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 .