Welcome to our coverage of Capitol Hill Block Party. Below are our thoughts on Day 3 (Day 1 here, Day 2 here). Look for a photo recap soon!

Sandrider

Sunday afternoons were made for having your face shredded.  I decided this on the two-block walk from my secret, illegal, but always available parking spot on the Hill.  I gathered up my wristband, and walked with purpose. Upon entering, I was greeted by the sight of Seattle’s own Sandrider, three abreast, laying waste to the landscape.  Nat Damm’s drums, punctuated by the largest kick drum I’ve ever seen in real life, are inspired perfection. It’s such a relief to hear metal drums that aren’t a 1/32 kicks and a 90bpm top rhythm.  Instead of providing a foundation, Damm is literally and figuratively up front with the traditionally featured guitar bass, Damm’s longtime musical compatriot Jon Weisnewski brings the damn thunder with his flying, sometimes sludge-y guitar riffs that play perfectly into his unusually clear, screaming vocals.  Add to the mix the “new guy,” Jesse Roberts’ rolling entrancing bass lines and you’ve got yourself a must-see show.  Love Sandrider.  Give them your money.  They’ll earn it, I promise.

Odesza

Obviously the best way to follow a loud metal show is with a loud EDM show.  This was my logic as I came out into the sun to catch Seattle duo Odesza play to a packed crowd at the main stage.  Having seen them at Sasquatch earlier in the summer, I knew that DJs Catacombkid and BeachesBeaches, the two artists that are Odesza, would not disappoint.  The thing about Odesza is that it basically never gets old.  With a laid back hip-hip style beat accentuated by phasing samples and breaks, it’s pretty much the best soundtrack to a sunny day that could ever be.  The beats don’t ask anything of you.  There’s no dance to know, no grating effects and chopped drums; there is only the groove, and it’s perfect.  Odesza doesn’t need much from you. They simply ask that, for an hour or so on a gorgeous day in the Pacific Northwest, you just let everything fall away and get lost in the gentle, meditative flow of sound that makes up the underworld of Odesza.  \

Hey Marseilles

Let me just start by saying that the musicians that comprise Seattle’s own Hey Marseilles are incredibly talented.  The orchestra-like arrangement inherent in many HM songs is indicative of other-level musical thinking, and an enlightened sense of composition.  Make your way back home again, Bishop sings on the dusky ballad “Café Lights.” I am here still. Make your way back home again, Bishop sings on the dusky ballad “Café Lights.” I am here still.Matt Bishop’s soft baritone wraps both its arms around you, and is the perfect counterpoint to the gentle horns and cello with heartfelt, sensitive lyrics.  I love Hey Marseilles, but I do not love them in a festival setting.  This is a band that should be experienced in a theatre, with a deep red curtain and hardwood stage.  The festival stage hides the nuance that defines Hey Marseilles, and, while their talent can make up for an awful lot in the way of performance limitations, they cannot account for the swirling wind capturing and carrying the vocals in a crucial part of the song, or the end of a cello line. While I understand that festivals are a necessity in the summer,  I can’t wait until I get to see this band on a headlining tour in a theater, so I can hear them the way I feel they deserve to be heard.  To use Bishop’s own lyrics, “Make your way back home again; I’m here still.”

Tomten

I’ve known Brian, the singer and impetus behind Tomten, for too long now to be able to offer any kind of objective review, so I will not do so.  I will, however, say that Tomten’s new material is indicative of a band that, having taken a deep, collective breath to steel itself, has leapt with both feet into “the next level,” where bands step above the fray and shine.  I’ve use this word a bunch this weekend, but it sounds inspired.  You can hear that the trust between all the members has solidified, and they have begun to unleash a creative onslaught onto all of us that, if history is any indicator, will leave an indelible mark on the Seattle music scene.

The Theoretics

The Theoretics bring the party. Not the type of party where fights break out and shit gets broken, but the type of party where the crowd is suddenly family. They are hip hop, to be sure, but not in the way you’d think. Instead of an MC and the DJ (maybe a hype man), The Theoretics are two MCs and a 5-piece rhythm section. MCs Mark Hoy and Chimaroke Abuachi don’t perform, they hold court, with a rapid delivery that intensifies the already hyped beats, created a frenzy-like feel that triggers that primitive thing deep inside you to MOVE DAMMIT.  The players are no joke either, with snapping snares and ballsy horns and keys, and the combination of the MCs and band are an experience to behold.  I very highly recommend The Theoretics to anyone that has ever liked anything fun.

Frightened Rabbit

I was frightened by Frightened Rabbit; Frightened that I would be subjected to another “guys from UK brought their four-count scenario” a la Mumford at Sasquatch. Frightened that the band I was told not to miss would disappoint, and I would be forced to write another negative review of a band I want to like. I was frightened, but, it turns out, not for any good reason. First off, four of the five of them have very nice beards, which as we all know is a precursor for greatness. Second, they’re GOOD. They are superficially bright and fun, with anthemic choruses and driving rhythms punctuated by rhythm guitarist/lyricist Scott Hutchinson’s Scottish brogue provide for a not-to-be-missed set at any festival.  I was particularly captivated by Hutchinson’s lyrics.  While the music was upbeat and bright, the lyrics revealed a barely-contained sadness of personal tragedy and cultural decline.  In a word, I found Frightened Rabbits to be captivating in the very best way.  You move to the music while you laugh and cry along with the lyrics, and I can’t think of any higher compliment to a band than that.

The Comettes

Wait until you hear The Comettes. I say ‘wait’ and ‘until’ because there’s simply no way this surfy dream pop trio can be contained much longer. Seeing them in the packed Barboza was perfect. The 70s mustard yellow curtains and lighting lent itself perfectly to the Comette’s sound.  It’s Pulsing rolling drums create an undulating wavelike framework for the gentle bass and floating Bell-like guitars. This isn’t music for a sunny day on the breakers, this is the stuff you break out when the squall is on, and the tall grass has been lain down by the rain. It’s what you listen to when there’s nothing to do but drink old rum and strip the old wax off the long board. Meandering guitars join with ringing synths and flow over wispy, heartbeat drums,  carrying the molten, frank vocals perfectly. The Comettes sound culminates in an almost psychedelic, hypnotic quality, as if the riff was simply never going to end.  I was completely okay with that, as this was a set that needed to be (at least) 90 minutes, and I was heartbroken when it ended.

Raz Simone

Raz Simone beat the rap.  Jailed after a misunderstanding of changing federal firearms regulations in March (days after his solo release, ‘Solomon Samuel Simone’ by the way),  Simone landed on the Vera Stage with a statement to make, and make it he did.  It’s obvious after about 9 seconds of listening to his flow that lyrics are his focus, with penetrating, intelligent content that inspires.  The beats are laid back, but ready to get live at a moment’s notice. You can hear this quality in Simone’s lyrics, such as “It doesn’t help that I have ta perform miracles – before I get the recognition that my peers get shown,” and, “The type of friends that hit the weed and bounce – I studied horticulture just so I could weed em out.” The set was a workshop on how one can remain Seattle rapper, while at the same time maintaining one’s intellect, and still come out with respect for the game.  Take notes, kids – Raz Simone won’t be going to the thrift shop anytime soon.

Flaming Lips

Disclaimer: There is simply no way I’m going to critique The Flaming Lips.  They are and shall remain un-criticizable  due to their epic epic-ness, so I shall instead share  the experience as best I can, and let you, the reader, draw your own conclusion.

Even the setup was  incredible. There appeared onstage large silver shapes and whit ropes tangled haphazardly about the stage.  In the middle. A platform festooned with mirrored spheres stood alone, with a mic  stand of sorts atop it.  It was clear that this was the altar from which Wayne Coyne would give us all Flaming communion, but, much like prehistoric man encountering fire for the first time, we had no idea what was going on.  We did (like per-historic man) like what we were seeing.  The lights fell, and Mr Coyne himself appeared. All in blue, like an alien from another planet.  Holding a baby gently in his arms, be fell full swing into the circus that is a Flaming Lips show.  The aforementioned mic stand came to life, sending bolts of light into tubes and coursing along their path, sometimes up and into the rafters behind Coyne and sometimes meandering amongst the silver orbs littering the stage. At the edge of the stage, the lights shot straight down from the top edge, giving the impression that there were bars in front of the band.  It made perfect sense to me, keeping us back a safe distance from the spectacle that we were witnessing.  I got so used to this idea that when the lights moved and the “bars” fell open, I was, just for one little second, scared.  Not that I would be attacked by the fancy man in blue with the baby, but that the space ship on which they’d obviously come to our little planet would suddenly leave, and I would be taken with them back to Planet Lips, where everything is silver and you can do whatever you want, like play a double-necked 12-string guitar with only one working side, or a toy trumpet belching blue smoke to a crowd of thousands, or simply make the doll that you’re holding appear to lovingly stroke your face.  The set and the festival ended with a communal singalong to the Flaming Lips’ hit, “Do You Realize,” and everything was right with the world.

It was right at that moment that I did realize that the line at Big Mario’s was likely short, and I needed a slice to help me come down easy from an incredible set, on an incredible day, at a (mostly) incredible weekend.  Good Job to whomever organized Capitol Hill Block Party this year.  I can honestly say that it was the most painless of the previous four, and that’s a step in the right direction.