Hillside Festival '05
July 23, 2005

The burgeoning Hillside Festival in Guelph is the summer proving ground for a rapidly evolving Canadian rock scene and hordes of fresh-faced, Crunchy Vegan, dredlocked souls. Selling out for the first time in the festival's history, Hillside surprised me with both its efficiency and eclectic appeal. The hemp smoothies didn't hurt either!

We left Waterloo in the early afternoon, hung over and loaded to the gills with water bottles and a variety of sandwiches (Tomato or no tomato?). Me, Chad and Jen had Saturday passes only - Hillside runs for the entire weekend, but we are busy, impoverished hipsters with an eye for mystery and an ear for the Arcade Fire. I hear camping was swell. Anyways, the superior band lineup was clearly on Saturday, and it was a balmy, perfect Saturday that saw us wobbling into the festival in Chad's brother's Jetta: windows down, music blaring, side panels duct-taped to the car. We roll in style.

Parking was snappy and before we knew it, we were wristbanded up and strolling down towards the island causeway to join the thousands of saucy revelers already In Motion. The revelers came from all walks of life: young upstart hippies with bright eyes and beaded braids, trend whores, glaringly glaring Abercrombie boys, parents with nude, diapered children. Dress was scanty and bare chests abounded (males only, surprisingly). Girls with overflowing bushels of armpit hair impressed me with their progressive outlook on femininity and disturbed me with their, you know, GROSS ARMPIT GARDENS. I'll trim if you do, I swear. Some guy on the broken paths thought it might be acceptable to put sunscreen in his eyes. He was wrong.

We marveled at the Hollywood letters that spelled HILLSIDE instead of HOLLYWOOD and ran a loop of the stages. The Sun stage was "fully powered by solar power" according to the literature, but I was rather disappointed when we came across it: a miniscule tent wired up to a van mounted with a single solar panel. It was functional but lame. I guess spoken word performance doesn't need much power? We said Fuck That Shit and kept going.

Since we didn't have anything we had to do before 6:00 (Cuff the Duke!) we pelvic-thrusted our way around the island, eyeballing merch booths and dirty people and garbage cans. Eventually we found salvation in The Hidden Cameras and, lo and behold, fellow Waterlooians appeared!

Surprise! Regan and Sherry, poster children for Hillside preparedness! (Sherry had a canteen full of booze). Surprise! There's Danny Dan on the right there, standing picturesquely in front of a gorgeous lake! (The lake was more gorgeous in real life. Dan is as gorgeous as he appears). Surpr - wait. I wasn't very surprised to see Chad and Jen because they were with me the whole time.

The Hidden Cameras captured my attention for a while - they were a larger band than I had envisioned, and I spent a large portion of my time wondering whether that was Gentleman Reg crammed on stage with them. I never found out and I still don't know. The band had enthusiastic support and many supine girls danced mightily to their beat. I bopped but did not prance.

Next we went to check out the Arts & Crafts CBC performance with Tudor, Laura and Amy. Everyone had a camera that day - we are all photobloggers, shutter sluts, not content just to see but also needing to capture. I enjoyed our technocratic ways immensely and captured them in a tasteful lawn shot as they were capturing me. I'm sure you could make some kind of dense theory out of that if you were so inclined, or perhaps a lewd pornographic reference. Oh hey, there's Mike Morris on the right!

Meanwhile, the band played on. Several members from Broken Social Scene were on hand, as well as Amy from Stars. It was a most enjoyable jam session, largely impromptu, with musicians cycling in and out the whole time. A not-unattractive girl from CBC moderated the session, interjecting questions for the jammers which were generally answered with wry, dry humour and delightful self-depreciation. I smiled, I chuckled, I roared loudly and was asked firmly to stop by the sound man, who was recording the joint for some nefarious purpose.

Tudor and Laura, highly impressed, sprawled down on a blanket behind the stage tent and promptly passed out. However, the magnetic drawing power of Broken Social Scene pulled curious onlookers and soon the slumbering duo were surrounded by a standing audience. Laura has a charming mullet, you see. The pair awoke in a forest of legs, sexy and somewhat disoriented. After eating some delicious sandwiches (with tomato!) and watching Sherry lube up her hands and fondle frozen condoms, Chad and Jen devoured marijuana muffins and we wandered off to find Cuff the Duke.

Too meh to stand and watch from the back, I was content to take a brief visual sweep of the band - they looked suitably nerdy, an indie band necessity - and plopped down heartily on the grass to enjoy their sound. Beside us, bearded and sunglassed stoners lit joint after joint and slowly nodded to the beat. Cuff the Duke was quirky and catchy - they announced songs from their new record and roars of approval followed every dying note. I took in the parade of festival-goers stalking back and forth outside the stage-tent, dancing with beers, wheeling their children about in covered wagons. It was lovely. I tapped my sandals to the ground uncontrollably. I basked.

We abandoned Cuff the Duke early to go stake our claim at the Main stage, where Sarah Slean, Stars and the Arcade Fire would soon be performing in quick succession. Sadly, many others had latched onto this 'innovative and original' idea, and the lawn was rammed with blankets, folding chairs and their occupants. Me, Chad and Jen weaseled our way into the stage-left masses and tried our best to hold enough room for the rest of the Waterlooians. The battle was fierce and many teenaged girls fell beneath the blade of my scythe.

Sarah Slean took the stage to a concerted uprising of fans and it quickly became apparent that the rest of the festival would be Standing Room Only. Sarah Slean was beautiful and drunk: her music was pitched and pretty but didn't catch me nearly as much as her bizarre banter. She took on fake accents. She talked about the "stars of our consciousness." She discussed the smell of happiness and urged us to "light 'em if you've got 'em - wait... this is a family show." She was a rat in a cage, chained to her keyboard and flanked by her band. I found her dialogue to be tremendously amusing and charmingly catty. Beside me, a short girl craned her neck and swayed purposefully while her boyfriend's eyes glazed over with disinterest. Sarah Slean is definitely a girl's girl, a Female Sound & Role Model, and maybe I'm a girl too for paying attention. I liked her though - she won me. And my penis is still attached!

The Quiet Revolution began in earnest with the arrival of Stars who played, in my opinion, a far better show than their previous outing at the Starlight Lounge in Waterloo. Perhaps it was the shortened set time, which forced them to cut a few filler songs, but Stars were out for our affections and delivered. There were a few unfamiliar faces (violin girl? who are you, orange-dress violin girl?) but the same old songs we knew and loved - Your Ex-Lover Is Dead, One More Night, Calendar Girl - hit admirably. Stars drew a bit from their older material but they vastly relied on the stunners from Set Yourself On Fire, which suited me well. I mouthed some of the words and probably looked like the biggest tool on the planet, but there's a lot to be said when a band is powerful enough to inspire you into sheer public retardation. That's quality live music. Applaud!

Finally the Arcade Fire packed the stage, nine-strong, in their usual Formal Outing Attire. The sun had set and my camera seemed to think that the band was several apparitions of ethereal light, not pink flesh and blood, which I suppose is suitable. They are certainly not ordinary hu-mans, by any means.

For once NOT starting the set with Wake Up, the Arcade Fire drilled through a fine set of songs from Funeral and the EP. Laika was first, and awesomest. The middle of the show lagged a bit, perhaps because a shorter set time fucked with tempo changes, and the band admitted that they had been on hiatus for more than two months. Still, their mediocre performance is giant steps above a Sublime Divine Performance by most 'other' bands, and I was tremendously into the whole thing with a head full of weed. I did not think they were mediocre and headrocked appropriately while bouncing back and forth within the cramped crowd interior, to Regan's probable dismay. Two girls behind me talked incessantly about other girls up at the front and omigod I just LOVE this band and soforth, but eventually they got ebola and perished. Thanks, Death!

Chad was overwhelmed by his weed muffin and/or many joints, and sat down in the middle of the crowd during the proceedings. He later claimed exuberantly that "The Arcade Fire almost knocked me out!" The bass was powerful strong.

Lamery reared its ugly head before the encore, where two dislikable radio personalities tried to pump the crowd and re-introduced the band. I was gleeful to see that most festival goers clapped and cheered loudly during their bit as an attempt to a) appreciate the Arcade Fire and b) drown those bastards out. The band reappeared, roared through Wake Up and then led a Rebellion (Lies, Lies) parade off the stage and down through the crowd. It's always really fucking cool when a band comes down to eye level, to mingle and reveal themselves as People and not Gods. I hope that the Arcade Fire never outgrows this habit.

We assimilated ourselves into the diaspora ambling back towards the parking lots and it struck me that if everyone leaving Hillside was holding a torch, we would make one badass war party. I eavesdropped on 'deep' conversations and laughed at the cars trying desperately to break through the pedestrian blockade. This was one time the Foot would definitely triumph over the Wheel.

Once we reached the woebegotten Jetta, I blinded several drivers from other cars with the flash from my camera as Chad squeezed our way onto the main road. We were baked by the sun, deafened from the bass and smiling voraciously for more. Yes, Hillside was a festival of champions; champions and dirty stinking hippies. These were our people we were leaving in the dust and those were our bands. Rejoice! Rejoice for our lives had never been wasted away in more majestic finery.

Sucks to be anyone who was there on Rainy Sunday though.