The Sun and the Wetness of Life: The Pitchfork Music Festival Exposed

The sun that had for the last two days turned Chicago's Union Park into something of a schvitz started its fiery descent at a moment so precise it could hardly have been a coincidence - precisely, that is, at the start of Devendra Banhart's performance. With the day in its tawny final hour and the night not yet settled in, it was easy to imagine Banhart and his band slipping through some careless crevice of the space-time continuum, straight out of 1972, a few molecules still scrambled. It would certainly help to explain the singer's bizarre banter. He opened the act by explaining that, inspired by a tour stop in Greece, the band would be henceforth known as "Bathhouse of the Winds": "where the winds go for anonymous sexual encounters." Then he said something about sperm being wet and life being made out of water.

It wasn't that the music was quite so moving. It was just that the musicians, in tight denim flares and gauzy shirts, all lanky and angelic with long locks and beards, looked so handsome in the amber light. It was the bottle of Maker's Mark that the lead guitar player took swigs from when he wasn't using its neck to play slide. It was the young man alone who stepped in next to us, muttering, "Sweet! Open spot!" - then, ten minutes later, stomped away after offering his review: "Boring!" It was because it was not just the sun that was going down but the temperature, and we had all survived one of the hottest weekends ever recorded on the planet. And it was because we knew that as much as we liked Devendra Banhart, as much as we would like Yo La Tengo after him and Spoon after them, and as much as we were all about to puke with anticipation for the legendary once-in-a-lifetime Os Mutantes final one-time only reunion tour extravaganza, we also knew that it was all about to be over. And we were all pretty damn tired.

I was so tired, in fact, that I wandered away from the Devendra Banhart show and bought a popsicle and fell asleep while I tried to eat it, the sounds of Yo La Tengo coloring my dreams. I had slept through Aesop Rock that afternoon, too, just as I had the day before during The Walkmen's show, though I did wake up when I recognized that one song from the Saturn commercial.

"Well, I guess you did get in for free," a friend said after I'd told him how many bands had provided soundtrack music for my snoozes. That was true and it wasn't true. I bought my thirty-dollar two-day whammy ticket in April, the day after the Os Mutantes announcement, in a fever of impulse. It was mailed to me a week later. Of course I lost it. But someone I met at an after-hours coffee shop party in Evanston the night before the festival offered me a spare ticket she didn't plan on selling. I got in on a free pass, but I'd paid my thirty dollars, and I wasn't looking to waste it.

Besides, it's not like I was sleeping because I was bored. It wasn't that I even regretted falling asleep. Pitchfork, the baby brother of runaway child Intonation, was technically a first-annual festival, but it felt like something we had all been attending for years. Friends I knew from college were there, friends from Ann Arbor and friends from Milwaukee. I ran into at least two dozen people I knew, including a quorum of ex-boyfriends.

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