People come to big festivals for predictability - they want to see the bands they know play the songs they know and sing along to all the lyrics they know. This is the beauty of attending a big name slot. The seductive potential magic of 6000 uncoordinated kids all going berserk for the radio song they all love to hate, or even love to love. Unpredictably, this magic fails to materialize during CSS's performance.
Don't get me wrong. CSS brings all of their trademark crowd pleasers: The band brings well-executed renditions of "Let's Make Love...," "Move," and even inane classic "Music is My Hot Hot Sex." Lovefoxx brings her absurd stage wardrobe that inspires impulses of either arson or theft (I skew theft), complete with technicolor vomit unitard, Patrick Wolf Vulture shoulder pads, Raggedy Ann-droid wig, and Abu fez cap. And ah, bless' - they even bring us balloons!
But the crowd, while aptly placated, brings little of the spontaneity and verve required to CSS's performance more memorable than Sunday's hangover. Only a quarter of the way back in the crowd, we are the only ones dancing within a hundred-person radius. Sorry, CSS, on behalf of the 85% of the audience who heed neither your lyric requests to "get your move on" nor even to simply "get up, get up, get up, get up" (still baffled by the people napping on that grimy Pavilion floor...), I really am.