This past summer, I had the privilege of enjoying a major music festival that took place a stone throw (and three stops on the Blue Line) away from my Chicago suburb, Elmhurst, Ill. I was overflowing with excitement as I prepared myself for my first experience with Chicago’s Pitchfork Music Festival, a festival known for guaranteeing a lineup of diversity so strong it would put the original organizers of the ‘60s Monterey Pop and Woodstock Festival into a fit of shock.
I had a list of 16 different artists I hoped to catch glimpses at, some deserving a simple sitting and watching-glimpse while others were given hours of pre-show wait time. Interestingly enough, the many different friends and old high school classmates I saw at the festival also had hopes to make bizarre show transitions similar to my own, going from a punk-rock set to a vocal-focused, more synth-heaving experimental pop.
Saturday led me to hop from boisterous hip-hop MC Danny Brown, where crowd-surfing and mobs of sweaty teens shouting obscenities back and forth lasted the entire performance, to art-rock mqueen St. Vincent, where flocks of fans would be heard crying through smiles and song at the musician’s delectable, and then end with the legendary indie-rock group Neutral Milk Hotel.