Well, this year's Pitchfork Music Festival owned. Was there ever any doubt? Probably not. So, rather than crafting inane amateur accounts of musical highlights and lowlights, I thought I'd offer up some of the stranger sights from the last three days:
Running into Bon Iver and King Khan. What did these two dudes have in common? They put on two of my favorite performances, and I saw them both at the festival's record fair. But, more importantly, what did they not have in common? Quite simple: Bon Iver was fully clothed when I saw him, whereas King Khan was wearing only a Speedo, a cape, and a helmet. Obviously.
Sebadoh saying something along the lines of "Rush sucks." And then seeing a pissed off guy in a Rush shirt head for the beer line. Boy, do I ever hate when that happens.
Supremely intoxicated bikini girl. With throngs of thousands abound, what were the odds I would run into this same person multiple times a day, two days in a row? Apparently pretty high. She was loaded on Sparks, which is where you probably encountered her, too - waiting not-so-patiently in the drink line to fade one shade closer to complete blackness. (Have you ever had Sparks? Just one of 'em? My lord. They make you crazy. She must have had a dozen cups of the alcohol-infused, orange energy elixir each day, and behaved accordingly.) The only things she seemed to savor more than Sparks were, not the artists, but rather her own body, her flesh-toned bikinis, bumblebee antennas and lots of... body glitter? And her blue JanSport backpack, which seemed to contain nothing. She deliberately rubbed up against anyone, male or female, who looked her way, her lone motive to acquire more drink tickets. Or cigarettes. And then a lighter. In that order. (I know this to be true from first-hand experience.)
Guy with "Straight Edge" tattooed across his back. Question: what made this noteworthy? Answer: he was smoking a cigarette. (Please see Wikipedia entry if punch line is not inferred.)
Thousands upon thousands of nerdy white hipsters (falsely) feeling funky-fresh, getting down to the bombastic beats and revolutionary rhymes of Public Enemy. (Needs no further explanation.)
Mud fights. I mean, honestly, what's cooler than hoards of strangers rolling around in a mud pit together? This always makes me feel warm on the inside, and little less dirty than I actually am on the outside.
© mundane affair
- mundane affair
- Chicago, IL, United States
- Hark, ye children. An ex-kid or former infant – a fully grown seed. White as milk and 2 percent overrated. Loves writing, loathes reading (only kidding) and doesn’t mind learning a thing or two. Prone to self-contradiction, self-defamation and self-mutilation, but not self-strangulation. Thinks a lot, or a little, depending on subject matter, and wishes he was a mixture of Lester Bangs, whoever played Amélie in "Amélie," Iceland and a werewolf. Did not know the 12 months or their order until grade 10, and still has no idea how many days are in each. Forgets names, birthdays, relatives and holidays, and was once a “C” geography student. Tired, in general, finding little or no motivation to wake up each day. Ate ice cream from cartons on a daily basis for three months straight (mostly in the evenings), and gained weight after it was all over. Is no longer fond of ice cream.
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