The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

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A small army of bicycles standing guard outside the Walker Art Center glints like miniature sunbursts while lines stretch like anxious snakes down the sidewalk. The sold out crowd of 7,500 brave hour long entry waits, sunburns, and sweat for Rock The Garden and a chance to see indie pop's brightest talents.

As Bon Iver opens the afternoon with his mellow orchestrations and hushed melodies, onlookers pack the closed street allowing only inches of legroom. On the hill overlooking the stage, a man relives childhood revelry by rolling down the grass carpet in shoeless, summer bliss. Squinting eyes are shielded by Wayfarer sunglasses. A speckle of straw hats and a gaggle of patchwork quilts break up the patches of sunbathers. A small gathering on the Walker's roof looks out with a bird's eye view. And as Bon Iver's band ring out the last echoing trumpets, bony arms raise to clap, creating their own grateful windstorms, then return to wiping brows.

Minnesota's own Cloud Cult takes the stage next. Singer Craig Minowa greets the throng with a cheerful "Hi ya!" before launching into the band's emotional and raw set. As a group focused on ecoconsciousness, Cloud Cult no doubt appreciates the festivals "zero waste" policy. Crushed beer cups and litter are noticeably missing, as is moshing and the general raucousness accustomed to outdoor concerts. A beach ball quietly bounces on top of the crowd, as they stand intently watching Minowa hop around the stage, pounding his feet and acting in stark contrast to his lyrics steeped in struggle and loss. His vocals are fragile. If you could reach out and touch them, they would turn to dust and dreams. Embellishing the band's already lush sound, is violist Shannon Frid. She raises her bow in the air, like a lightning rod or a rain stick. The audience applauds at the end of Cloud Cult's cover of Neil Young's "Hey Hey, My My," equally for the band and for a brief moment of shade provided by a passing cloud.

Then comes The New Pornographers. There's something about their rich harmonies that make it feel like summer. Maybe it's memories of the Beach Boys with their sandy, tight harmonies and stories of ocean waves that feel like they could drench even the center of this city. This is The New Pornographers' feel: bouncy, upbeat guitar pop. Most of their tunes include heavy doses of harmonious la-la-las, ba-da-das, no-no-nos and a sprinkling of enthusiastic aaaaahhhhhs. This is OK. Save those wallowing songs of heartbreak or spoutings about social causes for the dreary winter-or at least the riots outside the Republican National Convention later this year. Summer is the season of joyous pop music, and The New Pornographers deliver with their trademark boppy, poppy controlled spazz.

As the sun sets on Rock The Garden, the Walker's silver sheen looks like a melted orange popsicle. Smoke from food stands rise in wisps, joining threatening gray clouds. When Andrew Bird steps onstage to close the event, cool breezes storm through the audience, smacking like full kisses on the lips. Bird's music, laden with whistling and tender-sounding violins, sounds like an intricately wound toy. Camera flashes match bolts of far away lightning in their intensity. In turn, a light rain grows fiercer as die-hard Bird fans brave the weather to see the evening's star. A group at the bottom of the hill cowers under a red blanket in an attempt to keep dry. As the wind whips the blanket, it looks like a super hero's cape, readying them to take flight.

See the Rock the Garden Flickr Pool.