I’m going to die. That I’ll die in July is a bit of a letdown, as I don’t want mourners to have to endure agonizing heat at my funeral, sweating through their suits and dresses for my benefit. That I’ll die surrounded by 20,000 hipsters, those funky Red Bull-and-vodka-swilling masses, depresses me to no end. To die in Chicago in July is not unheard of — be it the old-timer shut-in whom no one notices until she begins to stink up her third floor walk-up or the wrong-place-wrong-time youth who brings shame and hopelessness to a city trying to overcome shame and hopelessness. But I go willingly, my laptop, rent-a-car and photographer accompanying me, press pass in hand, to my certain doom at the Pitchfork
I really don’t want to wish death upon myself, as I’m going for TV on the Radio, Shabazz Palaces, How To Dress Well, Curren$y, James Blake and the carnage the OFWGKTA crew will bring. Somebody told me some indie rock bands were playing, too, but I wouldn’t know much about that. Fleet Foxes sound fine in a coffee shop, but I’ll probably be hitting up a food truck. Depending on how much of a contact high I get, I’ll most likely be typing up notes for LEO’s music blog during Animal Collective’s meandering Dead-isms. Not that there will be any shortage of snark among the circumstance, as Pitchfork itself has a near-monopoly on it, but if I’m attacked for being the only guy there wearing size-appropriate clothing and not drinking PBR, know that I love my mother, and the white belt around my neck is not mine, nor Michael Hutchence’s.
The Pitchfork Music Festival runs July 15-17. Check bluecat.leoweekly.com for Damien’s reports.