Brianna Wellen: The second I heard Car Seat Headrest play David Bowie’s “Blackstar,” my hopes were high for this weekend. Immediately after that, though, it started pouring. But that’s the fickle nature of Pitchfork, or really any good outdoor music festival: brilliant and thrilling one moment, bleak and rainy the next. Thankfully, as the day continued, it seemed this year’s fest would start on an upswing. Twin Peaks were charming and rocking as ever. Broken Social Scene were the Broken Social Scene-iest, with a rotating roster of singers coming up for new and old jams. Shamir proved himself to be miles ahead of where he was during the festival last year, drawing in a huge crowd of dancing folks (myself included) and blowing 2015’s performance way out of the water.
The rest of day one was gravy, and I wasn’t even one of the crew of superfans posing for photos with Carly Rae Jepsen. Rapper Mick Jenkins worked the Blue Stage like a man destined for the Green Stage in 2018; Broken Social Scene seemed to be playing their favorites almost exclusively for the stoked girl at the side of the stage with a Polaroid camera draped over her shoulder; and the very reliable Beach House pushed their billowing dream pop out into the ether as the crowd stood entranced and perfectly still. It wasn’t Pitchfork’s most star-studded first day by any stretch—Carly Rae was as close to mega as it got—but it was a fine start. On Saturday, Girl Band and Savages are on tap, so you can expect things to get louder.
Taking my own advice, I checked out Broken Social Scene on the Red Stage. I spotted a young boy sitting in front of his parents, wearing noise-cancelling headphones and playing a game on his cell. Little did he know, he missed out on an amazing show. I felt free as I danced in the crowd to their guitar jams and lulling melodies.
Noah Berlatsky: My first-ever Pitchfork band was a little disappointing. I caught local indie rockers Whitney playing their last few songs on the out-of-the-way Blue Stage, and I fear it wasn’t quite out of-the-way enough. Their catchy, intimate sound and delicate falsetto singing didn’t translate well to the open-air venue; it felt like someone had dropped a coffee shop in the corner of a stadium.
I’ve never not gotten a kick out of Twin Peaks, and their afternoon appearance was typically boisterous. For the most part, they’ve left sweaty Rogers Park basements far behind, but they still bring that youthquake energy everywhere they go—they’re pretty great ambassadors for Chicago’s rock scene, you have to admit. I was also heartened that Julia Holter framed “Why Sad Song?,” the first tune of her early-afternoon set, as a rejoinder to “all the horrors of the world right now.” This summer it’s seemed like every week has brought a new series of living nightmares for humanity to reckon with; those of us privileged enough to find solace in music (and to attend music festivals in relative safety) should feel lucky, whether every Pitchfork performer crushed it or not.
Beach House began their set inauspiciously—the mix seemed tentative, and I heard a couple whistles of microphone feedback early on. Even their signature light show—the light-spangled backdrop and trio of scrims for projections—didn’t get going till the third song. But by the time the band wrapped up, they looked and sounded as good as they had at the Vic in March. The band mentioned how much they appreciated the cool weather, but to my ears, their carefully dreamy songs cried out for a warm, humid evening—the kind when you can’t tell where your skin ends and the air begins.
