Great live performances reveal things in music that hide within the recorded version: You aren’t washing dishes at a concert. In those reality-stopping moments when the art being created in front of you is compelling enough, you’ll forget you even possess a smartphone. Now that it’s music festival season, as a resident of Brooklyn, the center of the allegedly most culturally gravitational megalopolis in the Western world, I might be expected to have local access to top-notch offerings from the corporate concerns that bring artists together in the summers. Yet where I live, the putative center of the world, the pickings are slim. New York City music fans had the option of spending $359 to attend this past weekend’s Governors Ball Music Festival, where a thin bill of retreads, mediocrities, and TikTok ephemera awaited them.
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