Note: Photos in this essay depict re-enactments of actual events, not the events themselves.
Thursday, July 12
McCaskill picked me up at my folks’ house at 9PM. We weren’t planning to leave Jackson until about 1 or 2AM, but we’d decided to hang out a while and say goodbyes because, naturally, we may never come back.
Instead of going to the bar, for obvious reasons, we opted for dinner. Regardless, as with alcohol, we are both bottomless pits for food. The meal was uneventful, save for the fact that our waitress had apparently served McCaskill once before, and had taken offense to a conversation about foreskins. Despite this, the food was palatable and (hopefully) spit-free.
Continue reading ‘Pitchfork Music Festival 2007 (II)’
2007, Illegal Art
I can see Gregg Gillis, late at night, hunched over his laptop, sweat trickling down his brow in the unhealthy LCD glow, as he rips apart other artists’ works, and re-stitches the parts into a hellaciously funky monster that simply demands dance, all night.
Continue reading ‘Girl Talk - Night Ripper’
Owl&Bear: Where did you get the name Girl Talk and what does it signify, if anything?
Gregg Gillis: I was trying to pick the most intimidating name possible, something that when people hear it, they just sense insanity.
Continue reading ‘Interview: Girl Talk’
Let’s get this out of the way: fuck the Chicago Tribune. They messed up a lot of indie fans this past weekend by printing completely wrong directions to the Pitchfork Music Festival. Despite having lived in the Chicago area for nearly eight years and being with two people who attended the festival last year, I still managed to take the Green Line L train all the way to the end of the line (as per the directions), nearly five miles south of Union Park. A long string of expletives and one forty minute bus ride later, we had missed nearly all of Slint, the first act of the first night. It’s a shame, too, as they sounded pretty damn good.
Continue reading ‘Pitchfork Music Festival 2007 (I)’
When I left Thursday afternoon, I felt like shit with an ungodly case of mono and, apparently, Lyme disease. I thought I might die there, but by Friday, I felt much, much better. It may be stupidly-named, but Bonnaroo apparently cures all ills.
Continue reading ‘Bonnaroo 2007′
