I skipped to the nearby, larger Twin Peaks stage on the east end of Speedway Meadow to catch Vancouver, BC's Black Mountain. The fivesome's warm psychedelia nestled perfectly into the white sky and pine trees, augmented by eerie emanations from the Moog synthesizer and the wails of bored-looking vocalist Amber Webber. Aptly dubbed “stoner rock for the masses” by The Word, Black Mountain was easily one of the heaviest bands of a three-day lineup largely devoted to indie-folk, jam-bands, and pop rock.

Time to sprint a quarter mile ocean-wards to the very opposite end of the festival for Manu Chao at the main Land's End Stage (not a misnomer in the slightest). This necessitated ditching Black Mountain halfway through their set, a frustration that recurred throughout the festival and was a common complaint: there were too many concurrent shows, and too much physical space between them. As great as it is to have a smorgasbord of acts, it's painful having to choose. The combination of hefty treks and weaving through a shit-ton of equally determined festival-goers means a enjoying a full set and catching each act on your list are mutually exclusive endeavors in constant opposition.

This, paired with the high cost of tickets ($85 per day) and the fact of the schedule was released only about two weeks prior to the show, created some disgruntled fans for sure. On Friday, Aug. 22, for example, Beck, Manu Chao, and the Black Keys all overlapped. On Saturday, the question for a lot of folks involved Primus, Cake, and Ben Harper.

Watch the player: Devendra Banhart.

During Saturday’s press conference, performer Kaki King compared the competitive lineup to a buffet, which Les Claypool called, "One of the best festival analogies I've ever heard." The ensuing conversation went like something like this:

Kaki King: I'm kind of the cauliflower, broccoli, sunflower seed thing. (Turning to Les) You're the pig with the apple in its mouth. You don't even have to worry.

Matt Nathanson: I want morbid obesity to happen in front of my stage.

King: I want to be the bacon platter! I'm pancakes covered in whipped cream! Don't leave!

Fired up: Liars.

And so we tried to gorge but never felt quite full.

I was thrilled for an opportunity to see Manu Chao, the pentalingual Latin punk singing about Zapatistas and immigration, since rarely plays in our evil empire and I’ve been improving my language skills with his Clandestino (Virgin France, 1998) for the past decade.

The show was all the high energy you’d expect, though with the crowd of college kiddos jumping up and down I felt stuck in the middle of a House of Pain video. It was here I formulated a new rule: If you haven't found a good enough spot by the second song, you probably won't, so just relax and enjoy the show from your vantage point, even though it’s not the best.

People’s incessant quest for the front, though understandable, got tiresome; I’m generally pampered, accustomed to getting as cozy as my little musical heart desires, up close, at local clubs, but I quickly realized Outside Lands – save for the smaller stages like Panhandle – was a different beast. Aside from the multi-performances-happening-at-one-time gripe, not being able to see your favorite performer was the most frequently heard bummer.

Predictably and wonderfully, Chao called our Prez "the most dangerous man on the planet.” He gave numerous shout-outs en español to all the Mexicanos in the overwhelmingly white, ostensibly pretty well-off-looking audience. Que hora son, mi corazon?

'Lost Cause'? Beck.

As soon as the last hearty applause began to wane, I spun around and made my way over to Beck, tucked down in the eucalyptus trees on the Sutro Stage, to listen - but again, not see - his last few songs, including the tear-jerker “Lost Cause” and a thankful blast from a happier past with “Where It’s At.” The space between the two shows was where my hope for still loving the newborn festival, despite the annoying throngs making me feel ancient and the eenie-meenie-miny-moe-catch-a-show-or-let-it-go conundrum, really took a dive.

Light and shadow: Radiohead.

Hundreds of people, crazy-eyed, were storming the gates, literally, in anticipation of Radiohead, set to play in an hour on Land’s End. Fences were down, and it wasn’t even like new paths were being carved but rather entire swaths of the park were getting trampled, mindlessly. Maybe this herd-like disrespect wouldn’t have been so personally irksome had the promoters not been so hyped on the festival being a celebration of the park and the city, of their histories and uniqueness. All I could feel was, “Ha! Like these kids give a shit! Beer, brah!”

True, whoever engineered the walkway between Lindley Meadows (home of the Sutro and Presidio stages) created a bottleneck incapable of supporting an impatient mob horny for Kid A. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if these brats ever had to do shitty manual labor like putting up fences – and then having to work security to ensure they remained standing – and then put them up again.

Canned: The post-Radiohead view oF the recycling.

Plus there was the “greening” aspect, another pat-on-the-back for the organizers. As Claypool put it, while acknowledging the attempts toward sustainability, "Right now I'm leaving a carbon ass print." And though Kaki King chimed in about feeling less guilty playing a green festival since “it's crazy how much musicians pollute,” are carbon credits and an organic wine tent really enough to assuage guilt when hundreds of kooks who flew in on jets specifically for the festival can’t even get their biodegradable corn polymer disposable beer cup into one of the many compost bins dotting the smothered landscape? If you gave all 6 billion people in the world a Prius, is that greening the planet? C'mon.

I mean, is it not slightly ironic that Radiohead fans were eroding hillsides in frothing attempts to bask in the solar-powered glory of one the most environmental of mainstream rock bands? I love music, and I think large parties in its honor are worthy celebrations, in theory. But it doesn’t take a carbon mathematician to calculate the most ecological equation: support your local music scene!

And so, despite having heard some cool live music, I’d had enough and had to get outside Outside Lands and inside my house haven before I throttled someone with their hot pink keffiyeh. I’d wanted to catch Radiohead, a band I may be alone in for not really caring about but figured would be nice to experience nevertheless. But the prospect sounded too gruesome.

All that glitters: Radiohead.

Word on the streets the next day was, again, frustration with the inability to see the band. People were getting carried out on stretchers (drunk or smooshed or both?). My co-worker lamented that they only played their hits. Festivals appeal to the common denominator, at the very least. How else to keep 100,000 ticket-holders happy, to keep fences up?

But alas, Saturday, Aug. 23, was another day. If Friday was for the iPod generation, Saturday was for the KFOG one, bookended by aging Englishman Steve Winwood and the likable, three-decades-strong Tom Petty. There were enough fogies and hippies to balance the ubiquitous hipsters, and the vibe was palpably more easy-going.

I’d planned to see Winwood mainly to make my mama happy, but his performance ended up being one of my favorites, busting out "I'm a Man" from his teenage days with the Spencer Davis Group and finishing his set in minimalist style with only a trio on organ, drums, and Winwood on his pale seafoam Stratocaster.

The Walkmen generation.

On the recommendation of a new journalist-friend I caught New York indie rockers the Walkmen. The contrast between the massive audience at the headlining Land’s End and the wonderful intimacy of the Panhandle stage was flattening – I’m not sure if it was the closeness factor or the sound engineering or just typical of these well-dressed men-boys, but the Walkmen were fucking blaring. I’m used to seeing metal shows but god, I had my fingers in my near bleeding ears.

They played a lot of new songs off their soon-to-be-released album, You and Me (Gigantic Music), which is currently available on AmieStreet.com, with $5 going towards the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, and which you should buy because the songs are pretty darn lovely, sung all Dylan-esque and floating on the sweetest carousel melodies.

Loving Primus' Les Claypool.

Primus, next up, was a must-see. Les Claypool had promised he’d be “kicking off the dust,” trying to remember how to play the creeping bass lines of mid-‘90s hits “Here They Come,” “My Name Is Mud,” and the like. And they did, prompting – in tandem with getting hot-boxed in the open air – major flashbacks of fragrant afternoons accompanied by Pork Soda (Interscope, 1993). The space-bass jams and Claypool’s distinctly odd voice were singularly weird treats for the munchie crowd.

The sun, hiding somewhere in the western sky, began to go down, and the moment we’d all been waiting for (at least, for those over Radiohead or not feeling Sunday’s headliner, Jack Johnson) came out: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

From the northeastern corner of the central sound booth, Petty looked about 3 inches tall when he happened to mosey into my narrow view. But I really didn’t care it felt a lot like watching a concert on VHI with really good sound and way too many strangers in my living room. They played a set exclusively of hits, universal and timeless, spanning 1979’s “Even the Losers” to this decade’s “Honeybee,” with lots of lovably cheesy crowd sing-alongs (Petty: “Breakdown….,” Crowd: “…It’s all right!”) and channeling late, great Traveling Wilburys mates Roy Orbison and George Harrison with “End of the Line.” After repeated sound problems (there were more to come, as at Radiohead the previous night), the band re-emerged with Steve Winwood in tow, rocking “Can’t Find My Way Home” from Winwood’s Blind Faith period and “Gimme Some Lovin’” from the Spencer Davis Group era.

I couldn’t keep track of the number of vintage guitars Petty and veteran Heartbreaker Mike Campbell let shine from their stash. I’d prayed they’d play “Refugee,” and they did in closing, then returned to the stage for an “encore” (how can you have a genuine encore when your festival has a curfew?) of “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” Van Morrison’s 1964 three-chord spelling lesson “Gloria,” and “American Girl.”

This was the show to end my festival buffet. Friends reported Sunday’s Wilco set was a mighty fine one, though. Yet ultimately my two days inside Outside Lands spawned more questions than answers, ones I hope I’m not alone in considering but that Another Planet Entertainment, Superfly Presents, and the San Francisco Parks and Recreation Department are thinking about, too.

Those include, can Golden Gate Park really support three days of 150,000 people? Can the city - and in particular Muni (cheers to the San Francisco Bike Coalition, once again, for providing superb, safe, and fast valet bike parking)? Was this the first year of the next Bonnaroo? Will Outside Lands affect free shows in the park, namely the equally long, way mellower, upcoming Hardly Strictly Bluegrass? How long will it take for the grass stomped to a rank decomposition at the techie Crowdfire tent to recover? How do we balance the joy and pride of hosting a music festival with everything else?

The remnants of Friday night.