None of us could believe how many people were there. We didn’t realize the Decemberists, a still relatively-unknown-by-the-mainstream indie rock band, had an eighth as many Chicago fans as there were at Millennium Park last night. The Jay Pritzker Pavilion seats 11,000, but with the runoff crowd there looked to be close to 15,000 on hand.

Of course, the large attendance numbers likely had something to do with the fact that it was a free show and that the Grant Park Orchestra was backing them. The city puts on free shows free Thursday at the park, so I’m sure many of the families showed up on pure habit. And the fact that it was an orchestral show probably eased the tensions of those not familiar with the Decemberists come. I’m sure they figured that an indie band they’ve never heard of that plays with an orchestra can’t be too obscure.

There was nowhere to sit or even stand comfortably. The rain and subsequent umbrellas poking everyone didn’t make matters any better, nor did the extreme humidity. Standing in the crowd felt like standing in a bathroom in which a hot shower had been running on full heat for the last 30 minutes. It was so damp my jeans stretch from a 34 to a 38 in about 15 minutes.

But the sound was magnificent. No expense was spared for the acoustics of Millennium Park’s centerpiece (literally, the park went hundreds of millions of dollars over budget). The Decemberists’ epic, anthemic sound is tailor made for an orchestral show, and for the four songs we stood through, Colin Meloy and the gang pulled it off wonderfully.

But the sweat, the people, and our poor view (we could barely see the stage at all through all the umbrellas) were too much and we decided to run to a bar and have a couple drinks instead. Not a thing you think would be difficult in a city like Chicago, known for its abundance of watering holes. But finding a decent bar in the Loop is like finding a decent bar in rural Kansas.

The Loop is about the worse part of Chicago (outside some of the West and South Sides) to be thirsty for beer. Despite the fact it’s where the majority of the metropolitan area spends its workweek, there’s hardly a tavern in sight. We walked four nearly six blocks (west on Monroe, south on Wells) and we only found one place, and it was some creepy sports bar in the basement of an old apartment complex.

So Nick and I caught a Brown Line train back up to Old Town for a drink, which for me turned into five drinks. I had honestly intended on staying just for one, but each time I tried the leave the rain decided to pour down harder and harder, forcing me to turn back to the bar and apathetically order another round.

Finally, after about an hour and a half and a healthy buzz later, the rain subsided and I made my way out on the streets. After a couple blocks I caught the North Ave. bus and sat across from a young black woman who looked like an Alicia Keyes who didn’t have the luxury of being made over by a team of beauticians every day.

She had her hair in tight braids that split perfectly down the middle of her scalp. She was wearing a pair of worn Birkenstocks and black stretch pants that were so wet from walking in the rain that the bottoms of them dangled past the ball of her foot.

With every new passenger that walked passed the expressions on her face would go from one of genuine fright (tucking her head in her shoulders like a shy child) to supreme confidence (like the type of look a girl gets on her face when she says something like “Boy, whatch you lookin’ at?” It was strange.

I’d spend long glances at her wondering who this girl was and what was her story. People on the bus always bring out this side of me. Who were all these people that I’d spend 10-15 minutes of my day with? Where did they live? What did they do? When was the last time they had sex?

Between the times I was looking at her wondering who she was, I’d glace at my reflection in the window across the bus. I thought to myself, “Hmm, I’m glad I shaved this morning.”

When we got to Paulina, I reached up to tug on the chord to request a stop, but pulled back at the last moment. I was going to wait until I got to Damen so I could walk down Milwaukee amongst the artsy folk. It’s always a more interesting walk.

It should also be noted that during the Decemberists show there were two skinny dudes doing an intense interpretive dance in the aisle separating the seats from the lawn. They were sopping wet from rain, and a big black security guard with baggy pants stood there watching them curiously as though they were some foreign species. Nick and I thought they were minstrels hired by the band as some kind of a joke, but the girl by us informed us that they actually do this for every show at the park.

Pitchfork

Of course, I went to it this weekend, like every other hipster/wanna be hipster/person who just likes indie music who lives in the Chicago area. I'll have a lengthy review a did for a magazine in town up later in the week.

My sentiments of it from this year were pretty much as they were last year: It was by-and-large a good time. Sunday was packed with bands I dig (Of Montreal, Junior Boys, The Sea and Cake, De La Soul). I was too fucked up to really pay any critical attention to what was going on Friday night and Saturday was pretty blah (partly due to the previous night's fucked up-ness). Maybe I'm just getting older, but attending a music festival not hungover is really the way to go.

The best part about it was that I had a press pass all weekend and didn't have to pay for shit — beer included. This is truly the way to experience concerts. No lines for the porta-potties, plenty of breathing room and access so close to the stage you can almost smell the musicians.

Of course, this will all make it more difficult for me to go back to being a prole at Lollapalooza in a couple weeks.

My only main gripe about Pfork is the crowd. Nobody really seemed to be having that much fun (except for maybe De La and Girl Talk). Only the really young kids were getting excited. There were too many jaded hipsters that just walked around looking bored the whole time (or maybe that was just the folks back in the VIP section). Hanging out at Pitchfork is kind of like hanging out at a really trendy dive bar: You feel cool being there, and the aesthetics are always interesting, but everybody's so uptight in trying look the part that nobody lets their hair down and actually enjoys themselves.

Oh, well. Maybe I'll reach some level of transcendence at Lolla.