Foo Fighters In Your Honor

Photos From Sasquatch 2011: Great Bands, Amazing Venue

There comes a moment here at Sasquatch — the annual music festival held in the Columbia River Gorge in rural Washington state — when the frontman or frontwoman of some hyperventilated-over indie band ascends the main stage to a tidal wave of applause, turns his or her back on the grassy amphitheatre of adoring fans, and just stops to take in the scenery. Out past the synthesizers and drums, over a vast precipice, the silver-blue Columbia River snakes its way through sage-dotted canyons that fade out into infinity and reflect the clouds’ shadows like a mirror.

And that’s when they say it:

“This is the most amazing venue we’ve ever played.”

“Give it up for Mother Nature!”

You realize this is more than praise. It is, in fact, a magical incantation. Magical because upon its utterance, you, adoring fan, and him, untouchable frontman, are suddenly equals. You are both unabashedly geeking out at the scenery. And then it’s loud. And it is the most epic TV on the Radio show you’ve ever seen. And it is the most epic place they’ve ever played! And did you see that shooting star ? And is that an eagle? And do we even need to eat those mushrooms?!

So yes, the scenery alone is intoxicating enough to make the trek to the festival. But the distance seems to weed out what we here in America refer to as “the douche factor,” which otherwise infects marquee festivals such as Coachella, that can’t guarantee you won’t get thrown up on or subjected to a drum circle.

But leave the landscape out of it and Sasquatch has a lineup to kill for .

More than 100 bands on four stages, with many shows overlapping — requiring you to tear ass across grass expanses past quesadilla vendors and Red Bull dispensaries to get a good vista on the Next Big Thing. This year’s highlights included an explosive Friday night opener by the Foo Fighters, with Dave Grohl thrashing under the starlight, riding the high of a solid new album.

Los Angeles-based Local Natives carried the main stage Saturday, part Fleet Foxes, part ass-kicking, soul-wringing rock. The inimitable extraplanetary Swede they call Robyn played her set a half-hour late but reminded a packed crowd on the lawn why she’s worth the wait, writhing around in a silver-lamé Salome dance routine with a backup band dressed like mad scientists.

Some stages can’t handle the crowds — but as was the case in Saturday night’s Sleigh Bells performance in the Banana Shack tent, that isn’t always a bad thing. Everyone was packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, undulating like one organism under machine-gun bursts of drum loops and pink strobe lights.

Pamie » Foo Fighters: In Your Honor

Song: “ Free Me “

It is no secret that Dave Grohl has been my imaginary boyfriend for some time. He’s been number two behind Johnny Depp for close to a decade now. Someone asked me at work the other week to chose between the two. I answered, “My husband is the perfect combination of the two.” This caused groans at the writing table, and for me to hide under the table, but I was speaking the truth.

I remember a few years ago when Allison called me, right when stee and I first started dating. They had just seen a Foo Fighters video, and Chris turned to Al and said, “He looks just like stee. No wonder.”

But allow me, for a second, to just go on about Dave Grohl. (hi, stee!)

There’s his voice. The growls and groans and wails hit right at my heart. When he is sad, I feel it everywhere. Someone made Dave very sad at one point, whether it was Kurt or his ex-wife, or wherever the huge pain inside of him comes from (fine, fine, maybe it’s heroin), but whatever it is, it makes him write the most wonderful lyrics.

“My Hero.” “Everlong.” “Best of You.” Whatever it is that’s wailing out of him, I get it. I hear it loud and clear.

There’s also the fact that he’s quite funny. When I saw Foo Fighters in concert several years ago, the microphone was falling as Dave was singing one of his songs. Instead of pulling a Billy Corgan and walking out of the place, he just limboed down, lower and lower as the microphone sank on the stand, until he was playing the guitar on his knees, lying on his back, with the microphone resting on his chest, never missing a beat. Awesome…. Oh. I just searched my own website, and saw that I wrote pretty much this entry here . So, I guess go there for everything I was about to say.

Dan pointed out that I’ve been recently repeating myself. Apparently Spiders on Spiders is a repeat story as well, back when I was more secretive with real names. Sorry . Thousands of stories. Odds are I’d repeat one from time to time.

Foo Fighters in Your Honor

Foo Fighters in Your Honour

In your honour

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