Pitchfork Music Festival - Union Park, Chicago
July 29-30, 2006
The warning signs of heat exhaustion are headache, dizziness and nausea. This according to the announcement made before each performance at the Pitchfork Music Festival, dubbed "Sweat Fest 2006" by Chicago-based fest openers Hot Machines. The town that awarded Pabst its blue ribbon in 1893 continues to be a hipster mecca, thanks in part to
Pitchforkmedia.com, which prides itself (sometimes to the point of arrogant, snooty elitism) on discriminating taste in music. Their 'Fork Fest (as it is known locally) served the caviar of indie rock at a bargain basement price ($30 for a two-day pass).
- Stages: 3
- Acts: 40
- Days: 2
- Tickets: $30 for 2-day pass (or $20 per day)
- Pitchfork T-shirts: $15
- Brazilian acts: 3
- German acts: 2.5 (Liars = .5)
- Crocheted dog collar: $12
- WLUW squirtguns: $1
- WLUW call numbers: 88.7
- Area code: 312
- Yo La Tengo's unused minutes: 20
- Subway lines: 8
- Lines/steps to get beer: 1. wristband 2. ticket 3. beer
- Sal Fasano Phillies T-shirts: 1
- Vegetable and shrimp tempura: $5
- Miles from City Paper office: 780
Highlights of the first day included The Mountain Goats' John Darnielle's transformation from folk hero to rock star. With Franklin Bruno by his side, Darnielle emoted like a more nasal Trent Reznor through "Terror Song," worked on his rock hops (didn't get enough air to be called jumps), and inspired the world's most bitter sing-along to "No Children." Art Brut threw down the gauntlet and served notice that every other act on the bill would have to step it up if they hoped to hang. Not to be outdone, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists proved well-suited to the challenge. They delivered an intense set, and to top it off, bloody Teddy lost a fight with his microphone when he deliberately rammed it into his head during "The Ballad of the Sin Eater."
The question on everyone's mind as the gates opened on Day 2 was: Had the porta-potties been emptied overnight? Answer: maybe. Threatening storm clouds never made good on their promise to relieve the heat, and the coolest place to hear the music was at the swimming pool next door to the park, where kids backstroked while soaking up Aesop Rock.
Fans preferring hydration in smaller portions fired WLUW squirtguns recklessly into the air during Mission of Burma's "That's When I Reached for My Revolver." With music playing nonstop, there was little time to take in the other attractions of the festival. Luckily, Mission of Burma played to the back rows (even jarring a yuppie on a tatami mat away from his Ikea catalog), and could be heard in the distant aisles of the Flatstock IX music poster exhibit, where concertgoers could haggle for slices of original signed artwork. National treasures Yo La Tengo (why isn't there a YLT rest stop on the N.J. Turnpike?) were delightful for 40 minutes, but that was only two-thirds of their allotted stage time. Similarly inexplicable was Spoon's intimate performance in a vacuous space which was drowned out by the El train rattling by.
Whether the Pitchfork Music Festival succeeded in refining musical palates or not, it was the perfect aperitif to the Lollapalooza buffet the next weekend.