As bespectacled, primary-color-clad Dan Deacon, a breakout-hit from Baltimore, played synthesizer-heavy, dance-friendly tracks from his precarious setup within the frenzied crowd, he drew the ire of frustrated security officers, and the adoration of ticket holders. And Girl Talk, aka preternaturally talented DJ Gregg Gillis, mixed everything from Avril Lavigne to Biggie Smalls into a brilliant concoction, and he invited a few dozen dancers to join him on stage as night fell. Each played such an exuberant set that the Chicago Fire Department was compelled to pull the plug on midsong. It was the sort of concert-going experience where details like blood-drawing volume melt from memory, leaving only the euphoria that comes with a serendipitous discovery—and maybe a tune or two to hum. They were the performances of the festival, the kind you blog home about.
Last year’s Pitchfork played out much like this. It’s not Yo La Tengo, Brazil’s long-lost Os Mutantes, or personal favorites such as the National whose performances I recall. But the music of relative unknowns Bonde Do Role, CSS (these two share a home country—Brazil, again—and a Beastie Boys-like insouciance), and hip-hop’s Spankrock (again with the Baltimore!) resounds still.
And so it went this summer, over the course of an exquisitely sunny three-day July weekend in Chicago’s Union Park. All of the festival’s selling points persisted: small size (about 40 bands); manageable crowds (heavy on the Williamsburg, Silver Lake, and Wicker Park contingents); and a well-oiled infrastructure, boasting functioning facilities (Woodstock ’99, anyone?) and copious amounts of locally brewed beer.
Icons Sonic Youth (performing their 1988 album Daydream Nation), Cat Power, the Sea and Cake, Pavement’s Stephen Malkmus, and the New Pornographers (sans Neko Case, but with a similarly red-headed doppelgänger) all played exceptionally, though not memorably. I could not shake the feeling that these preeminent musicians are better suited to more intimate, indoor performances that extend to the wee hours of the morning. Unfortunately or not, the Fire Department remained contented.
That is not to say there were no other highlights. De La Soul’s festival-closing set extended almost an hour past their expected cut-off. Of Montreal, who are of Athens, Georgia, set a record for costume changes (too many to count) and onstage thongs (one). Battles and reggae-tinged Professor Murder received thunderous applause, and (of course) Baltimore duo Beach House handily pulled off their luscious, almost-whispered pop, providing a rare moment of contemplation. On the flip side, Yoko Ono’s vocal spasms alienated more people than they attracted, despite Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore’s desperate assistance, and a handful of acts seemed to spend more time crafting schizophrenic wardrobes than sound checking.
But these inconsistencies are part of the fun, and provided much-needed downtime amid the frantic stage-hopping. All told, it was another coup for the humble music Web site that was born on the fringe and grew into a tastemaker in about the time it takes to earn a college degree. As the site’s tastes continue to expand, taking in the classic and cutting edge, the experience is only enhanced, with special thanks to inimitable, revelatory performers like Dan Deacon. My only bit of advice for next year comes from him; as he prepared for his afterparty, the weekend working to a close, he said to me, “Every festival should be at night.” — Nicholas Mosquera
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