There used to be a time when people actually watched MTV and read Rolling Stone to be exposed to new, exciting music. Then the Internet happened. By facilitating both outreach and accessibility, the Internet deleted the middleman, giving away for free what was once a person's hourly wage. But just as this streamlining opened the door for a bevy of new artists, it also opened the door for countless aspiring music journalists to add their two cents. Standing at the top of this muck of writers is the annoyingly omnipotent Pitchfork Media. Their influence in the online music community is undeniable, seemingly creating quality music more than just reporting on it.
For the fifth straight summer, Pitchfork Media threw together a weekend of indie's most savored and adored indie music buzz bands known as the Pitchfork Music Festival. Whether by choice or necessity, Pitchfork left Chicago's Union Park noticeably void of the bells and whistles that normally litter festival grounds. Aside from a corner or two for sponsor tents, the baseball diamonds turned concert halls were reserved for strictly music. The towering speakers, sound tents and stage upholsteries were all bare.
Although the severely music-focused setup was much appreciated by festivalgoers, it was probably a pain in Pitchfork's pockets. Not only was the festival short on advertising, but they lacked the plethora of big-name bands with crossover appeal that they've had in the past. Instead, they dug deep, filling the days with consistently appreciated lower-budget acts. In accordance with their stripped-down paraphernalia, Pitchfork opted to theoretically sacrifice high-budget music for high-budget energy, getting more quality out of their dollar, even if not more attendees.
Pitchfork's domineering Internet presence guaranteed that any second-rate acts would be second-rate in economic demands only, though, as they barely missed a beat throughout the three days. From Friday's impressive displays by Yo La Tengo and Built To Spill to Saturday's assortment of Cymbals Eat Guitars, Beirut and Black Lips and Sunday's medley of Pharoahe Monch, M83 and Japandroids, the perpetual onslaught of anticipated acts made it hard to find an easy pocket of time to eat the overpriced curry.
The relentless nature of the festival failed to cover every base, though. Aside from Doom's highly anticipated, highly begrudged set, the National failed to separate themselves as true headliners on Saturday, and Wavves were about as messy and uninspiring as one could expect. But even if Pitchfork showed some amount of reserve in their booking, they clearly were counting on their one major act to carry the weight.
The Flaming Lips have reached a truly legendary status in modern music. Beloved by both the underground and the mainstream, they possess a rare transcendent quality that assures massive gatherings at each of their performances. By the time they took the stage on Sunday night, they'd packed Union Park to capacity. But with all of their balloons, confetti, flashing lights and video backdrop, Flaming Lips missed the mark, both literally and figuratively. In between off-key vocals, lead singer Wayne Coyne heckled the awed crowd, demanding more singing and more cheering. The focus of the entire set was on the tricks while the Lips stammered through the music. Their very existence, while positive in theory, negated the music-driven premise of the rest of the festival.
As discouraging as the Lips might have been, though, one misstep in a weekend full of music is a success rate unparalleled in modern festivals. Booking the Flaming Lips isn't exactly selling your soul to the devil, and if that's what it takes to book a lineup as satisfying as this one, I'll suffer through it.
Want to hear more about why this year's Pitchfork Music Festival was the best one yet? Be sure to check out Kyle's full in-depth review of the festival, ""Music festival hip-check,"" at dailycardinal.com/arts
