Pitchfork Music Festival, July 17th-19th: Union Park, Chicago.
There are two qualities that constitute a good travelling companion: One, shared sleep schedules. Nothing is worse than wanting to nod off while your roommate is dressing in lederhosen and jazzercising at 2am. Even worse is when they want to wear their lederhosen in the hot tub. Two, flexibility is very important. This is not to be confused with itinerary apathy, where you wind up doing nothing but wandering aimlessly all day, but a shared, compliant curiosity that somehow finds me making out with some random girl by a cigarette machine in a pub on the North side. This may actually have happened.
Firstly, the music: The lesser, burgeoning bands began playing around noon. These were the bands whose followings included their parents, mates and stragglers too tired/drunk to walk to another stage. Chris and I were usually waking up at this point. Normally we'd arrive at the park after dinner in time to catch the more prominent groups.We had agreed beforehand on which groups we wanted to see: The Walkmen, Built to Spill, M83, and the Flaming Lips. Chris and I look to each other as arbiters of musical taste and inspiration. He has this weird ska thing, but I manage to overlook that, just as he tolerates my Gordon Lightfoot fixation.
Nobody seemed to know where Union Park was located. Not the waitresses, the concierge, the hotel residents. It wasn’t even depicted on most maps. Chris and I decided the best way to go was to follow groups of kids sporting Jenny Lewis haircuts and nappy beards, figuring them for knowledgeable scenesters. This wasn’t the best strategy, we would discover. Compared to Chicago traffic, the Twin Cities is an Amish village. Thankfully, Chicago has exemplary mass transit. Tourists can get from Bloomindales to the Gap in no time!
Mastering the subway made me feel powerful and competent. This feeling was fleeting. See, there are two green lines on the El. The first, which we didn't take, goes directly to the park, posthaste. Naked nymphs’ massage your feet (this is a male embellishment) while the scent of fresh jasmine emitted from every rider's armpits. The second takes you into the worst neighborhoods in the city.I think we realized we were on the wrong train when a guy wandered down the aisle selling pepper spray and loose cigarettes from a plastic bag.
It was crowded, but very manageable, and there were plenty of places to relax on the lawn. Many of the people we talked with were from the Twin Cities. Until the third and final day, when the Flaming Lips played, there was considerable room at the park, although it was a small venue. Chris and I spent considerable time in Wicker Park, their equivalent of our Hennepin Uptown area. There were street vendors and boutiques, and some cool bars.
Being a fan of the Chicago-based movie High Fidelity, I went in search of the original record shop, which is now just a boarded-up storefront. Just down from it, however, is Reckless records, which had a superlative collection of vinyl. I kept expecting to see Rob, Dick and Berry in the wings, but no dice.
As for the music? M83 were fantastic. Their electronica translated really well to the festival atmosphere, supported by their propulsive rhythm section. The Walkmen were a little languid for the atmosphere, and Beirut were surprisingly melodic and soothing, with flavors of Mexicana infusing their tunes. For me, the National, who headlined Saturday night, were my favorites, hitting all the highlights, and culminating in a blistering version of Squalor Victoria, complete with a blazing horn-section.
There are two qualities that constitute a good travelling companion: One, shared sleep schedules. Nothing is worse than wanting to nod off while your roommate is dressing in lederhosen and jazzercising at 2am. Even worse is when they want to wear their lederhosen in the hot tub. Two, flexibility is very important. This is not to be confused with itinerary apathy, where you wind up doing nothing but wandering aimlessly all day, but a shared, compliant curiosity that somehow finds me making out with some random girl by a cigarette machine in a pub on the North side. This may actually have happened.
My buddy Chris is such a companion. Between us, our navigational abilities are almost passable. He's agreeable, isn't cheap, doesn't mind some light shopping, and keeps the hotel bathroom from looking like a bio hazard. He and I first travelled to the Czech Republic five years ago. This was the first time we've travelled anywhere, since.
Firstly, the music: The lesser, burgeoning bands began playing around noon. These were the bands whose followings included their parents, mates and stragglers too tired/drunk to walk to another stage. Chris and I were usually waking up at this point. Normally we'd arrive at the park after dinner in time to catch the more prominent groups.We had agreed beforehand on which groups we wanted to see: The Walkmen, Built to Spill, M83, and the Flaming Lips. Chris and I look to each other as arbiters of musical taste and inspiration. He has this weird ska thing, but I manage to overlook that, just as he tolerates my Gordon Lightfoot fixation.The Inn of Chicago was our air-conditioned haven for four nights. The lobby is swanky and modern, the elevators are fast, and there’s an amazing rooftop terrace where we had our morning coffee, tea and bagels.
Nobody seemed to know where Union Park was located. Not the waitresses, the concierge, the hotel residents. It wasn’t even depicted on most maps. Chris and I decided the best way to go was to follow groups of kids sporting Jenny Lewis haircuts and nappy beards, figuring them for knowledgeable scenesters. This wasn’t the best strategy, we would discover. Compared to Chicago traffic, the Twin Cities is an Amish village. Thankfully, Chicago has exemplary mass transit. Tourists can get from Bloomindales to the Gap in no time! Mastering the subway made me feel powerful and competent. This feeling was fleeting. See, there are two green lines on the El. The first, which we didn't take, goes directly to the park, posthaste. Naked nymphs’ massage your feet (this is a male embellishment) while the scent of fresh jasmine emitted from every rider's armpits. The second takes you into the worst neighborhoods in the city.I think we realized we were on the wrong train when a guy wandered down the aisle selling pepper spray and loose cigarettes from a plastic bag.It's funny the rationalizing that takes place as the mind grapples with what it knows to have made a mistake. Maybe, we thought, the festival is booked in a rougher, more urban part of town to give it some cred? Or maybe it's being held in a burned-out, vacant lot because the property rental was inexpensive? Maybe we were delusional, a little spooked, wondering where we were, and how we were going to get back. Of course, through much heroism involving sword fights and swashbuckling, we eventually made it to the park.
In order to buy beer, water, or anything else life-sustaining, we needed tickets. The ticket line was irritatingly long. When we finally arrived at the front, we had to join the back of another line. The beer vendors were selling Goose Island amber, some wheat beer, and that disturbingly orange alcoholic energy drink. Chris and I chose wisely. There were all kinds of vendors selling everything from homemade clothing to baskets of organic vegetables to concert paraphernalia, along with some animal-rights and other activists’ booths.
It was crowded, but very manageable, and there were plenty of places to relax on the lawn. Many of the people we talked with were from the Twin Cities. Until the third and final day, when the Flaming Lips played, there was considerable room at the park, although it was a small venue. Chris and I spent considerable time in Wicker Park, their equivalent of our Hennepin Uptown area. There were street vendors and boutiques, and some cool bars.Being a fan of the Chicago-based movie High Fidelity, I went in search of the original record shop, which is now just a boarded-up storefront. Just down from it, however, is Reckless records, which had a superlative collection of vinyl. I kept expecting to see Rob, Dick and Berry in the wings, but no dice. As for the music? M83 were fantastic. Their electronica translated really well to the festival atmosphere, supported by their propulsive rhythm section. The Walkmen were a little languid for the atmosphere, and Beirut were surprisingly melodic and soothing, with flavors of Mexicana infusing their tunes. For me, the National, who headlined Saturday night, were my favorites, hitting all the highlights, and culminating in a blistering version of Squalor Victoria, complete with a blazing horn-section.The Flaming Lips? They were worth seeing, of course. Many of their best-known numbers, like Fight Test and Do You Realize turned into slow sing-alongs. As the sun set on another gorgeous Chicago night, Chris, me, and thousands of fans packed the subway, tired, dirty, and very, very satisfied.
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