sun” and “Wolf Life Me,” an anthem so propulsive it brought weary attendees in the Pavilion to their feet. The Black Keys followed with an extended set of thin-sounding blues that felt even thinner given the circumstances. The band might be a lot of things—successful entrepreneurs, reverential traditionalists—but festival headliners they are not.
Over on the West Stage, a different type of narrative played out. Australia’s Empire of the Sun have been playing for a few years but its overblown theatrics feels very of the moment, thanks to pop’s current affinity for garish performance art. Like a mix of Devo, Fischerspooner and Cirque du Soleil (or better yet, Starlight Express), the band straddles the line between glorious spectacle and sheer idiocy, a distinction wholly determined by whether one has already graduated high-school. Unlike other acts at FreeFest whose stage presence fails to resonate in giant fields of manure, Empire of the Sun (and their backup dancers) are tailor-made for the big time, if only their gloppy electro-pop was interesting as its headdresses.
Closing out the evening was DeadMau5, the beloved but flavorless DJ whose limp beats are overlooked on account of his large, illuminated mask. Is he a genuine youth phenomenon or a mysterious creation cooked up by Banksy meant to illustrate the ridiculousness of techno? It was a question only the observers in the back were left asking. Those in front were too busy dancing.
