Sunday 15/07/07 Day Three @ Pitchfork Festival, Union Park, Chicago

Dawn breaks.  This solipsistic dipshit is thirsty.  But not for any more of that foam in a cup.  We need a bit of a jolt.  Howzabout some of that spiked energy drink business, the stuff that turns your teeth orange?  “Sunday Morning Coming Down”?  Not this time, Kris.  We’re going up.  Way up.  A round of applause to local convenience emporium, JJ Peppers for circumnavigating America’s standard no-booze-sales-before-noon-on-the-Sabbath edict.  They’re all out of Sparks (previous line to be read to the tune of Air Supply), but they’ve got the next best thing:  TILT. 

Great, no huge queues like yesterday.  In the growing throng assembled before the Connector stage, Grizzly Bear Chris stands in anticipation.  Seattle, Detroit, and Iowa fill us in on what we missed with Yoko Ono.

“Yeah,” says Detroit, his visor bearing the insignia of the United States Postal Service, “Yoko had this pre-recorded loop that went on forever—“

“Twenty minutes,” says Seattle, “at least.”

“—where she instructed us on how to use our flashlights.”

“She wanted us to spell out I Love You,” explains Seattle.  “With light.  It’s like one blink, two blinks, three blinks.  That’s it.  Does that really require a twenty-minute explanation?”

What about her special guest?  Did she bring out Ringo?

“Thurston Moore.”

Find out from Detroit that we were born in the same hospital.  “Man,” he says, “I wonder how many people here were born in that hospital?”

Crickets chirp.  The wind rustles.  Time to engage the photo pit.

I know you’re all plants.

Deerhunter is a given to unleash some Jim Morrison-style wildness, but, today, it just doesn’t happen, although the dangling fingerpuppets and the crucifix don’t hurt.

Heard The Ponys plenty enough already so it’s best to take a seat on this sandbag, use the latest NewCity as a sunscreen for the head.  Bad luck for The Ponys – the sound goes kaput for a good part of their set.  “Poser Psychotic”?  Yeah, that’s us.

Over at the Balance Stage, Brightblack Morning Light is taking us back forty years to that Dennis Hopper movie, The Trip.  Menomena toot their saxophone.  The Junior Boys are skipped altogether because they are not Junior Senior. 

Little bit of a lull right now.  Take a seat in the shade.  Who’s that over there, with the parrot T-shirt and the Sally Jesse Raphael spectacles?  Who else?  It’s Dan Deacon!  And his old flame!  Her name begins with an A but she would like to be referred to as “Girl Talk.”  Gigwise, sensing a modeling opportunity, whips out the Kodak.  “That caption,” says Girl Talk, “had better read ‘lovers’.  Dan and me, we go back eight years.” 

Dan?

“I gotta get a beer.”

But, first, before you go, how’d that show go last night?

“I got electrocuted.  The stage collapsed.  The stage was pure cement.  I’ll be right back.”

Left alone with Girl Talk, we talk about Chicago and her driving need to become impregnated.  She spies a DJ in the distance.  “He’s a virgin,” she says.

“Honorable.”

Dan calls back on her mobile phone.  She passes it to me.  “Dan Deacon, how is the beer?”

He says he’ll be right there, and, sure enough, voila Dan.  What’s going on over there in Baltimore?

“I’m doing a beat for Spank Rock.”

Somebody put these two on the same bill.  The cement will collapse.  The ground will collapse.  The Earth will collapse.

And we’ll all get electrocuted.