For thousands of music fans, the third weekend in July belongs to Pitchfork Music Festival, which returned to its Union Park home on the near West Side this year with headliners Black Pumas, Jamie xx, and Alanis Morissette amongst a slew of other critical darlings and exciting upstarts.
For a festival nearing its twentieth anniversary, Pitchfork—particularly in format—hasn’t seen many changes. And I mean that in the best way. It’s remained many a fan’s favorite festival because it’s stayed lowkey, with a steadfast communal vibe that set it apart from Lollapalooza, Riot Fest and the others. You can easily find your friends, water and a porta-potty that still has toilet paper, and catch two bands that share the same start time. There was a shared sense of more access, less obstacles. And even if you had a VIP or Guest pass, you were still eventually ushered into the field of Union Park to bake under the summer sun to catch the actual acts. No shady, posh cabana for you.
It was always, despite the publication’s reputation for pretension (back when anyone cared about music criticism), the least pretentious aspect of its existence.
Until this year.
Sure, some liquor brands had larger footprints on the grounds this year compared to last. Espolon Tequila’s Mercado, for example, made the most of its more immersive space—offering shady respite in addition to an array of traditional, Mexican candies to snack on, a patchwork station to customize totes, tables to play dominos and higher-quality craft cocktails. There was also a giant, Nespresso Iced Coffee lounge serving up free espresso, never a bad thing.
Yet with Condé Nast’s announcement earlier this year that it would be merging Pitchfork and GQ, the festival tried “exclusivity” on for size with the addition of “VIP viewing platforms” that destroyed more than once-coveted sight lines. Now, the merger is probably not directly related to why the platforms appeared this year, but what they offer appeals to who GQ—and now, maybe Pitchfork—thinks their consumers are and what they want.
For the most part, they sat largely empty all weekend, with many folks loudly discussing what an “abomination” (to use one photographer’s word) the structures were. Even during the ultra-packed Alanis Morissette crowd, a mere dozen people stood perched above in their green tower. At $700 per ticket, was it really even worth it?
But I digress.
It’s really about the music, after all. Despite touting a bit of a sleeper lineup and hit-or-miss attendance (with rumors of only about 70% of tickets sold), the weekend ultimately satisfied, providing memorable moments that only Pitchfork Music Fest can.
Alanis Morissette, Headlining Queen
When this year’s headliners were announced, there was much chatter. From whether or not Black Pumas were deserving of the spot or possibly a Condé Nast plant (for the record, they were great) to why Jamie xx was chosen and not Romy? But, above all, “How’d they pull Alanis Morissette?!?!”
The details don’t matter. They did and thousands were grateful as she ran away with the night.
Shortly after Brittany Howard closed a rapturous set, during which she astonished with a blistering rendition of her song “Georgia,” it was time.
Morissette, whose place in rock’s canon has been solidified with the seminal Jagged Little Pill in its near-30 years since release, delivered a career-spanning set in 90 minutes under Sunday’s full moon. Astrology girlies, we ride at dawn.
With the opening notes of “Hand in my Pocket,” she—with her signature long locks swaying back and forth—instantly transported her audience. Sure, songs such as “Reasons I Drink” and “Hands Clean” were crowd-pleasers, with diehard fans not missing a beat, but it was the big ones, of course—tracks like “You Learn,” “Right Through You,” “Ironic” (with special guests Muna) and “All I Really Want”—that awakened a certain nostalgia while ringing true with emotional and political prescience.
Performing in front of rotating projections showing professional highlights (including a sizzle reel featuring praise from Kelly Clarkson, Halsey and Olivia Rodrigo, among others) juxtaposed against newspaper clippings and study findings underscoring how far we still have to go in terms of gender equality, the show was a celebration of what critics and detractors have always tried to write her off for: Unabashed feminism, having opinions, yodel-adjacent vocal gymnastics. Though she’s had years of success, Morissette is finally being revered as she should be by generations that continue to refuse the status quo when it comes to identity and sexuality. From fellow acts to concert-goers, everyone was fangirling.
While she’s become synonymous with unleashing female rage because of “You Oughta Know” (which is as fun to scream along to in a crowd of like-minded people as you’d imagine), Morissette’s astute observations of love, lust and longing evoke just as much of a rush of emotion. Leave me and my butterflies (both romantic and anxious) alone to sing “Head Over Feet” and “Uninvited” on repeat.
Serving charisma, uniqueness, nerve and talent
Any fan of RuPaul’s Drag Race knows, serving C.U.N.T. is what separates the true stars from, well, everyone else. Performing from head-to-toe, stage to crowd, isn’t everyone’s strength, but this year, a handful of acts delivered more attitude, drama, ferocity and sex appeal than I can remember in recent Pitchfork history (with the exception of Kelela, every. time.). We continue to thank the queer community for this, especially considering the talent listed below. Add what you will to your cardio and/or party playlists.
• Despite the egregiousness of placing Brittney Denise Parks, a.k.a. violinist Sudan Archives, on the smallest stage after a completely mind-blowing set on Lollapalooza’s main stage last year, she begged her audience to match her freak. Those who could hear her and songs “Freakalizer,” “Selfish Soul” and “Home Maker” over the excruciating sound bleed from 100 Gecs on the nearby Green Stage did just that. Parks is a dynamic performer, with a knowledge of and attention to her body as an additional instrument that lends itself to much more than simply dancing. It’s performance art–provocative and evocative–set to pop music.
• Jessie Ware, or as she called herself on Saturday, “Mother of Pearl,” brought her Pearl Club tour to Pitchfork in the name of all things glamor and the principle of pleasure. On the road for the past year behind her fifth album, the delightfully glossy, Italo disco-drenched That! Feels Good! and dressed in a rainbow sequin jumpsuit, she—alongside her “Pearlites” (back-up singers and dancers)—demanded you move.
It was the most infectious set of the weekend. One where you don’t realize you’ve been smiling the whole time or that your hips have been shaking for five minutes. Songs like “Begin Again” and “Free Yourself” rang out across Union Park like newly-anointed anthems. A brief dance remix of Ware’s debut single, 2012’s “Running” delighted longtime fans, but—upon revisiting—that song deserved its own moment in the setlist. Next time.
Ware rounded out her triumphant set with a cover of Cher’s “Believe,” which, if you remember, Sen Morimoto and company covered at Pitchfork in 2023.
Now it’s a tradition. Who’s playing it next year?
• As soon as frontman Cole Haden took the top off a tube of red lipstick and applied the femme fatale lip with one fell swoop, I knew. I knew I’d just started a love affair with Model/Actriz.
The Boston noise punks echo the Wax Trax!-entrenched, queer history of industrial and post-punk music; capturing a wide range of dissonance that’s more erotic than it is harsh to the ear. If Dr. Frank-N-Furter hosted the afters, this is the band he’d book to play—hard and fast, with a side of camp.
Where some punk acts are confrontational for confrontation’s sake, Model/Actriz is in your face trying to get close to you, seeing if you’re open to the shared experience of being vulnerable—exposed in a crowd of people. It’s joyously subversive, too raw and slightly crazed to dismiss. Hypnotizing the crowd with tracks from 2023’s debut LP Dogsbody, they were the only act all weekend to literally bring their audience to their knees—and everyone willingly obliged.
• MUNA has come a long way since opening for Harry Styles on his first solo tour in 2017. Truthfully, the trio completely fell off my radar after that Chicago Theatre show, only to return as one of pop’s biggest acts.
So it was a surprise when they took a break from world domination to play Pitchfork Music Fest. With a massive audience hanging on every word, you could tell their presence at the festival meant so much more than just an opportunity to see them live (if the number of crop tops hadn’t already tipped you off). Songs like “I Know a Place” and “Silk Chiffon” speak directly, poetically about the queer experience and had many visibly emotional. I get it. We have all cried on the dance floor.
Their onstage chemistry is as fun as their music, deliberately cheeky and reveling in it. Pitchfork needed a dose of sapphic fire power. It was overdue.
Once again, Chicago’s own show out
• Angry Blackmen started things strong Friday, literally kickstarting the festival with the first set of the weekend on the Red Stage. The hip hop duo of Brian Warren and Quentin Branch melds elements of hardcore and industrial—crunchy bass, grinding distortions, repetitive chanting—with biting, frank lyricism, heightening its overall air of menace. A small, but mighty mosh was constant throughout, but it wasn’t until both took to the crowd that the confrontational energy that fuels their music reached peak intensity. Unable to resist, a captivated audience stayed with them long after the mics were turned off.
• Lifeguard, or as they were commonly referred to for the rest of the day, “those kids,” are incredible, with a live presentation and sound reminiscent of Wire, Fugazi and fellow Pitchfork players, Unwound. Physically restrained as their music bursted with visceral urgency, the trio of Asher Case, Kai Slater and Isaac Lowenstein adeptly balanced melody and cacophony, drone and tempo. The band garnered wider attention after signing to Matador Records and reissuing EPs—2022’s Crowd Can Talk and 2023’s Dressed in Trenches—as a single LP last year, but after Sunday’s stellar showcase, many will be excitedly anticipating a proper debut album.
• Kara Jackson will stop you in your tracks if you let yourself listen. Large music festivals aren’t typically kind to stripped-down acts (unless you’re in Newport), with the threat of being drowned out by nearby stages thumping with much more power an unjust reality for many. You, as an attendee, have to step to the stage intentionally to “get it.” But Jackson, with her contralto voice, pulls you in with a warmth and vulnerability that’s hard to shake. What else would you expect from a Youth Poet Laureate? Supported by fellow Chicago players, her Sooper Records family including Sen Morimoto and Kaina, and Finom’s Macie Stewart, she and her acoustic guitar breathed new life into songs from 2023’s Why Does the Earth Give Us People to Love? She and her band also colored SZA’s “Love Galore” with lush, folk flourishes no one’s soon to forget.
• Akenya has as big of a voice as she does stage presence, commanding every second of her Sunday set. Her buoyant, sonically-eclectic approach to neo-soul kept a large crowd in the early afternoon. Emotive in music and lyrics, Akenya’s world proves to be just as mystical as it is very real—and you’re invited to be part of it. After years of collaborating with other artists including Saba of Pivot Gang, Smino, Chance the Rapper, J. Bambii and Paramore’s Hayley Williams, seeing her bask in a banner moment of her own was truly something special.
I still don’t fully *get* 100 Gecs, but
People truly love them, and that’s all that matters.
From the opening glitches of “Dumbest Girl Alive” (which, unfortunately for me, has been stuck in my head since), singer Laura Les and partner Dylan Brady had loyal fans in their palms. It’s relentless sensory overload, post-obnoxious maximalism and almost feels like a game to see how many sounds can fit in one song that the duo’s playing with themselves. Yet, the formula has worked since they first hit in 2019, ushering in a wave of chronically-online hyper-pop for a generation of doom scrollers, self-taught samplers and EDM burnouts.
Personally, I can only take so much. Yet the Gecs’ appeal to listeners of all ages (literally) is undeniable and, in small doses, undeniably fun.
2024, Mannequin Pussy’s year
Mannequin Pussy is definitely the best band in America, if not the world. With the release of I Got Heaven in March, the little-punk-band-that-could blew away fans—old and new—with a more expansive sound and vision. After an utterly punishing show at Thalia Hall in April, the quartet returned to Chicago to nearly destroy Pitchfork’s Blue Stage. Frontwoman and guitarist Missy Dabice and vocalist and bassist Colins Regisford lead the outfit as rebels with a cause, embracing a primal abandon that, no matter how many times you see it, feels brand new.
Ripping through the accidental anthem “Loud Bark,” bite-sized bomb “Ok? Ok! Ok? Ok!” and now-essentials like “Control,” Mannequin Pussy went for broke on the Pitchfork stage, delivering one of the hardest sets of the weekend.
De La Soul carry on
Just over a year after the passing of founding member, Trugoy the Dove (born David Jolicoeur), pioneering hip hop group De La Soul celebrated his (and its) legacy on the Red Stage Sunday. Though hip hop and rap had a smaller presence on this year’s bill (other emcees included Billy Woods and Kenny Segal, Maxo, the aforementioned Angry Blackmen and Tkay Maidza), De La Soul showed exactly where the roots of its “alternative” subgenres were planted. Without which, today’s genre-fluid pop charts wouldn’t exist. Think about it.
Surviving members Kelvin Mercer and Vincent Mason led the hyped audience through a number of sing-alongs, culminating in the group’s biggest hit, “Me Myself and I,” which even the most novice hip hop heads sing the opening verse and chorus to. Before that, the legend Pharoahe Monch joined them for an iconic rendition of “Simon Says.”
Get into Tkay Maidza and L’Rain
A huge part of Pitchfork’s appeal has been catching an artist as they begin to break through. This year, rapper/singer Tkay Maidza and the experimental, boundless project L’Rain from multi-instrumentalist, composer and vocalist Taja Cheek proved to be two to remember.
Appearing Friday, Maidza—hailing from Zimbabwe by-way-of Australia—delivered exuberant hook after hook against a backdrop of dance beats that ran the gamut from Eastern influence to disco; her confident performance getting people moving early in the day. 2023’s Sweet Justice saw distinct growth and focus in her artistry, working with Kaytranada and Flume on its production. Songs like “Gone to the West” and “Ring-A-Ling” are perfect for your next summer gathering. “Won One” draws influence from Timbaland and Aaliyah’s megahit “Are You That Somebody?”—in case you forgot about the chokehold the late ‘90s/early Y2K era has on Gen Z. This is not a criticism.
L’Rain, on the other hand, knows no genre—apart from its roots in jazz (Cheek’s grandfather owned a neighborhood jazz club in Crown Heights, Brooklyn in the 1950s). Try to define it and let me know what you come up with. The band’s 40-minute set Saturday afternoon was a journey from the ethereally ambient—so soft you feel like your ear’s playing tricks on you—to mostly-improvised jazzy, grunge rock. Led fearlessly by Cheek, the band’s exploration of various musical textures and delivery of some of the smoothest, most beautiful harmonies heard all weekend left me wishing I’d gotten a ticket to see them that evening at Empty Bottle. Live, it felt very grand; at other times, dancey. An act that would be transcendent in a space like the Garfield Park Conservatory the next time they visit Chicago.
Some of the best “sets” weren’t sets at all, but the crew simply testing gear and jamming on the Blue Stage
Over the years, the smaller Blue Stage has become the spot for new music discovery. This year was no different, hosting bands I cannot recommend enough, including Crumb, Rosali, Sweeping Promises, Unwound, Hotline TNT and Water From Your Eyes. A 45-minute polyrhythmic funk session by Ethiopian jazz keyboardist Hailu Mergia (known for his role in the influential Walias Band—considered one of the most significant acts in the country’s “golden age” of music in the early 1970’s) inspired under the only shady trees in all of Union Park.
But it was the impromptu-yet-necessary tinkering-turned-jams of the crew before any acts took the Blue Stage that provided some of the weekend’s best listening. Production is tough work, especially when it’s 80-plus degrees outside, so you may as well find ways to have fun. Official sets didn’t start on the stage until 2:45pm each day, but around 1:45pm, lucky passersby would be treated to a surprisingly memorable 5-10 minutes of straight experimentation, from rollicking psych rock to, dare I call it, bossa nova?
“Who’s that over there?” someone asked a friend while balancing two beers, a water bottle and White Claw. “Schedule doesn’t say anyone.”
Just the folks who make it all possible. You’re welcome.