The Shins were playing “New Slang” as I made my way into Memorial Stadium, the wordless chorus drifting out over the huge crowd into the flat, warm air. Even though it was fairly full, it was easy enough to make your way up near the front, where there was a little shade from the stage, and the staff would occasionally hose people down with water. The Shins sounded great. As usual, they tended to rush things a little live, as if they’re still a bit nervous to be playing these great songs. Only James Mercer actually looks like he might actually be nervous; Dave Hernandez, Marty Crandall, and Eric Johnson (I couldn’t see the drummer from where I was) all looked totally stoked, especially Herndandez—he looks like the happiest bass player on earth. The band played what I think was a new song, old faves “Caring is Creepy” and “Know Your Onion,” the winning “New Slang” retread “Phantom Limb,” the heart-wrenching ballad “A Comet Appears” (which sounded sweet and stripped down), and a cover of Pink Floyd’s “Learning to Fly.” The Floyd cover got the biggest woops of all from the crowd, which says something about the touristy crowd, but also about the Shins for knowing the place well enough to drop in a cheesy, populist jam.

Passing by the Saturday Knights, I was impressed with their guitar sound. It was as big and gratuitous and deep-fried as the festival itself, exactly how you want the guitar to sound in your hip hop party rock.

Ben Clark of The Lashes greeted the crowd, saying “We really couldn’t be more happy to be here,” and you know he means it. Clark, in flimsy black hoodie and crisp new Nirvana t-shirt (“Sliver”), looks a bit of a charicature, but he acts like a total cartoon, or maybe just like a children’s entertainer but with the occasional swear. Point being, he’s got a lucrative career as some kind of on-air personality if the rock thing doesn’t pan out (say if they were dropped from their label or something). When an amp cut out—the band asked for foil from gum to fix the fuse—Clark’s banter proved entertaining enough on its own (he called Simon & Garfunkel “Douchebags,” asked “Who still feels groovy anymore?” and observed of his own banter, “I think it’s what the crowd start to come for”). The big news of their set was, of course, guitarist Eric Howk, who appeared on stage for the first time since his tragic, paralyzing accident in a wheelchair. He parked next to his amp, held a guitar in his lap, and proceeded to shred just like always. Howk can pretty much play guitar in his sleep, so sitting down is no real impediment. After the lull of the blown-out amp, the band launched into a song featuring a dexterous solo from Howk, and it was a touching, triumphant moment.

Portland’s best Christian avant jazz rock trio, Menomena, played in the afternoon backed by a thriy piece chorus. The chorus stood behind the band on risers and wore brown robes with (lightning bolts?) emblazoned on the front. At one point, a couple members broke ranks to join the band on bass and guitar so the regular bassist could sing or play sax, but mostly the choir just sang faint back up, swayed, and clapped their hands. The choir, and the band’s tight but sleepy orchestrations reminded of other churchy symphonic popsters such as Sufjan Stevens or the Polyphonic Spree, only with more aggressive drumming. Still, Christian rock blows—even artful, well-crafted Christian rock (I know, I know, and it breaks my hear about Stevens, Belle & Sebastian, et al). I appreciate the band’s talent, I even find myself embracing some of their jams, but some dude pining, “If only Jesus could wash my feet,” (isn’t the biblical code for sex?) to borrow from the Smiths, says nothing to me about my life.

Next up, the Avett Brothers. Zwickel loves these guys, so I had to check them out before heading over to the KEXP lounge to see Gogol Bordello run through some acoustic songs. They began with “Paranoia in Bb Major,” and with the lyric, “You can’t make everybody happy all the time.” It’s true, that old cliche, and I left after a few more songs not sure what the fuss was about and not really won over. They’re good at what they do, their voices are pretty and strong, and their songs do contain enough strumming acoustic stomp to qualify them as punk bluegrass if you like, but I like my banjo with a little more Old Time Relijun psychic terror. The Avett Brothers were pleasant performers, and they’re capable songwriters, but they didn’t blow me away. Maybe if I’d been up front, sweating it out to the end, they’d have gotten me.

Gogol Bordello played a short acoustic set for KEXP in the afternoon. It was indoors, with seating, and the sound was precise but quiet and clean enough for broadcast. It was my first time seeing Gogol Bordello, and I didn’t really get it. Eugene Hutz is certainly a charming, funny frontman possessed of a Eastern Bloc growl that’s equal parts silly and fierce, and his band are skilled, practiced musicians, but something was lacking. Seeing the band’s full set later that night, it became clear that what was lacking was half the band, some serious amplification, and a few thousand drunken, swarming revelers. Hutz is like the ringmaster of his own little gypsy punk circus, and without the that circus to command, he’s just a weird dude in purple pants with some funny little songs about lame weddings, alcohol, and global wanderlust. Without the surging crowd, the giant stage to bound around on, and the energy of their full show, their songs and jokes full of political innuendo (but only ever innuendo) come off as mere vaudeville. Their full show, however, is a truly impressive spectacle, even if their fiddle and accordion stomp and theatrical energy isn’t really my thing.

The Pharmacy were one of the day’s surprises, if only because it’s been too long a minute since I’ve seen them play. The old, scrappy punk band I remember is still there, especially in Scottie Yoder’s hoarse vocals and the band’s odd vestigial ska breakdowns. But the band has added new depth to their sound, featuring cello on a few songs and playing up the keys. The result ranges from punk stomp to orchestral pomp to synthy pop, and the band frequently incorporates all these modes within a single kinetic song. The crowd was pretty full and lively, at one point a kid was crowdsurfing while shouting along to the Sleater-Kinney-biting lyrics of “Tropical Yeti” (“In one more hour I’ll be gone”). The EMP Skychurch is a really silly place to watch a band like the Pharmacy; the geeky, screen-saver quality of the led backdrop is totally at odds with a messy basement band like these guys, but what can you do? (The EMP had the back of the room roped off so nerds could still go visit Paul Allen’s Sci-Fi Museum for fucks sake). The exception was the green and red flashes during one song that gave the band an eye-burning stroboscopic effect. Stick to solid colors and abstract patterns, EMP, no gears turning or clock hands spinning. The Pharmacy’s mix of ragged punk, easy pop, and classical touches has really come together recently. Here’s hoping they’re at work on a new full-length.

Bert Jansch was mournful and melancholy, if his heyday was acid-folk, then this was acid-burnout folk: sad, numb, and haunting. Jansch is a classically talented guitarist, his voice is rich and resonant, and his songs are slow, medieval ballads. I have a feeling Tiny Vipers might have been in the crowd for this one.

Finally, Grand Archives played a stellar set to a mostly empty EMP, shrugging off the low attendance with good humor (“Here goes nothing”) to play the fullest set I’ve heard from these guys yet. They played some new songs from their forthcoming Sub Pop debut, due out February, that hinted at a poppier, more rollicking side of the mostly mellow band. Their harmonies sounded perfect and crystalline on the EMP’s sound system, and the small crowd was totally hushed, letting even the quietest moments play out undisturbed. The band closed with the hopeful rush of “Torn Blue Foam Couch” (that, along with other old songs “George Kaminski” and “Sleepdriving” sounded even more gorgeous and powerful than I remembered them). It was the best show of the day—when these guys are on the mainstage opening for the Shins next year, the few dozen of us that saw it will have serious bragging rights—and a fine ending to a promising first day of Bumbershoot.