Seeing that this was first Sasquatch I have ever experienced as well as the first time I have ever set my eyes on the Gorge, I obviously had way too much to take in over Memorial Day weekend. The tiny press trailer was a chaotic mess; everyone was jockeying for space at one of the tables, fighting over power outlets, etc. It was the last place I wanted to be, unless I needed to refill my water bottle, which I did many times over the three extremely sunny and hot days.

For it being my first Sasquatch, though, I must say that the lineup this year was very well thought out, to the point that I seldomly had a conflicting show. (Two exceptions on Monday: Black Moth Super Rainbow vs. Grizzly Bear and Monotonix vs. Fleet Foxes. Tobacco vs. Erykah Badu didn't pan out because we unfortunately left before either hit the stage).

Saturday
-Having missed the first two hours of performances on day one by wandering around and familiarizing myself with the grounds, I walked over the crest of the hill that looked down to the Mainstage just as Doves were spreading their final anthemic musical wings. It was a very fitting, fleeting moment that came as soon as it went. Over at Yeti Stage, flocks of people poured into the empty grass space to see Dent May & His Magnificent Ukulele. Although I appreciate Dent May's cute take on simple instrument with limited range, his songs are like sub-par Magnetic Fields songs, sung through the voice of a sweet nerd having a bad case of blue balls looking a flirtateous beauty across the room who he wants to kiss. But with the sun shining down, the band set the lazy tropical vibe down perfectly, and it was a front-to-back welcome to the warm weather we would go onto experience all weekend. I joked that the pale Dent May would become Dent May and his Magnificent Tan by the end of it all. (They had a few days off and were spotted wandering around all weekend long. His skintone was significantly darker on Monday.)

HOLY SHIT THAT WAS A LOT OF FUN.

We got back from Sasquatch late last night and—as Christopher Frizzelle noted—I haven't even showered yet because I DIDN'T WANT TO WASH OFF THE FUN RESIDUE. I also went to Sasquatch two years ago, a decidedly un-fun experience that involved a muddy tent city, kitten-sized apocalyptic hail, a sunburn, a massive hatching of baby spiders raining down upon my face, and a late-night cross-country drive to get away from that horrible, horrible land. So this year, I was slightly frightened of committing to three days of dirt and sun and drugs and no sleep, because I don't like being away from the finer things in life (i.e. beds). But FUCK THE FINER THINGS IN LIFE I.E. BEDS.

I don't go see live music often enough, so sometimes I forget exactly why live music is a thing that people want to do. And then I wind up somewhere like Sasquatch, and the bands are so magnetic and awesome that you JUST WANT TO DO NAKED HUGGING WITH THEM FOREVER. (It drives a lady into fits of all-caps.)

I'm burnt out and wasn't officially on Stranger duty for any Sasquatch impressions, but in the interest of writing on Line Out about bands other than Animal Collective, I have squeezed out some impressions on a few other bands. And Animal Collective, too.

AA Bondy: Remember Verbena? They had an album produced by Dave Grohl in 1999, they were hyped as a "next Nirvana," it didn't take, back to sleep. In prior years, the band was doing solid Stones revivalism before that became the hot-shit alt-country thing to do, and now, maybe five years too late, their lead singer is trying it again on his own. At 1 p.m. on Saturday, Bondy looked sedated in a pearl-snapped shirt and a song that repeated "Don't tread on me" in the chorus like the phrase was somehow born anew—wasn't, bud. Inside those pearl snaps, I still saw the skinny kid who threw hissyfits in Verbena, stormed off the stage, came back to choke his guitar until it bled noise. Saturday's set wasn't as violent or memorable, but it would've been a great segue for an alt-country newbie who'd been weaned on Ryan Adams. And, of course, Bondy sure looked happier.

M Ward: The opening blitz of back-to-back songs was damn near my day's apex, full of the heat and impact that he doesn't deliver on his CDs. Ward strutted Elvis-style, dipping his guitar to the ground like she was his dance partner, then quick-picking her with quiet confidence like she was his underage prom date. This brisk sense of fun went away once he turned the knob down from 9 to about 4, going back to the quiet, stereotypical M Ward that everybody knows and loves—except on cloudless, shadeless days like Saturday, when any excuse to sway and dance and bob your head means a little more breeze. I left to find shade.

Animal Collective: By their set time, I had found terrain just up a hill on stage left to lay a blanket out, and most bands didn't benefit from this spot in relation to the speakers. Animal Collective definitely did, particularly with the echoey haze on vocals that warbled in my direction. Plus, I didn't have to call Animal Collective a visual disappointment like I'd feared. When looking to the right, I stared into the sunny expanse of open earth, repeating and hanging in the air like the thumping loops of feedback and drone between AC songs. To the left, there was that solid mass of jumping, fist-pumping fans eating every bit of the set up. This served as a stark contrast to the MCD's rant about jocks in the crowd—some of those jocks were having their eyes opened by Animal Collective the previous day, so, whatever.

M Ward by Sean Pecknold

Calexico, NIN, St. Vincent, The Wrens, and others after the jump (along w/ photos).

Lindy West: "Some grass just fell out of my hair. I did not take a shower yet."

10. Happy Sunburned Drunk Girls

9. Happy Drunk Musicians

8. Lead Singers of 90's Alternative Rock Bands that Play Really Angry Tambourines...