Sweat is the New Headband

I grabbed my ticket and we left for Chicago early Sunday morning. The drive was quick and easy, until we hit the north suburbs and that inexplicable bottlenecking transformed the last 18 miles into a 90 minute affair. Jess and I entertained ourselves with loud music and a new game called 'who else in traffic is going to Pitchfork?' Crowded highways turned into crowded city buses that turned into crowded circles around stages in the hot sun. Foot tapping, head nodding and light swaying amongst rapidly shifting clouds and marijuana smoke signified the interest of the festival-goers, a subset of the population mostly too hip for dancing.

Some acts solicited more of a reaction, including St. Vincent with Annie's guitar solos and Neon Indian with freshman status and approachable electronic sound. I'm not usually a fan of music festivals; sunburn, bad lineups, and the inevitable giants that stand in front of me usually mean I could have had a better listening experience at home. This was different in that I didn't so much mind the sun or the fact I had been sweating profusely for 8 hours straight. I didn't mind the people next to me and their individual quirks. I didn't mind the standing, the waiting or the lines. And when it came time to drive back to Wisconsin, I didn't feel relieved, I just felt good. The day was good and home was good and the people in my life are good. We got sodas and took the entrance ramp to the highway and drove home with bed in mind.