Picture a world where Madison’s minority hipster population suddenly becomes the norm – where waif girls, mustached men and barefoot hippies of all ages coexist peacefully amid a bounty of cigarettes and marijuana. Chicago’s Union Park provides one such “yuppie utopia” during Pitchfork Music Festival each summer; a safe haven within the bounds of towering skyscrapers to which these enthusiasts of indie music make pilgrimage.
When Herald alum Ann Rivall and I stepped inside Pitchfork, the sound of trains rumbling beyond the enclosing trees was a reminder that Union Park might be a rare glimpse of greenery for some Chicago locals – one we were encroaching upon in those three days for the sake of seeing our favorite bands play live. The park is walking distance from Greektown ” where many performers stay during the festival – and Chicago’s Theater District. Delicious food was never more than a stone’s throw away.
First up for us was Neko Case, lead singer for the New Pornographers. Case’s flaming red head of hair was recognizable onstage right away, but it is her unique voice that makes her distinguishable from any other artist. Case’s solo performance was a prelude to the talent we’d see this weekend – and especially comparable to Wausau’s Zola Jesus, whose formal training in opera was apparent.
On our way over to James Blake (who performed elegantly), Ann and I noticed a hat stand; this was our first taste of what would become an anthropological analysis. You know the type – short-brimmed straw hats that are most often bought new but made to look old-fashioned and quirky. This style of headwear has become very popular with the crowds that Pitchfork attracts.
The fact that they are worn with an unspoken pretense of having been handed down from their grandparents, or found in some abandoned attic, yet also being sold to the masses at Pitchfork (hipster central) is fairly ironic. Almost as much so is the Respiratory Health Association located just across the street from the grounds, above which you can very nearly see the tobacco/weed fog hovering.
These so-called “hipsters” aren’t bad people – and in fact several proved to be genuinely nice. However, the forced negativity toward all things mainstream grew old after the first day. After all, a beauty as obvious and delicate as the Fleet Foxes,’ for example, does not need to be defended with warlike condescension.
This may go without saying, but the Fleet Foxes are amazing live. Although many beards had been shorn for the summer season, we could see from our faraway location that theirs remained intact and wooly. The final band to perform Saturday, the group’s calming sound contrasted with Destroyer’s jazzy melodies and Gang Gang Dance’s up-tempo beats.
Animal Collective’s following had garnered a far smaller crowd, but fortunately the Pitchfork grounds had space enough for all fans of headlining bands. Stage visibility and sound was also spot-on. Most sets were depressingly short and lacked encores, but it had to be so in order to incorporate a good mix of nearly 50 artists in three days.
The Pitchfork experience was a good one overall, as each performer had something different to offer. Then again, it was probably too obscure for me to understand.
