Kilby Block Party, c. 2024
or, Gecs Education
Oh hello.
It’s been a minute.
I’m trying to finish this novel rewrite before I lose the little tiny scrap of sanity that’s gummed to the back of my skull. Also some (very exciting) upcoming job changes. As a result, less writing here.
But for the second year in a row, I attended Kilby Block Party in Salt Lake City. Last go round, I wrote a post about it, right after the music festival. Upon final re-read before posting, I didn’t like it. It wasn’t a story, just a list. Band 1, Band 2, etc.
I recently re-read it and thought, you know what, it’s not for everyone. But I kinda like it. And maybe some Well Adjusted Heads will too.
Feel free to skip this one. It’s long. Actually, feel free to skip any of these. We here at Well Adjusted (me) don’t believe in holding you in an algorithmic dopamine trap. But if you like reportage on music fests and my love of 100 Gecs, dive on in.
For many a millennial, summer isn’t complete without three days in the woods alongside molly-addled teenagers. Me, though? I’m not a big festival guy. Across my adult life, my experience has been limited to 2.33 festivals:
A single day of Pitchfork in 2012. Regrettably, I skipped out on a side-stage Kendrick Lamar afternoon set. Instead, I drank strawberry-flavored kefir in a shaded tent.
Austin City Limits in 2017. I was honored to attend with my boy/Well Adjusted reader Mitchell Stephen Todd. We ran into my other boy Zach “Yunk the Funk” Yunk and his sister Big Moe. In an act of karmic justice, the second day was mainly spent camping out in front of the main stage so we could see Kendrick Lamar.
Kilby Block Party last week. Kendrick Lamar was notably absent.
Amelia and I booked flights and tickets because Kilby’s lineup was a hipster millennial fever dream. Postal Service/D-Cab combo set, LCD Soundsystem, Belle and Sebastian, Bombay Bicycle Club, and of course, Vampire Weekend. But it’s 2024, so acts like Petey, TV Girl, Peach Pit—all a musical generation or so behind—popped off too.
We went with our friend Alex. Alex brought his friend and fellow Lawrence, Kansas native, Carl. Both attended the year prior and were crushed in the throng of Strokes fans.
Day One
On day one of Kilby, LDS families greeted us with signs at the Salt Lake City airport and cheered us on as we walked through the airport exit.
At the fest, we barely missed Abby Sage and had a terrible view of Peach Pit. These early defeats didn’t ease me into the festival mindset. Then Amelia and I waited in line for over an hour to grab merch. My faint anxiety started to grow. Was it too crowded? The lineup too good to be true? Would we be struggling to see our favorite acts? I had forgotten that festivals are largely uncomfortable affairs. You pay too much money for concessions-grade food, you sunburn and dehydrate, and then huge crowds smother you, the kind that only grow bigger throughout the day as bigger and bigger acts perform.
By then it was almost evening. We grabbed a decent gyro and caught most of Yoke Lore and I calmed down slightly. We caught up with Alex and Carl for Jai Paul, the mixing for whom was terrible, but his swag-on-one-hundred-thousand-million outfit still managed to save the set.
Then, the main course: Vampire Weekend. I’ve seen them five times, one for every album. This time didn’t disappoint. For this tour, they’ve been bringing on surprise guests: Paris Hilton played cornhole with Abe Lincoln onstage at Coachella. Prior to Kilby, VW’s bassist had sent a series of social media posts out into the ether in an effort to make contact with the Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. So when Alex asked me, the group’s resident Prophet of Vampire, who the guest would be, I said with the confidence of a true head that shit was about to get Real. And sure enough, amidst sax solos and extended renditions of classic VW bops, a Real Housewife emerged.
As the first day wrapped, Amelia and I walked a mile through downtown SLC until we found an electric scooter and tandem-style rode back to our hotel. On the dark streets, post-festival glow radiating through us, I felt that joy that only comes after a really good day.
Day Two
The highlights of Day Two included an impossibly blasé performance by TV Girl (the lead singer not hitting but sipping the vape throughout)1, Beach Fossils ripping, Current Joys, a fun set by Fazerdaze, Water From Your Eyes, Slow Pulp. We ate dinner as we watched Belle and Sebastian from a distance.
Then Death Cab and the Postal Service. For both sets, the bands played through an album top to bottom, with no variation. (Obviously) this strategy works better for some albums than others. Specifically, it worked better for The Postal Service’s eponymous album. Not as much for Transatlanticism. High moments throughout Transatlanticisim had just barely enough momentum to keep me excited. I found myself nodding along to a few too many slow moments. A Bixby Canyon Bridge or a drop from Plans would have done wonders.
So in the brief transition from one Ben Gibbard set to the other, the stakes felt heightened… Would The Postal Service be more of the same? Satisfying but missable? In short, should we bail early and try to beat the line at the McDonald’s a block away?
A resounding, definite, hell no. The Postal Service blew me away. My whole posse was wowed. If Death Cab was an evocative nostalgia trip back to the music I listened to when I was 14 and half suicidal, The Postal Service was a visit to the highs of youth, a nonstop parade of bangers that held up more than I could’ve ever guessed.
Ben Gibbard shredded. Jenny Lewis ripped. The Postal Service delivered.
The whole group left the grounds glowing. The walk to the hotel didn’t feel so long at all.
Also, you wanna hear something astounding? Ben Gibbard was only 27 the year he released both those albums. Unhinged.
Day Three
By the final day—wrecked and in the animal mindset of the festival—I was ready to trawl the food vendors for chicken tendies and to drink out of the communal water station for the rest of my life.
The day kicked off with Model/Actriz, a band that begs the question—what if Bill Hader’s Stefan character was the lead singer of Nine Inch Nails? They’re incredible.
Amelia and I twirled each other to Royel Otis.
We got close to the stage for Petey’s set, which made me feel like an angry teenager figuring out the world in the most beautiful way. Then CSS with a masterclass in backdrop animations.
We got to the stage for 100 gecs early. One of the oft-quoted moments in the Bible sees Saul on the road to Damascus struck by revelation and changing his name to Paul, to spend the rest of his life spreading the Good Word. Such was the impact the first time I heard the album 10,000 Gecs. I will no doubt spend the rest of my life evangelizing the incredible talent of Dylan Brady and Laura Les. Hollywood Baby is nothing less than a revelation and 100 gecs is truly a once-in-a-generation, musical superpower.
Admittedly, it is not for everyone. My friend Matt describes it as “Adderall Katy Perry,” which is maybe a good summation of the hyperpop genre as a whole.
Awaiting 100 gecs’ set, we were surrounded by the worst-smelling people Gen Z had to throw at us. Someone directly in front of us wore an orange jumpsuit, spray-painted with the words “Most Wanted Person in the United States.” Several frat bros wore matching 100 gecs shirts.
“I hope you’re ready for this,” I said to the group, over and over. “It’s time to prepare for a new dimension.”
A seven-foot-tall man in front of us turned around. With pure sincerity in his voice, he answered:
“I am ready for the new dimension.”
The air turned electric as the clock ticked down.
The guitar of Dumbest Girl Alive shredded the air.
I was in no way ready.
The crowd erupted and seethed, bodies flung with abandon. Like a champagne cork, Alex seized the moment and shot forward as Amelia and I thronged in the mosh for what felt like a lifetime. The crowd parted for a woman with blood pouring out her nose. A drowning man in need of a buoy, I clung to Amelia, who yelled in pain as a woman in cowboy boots stomped on her foot.
It was terrifying and amazing, and after a bit, I had no option but to flee. I was not ready for the new dimension. Was I disappointed? Of course. Was it beautiful to see, even from the safety of the edge of the crowd? Absolutely.
As quick as it started, Kilby was almost over. Last act of the night, some of the greatest to ever do it: LCD Soundsystem.
I love LCD so damn much.
My boy Taylor gave me Sound of Silver in the spring of ‘10. Then This is Happening. Pretty pivotal moments in Steve’s musical coming of age. When Shut Up and Play the Hits aired at Liberty Hall (for one night only if I recall correctly but I could be making that up), it was an event for my friend group.
At some point, Alex or Carl wondered aloud whether James Murphy would update the callouts on Losing My Edge. The guy in front of us turned around.
“I’m losing my edge,” he said, “to kids in wizard costumes.”
The Postal Service was bliss, yet LCD captivated the crowd with a feeling like church. Murphy’s crooning had a spiritual quality.
Nothing compares to All My Friends, experienced live. Amelia, Alex, Carl and I wilded to the Dance Yourself Clean drop and wailed along with I Can Change as a giant disco ball speered beams of light into the crowd. Friends from our college climbing club had managed to find us in the mix and we all gyrated to the beats
.
Then, it was done.
Amelia and I shuffled out over the worn lawns, hugged Alex and Carl goodbye, and trekked back to the hotel.
If you made it this far, thanks for reading.
Hope you catch a good show soon.
It feels required to mention that a few months later, Amelia and I attended a dinner party put on by a local Portland artist that was attended by a former member of Yeastie Girlz, a feminist punk group from the 80s. As we chatted, she mentioned that the group had recently been involved in litigation with a musical group that had illegally sampled their music, only for the sampler to blow up on TikTok. We pressed her for the name of the group: TV Girl.