The best part about Friday, besides Mikal Cronin’s shredding and Daughn Gibson’s honky-tonk stomp, of course, was that I didn’t here one peep out of Joanna Newsom and that goddamn harp of hers. She was so quiet, even if you were on the main field Friday night, you couldn’t make out anything coming from the Red Stage unless you were right up there. Her sound did not carry at all. My voice was louder. More people heard me talk about my first harp and how hard it was to get that harp fixed in Cleveland in the 1980s when all of the harp businesses went under because of cheap Chinese harps, than actually heard Joanna Newsom and her harp.
Bjork was different. She had the wide-eyed wonder of a little girl. She danced like she never saw how other people danced. She played dress up in a metallic gown, which depending on the stage lights, either radiated gold or silver. She wore a two-part, shimmering afro, which like her dress, reflected the color of the lights. Backed by a dozen backup singers, half in glittering blue dresses, and the other half in maroon and gold, one percussionist and one man behind a large table of gear, she was beautiful, brilliant, and weird as she stretched the limits of her light, curious voice.
There are no pictures of Bjork to share. Her management strictly forbade the press and the crowd from taking images during her set. You can, however, read and see what happened when Daughn Gibson, Mac DeMarco, Angel Olsen, and Mikal Cronin played the 2013 Pitchfork Music Festival. There are links:
It was hot.