Pitchfork Music Fest - Saturday

The bus – Long ride, crowded as hell, but a guy recognizes my Enfield Tennis Academy t-shirt and we have a nice long conversation about DFW. I feel sufficiently hipsterish. Also, he’s friends with the dude from Pains of Being Pure at Heart.

The gate – We go to the lesser known back gate, get right in. With no wait. Security barely looks at bags. I could’ve snuck in an 8-ball of cocaine and several semi-automatic weapons if I’d wanted to.

Cymbals Eat Guitars – A short set by an up and coming band. They yowl, which I like. Not a bad way to start the day.

Ticket tent/beer tent -  It’s early. There’s almost no line. I buy tickets so that I can then go buy beer. Seems redundant and unnecessary. I am told I can only buy two beers at a time.  This is not a bad thing, considering the portapotty situation.

The beer – 312 or IPA. Not a lot of choice. I choose to drink beer.

Plants and Animals – Highly anticipated. The closest band to Phish I’ve ever liked, and I really don’t like Phish. Songs are very different than the album. Highly-skilled musicians. The singer is wearing RayBans with moocow spots.

The weather – We get a sliver of sun for about 45 minutes. People insist it's July, but I don't think they're paying attention.

Fucked Up – Rawk, apparently. Lead singer looks like guy from Les Savy Fav in that he’s bald, hairy, morbidly obese and has a propensity for taking off his clothes. He compares Animal Collective to Phish. I really don’t like Phish. I really don’t like Fucked Up.

Pains of Being Pure at Heart – Jangly guitar pop. Sound issues in beginning, but maybe it’s the fact that my party has sequestered itself back in the trees. Lead singer dedicates song to “everyone.” I feel included.

The food – Star of Siam pad thai, potstickers and chicken satay with spicy peanut sauce. I have officially Thaied one on.

Final Fantasy – Lone violinist awash in loops. An interesting change of direction from earlier acts. Weak tea sound, tree sanctuary and fact that lone violinist is very bashful add up to about 2 decibels.

The portapotties – Oh hell. Lines are 45 minutes long, and by the time you get in, there’s a pile of toilet paper, tampons, and last night’s burritos nearly as high as the seat itself. Do not poop, whatever you do.

Yeasayer – They sound outstanding, crystal clear. Weird, they seem to only play 3 songs off All Hour Cymbals. Everything else (save Dark Was the Night standout "Tightrope") appears to be new material. A bold choice that doesn't hinder them in the least. Also, they seem to have added a diminutive Indian since I last saw them. Did I mention they sound great? Also, they make rain from the heavens, fitting for their primitivist stylings. I wear my new poncho and squat over our belongings like protective Mother Hen poncho dork. 

MF Doom – Who is that masked rapper? Actually, I don’t really care. Too busy thinking about the pizza coming my way.

The pizza coming my way – Delicious, if not a bit on the wee side. Wee pizza is still pizza, though. 

Random girl – She recognizes my Enfield Tennis Academy t-shirt. Never before, but twice in one day. My hipster credentials are galvanized. I give her terrorist fist jab. 

Beirut – I miss half the set due to line for portapotties. This delightful band even sounds good from inside stenchy-hot thick-plastic outhouse filled with dumps.

The National – Quiet. So quiet. Sound good, what little I can hear. We leave early to catch a cab. Sorry, The National, I am The Old.

The cab – Seriously, this guy thinks he’s in the Daytona 500. We make it home alive, but just barely.

Tomorrow – Sunday Pitchfork from the perspective of my 9-month-old.