{shortcode-c7e377a011be84a2bf8a67f8bfa93805cd57efaf}Before we tuck into the heartier sound bites, here’s a quick amuse-bouche from Kweku Collins, a young Evanston-based rapper who performed Sunday afternoon. Between songs, he reflected on trying to push to the front during Tame Impala’s Friday performance, calling on fellow male festival-goers to be mindful of their space when wading through crowds: “To all the men in the audience: Your presence is not a burden until you make yourself a burden.” Isn’t that nice? Anyway, onto the article.
Nnamdi Ogbonnaya
Everyone onstage for rapper Nnamdi Ogbonnaya’s kickoff set repped their own personal rainbow. Ogbonnaya himself wore a tank top, capri sweats, and sneakers all printed with their own mismatching rainbow art. As is true for most musicians, Ogbonnaya and his band’s choice of clothes resembled their style of music: violent clashes whose beauty and truth lie in their chaos. Ogbonnaya matched dirty, scratchy punk guitars with sweet vocal harmonies. His varied singing style perhaps best represents his impressive range. He’ll switch from rapping clever, rapid-fire plays on words in “hOp Off” to repeatedly howling simple lines, like, “I just wanna, wanna be loved” in “Me 4 Me.”
Ogbonnaya’s music so accurately captures all of the disparate parts of being a young person: Sometimes you’re a cryptic intellectual, but other times you cry for your mommy. While Ogbonnaya explores all the angst of being young, he spends the same amount of time on sincere joy—he’s having fun even when he’s pissed. He jolts his body into goofy dance moves. He slams you with electric, googly-eyed stares. He squeals into the mic, because, why not? Ogbonnaya’s 30-minute set felt like five (time flies when you’re having fun), and the audience, so charged with the rapper’s explosive energy, not ready for it to be over, begged for an encore.
(Sandy) Alex G
Disclaimer: Are you familiar with Shakespeare’s 130th sonnet? Keep it in mind before you get all hot and bothered.
Rumor has it that indie rocker Alex Giannascoli will be featured on the next season of “Queer Eye.” He’s trading in his wrinkled blue Oxford shirt for something patterned and French tuck-able. He’s throwing away—no, burning—his black leather New Balance sneakers. He’s found a pair of jeans that doesn’t sag in the ass. Giannascoli should not be a good performer—for reasons other than his disheveled appearance. For example, his face often gets stuck in a semi-permanent grimace, causing him to sing everything through gritted teeth. Is he in constant pain? Probably. Most of his songs sound like the musical manifestation of crying in slow motion. While he plays, he rocks back and forth in a seizure-like way, unless he’s “dancing” (in which case, he’s full-on convulsing) during rowdier numbers like the scream-filled “Brick.” And while most artists spend their sets demanding their audiences to “make some noise,” Giannascoli will screech, “SHUT UP!” if there’s too much yelling for his taste.
Despite all this—or maybe because of it, since the tortured boy aesthetic will always be in—Giannascoli’s live shows inspire wild adoration, and his Sunday Pitchfork set was no exception. There’s realness in Giannascoli’s roughness, and his music is soft enough to keep you singing along. It’s refreshing to see musicians onstage with only the music in mind—completely disregarding the cheese of rockstardom, except to mock it. (Exhibit A: The band members walking onstage while blasting the Rascal Flatts version of “Life is a Highway,” made famous by the Pixar movie Cars.) Plus, they even brought out Michelle Zauner of Japanese Breakfast to sing the lullaby-esque “Brite Boy” with Giannascoli. What more could an audience possibly ask for?
