Pitchfork Music Festival 2012, live review | The Psychic Paramount
And we have lift off. The NYC three piece opened day two with a sonic slaughtering on par with the rumblings of a NASA launch, an impressive feat for one guitar (armed with a bevy of pedals, natch), one bass and a smallish kit. It seems the volume conundrum at the Green Stage has been resolved, too—a relief as it's what could have utterly destroyed this punishing showcase. I was beside myself when I saw these guys on the 2012 P4k roster, as they manage to tour stateside, oh, never, and release new material about every six years. Their 2011 record, II, is a must for heavy psych-metal fans. And they did not disappoint, with much of the material played here from that album.
Though its brand of wordless, swirling-yet-controlled hysteria is better fit for a darkened venue, with lots of smoke and Russian Circles-esque uplights, the early-afternoon sunbeams and black backdrop of the stage weren't bad, either. Speaking of black, the trio, swathed in ebony attire and gear, blended perfectly into that backdrop, concocting a sort of eerie visual mystery as to the origins of its lovely noise. The under-attended set was met with no less enthusiasm than that of one played to a dense crowd, the dude-filled pack bangin' heads, hollering and throwing up arms at every crushing crescendo. We soared through 40 minutes of otherworldly ebbs and flows and flutters, returning to the earth's atmosphere only in the set's final minutes via a trickle of plucks and pounds. And had we not been pummeled by stinging rain just minutes after the set's conclusion, I might still be floating out there. Christopher Lloyd said it best in Back to the Future: "Roads? Where we're going, we don't need roads."