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LIVE AND DIRECT: Pitchfork Music Festival, Union Park, Chicago, Illinois

TEXT & PHOTOS BY TIFFANY YOON It’s day one here in beautiful Chicago. After driving from one Marriot hotel to another, hoping one of them was ours, we finally pulled into our hotel parking lot sometime around 4am. We were meeting friends that hooked us up with a cheap deal at a Marriot hotel (one of the guys works at a Marriot in Philadelphia) and we were supposed to rendezvous with them at the hotel sometime around 8pm the night before. We had some complications along the way, the driver forgot his tickets at home when he was already in Philadelphia and he’s from Warminster. So we had to drive back to get those tickets. We drove through Pennsylvania, Ohio and unwillingly had to make a stop in Indiana where I couldn’t help but remember the worst parts of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I got strange looks as we waited in line for our fast food fries. I thought to myself, “what you’ve never seen an Asian person before.” I felt like we were in the middle of nowhere, about to be eaten alive by cannibals. If that Indiana rest stop is any indication, I fear for the future of our country. Anyways, it’s been rainy here in the windy city, showers on and off all day. It doesn’t look like it’s affected the progress of the Pitchfork Festival, but the rain is supposed to continue throughout the weekend. Fingers crossed the rain doesn’t get any worse, though I hear it’s supposed to pour all day Saturday and Sunday.

Unfortunately I missed half of Mission of Burma’s set. I tried to walk from Washington Square to Union Park, where the festival was being held, and thought I could make it in 20 minutes. I stopped a police officer to double check my directions, and realized the park was MUCH further than I had anticipated. So I tried to find public transportation, the green line, to take to the park. Again, I had difficulties in finding this, but I was also in a panic because of my time crunch. So I desperately hauled a cab and made it for the middle of Burma’s set. I regret I missed them in Philadelphia, but they sounded great on stage, despite the heavy downpour of rain that had just passed. In the cab I could hear the loud fuzz noise that Burma’s known for at least 10 blocks away. The cab driver got excited and asked if the festival was going on all night, but wanted to make sure there wasn’t just, as he put it, “rock and roll”.

The Bomb Squad DJs opened up for Public Enemy, a little premature… overlapping Sebadoh’s set. Just as Sebadoh was going into a mellow acoustic song on one stage, the Bomb Squad began pumping the bass and yelling “Bomb Squad” over the crowd at the next stage. The stage crew was waving their arms furiously trying to get the Bomb Squad Dj’s to stop, the fans were pissed when they had to stop so that Sebadoh, could play one more lo-fi rock song before the end of their set. Almost like they were competing, Sebadoh, decided to play a louder lo-fi rock song to top off their set. A group of Philadelphians screamed “Asshole” at Sebadoh, although Bomb Squad was clearly at fault. Philly Represent. We bring all our anger and aggression across the states. Once Sebadoh finished, Bomb Squad started up again, repeating the beginning of their set. The surprise was ruined. Near the beginning of their set Flavor Flav opened up saying, “There are a lot of terrorists in the world, but the worst kind of terrorist… [long pause… we’re all anticipating the worst] is the terrorist of the mind.” Flavor Flav, as expected, promoted his reality TV series, “Flavor of Love”. The crowd instantly began booing, even though he and Chuck D. began to explain that, “Hey, Will Smith, was the Fresh Prince of Bell Air” and Flavor Flav responded bitterly, “don’t boo at me, you call your girl your boo, not me.”

Saturday, Day 2. A bit of a late start today. We woke up early and left our hotel to head into the city, hoping to grab some breakfast, more importantly some coffee, before heading to the festival. It was raining when we left our hotel then it stopped for a bit, but just as the festival kicked off with Bobam I Marko Markovic Orkestar, the rain came down again. It’ll probably be miserably damp all day, but hopefully it won’t interfere with the bands or the fans. Titus Andronicus is on now. I’m hiding under a tent until the rain dies down and holding out for Jay Reatard’s set. He just played at Johnny Brenda’s last Monday and I heard it was an epic show. Everyone I usually talk about shows with was talking about it, but I decided to hold off until I got to Chicago to see him live.

I regret that I missed Titus Andronicus on stage. The rain was coming down hard, and I didn’t know much about them, but I realized too late that I had missed out on a great punk band, which was only appropriate before another punk band, Jay Reatard. It was a little too early for people to start moshing around, but the crowd was still rowdy as hell for Jay Lindsay and his band to come on stage. It was pouring rain and no one seemed to give a shit, save a couple of angry photographers scrounging for plastic bags to cover their equipment with.

Caribou had some technical difficulties due to the rain. Daniel Snaith, the main man of Caribou, didn’t look too pleased as the rain poured down and an ominous British voice boomed over the stage asking what channel the band were on. Their laptop was going in and out. I think it was a bit wet from the downpour and they were having some trouble finding a wavelength that was clear and consistent for the band to stream on. Finally, the band began, a bit late, with Snaith and Ryan Smith exchanging grimaces during the beginning of their first song. Something tells me they weren’t on the right channel, or weren’t happy with the one the ominous voice had settled on. Then they played a favorite of fans, “Melody Day,” a song also made popular by Kieran Hebdan, or Four Tet with his remix of the song. Just as the song finished up the sun peaked out behind the clouds and brought some warmth and let everyone dry off for a bit.

It seemed like everyone at the festival came to the stage where the Fleet Foxes were playing. Maybe it was the weather clearing up, maybe it was the lighter mood, but I think anyone that missed their free show the other night made sure to catch them while they were at the festival. After their first song, they also had some technical difficulties due to the rain. They sounded great, the massive crowd staring in awe as Robin Pecknold and Skyler Skjelset crooned into the mic and their AM voices reverberated across the park. Shortly after they fixed their equipment problems, Skjelset said, “This is my favorite part of the set, right when everything goes wrong.” DEVELOPING…

NEW YORK TIMES: KABUL, Afghanistan — Senator Barack Obama arrived in Afghanistan Saturday morning, opening his first overseas trip as the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee, to meet with American commanders there and later in Iraq to receive an on-the-ground assessment of military operations in the United States’ two major war zones. Mr. Obama touched down in Kabul about noon, according to a statement released by his aides. His trip has been cloaked in secrecy, which advisers said was due to security concerns set forth by the Secret Service.

BOSTON GLOBE: Obama advocates ending the U.S. combat role in Iraq by withdrawing troops at the rate of one to two combat brigades a month. But he supports increasing the military commitment to Afghanistan, where the Taliban has been resurgent and Osama bin laden is believed to be hiding. MORE

PETRAEUS: BAGHDAD (AP) — After intense U.S. assaults, al-Qaida may be considering shifting focus to its original home base in Afghanistan, where American casualties are running higher than in Iraq, the top U.S. commander in Iraq said Saturday. He said there are signs that foreign fighters recruited by al-Qaida to do battle in Iraq are being diverted to the largely ungoverned areas in Pakistan from which the fighters can cross into Afghanistan. U.S. officials have pressed Pakistan for more than a year to halt the cross-border infiltration. It remains a major worry not only for the war in Afghanistan but also for Pakistan’s stability. MORE

REUTERS: Iraqi Prime Minister Nuri al-Maliki told a German magazine he supported prospective U.S. Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama’s proposal that U.S. troops should leave Iraq within 16 months. In an interview with Der Spiegel released on Saturday, Maliki said he wanted U.S. troops to withdraw from Iraq as soon as possible. “U.S. presidential candidate Barack Obama talks about 16 months. That, we think, would be the right timeframe for a withdrawal, with the possibility of slight changes.” It is the first time he has backed the withdrawal timetable put forward by Obama, who is visiting Afghanistan and us set to go to Iraq as part of a tour of Europe and the Middle East. MORE

PREVIOUSLY: The Wrongful Life & Death Of Kenneth Keith Kallenbach

The other victim, shot in the hips and buttocks at the same location, was in stable condition this afternoon at Frankford Torresdale, she said. Early this morning, a 26-year-old man died of gunshot wounds in Holmesburg, a few miles east of the later shooting scene. Barry Jacobs, 26, was found outside, shot in the head and chest, shortly before 2:30 a.m. in the 8600 block of Glenloch Place, according to Officer Jillian Russell. Jacobs was pronounced dead at the scene at 2:36 a.m., she said. He lived a half-dozen blocks away, in the 8800 block of Torresdale Avenue. MORE

FRESH AIR

Mad Men seems to be an easy sell. The AMC television drama just racked up an astounding 16 Emmy nominations after winning two Golden Globes. Matt Weiner is the man behind the successful program, which focuses on Madison Avenue advertising executives in the 1960s. Before creating Mad Men, Weiner wrote and produced episodes of the HBO series The Sopranos, which garnered him both a Writer’s Guild Award and an Emmy.

NEW YORK TIMES: Weiner (pronounced WHY-ner) is the creator and show-runner of “Mad Men,” which means the original idea was his: he wrote the pilot; he writes every episode of every show (along with four other people); he’s the executive producer who haggles for money (he says that his budget is $2.3 million per episode and that the average budget for a one-hour drama is $2.8 million); and he approves every actor, costume, hairstyle and prop. Though he has directed episodes, most of the time he holds a “tone meeting” with the director at which he essentially performs the entire show himself so it’s perfectly clear how he wants it done. He is both ultimate authority and divine messenger, some peculiar hybrid of God and Edith Head. “I do not feel any guilt about saying that the show comes from my mind and that I’m a control freak,” he told me. “I love to be surrounded by perfectionists, and part of the problem with perfectionism is that by nature, you’re always failing.”

So, after working for 18 years, most recently as a writer and executive producer for “The Sopranos” (the episode in which Tony murders his nephew Christopher was his), Weiner, who is 42, has become an overnight success in a very particular, Hollywood way. He is suddenly a “genius,” a meal ticket and the 800-pound gorilla in every room he’s in. It is already show-business legend that he wrote the pilot of “Mad Men” in 1999 while working on the Ted Danson sitcom “Becker.” In 2002, Weiner sent the pilot as a writing sample to David Chase, who created “The Sopranos,” which is how he was hired. That HBO, under its previous leadership, passed on “Mad Men” while Weiner worked on its biggest hit, leaving the field open for the upstart AMC to reap the glory, is one of those stories that give underdogs of all breeds in this town a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Weiner’s achievements with “Mad Men,” which is produced by Lionsgate, are plentiful, starting with the storytelling. Setting it in the early 1960s, on the cusp between the repression and conformity of the cold war and McCarthy-era 1950s and the yet-to-unfold social and cultural upheavals of the 60s, allows Weiner an arc of character growth that is staggering in its possibilities. It also gives him the opportunity to mine the Rat Pack romance of that period, when the wreaths of cigarette smoke, the fog of too many martinis — whether exhilarating or nauseating — and the silhouettes specific to bullet bras only heightened the headiness of the dream that all men might one day become James Bond or, at the very least, key holders to the local Playboy Club. MORE

RADIO TIMES

Hour One
Last month, Mayor Michael Nutter put forth a proposal to change city planning in Philadelphia. We discuss what’s wrong with urban planning in Philadelphia, the challenges to fixing it and striking a balance between developers and planners. Our guests are INGA SAFFRON, Architecture critic for the Philadelphia Inquirer and ALAN GREENBERGER, Vice-Chairman of the Philadelphia City Planning Commission. Listen to this show via Real Audio

Hour Two
We learn about the origins of animal protection, when people began to keep pets and when the first laws for animal protection were passed from KATHRYN SHEVELOW, author of “For the Love of Animals: The Rise of the Animal Protection Movement.” She is a professor at the University of California, San Diego who specializes in eighteenth-century British literature and culture. Listen to this show via Real Audio

WORLD CAFE: NEXT
The War On Drugs Plays ‘Wagonwheel Blues’

The War on Drugs is steeped in music of the past, mining the territory between Americana and the esoteric U.K. rock of the ’80s. With songs that coax comparisons to Tom Petty and The Smiths, Bob Dylan and Brian Eno, the band’s debut wears its many influences proudly and prominently.

THE WAR ON DRUGS: Buenos Aires

THE DARK KNIGHT (2008, directed by Christopher Nolan, 152 minutes, U.S.)

BY DAN BUSKIRK FILM CRITIC The Dark Knight, the most hotly-hyped movie of the summer has arrived and it is a big, turkey dinner of a blockbuster. It has non-stop action, it features real actors and it has the late Heath Ledger giving us a tantalizing glimpse of the unpredictable talent he might have become. It’s a mouth-watering spread, too bad that director Christopher Nolan keeps piling things on our plate until we leave the theater feeling over-stuffed, logy and unwell. You’ll wish there was some Bat-o-Bismal in your utility belt. [Holy bad Bat pun, Buskirk! — The Ed.]

Still, Heath Ledger’s Joker is one scene-stealing side dish you can never get enough of. Up until now his specialty was playing handsome, monosyllabic young men muffled by a dignified reserve verging on muteness so his Joker — a walking IED of a performance — has the shock of discovery to go with our awe at his bottomless sadism and knife-wielding nihilism. Minus his good looks — those photogenic cheek bones warped by what looks like Kabuki melting under a heat lamp — and projecting a deeply unhinged demeanor Ledger ignores his innate strengths and finds some new, weird depths in the deep of some private abyss. Dialing back the hooting cackles of Cesar Romero and Jack Nicholson, Ledger’s Joker taunts his prey with a cruel wit and black-as-coal humor that recalls Dennis Hopper’s malevolent Frank Booth in Blue Velvet. He’s labeled a terrorist during the film and yet the scariest thing about him is that unlike a terrorist, The Joker has no agenda, other than triggering an endless orgy of deadly mayhem and suffering — his smeary visage evoking an inner-entropy, a psychic decay made only creepier with the realization the Ledger himself is jolting us from beyond the grave.

(more…)

BILLBOARD: Just a few years ago, Scott Storch was one of the top producers in pop music, living in a $10.5 million mansion on an exclusive Miami island, driving a phalanx of luxury cars and dating the likes of Paris Hilton and Lil Kim. Nowadays, Storch, 34, is missing in action. He owes more than $500,000 in real estate taxes and had a warrant out for his arrest when he failed to show up in court in a child-support case last month. He has not had a top 10 hit in three years.

He still has his waterfront marble mansion, but his lawyer, Guy Spiegelman, says Storch is attempting to refinance it after a “catastrophic occurrence this year” resulting from “mismanagement.” Storch no longer works with his old manager or publicist. He hasn’t talked to either of his children in months. Replete with tragic details and bad behavior, the ballad of Scott Storch may be the swan song of the bling era, a riches-to-rags tale of excess, poor decisions and a hobbled music industry.

Raised in South Florida and the Philadelphia area, Storch is a high-school dropout from a broken, middle-class family who turned serious musician chops and intense ambition into a high-flying career. While still a teen, Storch was a founding member of the Roots. He produced their breakthrough single “You Got Me,” which helped Philly’s acclaimed live hip-hop band win a Grammy, and gave the sandy-haired Jewish producer serious hip-hop credentials. Deciding he preferred studios to touring, Storch moved to Los Angeles to work with Dr. Dre. There his keyboard loops helped form the basis of such hits as “Still D.R.E.” He produced seven tracks on Christina Aguilera’s “Stripped” album, including “Can’t Hold Us Down,” which featured Lil Kim. Storch decided to return to his Florida roots to, as he has said, build his empire. Beginning in 2003, the hits rolled in: Beyonce’s “Naughty Girl,” Terror Squad’s “Lean Back,” 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” and Chris Brown’s “Run It.” MORE

JUDICIARY REPORT: A year ago, according to an article in the Miami Herald, he purchased a $10 million dollar Star Island mansion on Miami Beach and a $12 million dollar yacht named Tiffany. Storch, owner of “Tuff Jew” productions, also purchased other high priced items, such as a $1 million dollar Bugati car, among other luxury vehicles. After working on Paris Hilton’s debut, which flopped and resulted in two legal claims, one by British band UB40 for copyright infringement and another one forthcoming, his career suffered. MORE

[Hat tip to DAVID SNYDER]

[Dir. by SCOTT COLAN]

Who loves hot dogs? Fat kids, skinny kids, kids who climb on rocks, tough kids, sissy kids, even kids with chicken pox!

INQUIRER: Highs are expected to hit the mid-90s both days, just shy of the records - 99 and 100 - for those dates. The nights will be sultry, and temperatures may not drop below 70 until at least Wednesday, forecasters said. Such conditions can be hazardous, especially to elderly people who live alone in heat-trapping brick rowhouses, and can bump up heat-related fatalities.

PETA: With temperatures and humidity expected to soar in the Philadelphia area, PETA is offering lifesaving tips on caring for dogs. Please share the following vital information with area-residents:

· Keep dogs inside. Unlike humans, dogs can only sweat through their footpads and cool themselves by panting. Soaring temperatures can cause heat stress, injury, and death. Your dog’s brain will be fried.
· Water and shade. If you have to leave your dog outside, be sure to supply ample water and shade, and don’t forget to take into account the shifting of the sun. Even brief periods of direct exposure to the sun during a heat wave can have life-threatening consequences.
· Walk, don’t run. In very hot and humid weather, never exercise dogs by cycling while they try to keep up or running them while you jog. Dogs will collapse before giving up, at which point it may be too late to save them. They can quickly become severely overheated, and an “exercise” session can turn into a medical emergency.
· Avoid parked cars. Never leave a dog in a parked car in warm weather, even with the windows slightly open or just for short periods. At this week’s expected temperatures, dogs trapped inside parked cars can succumb to heatstroke within minutes–even if the car isn’t parked in direct sunlight.
· Hot pavement. Dogs’ pads easily burn on heated asphalt, pavement, and sand. Test the road surface with your hand before walking a dog during sunlit hours.
· Pickups. Never transport dogs in the bed of a pickup truck. This practice is dangerous–and illegal in many states and locales–because animals can catapult out of the truck bed on a sudden stop or choke if they jump out while tied up. Hot weather adds the risk of burned feet and bellies from the hot truck bed.
· Stay alert and save a life. Keep an eye on all outdoor dogs. Make sure that they have adequate water and shelter. If you see a dog in distress, contact humane authorities right away and give the dog immediate relief by providing water.

“When in doubt, don’t leave your dogs out,” says PETA Vice President Daphna Nachminovitch. “When heat waves like this strike, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Keep your animal companions indoors.”

Again, please share this important information with area-residents during this life-threatening heat wave. MORE

DAILY NEWS: Garden State Park racetrack hasn’t paid a winning bet in seven years, but some determined thieves might be riding one horse straight to a big payoff. “We’ve never seen anything like this before,” said Detective Sgt. Joseph Vitarelli. The thieves will probably hack the horse up and sell it as scrap, Vitarelli said. They would have done better selling the statue to an unsuspecting art collector. The studio that sculpted it says it’s worth at least $500,000. Vitarelli says a report was filed Monday night, but no one is sure when the horse thieves struck. A Caterpillar front-end loader that was parked 100 feet from the statue left tracks leading right up to the pedestal that supported the missing steed, Vitarelli said. Vitarelli said that investigators aren’t sure whether the front-end loader was used in the heist and wouldn’t say if they think it was an inside job. Even if the front-end loader was used to knock the piece down, Vitarelli said he still can’t fathom how it was transported out. MORE

BY DAVID CARR OF THE NEW YORK TIMES Where does a junkie’s time go? Mostly in 15-minute increments, like a bug-eyed Tarzan, swinging from hit to hit. For months on end in 1988, I sat inside a house in north Minneapolis, doing coke and listening to Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” and finding my own pathetic resonance in the lyrics. “Any place is better,” she sang. “Starting from zero, got nothing to lose.”

After shooting or smoking a large dose, there would be the tweaking and a vigil at the front window, pulling up the corner of the blinds to look for the squads I was always convinced were on their way. All day. All night. A frantic kind of boring. End-stage addiction is mostly about waiting for the police, or someone, to come and bury you in your shame.

After a while I noticed that the blinds on the upper duplex kitty-corner from the house were doing the same thing. The light would leak through a corner and disappear. I began to think of the rise and fall of their blinds and mine as a kind of Morse code, sent back and forth across the street in winking increments that said the same thing over and over.

W-e a-r-e g-e-t-t-i-n-g h-i-g-h t-o-o.

They rarely came out, and neither did I, so we never discussed our shared hobby.

I was lonely, but not alone. The house belonged to Anna, my girlfriend and dope dealer, who had two kids of her own and newborn twins by me. One night, Anna was out somewhere, and I was there with the kids. I had a new pipe, clean screens, a fresh blowtorch and the kids were asleep. It was just me and Barley, a corgi mix I’d had since college. When I was alone and tweaking with Barley, I’d ask her random questions. Barley didn’t talk back per se, but I heard answers staring into her large brown eyes.

Am I a lunatic? Yes. When am I going to cut this stuff out? Apparently never. Does God see me right now? Yes. God sees everything, including the blind.

Trapped in drug-induced paranoia, I began to think of the police as God’s emissaries, arriving not to seek vengeance but a cease-fire, a truce that would put me up against a wall of well-deserved consequences, and the noncombatants, the children, out of harm’s way.

On this night — it was near the end — every hit sent out an alarm along my vibrating synapses. If the cops were coming — Any. Minute. Now. — I should be sitting out in front of the house. That way I could tell them that yes, there were drugs and paraphernalia in the house, but no guns. And there were four blameless children. They could put the bracelets on me, and, head bowed, I would solemnly lead them to the drugs, to the needles, to the pipes, to what was left of the money. And then some sweet-faced matrons would magically appear and scoop up those babies and take them to that safe, happy place. I had it all planned out.

I took another hit, and Barley and I walked out and sat on the steps. My eyes, my heart, the veins in my forehead, pulsed against the stillness of the night. And then they came. Six unmarked cars riding in formation with lights off, no cherries, just like I pictured. It’s on.

A mix of uniforms and plainclothes got out, and in the weak light of the street, I could see long guns held at 45-degree angles. I was oddly proud that I was on the steps, that I now stood between my children and the dark fruits of the life I had chosen. I had made the right move after endless wrong ones. And then they turned and went to the house across the street.

Much yelling. “Facedown! Hug the carpet! No sudden movements!” A guy dropped out of the second-floor window in just gym shorts, but they were waiting. More yelling and then quiet. I went back inside the house and watched the rest of it play out through the corner of the blind. Their work done, the cops loaded several cuffed people into a van. I let go of the blind and got back down to business. It wasn’t my turn. MORE