“You Oughta Know” about Pitchfork day three. In true Pitchfork fashion, Sunday’s lineup delivered a hodgepodge of genres. Crowds lingered on every stage with a sea of hands, screams, and slight moshing. Drinks in hand, lyrics in their mouths, and a buzz of excitement in the air. I came just in time to catch Jessica Pratt, her track “Back Baby” guiding me to wait at the blue stage for Mannequin Pussy. Their punk attitude wrapped in a bow gave everyone a “Loud Bark.” Indie pop favorites MUNA pranced across the stage, and Crumb’s psychedelic rock mirrored the floating polka dot balloons in the crowd. Brittany Howard’s croon had everyone rocking side to side on picnic blankets, and the night ended with '90s-it girl Alanis Morissette. I was in a constant whiplash of chills and smiles all day–my cheeks hurting by Morissette's final song.
Mannequin Pussy was the highlight of my day. After more than a decade together, this band knows how to put on a damn good show. Their unique fusion of hardcore and indie rock creates a sound so enticing you want to take a bite out of it. When they took the stage, each member was dressed in their own interpretation of green and white—like a beautifully disorganized wedding party. After some sound checks and getting their footing on the Chicago stage, they arrived full force into their set.
Philly’s sweethearts bring a mix of fury and grace, sending chills down my spine. Lead singer Marisa “Missy” Dabice embodies a perfect concotion of restraint and total cathartic release. Dabice carries both qualities in her clawed hands. Her performance is a blend of ASMR and Gwen Stefani–an enticing, high-pitched whisper that’s both intriguing and terrifying. I was captivated by Dabice’s charm, standing frozen between songs, eagerly anticipating their next move.
The crowd pulled their friends to an inner circle of moshing, the boy next to me stood with his tongue out (a little too excited to yell “pussy”), phones raised and lowered again, signaling moments of wanting to remember and taking it all in. Headbanging, crawling on the ground, growling into the mic, feedback, and cathartic screams–everything was put into this hour-long set. Mannequin Pussy is a snarl personified–the corner of their mouth lifted, ready to bark and bite, leaving a line of purple teeth shaped marks on everyone in the audience.
“Life's so fun, life's so fun” when MUNA is around. If you’ve been anywhere on social media, you’ve heard of MUNA (or maybe have heard their hit “Silk Chiffon”). I only know a few songs by the LA band, yet I had such a blast watching them. The band's members seemed to have the time of their lives on stage. They danced around each other and the crowd, jumping into kicks and spins, and bops on the synth. Their energy fed into a hungry crowd, who responded with dancing and arms in the air, hoping to feel an inch closer to the indie pop rock stars. MUNA is full of charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent. I now understand why fans have taken over corners of my feed.
Halfway through MUNA’s set, I returned to the blue stage to catch Boston-born band Crumb amid a psychedelic rock loop. I listened to Crumb in high school on rainy days, feeling oh so cool. No one knew who Crumb was then (at least, I didn’t think anyone did). Now, “Locket” has over 100 million streams. Their set seemed to flow from one song to the next, like an endless stream of conversation or a game of telephone. Their coolness drew in an equally cool crowd all in their little worlds, locked into Crumb’s wispy charm, mimicking the smoke in the air and balloons floating around the crowd.
After I grabbed a much-needed gyro, I caught Brittany Howard’s beautiful performance. She began her set with her love song “Stay High.” Howard's voice has always enamored me. I grew up on Alabama Shakes and still return to their tracks on my walks to work. They’re timeless. Howard’s voice is a big testament to that. She has an ease about her like every lyric and note is just how she talks. She keeps her rock and roll roots, with a calmer air now. Howard’s performance was gorgeous, and a perfect segway into Alanis Morissette. In between VIP stages and picnic blankets, the crowd gathered on the field--mirroing a high-scoring Tetris game. On each patchwork blanket, at least one person watched Howard in awe as their friends buzzed around in conversation.
For the grand finale of Pitchfork on Sunday, Alanis Morissette transformed the stage into a blasphemous church. I always knew Morissette was a legend, but seeing the crowd confirmed it. It felt like everyone at Pitchfork was there, from old heads to millennials and punks, Gen Z, kids on their dad’s shoulders, and high schoolers—all belting out “You Oughta Know” at the top of their lungs.
Morissette stepped onto the stage, her voice just as clear as her recordings, singing the opening lines of “One Hand In My Pocket.” The crowd erupted like a centuries-old dormant volcano. Morissette glided across the stage, mic in one hand, harmonica in the other. She whipped her hair around and twisted the lyrics, delivering a show both powerful and intimate. The pews were the dust of Union Park, communion delivered through sparkles on faces and friends saying, “THIS IS YOUR SONG.”
Morissette had the audience in the palm of her hand—or her pocket (hehe). My friends and I couldn’t help but reminisce over our English teacher's use of “Ironic” to teach us about irony. Thank you, Morissette, for a lesson in figurative language and a biblical end to my third Pitchfork festival.
Although I only made it to Sunday this year, Pitchfork as usual gives you everything you want in a music festival. There’s a wide spread of artists, catering to whatever you need–a true buffet of indie, pop, rap, and everything in between. They allow the crowd to stretch their legs and bruise them at the same time. I walked home, feet sore, with a shark smile on my face, and a hand in my pocket wishing it was “hailin’ a taxi cab.”
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