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I Went to Bogotá in Colombia For Festival Estéreo Picnic and Danced For Days

Noisey ditched North America for South to eat endless empanadas, catch up with Julian Casablancas backstage, get winded while dancing to Phoenix, and find out more about Colombia's music scene.

Festival Estéreo Picnic. Photo by Camilo Rozo. It’s 1.30am on Saturday night and I’m in an enormous tent in a field in Bogotá, Colombia. I’m doing my best impression of Baby in Dirty Dancing, although I’m pretty sure she was dancing the meringue with Johnny and right now I’m partner-less, padding about in muddy sneakers to exuberant salsa band La 33. All around me bodies are coming together and pushing apart in that artful, sexy, stiff yet fantastically elastic way in which Latin Americans move on the dance floor. They probably wriggled out of the womb to a 2-3 beat. A man in a baseball cap comes gyrating up to me. “¿Quieres bailar?” he asks and grabs my hand, completely invading my personal space, which would usually make me recoil, but suddenly I’m salsa-ing my socks off.

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I could be in a sweaty club, a town square, or in this case, at Festival Estéreo Picnic, Bogotá’s version of Coachella—this is pretty standard behavior in Colombia, and Latin America in general. Just the night before, during Cut Copy’s set, another Colombian questioned my hip-swiveling abilities. Before I would never have tried to shimmy, Spanish-style, to the Australian band’s guitar-y-synth-house amalgam, but when in Bogotá…

The Colombian capital is a city of juxtapositions: flanked by the curvaceous greenery of the Andes, its metropolis punctuated by a surprisingly vast number of parks and lush wetland reserves, Bogotá is also a sprawling architectural hodge-podge of grandiose European buildings, low brick abodes, glass-fronted towers of modernity, and neighborhoods speckled with scrappily constructed cinderblock apartments which lean into each other, higgledy-piggledy on the hills. Traffic is terrible, with plumes of grey exhaust muddying the air, yet cycle lanes thread through the city like spidery veins, and every Sunday, many of the major arterial roads close for what they call Ciclovia—so cyclists can ride freely without worrying about getting run over.

Internationally Bogotá is perhaps still known as a city ravaged by drug trafficking. As recently as the late 90s many of its 7.6 million inhabitants preferred to remain cosseted indoors because the streets were so dangerous. In 1995 Bogotá launched Rock al Parque, a free outdoor festival designed to lure people out of their homes. As cheesy as it sounds, the initiative was trying to utilize the power of music to heal, and it’s been working. Now every year, as well as a free rock festival attended by some 300,000 music fans, the city also curates free jazz, salsa, opera, and hip-hop al Parque festivals at a similarly large scale. Last year Public Enemy headlined the hip-hop edition and the al Parque series is now the biggest set of free music events in Latin America. With 530 music establishments and 630 venues that feature live acts, in 2012 Bogatá joined UNESCO’s Network of Creative Cities as a City of Music (along with Liverpool, Glasgow, Bologna, Seville, Harbin in China, and Ghent in Belgium). Music is central to the Bogotá’s pulse.

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I’ve flown out to Colombia to cover Estéreo Picnic, a three day music festival with an eclectic (read: peculiar) mix of international acts—including Phoenix, Tiësto, Red Hot Chili Peppers, AFI, Julian + The Voidz, Pixies, The Wailers, Vampire Weekend, Savages—plus decent brace of Latin American artists such as Bogotá’s own Bomba Estéreo, Charles King (they play champeta, a perky blend of African Soukous, salsa, and reggae beats), LosPetitFellas (a jazzy, hip-hop-influenced troupe), and Zoé (Mexico indie rockers), to name a few. What started off as a small concern back in 2010 has grown to host roughly 22,000 music fans every day. Tickets are not cheap—around $150 for a day pass—which is a about half a month’s pay for those in the lowest income bracket. With the President’s son (flanked by several watchful bodyguards) strolling around the VIP section, it goes without saying that this gathering caters to the city’s select.

Located 40 minutes outside the city, the festival only has two stages to ping between, with scheduling carefully timed so you never have to miss an act. Apart from the usual festival fair—stalls of food, local artisans touting their wares, there are hay bales to sit on when you’re tired and the site is littered with bouquets of flowers. There’s even a ball pool to lounge in: a stroke of genius, frankly, because every time I’ve tried to get in a ball pool in recent years, I’ve been told to get out. Apparently I’m too old.

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Here’s what went down:

THURSDAY

Photos by KTB. Check out some side of stage footage here and watch Julian walk onstage here.

JULIAN CASABLANCAS + THE VOIDZ
Back in the dressing room area of the festival food is plentiful and fresh and the barmen shake up dirty martinis served in real glasses that clink. Gus Oberg, The Strokes’ producer and erstwhile collaborator is taking full advantage of this. After being holed away at Julian’s house for the better part of the month, The Voidz—that’s Julian’s band which includes members from his last solo record and some newbies—are psyching themselves up for their ninth ever show. They flew in from Argentina late the night before and are full of chat about the soccer game they played against Phoenix in a field of long grass in Buenos Aires. Surprisingly, they were pretty evenly matched: althouhg their first game ended prematurely, after 10 minutes thanks to some overzealous security guards, the score was a one-all tie.

After tuning up his voice by sing-shouting into the body of a solid body electric guitar (Is this a thing that singers do?), Julian stepped out onstage to thousands of shrieking fans and buckets of rain. What followed was a raucous performance. (Very different to the one I witnessed at Coachella a week later). The lion’s share of the set is dedicated to new music—songs that are tougher and more aggressive than anything he’s penned before. Live his vocals seem to feed off frustration and pent up emotion, but later, backstage, he’ll confess he’s happier than he’s ever been.

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It’s kind of like seeing old school Julian, Jules circa 2001: one foot on the monitor, left hand yanking at his lapel. He’s less insouciant, but hungry all the same. At one point he douses himself with a bottle of water—his Flashdance moment—because hey, why should your fans be the only ones out there who are cold and wet? Crucially though he peppers the set with songs the diehards at the front know and love. During “11th Dimension” Julian's willingly mauled by those pressed against the barriers, before clambering up to skip across the speaker stacks at the far edges of the stage. As the show nears its close the band break into the familiar minor chords of “Take It Or Leave It” and the sodden crowd start pogoing like like their lives depend on it. It tugs at me a little though, I must confess. Remember this moment on Letterman? Or any other snapshot from that time. Back then The Strokes' songs burned through people’s hearts, they captured our imagination and encapsulated everything that was brilliant, uncertain, and exhilarating about being young and flying through life. Hearing TIOLI live, makes me miss those other four boys all the more.

NINE INCH NAILS
Dry ice goes well with industrio-synth angst. Phoenix just before heading onstage. Photos by KTB.

Photo by Andres Alvarado.

PHOENIX
Next I check in on Phoenix just ahead of their headline set. They are drinking champagne, bouncing on their heels, embracing, and bantering among themselves before they bound onstage. Since 2003 I’ve probably seen Phoenix 10 times in at least four different countries and they never get old. I’m a superfan, so I’m biased, but their Parisian indie-pop, with just a dollop of romantic melancholy, gets me every time. New songs like the fuzzed up slink of “Chloroform” slip in seamlessly with oldies such as “Fences” and the never-gets-old pulse of “If I Ever Feel Better.” On cue during “Armistice” Thomas Mars hurls himself into the crowd. He does it every set. Calculated abandon perhaps, and yet he’s never disingenuous, he never seems to give less than everything. They are one of the finest, most consistent indie rock bands around right now: a total joy.

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Setlist for Julian + The Voidz, and Phoenix.

Julian and The Voidz versus Phoenix: The Soccer Update
The rematch went down on a racetrack in Sao Paolo. It was a close call with The Voidz beating Phoenix 7-6. To keep things interesting, Jeremy Voidz played for Phoenix and Thomas played for The Voidz. Word from inside The Voidz’s camp: “I think by Governor's Ball both bands will be ready for match #3, but they're all broken right now…”

FRIDAY

NATALIA LAFOURCADE
If you like snaking Latin rhythms combined with buttery vocals, uke strums, and Bossanova beats you will like Mexico’s Natalia. She also looks fantastic in spray on spandex black pants. Photos by Juan Felipe Rubio.

SAVAGES
Backlit and rubbing up against squalls of self-made distortion, Savages are Kate Bush gone goth-gone-post-punk-with a pinch of Morrison’s penchant for zonked out incantations. The look is inky and sharp, like the children Klaus Nomi. Every part of them is perfection: the assured thwacks of drummer Fay, her ponytail flicking and flying in time to her beat, the way guitarist Gemma lurks in the shadows extracting serrated rage from her guitar, how bassist Ayse slings her instrument low like Novoselic. Of course Jhenny is the mesmeric focal point: the Colombian crowd hang on every wail and powerful purr. There is no cooler band in the world right now.

Photo by Andres Alvarado. MONSIEUR PERINÉ
A popular troupe from Bogotá, frontwoman Catalina Garcia could fit in as well at a Renaissance Fair or a Game of Thrones LARPing session. Bit twee for me, their sound is a jazzy-swing-pop collusion with some liberally applied flute flourishes. And some bird sounds. Bonus points awarded for the use of the tiniest trumpet ever.

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Photo by: Victoria Holguin PIXIES
Pixies are going through the motions. The first time I saw them was back in 2004 at Coachella, when they were newly reformed. Back then, at the press conference backstage there was a camaraderie that seemed almost jovial and onstage they were sensational. Not so tonight. During “Monkey’s Gone to Heaven” when Frank Black shouts “Then GOD IS SEVEN” his vocals don’t scorch the earth like they should. Plaudits for new bassist, Paz Lenchantin, in her white pleated blouse and kicky skirt. Her petulant tones are the facsimile of Kim Deal’s distinctive timbre. During “Gouge Away” my new Colombian pal Nico asks me the meaning of “gouge.” I say it’s like sticking your finger in a wound and twisting it. He says: “So, like love, basically.” Basically, yes.

VAMPIRE WEEKEND
They strut on stage to Drake’s “Worst Behavior” and they are AMPED. This is the first time they’ve played Colombia and the crowd are doubled up with excitement. Those assembled sing every single word, even the words I can’t decipher because Ezra’s enunciating in that high-pitched hamster tone. Bassist Chris pulls moves last utilized by Green Day’s Mike Dirnt. Apparently you can dance to pop-punk and prep-pop in exactly the same way. I totally get them, but I don’t feel them. Not so the girl next to me who shouts at her friend: “They’re nerds from Columbia University and I LOVE THEM.” Photos by KTB. Photo by Camilo Rozo. EMPIRE OF THE SUN
What. The. Fuck. Empire of the Sun mustn’t make any money because their tour is ostentatious-amazing, and includes four backing dancers who change their outfits five times during the set. The entire band look like they were plucked directly from the horror chambers of J-Lo’s movie The Cell. Do you remember what The Sleepy Jackson sounded like? It’s an insane stretch listening to the warmly baroque indie of Luke Steele’s former incarnation and then comparing it with the over the top, next planet synth-pop of EOTS. I always thought Luke looked like the Lion from The Wizard of Oz, but as the frontman of EOTS he’s more Mugatu from Zoolander mixed with Billy Corgan circa Ava Adore. He doesn’t have costume changes—he has crown changes. Meanwhile, Nick Littlemore is strutting about the stage in shiny drop-crotch pants, like he’s got a dick the size of my forearm. It’s such a peculiar blend of machismo and high camp, it’s just a shame the sound guy effed up the levels otherwise EOTS would’ve crushed it.

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RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS
So they’re still happening. I couldn’t really watch this—their Super Bowl performance was quite enough slap funk trad rock and preening dude action for one year. However I did learn that RHCP were still an aphrodisiac for some: I spent most of their set unable to peel my eyes away from the PDA that degenerated into dry humping and titty-grabbing right before my very eyes. I love BloodSugarSexMagic as much as the next kid who came of age in the 90s, but RHCP have exactly the opposite effect for me. Listening to them is an extremely effective form of contraception.

Axwell. Photo by Camilo Rozo.

AXWELL
There’s only two minutes between every tightly orchestrated build to the drop. Music aside, you will know when to have a collective seizure thanks to the violent jets of smoke that erupt from the stage. Confetti cannons and oooh-aaaaah pyrotechnics close the set. Suggested state of mind while watching Axwell: peaking.

SATURDAY

THE WAILERS
I’m 100% convinced The Wailers are the reason the sun is shines all over the final day of Estéreo Picnic. I think it’s actually impossible to see a reggae band at a festival in the rain. Reggae means sun, and pot, and dreads. There was a lot of all three.

Cultura Profética singer Willy Rodríguez.

CULTURA PROFÉCTICA
I’ve never heard of this Puerto Rican reggae band but they’re pretty huge. Like 10million plus views on YouTube huge. In the above video you can hear their laidback, lightly brass-accented, super-schmoove take on the genre. The video also features the singer seducing not one but two women, in front of each other. Yup, a threesome is definitely on the cards. Must be the power of him being a famous singer because apart from this his most distinctive feature is a single dread the size and length of sapling tree growing from the base of his neck. I find myself fantastically and inconsolably upset by this.

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BOMBA ESTÉREO

If MIA got together with Lovefoxxx after listening to a butt-ton of Cumbia, LCD Soundsystem, electro, and tropicalia you’d have a rough approximation of perhaps Bogota’s biggest international crossover band. Decked out in a blue sequined sweatsuit studded with gold doorknocker lions and topped off with a matching feathered headdress singer Liliana Saumet is an unstoppable whirling dervish, her ‘r’s roll wildly, so that even her cadences sound musical. Their sound smacks of summer block parties, dripping popsicles, and enough margaritas to make your head spin. It doesn’t matter that we’re in a chilly field: during their biggest hit “Fuego” (above) bassist and sampler triggerer Simón Mejía is so compelled by his own grooves he rips off his shirt. I’m tempted to do the same but remember I’m not wearing a bra and think better of it.

TIESTO
Tiësto was paid $32 million last year. His music is like someone screwing me in the ear with a Q-Tip. I had to go lie down.

LOSPETITFELLAS
These guys are fun! I think they might be the Fun Lovin’ Criminals of Latin America. But like, before Huey lost his sense of humor.

Los Fabulosos Cadillacs fans watchiing LosPetitFellas.

LOS FABULOSOS CADILLACS
One of my best friends, Alejandro, is from Argentina and I can always tell when he’s on his way to getting extremely drunk when

  • He tears his shirt off.
  • He puts on Los Fabulousos Cadillacs.

It’s at this point that his wife rolls his eyes and we all know what’s about to go down: we’re going to be dancing till dawn and someone will probably fall onto the laptop that's hooked up to the stereo and through the glass coffee table. (True story. Well why did they leave that in the middle of the room anyway? We’re dancing here!) For Alejandro, or Alex as he’s mostly known, LFC hark back to his childhood, to a time before he moved to America, before he moved to the UK. They carry the comfort of nostalgia in their blend of ska-funk-folk rock. And for this crowd too, LFC are a heritage act (they’ve been going since the early 80s). Everyone knows all the words and in every lull in the music, the audience chant like they’re at a soccer match. It’s kind of fantastic.

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THINGS I LEARNED AT ESTÉREO PICNIC

Kim is Noisey’s Style Editor and she loves dancing and loves food, so this trip was pretty much ideal. She’s on Twitter - @theKTB. Related:
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