Live: Man Man
At the 2006 Pitchfork Music Festival
Union Park, Chicago - July 29, 2006
When I get there I'm thinking, what's the dif? Last year's Intonation festival mirrored this year's Pitchfork. Same concept: independent artists, bands, local businesses unite and throw this orgy for tight-pants bohemians. Local artists are selling knick-knacks under a tent, local vendors are trying to make a profit, and it just so happens a heat wave is in the process.
The Hot Machines are playing as I enter the park so, naturally, I think, Chicago pride? I mean, the first band on the roster is a local band as I walk down the vendor's street with local restaurants' tents lined up along the curving road. Kinda like Taste of Chicago, but smaller and without the McDonald's. If I wasn't the Chicago native that I am, I would have been a bit upset with all this city pride. That couldn't be the message Pitchfork was trying to send, could it? That Chicago is the best and coolest and indiest place in the country?
I'd like to think so, but of course I'm continuously proven wrong time after time. And sure enough, watching a band from Philly and not the Windy City makes me rethink that question. But first I wait out in the sun, a bit skeptical (psh, Philly?). "They're like a band that sounds like they bought their instruments at a Salvation Army," I was told. It was intriguing enough to keep me waiting out in the open - in the middle of a heat wave.
The audience begins to chant, "Man Man, Man Man..." over and over again. Energy channels throughout the crowd, picking up more to sing their opera. Despite the afternoon sun glaring down at us, the sight of the five band members in their white uniformed look walking on stage was enough for the already-knowing fans to inch forward, leaving the unknowns - like me - slightly further away then we were before. Things get a bit cramped, and sweat from the shirtless guys showing off their chest hair soaked into the clothes of those too modest to let strangers get any skin-on-skin nipple action.
The chant continues, and the beads of sweat on the backs of those around me multiply. The guys onstage assume their positions. Dressed in white shorts and white shirts and sporting white and red face paint, they begin to blow, hit, pinch their instruments. Creating a noise that pulses out from the huge speakers near the stage, the audience jumps in excitement. What sounds like chaotic instrumental warm-up soon finds its rhythm and its beat; three minutes later, a song is complete. I stand there clapping for more.
One guy in the band hops around the stage grabbing a bag full of colored feathers, and starts to fill the air with pretty, pretty colors. Throwing spoons into a metal bowl and gorilla impersonations are another way the band tries to incorporate new sounds into their music, and also another way to entertain the audience. The playful, emasculated back-up vocals completely contradict the rough, hungry vocals coming out of the frontman in the fashion mullet. How could you take this band seriously? Playful is what they are. You listen to five different duck-whistles for an entire minute, and if you aren't horribly annoyed by how obnoxious it is, you'll find out how they'll turn that racket into a well-composed song soon enough. You'll find yourself moving and shaking along to the music they're beating life into, and watching them with a smile on your face, knowing that if given another chance you'd go see them live again, just so you can chant, "Man Man, Man Man..." before the show.
The midday sun is hovering over the park; it's that time of the day that people warn you about, telling you that the sun is extra harsh and that you should stay in if you don't need to leave the house. The park has picked up a few hundred more attendees; they swarmed the festival, ignoring the warnings. For the most part, people are taking the time to relax, have a few beers, get something to eat, and perhaps pick up a knick-knack over at the artist's tent. I lay on the grass with a friend staring at the beautiful blue sky, Tyondai Braxton our soundtrack. It's the kind of music we want to smoke a joint to, relax, smile and take "it" all in. Apparently, people nearby thought the same thing as they lit up.
What was Pitchfork? It was that. Laying on the grass, listening to new music, appreciating it. Wishing you knew what others knew when they chant the name of the band you know nothing about.
Words and photos by Ralph Espinoza
Man Man
Pitchfork Music Festival
The MPP Interview with Chris Powell of Man Man
See Also: Plague of the Mullet
Union Park, Chicago - July 29, 2006
When I get there I'm thinking, what's the dif? Last year's Intonation festival mirrored this year's Pitchfork. Same concept: independent artists, bands, local businesses unite and throw this orgy for tight-pants bohemians. Local artists are selling knick-knacks under a tent, local vendors are trying to make a profit, and it just so happens a heat wave is in the process.The Hot Machines are playing as I enter the park so, naturally, I think, Chicago pride? I mean, the first band on the roster is a local band as I walk down the vendor's street with local restaurants' tents lined up along the curving road. Kinda like Taste of Chicago, but smaller and without the McDonald's. If I wasn't the Chicago native that I am, I would have been a bit upset with all this city pride. That couldn't be the message Pitchfork was trying to send, could it? That Chicago is the best and coolest and indiest place in the country?
I'd like to think so, but of course I'm continuously proven wrong time after time. And sure enough, watching a band from Philly and not the Windy City makes me rethink that question. But first I wait out in the sun, a bit skeptical (psh, Philly?). "They're like a band that sounds like they bought their instruments at a Salvation Army," I was told. It was intriguing enough to keep me waiting out in the open - in the middle of a heat wave.
The audience begins to chant, "Man Man, Man Man..." over and over again. Energy channels throughout the crowd, picking up more to sing their opera. Despite the afternoon sun glaring down at us, the sight of the five band members in their white uniformed look walking on stage was enough for the already-knowing fans to inch forward, leaving the unknowns - like me - slightly further away then we were before. Things get a bit cramped, and sweat from the shirtless guys showing off their chest hair soaked into the clothes of those too modest to let strangers get any skin-on-skin nipple action.
The chant continues, and the beads of sweat on the backs of those around me multiply. The guys onstage assume their positions. Dressed in white shorts and white shirts and sporting white and red face paint, they begin to blow, hit, pinch their instruments. Creating a noise that pulses out from the huge speakers near the stage, the audience jumps in excitement. What sounds like chaotic instrumental warm-up soon finds its rhythm and its beat; three minutes later, a song is complete. I stand there clapping for more.
One guy in the band hops around the stage grabbing a bag full of colored feathers, and starts to fill the air with pretty, pretty colors. Throwing spoons into a metal bowl and gorilla impersonations are another way the band tries to incorporate new sounds into their music, and also another way to entertain the audience. The playful, emasculated back-up vocals completely contradict the rough, hungry vocals coming out of the frontman in the fashion mullet. How could you take this band seriously? Playful is what they are. You listen to five different duck-whistles for an entire minute, and if you aren't horribly annoyed by how obnoxious it is, you'll find out how they'll turn that racket into a well-composed song soon enough. You'll find yourself moving and shaking along to the music they're beating life into, and watching them with a smile on your face, knowing that if given another chance you'd go see them live again, just so you can chant, "Man Man, Man Man..." before the show.
The midday sun is hovering over the park; it's that time of the day that people warn you about, telling you that the sun is extra harsh and that you should stay in if you don't need to leave the house. The park has picked up a few hundred more attendees; they swarmed the festival, ignoring the warnings. For the most part, people are taking the time to relax, have a few beers, get something to eat, and perhaps pick up a knick-knack over at the artist's tent. I lay on the grass with a friend staring at the beautiful blue sky, Tyondai Braxton our soundtrack. It's the kind of music we want to smoke a joint to, relax, smile and take "it" all in. Apparently, people nearby thought the same thing as they lit up.
What was Pitchfork? It was that. Laying on the grass, listening to new music, appreciating it. Wishing you knew what others knew when they chant the name of the band you know nothing about.
Words and photos by Ralph Espinoza
Man Man
Pitchfork Music Festival
The MPP Interview with Chris Powell of Man Man
See Also: Plague of the Mullet
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