If you answered C (*see footnote*), you have the skills to survive Pitchfork Music Festival. Or, you might have an unhealthy fixation with public toilets.
The Dutchess & The Duke... fun for 15 minutes or so.
Being a first-time attendee this summer, I imagined Pitchfork’s gathering of Midwest music snobs as a magical melee bursting with heavenly noise and radiating an aura of pure coolness. Pretty quickly, though, the irritating truths heavily sank in, anchoring my cognitions to reality. The overdose of plaid shirts and those annoying, little-kid, tiny caps paired with oversized black sunglasses pushed my peaceful tolerance of stereotypes to its limit. Beer came in tiny plastic cups and your ensuing tab cost more than what you paid for your ticket; fortunately, staying away from beer meant avoiding the huge, amorphous lines for what was not enough toilet but way too much smell.
Really though, I was pleasantly surprised with Pitchfork’s smooth operation. Getting in was quick – and though you’ll never sneak in your Dasani with the cracked seal, have no fear if you want to bring some herbal inspiration. Except for a few standouts, the crowds win the anonymity contest, but were easygoing, generally polite, and appropriately sized for Union Park. Also, shows actually started on time. Except for some bigger names toward the end of the days – i.e. Grizzly Bear and the headliners – my locations on the lawn weren’t overly claustrophobic and came with pretty good views.
Go vision, go! The food. The food, the food, the food. It was delicious. It doesn’t matter that I ate off my chest and the shoulders of my compatriots, standing in a tiny circle with food balanced precariously on paper plates. The fried vegetables were my favorite, but the fritters and spicy chicken cube things) were pretty mindblowing.
Of course, it’s all about the music. The way the stages were scheduled, I never had a problem choosing who to see. I was a little disappointed with the headliners: The National was anticlimactic, and the testosterone fueled aggressiveness toward balloons dampened my enjoyment of The Flaming Lips. However, the Lips played lots of their famous standards and won points for entering the stage through a giant vagina. Women’s droning guitar work was a major highlight, along with Ponytail’s spastic energy and Grizzly Bear’s haunting selections from Veckatimest. Seeing Doom (or at least, his mask) was a biggie as well.
Besides a few really obnoxious performances (though I’m not surprised I’m not crazy about a band called “F***ed Up”), Pitchfork was a blast. And with the money you save on the cheap tickets, you can maybe even afford a hotel room instead of sleeping in your friend’s apartment crawlspace.
Oh, yeah – and Chicago is really cool. Observe:
***I really did see a smelly man running across the Porta-Potties.***
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