Tree Took Me To Church And Now I'm A Believer

It's one o'clock in the afternoon, the third day of Pitchfork Music Festival. The sun pounds down on the day's earliest attendees, those who've admirably managed to shake their two-day hangovers of booze, heat, and whatever drugs they've ingested over the previous indie rock-filled 48 hours. It's warm, maybe the hottest of the three days. A decent-sized crowd has formed before the Green Stage—the same stage upon which R. Kelly would spread his arms and sing his heart out eight hours later. A group of men tower before us, all wearing white, long-sleeved button-down shirts, rolled up cuffs, loose ties, and black pants. The exception to the group's look is the man in the middle, the one sporting skinny khakis, wobbling and waving his hand back and forth. His name is Tree, one of the hardest working rappers of the past two years, and he's performing "Church," a slow-moving, grimy track with an elastic beat from last year's Sunday School mixtape. "If I really wanna go back, then I'll go back," he spits. On this Sunday in Chicago, he's pretty much turned this grassy knoll into, well, a church.

Tree knows exactly how important this performance is, and what it can do for his career. In its short life, Pitchfork Festival has established itself as a breeding ground for tomorrow's conversation. Since 2011, the festival has adjusted the focus from strictly indie rock/pop/etc., and has done an admirable job at booking up-and-coming rappers, often helping them jump from Internet fame into real fame. Back in 2011, the lineup featured Shabazz Palaces, G-Side, and Odd Future; in 2012, we had A$AP Rocky, Kendrick Lamar, Schoolboy Q, and Danny Brown; and this year gave us DJ Rashad, Killer Mike, El-P, Lil B, and, of course, Tree. Obviously, some of these rappers are huge, and most were already part of the buzz-machine on the way to popularity, but Pitchfork Festival provided an exposure to a wider influential audience—and an audience with a higher Klout score average than, say, those wearing sporting facepaint at Coachella.

On stage, the rapper's presence is strong and full of energy. Performing his "soul trap," which he defines as a "fusion of latter-day soul and modern-day rap and drums," he sways back and forth. His raspy voice—a flow that sounds like an aggressive (but awesome) drunk slur—leads the crowd, which is made up of all spectrums of the Pitchfork audience, from bloggers to rap dorks to indie kids to those already camped out for R. Kelly. He orders them to bounce their hands and sing his hooks. His hype man, a shorter, skinnier dude bouncing around like a jackhammer, throws out copies of Sunday School 2: When Church Lets Out, Tree's most recent mixtape. Some of these CD's hit people in the face. No one cares when these CD's hit them in the face.

It's obvious that there has been a lot of thought, time, and energy put into thinking out this performance—and, to be frank, it's refreshing to witness a rapper who actually seems to give a shit. To use a cliché that kept continually getting tossed around among the people I stood with in the crowd, Tree ­fucking brought it.

Apparently, Tree spent most of the past decade working in a shoe store, only starting to take rap seriously about two years ago. At 29 years old, he might already be a bit of an oddball, at least that might be what we assume when we talk about new, buzzed about rap over the past couple years. Chief Keef is 17. Joey Bada$$ is 18. Chance the Rapper is 20. But age is just a number, and like Danny Brown (and countless other rappers) before him, Tree's making it abundantly clear that a combination of hard work and talent is what you need to start a conversation about your music. He's taken an approach to his music with longevity in mind, churning out mixtape after mixtape in order to build a strong foundation upon which a career can be built. Maybe it's that dedication, or maybe it's the fact that this guy is talented, but something is working, and it's not relying on getting a good amount of reblogs.

Last week, Tree talked extensively about age with the Chicago Tribune. "Man, becoming 30," he said, "you would drop a tear if you thought about it. You look back at the decades, people you lost, magnificent things you been part of, women you slept with. I knew people who were my age who died at 21. Being 30 means I got nine years on them, and if them dying at 21 is a bad thing and being 30 is a bad thing, I'll take this bad thing. I don't feel pressured by age."

Later on Sunday, while standing backstage in the VIP area Tree is leaning against a picnic table, surrounded by a small crowd of both fans and journalists. He's still wearing those khakis, but at this point, he's lost the tie. He plays with an unsmoked joint that is—no joke—about as big as my wrist in his hands. Responding to questions about his age, his life, and his approach to music with a few recorders shoved in his face, he speaks through a smile. At that moment, a very drunk Very Important Person wearing flip-flops stumbles by, and pauses. This Very Important Person does a double take, realizing that this is Tree.

"Yo, dude, your set was FUCKING AWESOME," says the drunk Very Important Person.

Tree winks as he thanks them, sparks up the joint, and grins again.

Eric Sundermann is an Assistant Editor at Noisey. He's on Twitter — @ericsundy