Friday, August 12th
Time is not in my favor today. I seem to perpetually underestimate traffic on the I-5 stretch from Bellingham to Seattle, and by the time we pull up to the exorbitantly-priced parking lot just outside Fisher Pavilion, it’s past 6 pm and Sampa the Great is already taking the stage. There’s no line to get into the festival today, and after briefly misunderstanding the security guard searching bags (he jokingly asked me, “no gun?” to which I opened another pocket of my borrowed holographic blue fanny pack to show him that I planned ahead and did in fact have peppermint gum with me), I’m in.
Day In Day Out had long been on my radar as the indie, Gen-Z friendly, sad-girl sister festival to Capitol Hill Block Party. With only one main stage (as opposed to Block Party’s six), plenty of grass to sit on, and (anticipated) beautiful sunny weather, Day In Day Out seemed like a chill, easy-to-navigate way to catch some of the best indie touring acts around. And as someone who listens to a pretty intense amount of Mitski, I couldn’t possibly pass this up.
But today, I’m running late. I’ve missed the first two acts by the time I arrive — Hollis, who I later spot hanging around the crowd and taking pictures with fans, and the Seattle-based group Los Kerrys, who have filled in last minute for Soccer Mommy’s COVID-19-related absence. But I’m just in time for Sampa the Great, the Zambia-based singer-songwriter, accompanied by her backing band (which, as she announced to the crowd, included her cousin and sister). Sampa’s Zambian heritage is heavily woven into her music; she sings in multiple languages and incorporates African dance elements into her stage choreography. She’s animated and full of energy, her music is upbeat and danceable, and she lovingly lets us know how many festivals she’s been the first Zambian band to perform at. There aren’t too many people in the crowd at this point, but Sampa commands the stage as if it were a sold-out show. When she announces that she only has one song left, we’re all disappointed.
The time in between main stage performances is filled with DJ sets curated by local Seattle musicians (and KEXP DJs Evie and Abbie). There’s never a moment of silence (my partner tells me to write that “there’s music day in and day out, like the name”), and with only one stage, changeovers are mostly spent sitting on the grass in the shade or grabbing something to eat at one of the two spots located in the all-ages section. I’ve attempted to get closer to the stage during the break, but all the good vantage points have already been secured by teens wearing Mitski tour t-shirts, and a few stray dads. I ultimately give up and realize that I can still see the stage pretty well behind the sound booth and ADA platform, which — in addition to ADA-accessible indoor bathrooms and sign-language translators side stage — was a pretty cool addition to the festival.
Next to take the stage is pop-trio MUNA, who recently released their third studio album MUNA via Saddest Factory (Phoebe Bridgers’ label), and kicked things off with the straight-out-of-a-queer-bar hit, “What I Want.” The energy radiating off the three is infectious, and towards the end of the set, lead singer Katie Gavin takes a moment to speak on the revolution of queer love and the abolition of the police state, which resonates heavily with the crowd. She finishes her speech with the catchy, TikTok viral hit “Silk Chiffon,” where guitarist/keyboardist Naomi McPherson sings Phoebe Bridgers’ verse.
By the time Mitski makes her entrance as Friday’s headliner, the crowd is packed. I’ve lost my spot behind the sound booth and opt instead to stand on the pavement to the side of the stage, where I can still make out the action from a distance. My view of the famous Mitski door is cut off, but I still see every sharp punch, every kick, every twirl that’s part of her beloved modern choreography. She doesn’t address the crowd, reminding us that this is a capitol-S show, like something out of a theatre. It’s beautifully intricate, every move rehearsed but not stale, her powerful vocals reverberating throughout the Pavilion. It’s the first performance I’ve ever seen that can’t properly be described in mere words.
Saturday, August 13th
Teens want Peggy, not Jesus.
The slogan is plastered across black t-shirts throughout the crowd, replacing yesterday’s Laurel Hell merch with the poised question: JPEGMafia more popular than church? At one point, I catch a kid wearing the sacrilege next to a man in a neon yellow vest carrying a cardboard sign about how Jesus should be enough for everybody. I wonder if he paid for a ticket just to spread the gospel to a bunch of teens who think the Brooklyn rapper is far more preferable to church.
I arrive to the Pavilion just in time to catch the end of Seattle natives Shabazz Palaces, fronted by Ishmael Butler. It’s an extremely notable performance to me, not just because of Ishamel’s legacy in the Seattle hip-hop scene, but also as a formative figure of the Black Constellation, a collective of Black artists and musicians who had a huge impact on Seattle’s creative space. KEXP recently released a full podcast series about the Constellation, entitled Fresh Off the Spaceship, and I was fortunate enough to assist with transcribing interviews. So for me, seeing Shabazz Palaces live, even for just a few minutes, was pretty special.
JPEGMafia, or Peggy, as he’s lovingly referred to by his fans, is the only performer I catch brave enough to jump from the stage into the pit for a brief moment of crowd surfing. He chats with the audience from the stage, asking anybody lacking a full head of hair to raise their hand before jumping into his track “BALD!” His choice of a cover is Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe,” with a heavy dose of autotune. The performance is both humorous and impressive, which would be expected from somebody whose merch claims to be better than Jesus. And his slot before Baltimore hardcore band Turnstile offers a little taste into the latter’s upcoming tour, which features the rapper as an opener.
I opt to stay far away from the pit during Turnstile’s performance, but I’m assured by some of the other photographers that moshing is indeed taking place. I have a hard time standing still from behind the sound booth, indulging instead in my own private jumping and headbanging session for one. My attention is not focused on the stage, but rather on a young boy on his dad’s shoulders in the crowd, who despite the loud screaming, flashing lights, and rambunctious showgoers, does not appear to be afraid at all. Instead, he joins in, bobbing his head and later running about and dancing with other members of the crowd. I note that he’s braver than I am.
Saturday’s headliner is indie-favorite Mac Demarco, playing songs from older records Rock and Roll Nightclub and 2. Between songs, he talks about spending the weekend in Seattle, including getting a bout of diarrhea from a burger at Dick’s. He asks where we’re going afterward, listening intently as members of the crowd shout out various names of bars and clubs. I don’t believe he’ll actually end up going to any of them. He breaks from his scheduled set of those two albums to play “Salad Days,” and everyone sings along.
Sunday, August 14th
Today I’m overwhelmed.
I won’t lie about it, because those of us who love concerts yet suffer from anxiety know how hard music festivals can be. And after two straight days of sunshine, dehydration, and lack of sleep, I need to take a moment to breathe. I spend the time between Jamila Woods and Animal Collective walking around Seattle Center, before heading back in to catch the latter. The psychedelic pop sounds are calming and relaxing, as is the secondhand weed smoke from the wedding cake-flavored joint my partner smokes. We joke that it’s stoner music.
As much as I love all the other bands that have performed this weekend, I am the most excited for Japanese Breakfast. I’ve spent the last few weeks reading my way through Michelle’s memoir, Crying in H Mart, and thinking about how rare it is that I see my own feelings and experiences as a mixed Asian woman reflected in the music space. I feel a sort of funny kinship to this person I’ve never met, but that’s the power of identity. It brings us together.
Japanese Breakfast has the best visuals of the weekend. Pictures of her mom in Korea, animated persimmons, lyrics, flames — her music is dreamy, but there’s no chance of falling asleep. I do my best to choke back the tears that are forming (I’ve been known to get a little too emotional when I finally see myself represented), but I let a few fall as the music swells.
The weekend ends with The National. It’s a beautiful conclusion; Matt’s powerful vocals and commanding stage presence reflect that of a wisened musician, one who’s been doing this for a while. He tells us his parents live in Seattle now, and that “home is where your mom is,” which makes me feel guilty about how long it’s been since I last visited my family. But I let go of those feelings, sending them to float away into the night sky, carried by the deep sounds of Matt’s voice. This moment deserves all my attention.