The music = Coachella
The sheer volume of performers means Coachella owns the title for superior festival line-up. From the obscure, to the mainstream, to the reunited, Coachella serves up a summer’s worth of concerts in three compact tightly scheduled 12+ hour days across a polo field of stages. Pitchfork hosts a number of specifically well-cultivated acts spaced temporally further apart on three different stages situated relatively close together. Even though Coachella has more musical opportunities, there is no way to see every artist which leads to inevitable disappointments. Know what wasn’t a disappointment? The Breeders playing Last Splash from beginning to end at Pitchfork.
The people = Pitchfork
Chicago gets away with unacceptable bullshit (shitty weather, crumbling infrastructure, violence), but the city’s still beloved because of the charm of its people. Chicagoans take no shit, but they aren’t fucking L.A. assholes either. Their midwestern mamas taught ‘em right. The crowd peppered the days with “excuse me” and “thank you.” Unlike, Coachella, everyone doesn’t stand thisclose at Pitchfork. Pitchfolks mostly keep a reasonable and respectful distance. In contrast at Coachella, a bitch had her saggy left tit on my shoulder for the entire Foals set. Even the cops were nicer at Pitchfork. In a surprisingly good-natured gesture two cops eye-fucking my friend and I pulled out perpendicularly to block traffic so we could strut the crosswalk unscathed. (Hey Chicagoans – you all walk – stop at the crosswalks. Crossing the street I felt like a fucked-up sequined version of Frogger. G-Sus.)
The Food = Pitchfork
Don’t fuck with Chicago when it comes to food. We happily feasted on $5 vegan corn dogs and waffle fries from The Chicago Diner stand. I was introduced to the beauty of Jeni’s ice cream at Pitchfork. Pitchfood reigns. Coachella offers the poisonous churro, lukewarm water, and chunder-inducing garlic fries.
The drugs = Coachella
Basically, people are eating their own hair at Coachella. Everyone is super fucked-up. An extremely permissive attitude permeates the polo grounds from security to the fans. In comparison, at Pitchfork I was lying in the grass extremely faded on edibles listening to Wire when these annoying kids settled in next to us. One of the girls was one of those narrator-types who wove the word “literally” inappropriately and excessively into every sentence. “My weed is literally in the grass you guys.” Dude responds, “I want to be rolling so hard that I can’t feel my genitals. That’s how bad I want to be be rolling right now.” Obviously, these kids were killing me. As I lay there contemplating this hell of my own making, I heard a stern female voice say, “What’s in the bag?” My heart stopped and I kept my eyes closed. A few beats of silence followed. Then I heard the annoying nasally girl whine, “She literally just took our weed. At least we only have an hour and a half left.” She literally reassured the group. “She’s totally going to smoke it.” Dude replied. I have never seen security take anyone’s weed at any show I have ever attended until I overheard it happen to Chicago’s most annoying hipsters at Pitchfork. I smiled inside at the thought of the security guard blunting up their sack after a hard day’s work corralling doughy bearded white boys around Union Park. I’m not mad at you Sister Security.
The Fashion = Coachella
Bless your heart Chicago, style has never been your strength. I ask you manboys, what is with the super tight denim cutoffs? This is a very strange not-at-all flattering early 70’s look to resurrect. Newsflash: 99% of all men look like boys in shorts. Shorts are a dignity issue. Dress like a fucking man. Mostly, it was just a vast sea of unoriginality among all genders. Don’t worry, we were an island of freshness as I insisted on teasing my reluctant friend’s hair into a major modern beehive. Coachella breeds its own version of annoying conformity that I wouldn’t at all consider a creative expression unless you consider the art of the coochie cutter the bastard cousin of couture. However, at least the Coochellites try. In Chicago, bitches think khaki shorts constitute a style statement.