By: Myles Herod August 8th, 2013
Squished between a glut of musical events that spanned two Provinces and a State, the inaugural Grove Music Fest this past Saturday haplessly fell victim to over-saturation, although not succumbing without its merits, mind-you. Sure, there was no scene stealing Kanye moment, seemingly parachuting into Drake’s OVO soiree. Likewise, the sheer girth of Montreal’s Osheaga and Chicago’s Lollapalooza talent pool dwarfed Fort York’s hosting efforts by good measure.
That aside, Toronto’s newest day-long fest served as something for everyone – guitars, synths, samples and a dollop of hip-hop. Bottom line, my musical tastebuds were allotted equal moments to savour the flavours. Here’s what I saw.
Wavves
An assortment of sun-baked dudes who set out to create a homage to the sounds of Weezer and the No-Wave genre. Results varied.
Earl Sweatshirt
Grove’s rock-centric stage may not have been the best atmosphere for Earl Sweatshirt, but there was enough raw charisma and fresh tracks to keep his minimal set buoyant, if not bubbling. Certainly Earl would have excelled at a fest with more clout, perhaps. Take for instance his Coachella team-up with Tyler the Creator, resulting in a positively bumping affair. Then again, keep in mind he’s just 19. Time is on his side.
Gaslight Anthem
What’s there to say: my admiration is slight, even though Gaslight Anthem seem highly competent musicians who wear their earnestness on their inked forearms.
Truthfully, I saw their high-spirited paeans as quietly phoney. I recall an anecdote that concerned Bruce Springsteen (to whom these chaps are often associated) where upon arrival to a sold-out arena, ‘The Boss’, dressed in a suit-and-tie, swapped his rigged apparel for a dirtied white tee and a pair of ripped jeans minutes before his performance. Make-believe? Perhaps. Unfortunately, this infiltration of corporatism was a persistent thought as I watched these riled up New Jersey rockers. It all seemed like an elaborate put on – the tattered clothes, the perfect combination of grease and hair gel – as if their entire image was concocted in some office in downtown Los Angeles.
I digress. Getting back to their Grove slot, they sounded like a hodgepodge of The Killers, Bruce Springsteen and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. They came, they played, they left. Let’s move on.
Hot Chip
The Toronto stereotype is that of a head-bobbing or arm crossed hipster, unequipped with dancing software.
As Hot Chip swooned with their brand of electro-dance pop, something must have malfunctioned because one was hard pressed not to see beards and horn-rimmed glasses dancing in the dark. Not moshing, not bouncing. Full-on boogying.
On record, Hot Chip’s funky bleeps can sound as if they’re made by a Nintendo console – hmm, let’s say Super Nintendo. Yet, the quirkiness of the studio work was strangely absent at Grove Fest. Instead, with two percussionists, the septet remained a dense, rhythmic, playful, mechanical kraut-house outfit.
Props to dweeb frontman, Alexis Taylor, with his unabashed persona as well. I’m confident his image, along with Hot Chip’s undervalued music, will be revered upon re-evaluation years from now, citing them as forerunners to some geek infused musical movement.
Phoenix
Forgive their late arrival, which subsequently ate up an already short stage time, Phoenix entered with swagger – grand in posture and performance – exalting themselves over all those who graced Fort York earlier. With a crystal clear sound, something that never seemed shellacked with gloss, even forgettable tracks from their new Bankrupt disc managed to carry weight (and not hefty like a hippo, but anthemic like a Who performance circa 1971). My comparisons come sincere as Thomas Mars leaped across the stage in defiance, swirling his microphone like an unfortunate Clay Aiken look-a-like emulating The Who’s Roger Daltrey, leading the march of booming drums, crisp synths and burning guitars.
With a helpful serving from their breakthrough LP, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, the crowd erupted, particularly the early appearance of ‘Lasso’, arguably the band’s finest composition, punctuating the smoky air as it were playing straight from the speakers of a turntable.
Alas, it’s too bad they didn’t put out a better, if not comparable, album this time around. Either way, I was left happy and certain – these Frenchmen had given me faith that rock and roll ain’t dead yet.
Photos courtesy of Myles Herod (@MylesHerod)
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