An uncommon case for most music festivals, Sweetlife Festival, held on Sunday at Columbia’s Merriweather Post Pavilion, only had the venue’s lone stage to work with.
This meant much attempted crowd regulation; however, I luckily managed to jump the fence that separated the damp, umbrella-infested green from the covered (and coveted) seated section.
I staked my claim in the pit in front of the stage, refusing to move — despite the urgings of my bladder — for the next four hours. Sadly, my late arrival meant I missed the opportunity to be crushed by a crutch wielding Alice Glass, the Crystal Castles singer whose broken foot did not impede her signature crowd surfing.
Still, I was only a few yards away as the headliners, Girl Talk and the Strokes, took to the stage (separately, of course).
I had never seen Girl Talk live and my expectations were somewhat low since I heard the man behind the alias, Greg Gillis, doesn’t actually play his mash-ups as they are on his EPs, but rather remixes them differently.
What if these new versions weren’t as good as the old ones? My reservations were soon calmed, however, when I learned why Girl Talk, after all these years and various imitators, has still retained his popularity. His set — if you can call it that — was, simply put, fun. Gillis is a great DJ who knows how to psych up a crowd: it’s hard not to move along when he’s bouncing around his laptop in workout gear, ripping off layers as he goes along, while all the VIP holders surround him in dance.
If anything, you have to get moving in order to avoid (or catch) all the objects that come flying at you: streams of toilet paper, confetti, balloons and other assorted hydrogen-filled products.
Gillis is as original mixing live as he is on the record; not many would think to hitch Depeche Mode and Spice Girls to a dubstep beat. Depending on who you ask, some hooks combining “Bad Romance” and “Thriller” may be sacrilegious, but to the crowd it was genius.
Girl Talk was followed by the Strokes. I am completely and utterly biased regarding their performance because for better or worse, the 13-year-old girl inside me will always think that they are the best band of the millennia.
The last time I saw them was about five years ago, mainly because they haven’t toured in half a decade. The band has been on a hiatus — tending to familial obligations, drug problems and solo careers — since the release of 2006’s First Impressions of Earth.
Now they’re back, promoting their latest album, Angles, which is half killer, half filler. The Strokes seemed to agree as well since their set was almost entirely comprised of songs from the flawless EPs Is This It and Room on Fire. They played none from FIOE and only a few from Angles.
The Strokes’s tastes in their own music — given the selection of their singles, particularly on the previous two albums — has often stumped me.
I wondered why they played “Games,” Angles’s most experimental and second to worst track, instead of “Machu Picchu,” the head and shoulders standout.
However, they are still the best live band I’ve ever seen, and now that Julian Casablancas appears to be drinking again, his voice is favoring much better, as backwards as it may seem.
Regardless of the declining quality of their music, the Strokes still stand for vestiges of a dying breed: rock stars.
It takes true talent to be so apathetic and so engrossing all at once. But maybe that’s just because I love them so.
