When a Seattleite says ‘look on the bright side’ they’re, more times than not, actually referring to a sunny patch of pavement on the opposite sidewalk. That these words are also used to conduce vitality in the worn and haggard – who, let’s be honest, are most likely depressed due to a Vitamin D deficiency – is sheer coincidence. Or is it?

You see, Seattleites don’t just complain about the lack of sun because of the weather; it’s also because of their professions. This is a town made up of Freaks and Geeks – that is to say, tattooed rockers and their technocrat counterparts. In both cases, twenty-to-thirty-somethings spend their days locked in dark rooms staring at LCDs and tinkering with gear, and their nights drinking microbrews in dive bars. So even if the sun was beaming down on the city, who would know?

My point is: if you’re submerged in the Seattle lifestyle, you don’t think about things like lack of sunlight and fresh air until it’s too late. This is precisely why, when the planets align and a Seattleite finds themselves outside on a sunny day, things get almost pagan.

And that brings us to Bumbershoot – the three-day music and arts festival that’s been closing the summer at Seattle Center on Labor Day weekends since 1971. This year the universe seems to be rewarding us for making it through a painfully cold and gray summer with three straight days of 80-degree bliss.

Mothers, brothers, sisters, lovers all come out to play,

Soaking in a golden sun and grooving to the music sway.

I stroll into Seattle Center, Wayfarers at the ready, and start hunting down the press lounge for my credentials. Narrow sidewalks make it easy to get caught in the crowd’s flow, yet something calls to me and temptation ensues as I jump off the path, breaking free of the human locomotive and landing on shady grass. It’s not auditory bliss that draws me out of the pack, but visual sublimity. The Mural Stage (this year dubbed “The Starbucks Stage” due not only to lack of funding but also to the densely populated corporate landscape in Seattle, which is contrived of brands that will do anything to win over Shakers and Movers in this town) is breathtaking. Stationed directly underneath the Space Needle, this is the iconic Bumbershoot image.

An old man – complete with gray beard, tie-dye shirt, and wizard’s cane – appears next to me and wrestles out the words “Japanese Plum Tree.” It takes me a second to realize he’s referring to the short foliage that shades us, but after this initial awkwardness he opens up a bit. He says he remembers standing underneath the Space Needle while it was still being built in ’62. He remembers “smoking doobies” underneath this very tree in 1967, and remembers back when Bumbershoot was free. After a bit of the ol’ festival banter and some tales of simpler times I thank him and go on my way.

Fantasy Folklore.

I kick off the festival at KEXP 90.3’s Private Lounge, where some of the weekends top acts put on forty-minute sets for press, platinum pass holders, and any ears that happen to be tuning into FM wavelengths or streaming online from the station’s Web site. The venue looks like – and, as I later confirm, indeed is – a small stage for middle school productions. Air conditioning makes being indoors a pleasant retreat, yet my bones rattle in anticipation of an upcoming set from one of the West Coast’s premier folk outfits, Vetiver.

Based in San Francisco, Vetiver is led by singer-songwriter Andy Cabic. Cabic has become somewhat of a household name in the Northwest – that is, if you happen to live at a commune or art school. He’s worked with Eric Johnson, has released material on Sub Pop, and channels Jerry Garcia with his calm vocal delivery and jingle-jangle finger picking.

Vetiver takes stage and I’m immediately drawn to lead guitarist Daniel Hindman, who comes out with a newly polished cherry sunburst 12-string Rickenbacker. Cabic murmurs some form of thank you into his microphone and cues the band. They start with “Rolling Sea,” the opening number off their first Sub Pop release, 2009’s Tight Knit. Although – in typical Seattle fashion – we’re currently indoors, this tune is riddled with the serenity felt when you have “only the sky above you for a roof.” Hindman artfully uses his volume pedal to capture that classic Pedal Steel timbre, and a light tremolo effect adds an irresistible cadence to the already twangy 12-string.

The song ends on a beautifully transient vamp, wherein Cabic repeats the lyrical hook, “oh it’s been such a long time.” It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what’s so compelling about Cabic’s unrushed, warm vocal tones, yet witnessing Vetiver live for the first time does bring new insights to this longtime fan. Cabic is like a scarecrow; it’s as if he’s stood motionless for 1000 years, observing a world of good and evil swinging on its pendulum ad infinitum. In my fantasy folklore, the scarecrow called Andy – after a millennium of solitude – is given the breadth of life and an acoustic guitar. The rest, as they say, is history.

Here comes the Sun King.

After grooving along to a stellar set featuring cuts from To Find Me Gone, Tight Knit, and Vetiver’s latest LP The Errant Charm, I escape the Siren’s Song that is central air-conditioning and march onwards toward a baking sun. The festival is more crowded than forty minutes prior, the sun more central in its blue expanse. Wayfarers out and on.

As I wander toward the Fountain – a behemoth sprout near the needle that, on most weekends, serves merely as a photo op for tourists – I realize that this is where the crowd’s headed. The Fountain launches thick streams of cold water like a cacophony of cannonballs; their sprays unpredictable and arches mesmerizing. Every species of Bumbershooter is represented in true waterhole fashion: toddlers playing tag, teens sparking cones, age-old hippies cooling their feet, and young parents trying to make sense of it all. From where I stood, the scene looked nothing short of a pagan ritual honoring the Sun King.

I start walking around the Fountain and hear the one two, one two of a nearby sound check. It’s coming from a small tent with a banner that reads: TOYOTA FREE YR RADIO. I discover that bands will be playing twenty-minute stripped down sets here all weekend. Up next: Pickwick.

Break On Through.

Pickwick is the group everyone’s talking about at Bumbershoot. Like The Head and The Heart last year, this Seattle-based band has capitalized on the Northwest’s plentiful summertime festivals and it’s paid off. They say word-of-mouth translates into fans, and Pickwick was on the tip of the collective tongue all weekend.

As the story goes, Pickwick began when front man Galen Disston left his hometown of LA and moved to Seattle a few years back. His plan was to start an alt-country band, and Seattle seemed like the place to do it. However after playing the circuit for a while, Disston became frustrated with being one among a thousand other alt-country bands in this town.

That’s when he happened upon Sam Cooke’s A Change Is Gonna Come. Disston fell in love with the freedom and melodic ease of Cooke’s voice, and decided to change the direction of his band entirely.

Pickwick walks onto the small tent-stage with six of their seven members. They’re instrumentally unassuming with just an acoustic guitar, electric piano, bass drum, and shaker. Disston has wild hair, designer glasses, a miniature tambourine, and a guilty smirk.

Everything but the smirk remains as they start their first tune, a soulful a cappella. The Disston of a few moments ago – the one who looked like that goofy friend of yours from high school – is gone. In his place is a man with chops comparable to the greatest vocalists, a man reaching into the depths of his own soul and returning with a taste of the infinite. Even his movements, which at first seemed awkward and restrained, now contribute to the overpowering nature of his voice.

Pickwick played five songs, which are spread out over their three 45 vinyl releases. The most memorable tune – and the one everybody seemed to know already – is a funk number called “Hacienda Motel.”

My jaw still dropped from Disston’s vocal prowess, I decide to catch them again, this time plugged-in at the Experience Music Project Stage. The venue holds 450, and by the time I get there hundreds of people are being turned away. Luckily, my press pass works its magic and I get to see Pickwick play another mind-blowing set.

Round and round, up and down.

To end the day, I catch Vetiver playing their main set at the beautiful Fountain Lawn Stage. Not surprisingly, Cabic’s songs sound even better when outside – I watch the sun disappear behind an orange horizon as Vetiver plays the sexy “Another Reason To Go,” a rocking rendition of “You May Be Blue,” and The Errant Charm’s dream-pop jingle “Wonder Why.”

Whereas Vetiver’s early work captures the soil, dirt, and trees, their new stuff is of the sky, azure, and breeze. Hindman’s 12-string gives the feeling of being pleasantly lost in a cloud, and my dream pop trance is complete as he goes into the opening riff of The Go-Betweens’ 1988 hit “Streets of Your Town.”

Part II

Although there’s no camping at Bumbershoot, the crowd looks funkier than yesterday. I pass many familiar faces strolling around Seattle Center; they may be reapplied with make-up or flourished with new clothes, but no amount of blush can mask the wear and tear of an all-nighter. I get the sense that, even if it wasn’t 80 degrees and sunny, people would still be wearing their shades.

There’s an interesting catch-22 when it comes to music festival etiquette: while debauchery is expected, recovery time is respected. Weekend pass holders are so keen on putting up this front – this appearance of being unphased by the previous day’s events – that they forget the most obvious signs: a limping left leg, a lost appetite, a throbbing eardrum. The true Bumbershooter goes all-in Saturday night and comes back Sunday morning…playing the very same cards.

It’s early afternoon and I head over to Key Arena (the main stage, which holds around 17,000) to check out Broken Social Scene. While this Canadian baroque-pop band is adamantly against the label “supergroup,” it’s hard to dispute their track record. I mean, come on: they’ve got more spin-offs than Cheers. Without Broken Social Scene, renowned acts like Feist and Stars wouldn’t even exist.

It’s been ten years since founding members Kevin Drew and Brendan Canning released their mostly-instrumental debut Feel Good Lost, yet it seems the band has actually gained momentum with age. A self-dubbed “musical collective,” Broken Social Scene has performed with everything between six and nineteen members.

I arrive at Key Arena a few minutes early and am able to snag a spot right up against the stage. Looking around, I get anxious about the abundance of pre-college teens filling the floor: has Broken Social Scene jumped the shark? The kid next to me shows his age (or lack thereof) with a patchy mustache, so I’m taken aback when noticing he’s covered in tattoos and – brace yourself – has a drooping hole in his ear where a gauge should be (GROSS!)

The proceeding hour and a half slaps me in the face as cold, hard evidence that Broken Social Scene is still one of the best live acts around. From the moment their current lineup – which consists of nine members – walks on stage, this band is captivating. Their set opens with an instrumental that displays lead guitarist Andrew Whiteman’s mastery of tone and effects. His orange Gretsch can somehow transform into a gentle harp, a soothing viola, or a gritty Telecaster with the click of a foot switch. And it’s not just Whiteman’s notes that enchant; his stage presence is at once enormous and personal. It’s the type of honed performance one can only achieve after years of experience.

In fact, the whole band captures this very same charisma: they’re playing to a full arena while simultaneously connecting with each individual attendee. Although Broken Social Scene mellows out on their ambient tunes, they jump, kick, laugh, and dance when playing upbeat songs. Drew is by no means the strongest lead vocalist of the festival, but it hardly matters when backed by complex harmonies, oscillating guitars, throbbing keys, and the occasional trumpet or saxophone.

As if they weren’t killing it already, Broken Social Scene scores big with the Seattle crowd by covering Modest Mouse’s “The World At Large.” They close the set with a couple of crowd-pleasing older tunes, and when the Key Arena house lights are turned back on I see that the whole venue is filled with big grins and dropped jaws. This was hands down the most energetic, charismatic performance of Bumbershoot.

I spend the late afternoon sitting by The Fountain, listening to the clashing echoes of performances from nearby stages. The auditory cocktail of flowing water, laughing children, and distant guitars brings me to an ephemeral, somewhat spiritual place. I luckily snap out of this trance just in time to catch Leon Russell at the Mural Stage.

At 69 years young, Russell has all but solidified himself as one of America’s greatest songwriters. He’s played with everyone from Joe Cocker and J.J. Cale to Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Eric Clapton, Frank Sinatra and Doris Day (and that’s just scratching the surface!) He’s been sideman and frontman, has written number one hits, and is in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Perhaps my favorite part of Russell’s resume is his nickname: “Master of Space and Time.” I’m not sure how one goes about obtaining such a title, but he’s certainly filled into the role. At this point in his life, Russell looks exactly like a five year-olds’ image of God – long white hair, long white beard, a slow speaking voice, and a limp that insinuates wisdom rather than weakness.

Leon Russell’s trademark is putting together exciting medleys of covers and original tunes at his shows. With a great backing band – featuring Chris Simmons, the best blues-rock lead guitarist I’ve heard in a long time – Russell’s set was outstanding. Among the covers he played were “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” “Wild Horses,” “I’ve Seen a Face,” “Georgia On My Mind, “Great Balls of Fire,” and “Roll Over Beethoven.”

Day three at Bumbershoot paled in comparison to Saturday and Sunday. At this point in the weekend, attendees looked like they were moving at half-speed. Shuffling feet struggled to lift off the ground, and audience members that had been dancing against the stages now opted to watch shows sitting down on blankets.

I for one spent much of the day in the pressroom, collecting my thoughts and envisioning all these Seattleites back at their day jobs early the next morning. It won’t be long before we’re sitting at our desks, complaining about the lack of sun or arguing over whose got the best happy hour in Belltown.

But this review won’t be complete unless I address the elephants in the room: Daryl Hall and John Oates. They’ve sold 60 million records throughout a career that has spanned decades and genres. There’s no debating that, as the biggest band, they should be closing Bumbershoot. That said, I was pretty disappointed by their two hour set. Sure, they played all the hits. And sure, they had a great band. But they had such negative chemistry – such competing egos – that it was hard to focus on anything but their despicable personas.

Looking back I actually begin to hate Hall and Oates’ closing performance: compared to the excitement of a breaking band in Pickwick, compared to the transience of Vetiver, compared to the charisma of Broken Social Scene, these guys are like watching rocks fossilize. Even Leon Russell – who’s got quite a few years on Hall and Oates – was captivating and lively.

Oh, and game, set, match: no mustache.

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Part I

Thunderous oscillations expand violently from center stage, miraculously freed from a vintage Moog chipset only to be captured by my outer pinna, which sends the tone swirling inward toward the depths of my cochlea. The synthetic drone weaves through a latticework of scenestirs and technocrats occupying Seattle's Showbox Theater this evening. Ensuing layers of tonal stew self-oscillate, self-sustain, and self-evolve into an overwhelming muck that rattles the cinderblock before receding back toward its creator.The creator, one Courtney Taylor-Taylor, remains stoic -- unaffected if not wholly underwhelmed by the magnitude of sound coming from his custom stack and subsequent house PA. He turns his back to the audience and adjusts his rig, spinning knobs with no discernible impact and ingesting liquid of no discernible proof. As a spectator, its unclear what accounts for Taylor's stature; his is not a modest or shy presence but indeed the lack of a presence. Distinct from the "aloof persona," a trait all-to-common amongst songwriters and musicians, Taylor is a specimen simultaneously here and gone, visible yet transparent. Perhaps he's frustrated with the sound system, perhaps he's under the influence, or perhaps he's simply over it all: playing identical set after identical set, living on the road, setting up and breaking down, the life of a frontman -- even of a band as successful as The Dandy Warhols -- can't be as romantic as it sounds.But Taylor thrusts onward, turns to the crowd, and overlays a vocal drone that breaks the psychedelic tension of a forever building, forever breaking, forever bubbling synthetic stew. The opening song evolves and dissolves, elaborates and degenerates, sings, whispers, screams and bickers, calls forth as the Siren yet falls short to beguile. It demands to be art, and treated as such. It is neither alive nor dead, just like its creator, the man who wasn't there.The Dandys continue to interplay self-oscillating muck amidst a string of toe tapping classics including "Not If You Were The Last Dandy" and "We Used To Be Friends." But this incarnation is not the same band of Dig fame, indeed they barley resemble the ragtag rockers who achieved pop art celebrity with the help of     David LaChapelle, or the experimentalists who conquered Europe with the help of chiseled cheekbones and fitted shirts. It's not even the same band that had the adrenaline and ego to go jab-for-jab with Anthony Newcombe. Their renditions of these hits felt less like crowd pleasers and more like introspective meditations of past glory. They had none of the spite one typically expects from a band bored to death of playing their most popular cuts, but rather in its place the deeper tragedy of no longer feeling it. Simply put, they were going through the motions.Sonic structure continued as such, The Dandys trading off between synthetic stew and strung-out transcendentalism. By halftime, Taylor's voice was tired and unemotional. Come encore, digital drone overtook harmonic content. And by the end of the night, we had witnessed the inevitable vanish of a band waning in relevance, and the disappearance a man who wasn't there. Insightful  evening? Quite. But do yourself a favor, and stick to the recordings.