Day three. Sunday. In my unqualified opinion, always the most enjoyable day of the festival, regardless of the lineup. Everyone’s tired and therefore a little more mellow; no one has anything to prove. Some poor saps even have to go to work the next day. And the sun is finally out, beating down on the mud and dust of Union Park.

Granted, the Porta-Potties are looking a bit ragged, and there’s garbage strewn everywhere. I talk to more than one person who’s brought their own toilet paper. People griping about the rain yesterday are now griping about the heat. The early afternoon is given over to some unlikely acts: the Japanese experimental noise trio Boris rocks the crowd with double-necked guitars and double kick drums only to cut their set short, apologizing in broken English before leaving the stage. The crowd chants “BORIS! BORIS!” for several minutes before giving up, while the Apples in Stereo tune on the stage across the field.

Les Savy Fav plays their usual tight, fierce set, with frontman and aspiring hairstylist Tim Harrington at his scantily-dressed, unselfconscious best, flailing about and descending into the crowd with reckless abandon.

The Dodos are next, playing an extremely percussive set with every member striking something at some point, be it a marimba, toms, snare, gong, tambourine, or body part. Both they and M. Ward seem to suffer, however, from the acoustic sprawl of the festival set-up: while M. Ward’s music is perfect for a sunny Sunday afternoon, his nuanced sound doesn’t translate extremely well to the outdoor setting. I also can’t help but wonder how many people here are hoping Zooey Deschanel will make a surprise appearance.

Sunday in the park with M. Ward

As the afternoon wears on I drift toward the Balance stage in the far corner of the park, where Ghostface Killah and Raekwon are playing their rescheduled set. Meanwhile, Spiritualized begins its set on the Aluminum stage, but it’s still light out and their loud space-rock would be better suited to an indoor light show.

Which doesn’t mean I can’t still appreciate my favorite J. Spaceman creations. Around 7:30, I’m standing just to the side of the stage where Bon Iver is getting ready to perform, listening to “Come Together,” a song I will always associate with my junior year of college, come thundering across the field, threatening to drawn out the first song by Bon Iver, whose line-up today includes my old childhood friend and former bandmate on drums. It’s the kind of surreal moment I don’t really know what to do with.

Bon Iver’s set continues despite serious sonic competition from Spiritualized and then Dinosaur Jr. Justin Vernon and company fight the good fight, and gain some ground when they begin a slow-burning cover of “I Believe In You” by Talk Talk. The Mark Hollis fans in the crowd—and trust me, there are a few—hoot, and one energetic man runs up the trunk of a crooked tree to get a better view. The dominant bass and Vernon’s Hammond organ have a sort of cleansing effect, sweeping aside the incessant chatter of the audience members around me and the decibels generated by J. Mascis, several hundred yards away.

Spoon’s set is the evening’s last, roughly concurrent with Cut Copy’s back on the Balance stage. Britt Daniel and the band kick things off with “Small Stakes” and then “My Mathematical Mind.” The band doesn’t waste a second between songs, going straight into “Stay Don’t Go.” The crowd goes apeshit as the group is joined by horn players and Daniel’s voice is occasionally embellished with campy tremolo and Jim Eno punishes his drums. So maybe Sunday isn’t so mellow after all, during the last hour of this long, long weekend.

I turn my camera on, at a distance: Spoon winds the weekend down just right

And still, there’s a mass pilgrimage across the field to the Balance stage when Cut Copy starts playing. Thousands of people peel away from the masses watching Spoon to cheer on the other band. It’s an encouraging sight and an uplifting end to the weekend: two hugely popular indie bands at the tops of their games, each drawing thousands of exhausted but satisfied music fans to the center of the country in the middle of the summer.

!!!’s set is one long rave-up and elicits the most passionate audience dancing I’ve seen so far this weekend. The bass is overwhelming, as it should be; the band’s momentum builds steadily until it explodes in “Heart of Hearts”, the final number. Mohawked frontwoman Shannon Funchess and frontman Nic Offer make irresistable ringleaders. The yellow-and-black 312 beachballs are out, and the weather has reached a muggy equilibrium.

But as it turns out, we ain’t seen nothing yet. At the main stage the Hold Steady is getting ready to rock out in front of several thousand devoted disciples. Beginning with “Constructive Summer” off their recent Stay Positive and segueing directly into “Hot Soft Light,” the band hits the high points off all four of their albums. Craig Finn is ecstatic as ever, mincing and two-stepping as if possessed when not at the mic spreading the gospel. Keyboardist Franz Nicolay has shaved his head bald but still wears the black vest and red tie; Tad Kulber is cool as ever as he lays down one scorching guitar solo after another, and breaks out his double-necked Gibson SG for “Lord, I’m Discouraged,” Stay Positive’s signature ballad. “This song is so sad, I need twelve strings,” he explains.

The sun is unburdened by clouds at this point, and setting, and the members of the crowd have their hands in the air almost constantly. There’s even some crowd-surfing. This is what a summer music festival should be like.

From where I’m standing, to the side of the stage, I can see the crowd better than I can the band’s members, of whom I catch occasional glimpses between speaker cabinets. This seems eminently appropriate: a Hold Steady show is almost more about the crowd than the band. They encore with “Killer Parties” and, per tradition, Finn spends the song’s opening vamp thanking the audience. “I know I say this every time, but that’s because it’s true. There is so much joy up here, in what we do!” Whatever magic formula this band has discovered that prevents their music and their fans from succumbing to post-millenial irony and cynicism is precisely the same aesthetic that sends chills down my spine when Finn gets to the word “joy,” despite the fact that I’ve seen and heard him deliver this same line about six times before.

Craig Finn and his mirror image

For my money, today’s program peaked with the Hold Steady, but Jarvis Cocker provides a nice complement: more drinking songs delivered by an awkward Regular Guy, from the other side of the pond this time. His sound is something akin to AM Gold, a friend remarks, presumably meaning that in a good way. Cocker lies down on the stage and prances about and dispenses trivia about the city of Chicago he freely admits to learning from Wikipedia.

Jarvis Cocker, larger than life

I’m in the press tent now, and I’m exhausted. It’s finally, truly nighttime, and Animal Collective is sending throbbing, otherwordly drones across the muddy field, loop-based walls of sublime noise. While I’m biased toward letting the Hold Steady play last (and play for, like, an additional two hours) I can see why the festival organizers chose Animal Collective’s spectral sound collages to end the day. The sold-out crowd is enraptured.

There are rumors that Jay Reatard is playing another set at the Bottom Lounge. There are rumors that Julia Stiles is on the premises. There are rumors that No Age is playing an after-hours show in someone’s basement. There are rumors that the Hold Steady will be drinking at a bar whose identity is yet to be determined. (This last one isn’t so much a rumor as a logical assumption.) I’m tempted to try and pursue one or all of these rumors, but I also know are another nineteen bands playing tomorrow, and I’ll be lucky if I manage to take in even half of them. I’m deep in the throes of festival fatigue, and I love it.

Saturday begins with rain, and it occurs to me that, as far as I know, this is the first year the festival has had to deal with inclement weather. The drizzle continues through the first several sets—Titus Andronicus, Jay Reatard, Caribou, among others—finally letting up during Fuck Buttons’ set on the Balance Stage tucked away in the southwest corner of Union Park.

A crafty hipster makes good use of the mud

By the time Dizzee Rascal launches into his first song on the Connector Stage, the sun is out and starting to burn fiercely. Dizzee tells the crowd that “This ain’t no fucking picnic!” Not to be contrarian, Dizzee, but from where I’m standing, it looks like a picnic.

“Don’t make me go old school!” Dizzee bellows. This is clearly reverse psychology, because he then proceeds to go old school. The crowd roars approvingly.

In a purely subjective, unscientific assessment, the crowd this afternoon seems immensely larger than last year’s. Vampire Weekend is up next on the main (Aluminum) stage, and the audience swells for their set.

Vampire Weekend performs with the Sears Tower in the background

I never quite caught Vampire Weekend Fever when it was going around earlier this year, but what I’m hearing now is undeniably enjoyable and infectuous—the perfect accompaniment to the brightening weather.

The dirt on the ball diamonds has turned to mud, and the lines at the Porta-Potties are only getting longer, but there’s no sign of this jovial crowd going pulling a Woodstock ‘99. Meanwhile, !!! is setting up on the Connector Stage and there are clouds closing in over the park again. Let’s hope the rain, if it comes, isn’t enough to dampen the spirits sure to be lifted by !!!, the Hold Steady, Jarvis Cocker, and the Animal Collective.

More photos:

Tim Harrington from Les Savy Fav makes some money on the side giving haircuts

The poster sale

At the DEPART-ment Store

It’s always simultaneously disconcerting and heartening when I find myself in a cohort so similar to my own. Such was the case early on Friday morning while I waited to board the Megabus from Minneapolis to Chicago, looking around at my fellow passengers and resorting to easy stereotypes to determine which ones were going to the Pitchfork Music Festival: the young skinny couples and scruffy men in their upper 20s, bearing plaid long-sleeved shirts and tattoos.

Once aboard, I listened to them discuss the acts they were most excited about seeing, comparing notes on the ones they’d already seen elsewhere, and what those shows were like, and what past Pitchforks were like, and so on. It was reassuringly predictable.

Bad traffic in Chicago’s northwest suburbs and an urgent need for dinner meant that I missed the first two sets of Friday night’s Don’t Look Back, the near-legendary series curated by All Tomorrow’s Parties where bands perform classic albums in their entirety. So, I didn’t get to see Sebadoh do Bubble & Scrape or Mission of Burma do Vs. In any event, it seemed like Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back was the most anticipated set of the evening, and by the time I arrived the sun was down and the area in front of the stage was dense with festivalgoers eagerly awaiting PE’s set while its members warmed up the crowd.

I tried to soak up the ambiance, appreciating the singular music festival redolence of Goose Island beer, Porta-Potty effluvia, the occasional whiff of pot, and the pheromones of Guarded Hipster Music Aficionado—an aromatic combination I’d grown used to during past Pitchforks. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Nor did I concern myself for long with the irony of Chuck D exhorting the mostly white crowd to “fight the power,” a charge they echoed dutifully—or the fact that, just as with Sonic Youth’s performance of Daydream Nation last summer, most of the audience members were barely in grade school when the album being performed was released. I wouldn’t let myself get bogged down in these dismissive fallacies, and as if on cue, my friend Chad said, “I remember rocking the fuck out to this album during my freshman year orientation!”

Chuck D and Flava Flav kept the set tight and boisterous throughout, only indulging in a couple of the lengthy between-song shout outs that usually threaten to sap the energy of hip-hop shows. Flava Flav did use one such opportunity to make a shameless plug for his new reality show sitcom, Under One Roof, which flagrant self-promotion was met with laughter, applause, and a few scattered boos.

The group encored with “Fight the Power” and an amazing scratching solo by DJ Lord, then an indulgent drum solo from Flava Flav, who emerged from behind the kit to give a farewell oration in which he commanded the crowd to make peace signs, then fists—all the better to pump in the air while echoing his epithet, “FUCK George Bush.” It was a darker, more direct, and perhaps more effective corollary to Yoko Ono’s flashlight trick here last year.

Overblown hypeman, reality-show huckster, and hip-hop hero: Flava Flav got the last word of the evening as he removed his shirt—somehow maneuvering it around the giant clock—and threw it into the crowd as a gesture of his love for Chicago: “I don’t just give anybody my fucking shirt,” he assured us.

I’m a loser (baby, so why don’t you kill me.) This can not be ignored for even another minute, and it’s my own fault. For some reason I just recently discovered Beck.

Now, of course I knew who Beck was. Like most people my age I know most-to-all of the lyrics to “Loser” even if I don’t particularly care for that song anymore (”drive-by body pierce!”.) Like most people my age that attended college, I heard Odelay! ad nauseum for the entire year of 1996, most of 1997 and even some of 1998. And that’s where the problem lies. I have always known about Beck, I just never took the time to really dig into what he was about and that was an egregious error on my part.

I won’t mince words here: I was–and probably still am to some degree–overly elitist about music. In college, however, this inexplicably meant a shift from my HS days of listening to Pavement and Smashing Pumpkins to anointing bands like Korn, Orange 9MM and Limp Bizkit as the “new guard” (yes, I actually used to use the words “new guard” in casual conversation about these bands on multiple occasions) and actively promoting them to everyone I knew (note: yes, I realize I am now fired from this publication.)

I relate that story to relate this story: during this time, everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, was listening to Beck (and probably turning it up as loud as possible to drown out the drone of my reedy voice), and I was missing out, even though I was too busy complaining to notice much. I often loudly complained about Beck as a one-hit wonder and “fake alternative” artsist at house parties and the like (I mentioned I was insufferable, no?), but all the while I secretly suspected that “Loser” was an anomaly in Beck’s catalog (even though that song has it’s place, too) and that 10 years down the road (or thereabouts) Odelay! would be hailed as an all-time classic (I realize I just said I was too busy complaining to notice, however, I wasn’t so blind to notice that I was pretty much the only one complaining, aside from this dude who complained about pretty much anything that wasn’t Pantera.) Turns out I was right, even though I didn’t want to be. It also turns out I didn’t know I actually wanted to be right, either.

The other night as I was CD shopping (why do my CD buying excursions always inspire some barely enjoyable blog from me?–I’ll have to blog about it.) I stumbled across both Odelay! and Guero right next to each other in a used bin. Initially, I skipped over them both, the Beck-hating has been ingrained for so long it’s just Pavlovian response at this point, but then I started thinking about what a good song “Devil’s Haircut” is and how much I like “Hell Yes” from Guero. I bought them both and then proceeded to kick myself for not owning them sooner. After thinking about why I had really started to hate Beck in the first place, I realized that it was that one of my college neighbors that had really started the ball rolling. She listened to what I considered unforgiveably bad music (Counting Crows, Live, Hootie, etc.) but loved, loved, loved Beck so I immediately hated her (insufferable, remember) and Beck by association. I have made a mistake but there is nothing I can do now but admit it and move on.

Has anyone else done this? Hated a band for reasons that only become fully clear much later? Does anyone still hate Beck for “Loser”? Do you hate me for taking up valuable space and wasting you time?