Piecing Together Pitchfork Fest
How I remember my three trips to the Festival
Earlier this week I wrote about my favorite songs from the year 2013. The trip down that particular stretch of memory lane was well timed. 2013 was the first year that I attended Pitchfork Music Festival, a three day, three stage affair that called Chicago home from 2006 to 2024. Two weeks ago Pitchfork announced that the festival would not return to Chicago in 2025. No reasons behind “the changing festival landscape” were given for the decision. At least as far as my Chicago & New York-centric social circles were concerned this news was met with a deflated sigh and scoffing consternation. Here was yet another sign of Chicago’s perpetual underdog status and/or the nth example of GQ’s mishandling of the Pitchfork brand. Live music obsessives might be inclined to take Pitchfork’s explanation at face value and chalk this up to the slow-bursting bubble of 2010s festival culture, perhaps itself a symptom of the youth’s bed-centric anti-partying lifestyle (ALLEGEDLY).
I am not here to participate in take-craft. I am simply annoyed that after moving back to Chicago with intentions to stick around for a long while, the only big music festival in the city that also happened to routinely coincide with my birthday is kaputt, no Destroyer. I won’t make any grandiose claims about Pitchfork being my favorite musical festival of all time, my one trip to Roadburn in the Netherlands put Pitchfork to shame while Northwest Terror Fest and Hillstock have more personal significance. However, there’s no question that of the big festivals in Chicago, Pitchfork stood alone. Not only was it significantly more affordable than Lolla, less toxic to the senses and sense of civic solidarity than Riot Fest, and more of a real thing than any of the otherwise delightful Taste Of [blank] street shows, it also served as the hub for music culture in Chicago. You’d run into anyone and everyone over those three days.
Of course the music was good, otherwise why show up? I doubt there’s anyone on earth who’s musical appetites were perfectly wetted by the Pitchfork’s booking, but the spread always included something for everyone but the most picky of listeners. My attendance at the festival coincided with a loosening of my personal aesthetic. Call it poptimism, call it getting over myself, or call it trying to be more dateable, but in 2013-2016 it happened to me. In some ways, Pitchfork Fest’s distance from my comfort zone was the best thing about it. I always felt like I was learning something. Pitchfork was were I first started to understand the appeal of dance music. It was how I knew which bands in the indie world were legit and which weren’t for me. It was where I’d see see huge names as disparate as Björk and Brian Wilson that I might have otherwise shelled out for. Pitchfork was a view into the culture of music outside the dark caverns of my particularly interests, where, by observing which NBA jerseys white boys were willing to risk a sun burn by wearing, I could understand more about the world around me. And make no mistake, the sun was quite bright. Right now it’s the first truly snowy day in Chicago since I’ve moved back, so if you don’t mind I’m going to spend the rest of this intro remembering brighter, warmer days. I’ve always struggled to make my experience at Pitchfork cohere into a single narrative, so instead I’m going to bounce from memory to memory the same way I’d wander from stage to stage. Here’s what I recall:
My pleasant surprise at seeing Thomas Pridgen behind the kit for Trash Talk, who at one point tried to get the entire crowd at the Blue Stage to sit down and mostly succeeded.
Watching Joanna Newsom play then brand new songs on piano that would later show up on Divers, feeling blessed but also ill prepared to appreciate what I was witnessing.
Björk punctuating every song with a chipper “thank you!” and one “gracias!”, her drummer playing the breakbeats on “Joga” and “Crystalize” flawlessly, and an enormous Tesla Coil providing the bassline for “Army of You”.
Seeing KEN Mode for the first of many times, way too earlier in the morning.
Pissed Jeans bringing up the Festival’s corporate sponsor Tito’s Vodka at every opportunity.
Meeting ~*My Girlfriend*~ for the first time, on my birthday no less, right before watching Swans in the middle of a field with no shade and the full force of the afternoon sun bearing down on us. I felt like I was being deep fried, a feeling only amplified by the furnace-like intensity of Swans’ notoriously intense live sound. I’d end up catching Swans live every time they came to Chicago for a few years in a row. They were the closest thing to a jam band that I had in my life, all the way down to the obnoxious opinions about which show’s version of “Toussaint Louverture” was best.
Low covering Rihanna’s “Stay”, feeling immense relief from the Swans set and enjoying the shade near the Blue stage.
Skipping out on Belle & Sebastian to get front row for the Deafheaven after show at the Bottom Lounge a few blocks away. Sunbather was still fresh, as were the cultural divisions it drove into the metal scene. Attending that Deafheaven show, just far enough away from the festival proper to still feel like a product of the underground, was the last call for the band-wagon, an invitation to be on the right side of history. When they played the Red Stage the next summer, again on my literal birthday, I felt like the good guys had won and that maybe me and my non-metal friends weren’t so different after all. Things turned out to be more complicated than that.
A girl joining me to dance to Killer Mike to make her boyfriend jealous. I don’t think the boyfriend was the type to offer anything harsher than a few dirty looks in my direction, but with Killer Mike’s music in the background I would have taken on his whole squad.
Helping pull a different girl out of the crowd-crush during Lil B’s set. It dawned on me in that moment that meme-driven parasocial devotion to the internet’s strangest guys was perhaps not a healthy way to live.
M.I.A.’s cool light show, overshadowed by persistent feedback issues.
Making the wise choice to see TNGHT instead of being complicit in the R. Kelly rehabilitation project, experiencing the “Blood On The Leaves” drop in person only weeks after Yeezus came out, dancing with some friends of friends who I’d follow to an after party where I realized I was too wiped out by three days of live music to act on anything other than my desire to sleep.
The incongruity of The Haxan Cloak’s lobby music from hell with the pleasant weather at like, 2pm.
Unexpectedly crying during the Sun Kil Moon song about his mom, only to leave his set a few songs later because of how difficult it was to hear a word he was singing.
Realizing that Cloud Nothings drummer Jayson Gerycz was the real deal during a hair-raising version of “Wasted Days”.
Watching a pre-Antonoff’d St. Vincent make the case for her on-coming superstardom.
Nearly leaving early, but finding myself rooted to the ground by the sound of Jeff Mangum’s voice carried across Union Park from an unlit stage.
Grimes debuting “Go”, her rejected Rihanna song. Does any pop star have as many famous rejected songs as Rihanna?
Waiting to see if Kendrick Lamar was going to play any new material in 2014 only to receive a significantly more polished version of the good kid show that he had put on when I saw him open for Kanye West the previous December. It was clear that the tour had sharpened his performance skills, and I left assured that he was ready to take the next step in his already promising career. Not even that set could prepare me for To Pimp A Butterfly. Nothing could.
Taking a chance on Moses Sumney in 2016 despite not knowing a thing about his music. Walking away afterwords wondering where the hell that had just come from and how I could have missed a singer and musician that talented.
Being utterly perplexed by the popularity of Car Seat Headrest, and feeling that at age 26 I was already aging out of who this festival was for.
A mostly terrific set by Carly Rae Jepsen ruined at the last moments by a moshpit of winking hipster dudes breaking out during “Call Me Maybe”, beginning a long standing distrust of any guy who’s only interest in pop music is Jepsen.
Enjoying Beach House more than I expected to, but still being struck by the realization that indie rock was just weed music for yuppies.
Watching Brian Wilson play Pet Sounds front to back, and watching the crowd just… not care. Despite sharing its name with a website for people who spend a lot of time listening to old and critically revered music, Pitchfork was still a festival and festivals attract festies, more interested in partying than music itself. I remember reading some speculation at the time that Pitchfork’s booking was leaning too much into music designed for private, headphone listening. That may explain why I spent most of 2016 feeling a little cut off and muted compared to previous years. The crowd half-heartedly came to to sing along with “God Only Knows”, but it felt like an act of pity for the strange spectacle of Wilson’s out-of-time band.
Running into my friend and now bandmate in Ferrn Jonathan Mondragon and watching Sufjan Stevens put on a variation of his Age of Adz show. My friends in Brooklyn had been talking my ear off about this version of Stevens’ life show for years now. It lived up to its reputation. Halfway through “Come On! Feel The Illinoise”, after the 5/4 part ends, Stevens let out “oh thank god the hard part is over”. “Impossible Soul”, all of it, was the last song I ever saw at Pitchfork. Hard to top that.
# # # # # The Self Promo Zone # # # # #
My friend and frequent BBQ companion Zack Berinstein released the debut album of his new pop-rock project Greet last week. I was honored to do a little consulting on the EP’s presentation and marketing. It helps that the tunes rock and were a lot of fun to talk to Zack about. Give it a listen if you like music that isn’t pop-punk but gets mistaken for pop-punk.
I want to thank everyone that reached out after what I wrote about Ryan McCardle. If you feel so inclined, there is a GoFundMe to help support his widow Jenny as she gets her feet back underneath her. It would mean a lot to me, and even more to her, if you donated.
Things are starting to come together employment-wise here at Lamniformes HQ, but with the HQ itself moving for the third time this calendar year I’d like to reiterate that the support of my paying subscribers does a lot to make my writing and music possible. If you’ve enjoyed this newsletter, found new music from it, or just want to help speed up the production of the next Lamniformes EP, Nurse, I’d greatly appreciate it if you signed up for either $5 a month or $40 a year.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Listening Diary ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Here are five songs that I enjoyed listening to recently! You can find a Spotify playlist with all of this year’s tracks here, updated with a new song every Monday-Friday.
“World War Pt. 3” by Autre Ne Veut (Love, Guess Who??, 2024)
As long as we’re on the topic of Pitchfork… I first heard of Autre Ne Veut while putting together a playlist of music videos to play in the background of the rehearsal studio I interned at in 2013. Since we were so close to Pitchfork Fest’s grounds, I put made a playlist of artists playing the fest. Selfishly this was also a way to get acquainted with the lineup before attending. I didn’t really get Autre Ne Veut at the time, but in retrospect he’s a real cut above a lot of the other “PBR&B”(aka Blue-Eyed Soul in the 21st century) acts from that era, mostly because it sounds like someone really hurt him. Good to have him back on the scene.
“Mi Viejita” by Nicolás Jaar (Piedras 1, 2024)
Another artist who I initially didn’t get that I’ve come around on completely. This track is only a small part of a much larger radio drama, so hearing it out of context might seem a little unfair to the scope of Jaar’s project. On the other hand, wow listen to that production! Jaar has mastered turning sound into the suggestion of negative space. Masterful use of distortion.
“Xolo” by Elucid (Revelator, 2024)
I started a dog walking job recently, which has given me the chance to catch up on more rap records that would otherwise be too distracting to put on while I’m writing. First on my list was the latest from Elucid, an artist who always rewards sustained attention. These are not lyrics that explain themselves, if anything they act more like interconnected riddles than a straightforward narrative. Even the beat struggles to keep up at one point.
“30 Decembers” by LL Cool J (The Force, 2024)
Shouts out to Burning Ambulance for making the case for this late period LL record. Q-Tip’s excellent as always production does a lot to carry the record, but LL Cool J’s pen is just as sharp. Hard not think hear this song about a man out of place in a world that has passed him by as a metaphor for his place in the rap game.
“Borrowed Time” by Ka (The Thief Next to Jesus, 2024)
I listened to The Thief Next To Jesus shortly after Ka passed away, but Ka’s understated style really shines under multiple listens. The only way Ka emphasizes his lines is by repeating them, so it’s easy for a lot of great gems to slip through your fingers if you aren’t holding on to every word. For example, the opening couplet from this tune stopped me dead in my tracks the second time around.
\ \ \ \ \ Micro Reviews / / / / /
Here are five micro reviews of albums from my vast Rate Your Music catalog. Long time Lamniformes Instagram followers will recognize these from my stories, however they’ve been re-edited and spruced up with links so that you can actually hear the music instead of just taking my word for it.
Kind of Blue by Miles Davis (1959) - Jazz
An album so ubiquitous in music culture and American culture in general that summoning up a fresh perspective feels as likely as nuclear fusion. A frequent soundtrack to my Dad making pancakes on Sunday mornings. For this listen I tried to focus, per the equally ubiquitous Davis quote, on the notes not being played. This made me wonder what each of the soloists were up to in the room when not taking their turn. This might be why jazz remains impenetrable to so many listeners who haven’t seen it in person. There’s a whole social element missing from recordings.
Giant Steps by John Coltrane (1960) - Jazz
Got this on CD shortly after arriving in Chicago for music school. Good timing because this is one of the best examples of “music as sports” out there. Coltrane sets up some Ninja Warrior worthy obstacle courses for his band and then parkours through them at breakneck speeds. What keeps all of this from devolving into Whiplash style sadism is that the actual content is often very pretty underneath the brash tone of the performances.
Olé Coltrane by John Coltrane (1961) - Jazz
I bought this one the same day that I bought Giant Steps, and while I enjoy that record’s aggro energy, I prefer this album by a fair margin. Elvin Jones deserves a good chunk of credit for that. My drum teacher in middle/high school rarely gave me listening homework but when we started working on jazz he insisted that I pay attention to Jones in particular. The advice stuck. The rest of the credit goes to, well, the rest of the killer ensemble and the lengthy tracks they work through on this recording. The title track is a brooding, tense, hypnotic epic where the lines between solos blur into a heady improvised stew. The other two tracks are a bit more straightforward but no less thrilling. If you think of jazz as some old fashioned dad music, spin this and get your mind blown.
Kollaps Tradixionales by Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra (2010) - Post-Rock
The songs-based sister band of Godspeed You Black Emperor!. This is one of their louder, more overtly “rock” albums, but the vibe is still long songs developed patiently with plenty of strings. A very earnest record, and earnestly ambitious, in a way that feels anachronistic to the tone of indie rock these days (the time has come to embrace Progmatism). The 15 minute opening track is the must-listen, but also check out the burning kraut rock groove on track two.
Spoils of Failure by Buried Inside (2009) - Post-Metal
Canadian band halfway between post-metal and screamo. I was super psyched for this record on the basis of its producers (Matt Bayles & Kurt Ballou) as well as Buried Inside’s previous record Chronoclast. After picking it up on release day I liked it… but I’ve never loved it. Part of the problem is that it is uniformly a mid-paced affair unlike Chronoclast. The songs reach for a cathartic, emotional affect but they drag on for so long that the drama flatlines. From what I can make out the band are staunch, theory-reading leftists, but their vocal style makes it impossible to tell. A missed opportunity at a potentially great album.