Noah Berlatsky: Jeremih’s Green Stage set on Sunday had a similar communal vibe to that of fellow Chicagoan RP Boo the day before, albeit with less frantic virtuosity and more sex. The crowd enthusiastically shouted again and again for “old shit” rather than “new shit,” and Jeremih obliged, encouraging call-and-response and repeatedly thanking old fans, a number of whom were dancing on stage along with him. Chance the Rapper showed up too, bouncing around enthusiastically for a song or two. A couple of professional dancers in skintight black outfits gave the impression that they weren’t feeling the humidity at all. But the real showstopper was Jeremih’s mom, whom he brought out for a dance at the end. She seemed both embarrassed and radiantly happy as she twirled around in her Doc Martens in what has to be one of Pitchfork’s all-time most adorable performances.
Kevin Warwick: I was admittedly the least excited about day three of Pitchfork, which was heavier on electronic, programmed music than guitar-and-drums music. However, the flip side is that the day featured the most acts that I was curious to see. And local duo Homme was right up there.
Philip Montoro: I had a 20-hour Saturday, so my Sunday at Pitchfork was by necessity slow. I arrived just in time for the inimitable Sun Ra Arkestra on the Blue Stage, resplendent in costumes whose aesthetic split the difference between “Carnaval float” and “pinball machine.” Playful, rambunctious, profound, and cosmic, they collided graceful vintage bop, science-fiction sound effects, and exalted singing, chanting, and hollering. Bandleader Marshall Allen occasionally played an EWI that sounded like a cross between a theremin and an 80s video game, and a gray-haired saxophonist (dressed in a shimmering purple cloak and a reflective silver hat whose sharp corners made it look faceted) did handsprings and cartwheels at the lip of the stage. It’s hard to explain exactly why this band makes me so happy, but I do know it does my heart good to see these venerable musicians carrying on the vision of the departed genius who inspired them—a vision of joy, welcome, and hope. I only wish that this large group—led by a 92-year-old—hadn’t had to travel all the way from Saturn just for a 40-minute set in the early afternoon on the side stage. I loved Kamasi Washington’s storming double-drummer rhythm section and dense, athletic grooves, but his turbocharged fusion of jazz, funk, rock, and soul felt less dramatic and alchemical than the fusion the Arkestra had achieved—perhaps because it doesn’t combine styles of music that had originally evolved on either side of the development of festival-grade electronic amplification. Washington was high-energy from top to bottom. He did title one tune in a seven-based meter “The Magnificent Seven,” though, which made me wonder why jazz dudes seem so keen to tell us what they’re doing. Next I needed to do something low-key, so I went to the Book Fort—the readers on Sunday evening were J.R. Nelson, Sasha Geffen, Meagan Fredette, and Britt Julious, all Reader contributors. We weren’t insulated at all from Jeremih’s thumping set, but fortunately it was still possible to get everyone’s message. I soaked up Miguel’s performance from a seated position, which I’m aware isn’t ideal. But at that point I was flat out of energy for anything else. He can sing like a motherfucker, and I dug his drummer’s in-the-pocket feel, but I think I was too far gone to be moved. You win this round, Pitchfork.
“People’s minds are opening up, which is a good thing,” Washington continued. “Jazz is a very thought-provoking music. It forces you to look in and deal with yourself.”
“I’m tired of human lives being turned into hashtags and prayer hands,” Miguel sang. Then he spoke the following, “We have to do something now—it’s about action.” Right on.
