7:30 p.m.: Clipse begin asserting that Hell Hath No Fury is the "album of the year." Also, gratuitous gunshot sound effects follow just about every other song. Malice and Pusha-T chum up to the crowd between songs, but they still give off that uneasy feeling that they could turn on you—not just some third party, but the audience itself—as soon as the coke market slumps. Pusha introduces "Chinese New Year" by saying, "Chicago, y'all ain't foolin' nobody. We know it get real grimy out here. So get your mask and your gloves and let's do this." The crowd whoops and hollers like it knows exactly what he's talking about.
7:55 p.m.: Clipse ends its set by breathlessly plugging the upcoming We Got It For Cheap Vol. 4 and the next Clipse album. "We just think we better," Pusha concludes. They certainly have everyone else beat in the self-promotion department. He then rips into "bitin'-ass rappers bitin' our style" before concluding with "Mr. Me Too," then emerges for one of the festival's only encores for a swaggering version of "Virginia."
8:01 p.m.: Cat Power, featuring an all-new lineup, starts off strong with the title track from The Greatest, but things quickly devolve into crushing cover-band boredom. Chan Marshall's new sidemen—including Judah Bauer from the Blues Explosion, Jim White of The Dirty Three (who's played with her quite a bit in the past), and Gregg Foreman (of the late, lost Delta 72)—played like a capable bar band, and Marshall stuck almost exclusively to covers: "Theme From New York, New York," "Satisfaction," "Tracks Of My Tears." These may be fun for Marshall—even though she complained quite a bit about the sound—but on seven out of seven days, the people would rather hear her struggle through her own amazing songs than breeze through other people's. Everything turns to vanilla soul sauce.
9:03 p.m.: As Yoko Ono's set begins with an interminable, inaudible video about using flashlights to say "I love you" to the heavens (seriously), Girl Talk's set continues on the smaller Balance Stage. The bass is booming over Yoko's video, and the ecstatic cheers of the crowd over there makes it the place to be—not standing in a big field trying to figure out what the hell this video is supposed to mean. After a few minutes, the crowd is seriously confused. "Say I love you from the top of buildings, from mountains, using whole buildings, using flashlights," she says over and over (and over) again.
9:10 p.m.: Ono takes the stage to rapturous applause, dressed in a black fedora, white scarf, and Ray-Bans. "She looks like Jim Belushi!" someone calls out.
9:15 p.m.: Ono emits her first braying "Wa-a-a-a-a" and the crowd collectively doubles over with laughter. An odd feeling of relief is palpable, like no one was certain until now how seriously they were supposed to take this.
9:20 p.m.: When the recognized elements of music—beats, a bassline—finally start, the crowd cheers… until Ono starts, um, singing. Her grunts and screams sound simian, and the crowd's mass exodus begins. "We can say we've seen her," says one couple on the way to the exit. Another person standing nearby is more blunt: "You've gotta be fucking kidding me." Elsewhere: "Homewrecker!" and "Shut up and ROCK!" After the first song, Ono performs what appears to be a mini-play, voicing the parts of a couple of characters. It is, like the rest of her set, excruciating. As our packed bus heads up Ashland, we can only pray for those left behind. The only question is whether to call this event the Yokocaust or the Onopocalypse.
Sunday, July 15
1:12 p.m.: After an announcer notes with glee that we're all standing in the shadow of a nearby Baptist church this fine Sunday, Deerhunter singer Bradford Cox slinks out, dangling what appear to be tiny puppets from a glove on one of his hands. Cox's spindly figure (sort of explained here) and the dress he's wearing make people expect a crazier set than what the band delivers. That's the theme, at least for the first few hours of the day—various rising indie bands sounding great, but a little rushed and cramped. Or, in this case, not cramped enough. Cox's otherworldly mating calls and the band's crude chugging could use some confining club walls to rattle.
1:55 p.m.: The Flatstock Poster Convention, held on the Pitchfork grounds this year, tempts the geekier among us to spend almost the price of a three-day festival pass, sometimes more, on gig posters from around the country. Particularly hypnotic: this Explosions In the Sky poster by Northhampton, MA-based artist Nate Duval. Meantime, an arty $4 notebook purchased from Alabama print shop Standard Deluxe proves much sturdier than the crappy drugstore one that's been falling apart all weekend.
2:30 p.m.: Increasing the feeling that today's first half is a harried indie showcase, Menomena's 45-minute set doesn't really give the band time to build up the drama, but that at least doesn't hamper individual songs.
3:15 p.m.: Junior Boys cap off the cram-a-thon—leave it to the mopiest of the day's acts to punch through the decidedly non-intimate atmosphere, for what that's worth.
4:24 p.m.: Something doesn't translate when The Sea And Cake heads into the studio, because its performance is invigorating and occasionally raw, unlike its albums, which are, if anything, too steady in their production and mood. Also: The Sea And Cake's audience does indeed dance to The Sea And Cake. Or at least one guy does.
5:48 p.m.: Does Jamie Lidell have a gospel choir on stage with him? Because that's how it sounds. Nope, it's just him, but his outfit is vaguely messianic: a golden robe and similarly sparkling headdress.
6 p.m.: Except for some traces of gray in his hair, Stephen Malkmus still looks boyish. His lanky figure and chinos make him look like a cool college TA. For all but two songs, Malkmus plays by himself on an acoustic guitar, which he runs through an amp and distorts when necessary. His occasional flubs make him look a little rusty. About halfway through the set, he's joined by Pavement drummer Bob Nastanovich. Much to the crowd's delight, they play the classic songs "Trigger Cut" and "In The Mouth A Desert" from the band's 1992 debut, Slanted And Enchanted. Malkmus later closes the set with "We Dance" from 1995's Wowee Zowee.
7:38 p.m.: Time for a quick peek at Of Montreal's stage: The guitar player is wearing a big, dirty set of pink angel wings, and three others, including leader Kevin Barnes, are playing mock football in shoulder pads and helmets. What more do you need? They return for an encore and play The Kinks' "You Really Got Me." Frontman Kevin Barnes wears only thigh-highs and a G-string, naturally.
8 p.m.: The New Pornographers start their set promptly at the designated time, but word that vocalist Neko Case would perform here proves false. As the band rips through "Use It," a police car passes on Ashland with sirens blaring. Strangely, it synchs with the song perfectly—more proof that the band leads a charmed life. The set sags just once, when new song "The Spirit Of Giving" (minus Dan Bejar, who sings it on the new Challengers) droops into a coda of "We Will Rock You." But even that's kind of endearing, especially as the band picks right up with "Mass Romantic." In Case's absence, keyboardist-singer Kathryn Calder leads the song and other New Pornos standards, including "The Laws Have Changed." She's been the adequate replacement at previous Case-less shows. Here, her sassy (and frankly adorable) presence stands out with a lot more confidence. Frontman Carl Newman lauds Pitchfork Festival's cheap ticket prices, which don't "fuck you up the ass" like other festivals'. "Did I just say that out loud?" he asks. "I love all festivals—and the money they pay us." The final minutes of "The Bleeding Heart Show," laden with multiple vocal harmonies, are as good as pop music gets. The raucous crowd demands an encore afterward, and the band eventually obliges with "The Slow Descent Into Alcoholism."
9:18 p.m.: Early in its set, De La Soul welcomes DJ/producer Prince Paul, who guest-scratches and rhymes for a song or two, then just kind of sits on stage for the rest of the show.
9:48 p.m.: This must be a party, clearly, because an inflatable orange couch is bouncing across the crowd. De La Soul remains playful and cocky, alternately spreading a welcoming vibe throughout the incessantly dancing crowd and urging those not dancing to "go the fuck home." (Does that include the seated Prince Paul?)
10:30 p.m.: After another 40 minutes of hip-hop chestnuts, corny banter, and various inquiries as to where the party at, De La leaves behind a sweaty mess of a crowd. It's a strong, inclusive finish, and the weekend has also been choosy enough to satisfy its namesake's many fragments of an audience.
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