• Alison Green
  • Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker of Sleater-Kinney

Brianna Wellen: Sure, a lot of memorable things happened before 8:30 PM. Bully started a respectable dance party at the Blue Stage, Ex Hex made the most of their few songs before the festival got (briefly) shut down, and a few measly raindrops caused a mass exodus to whatever nearby bar was accepting soaked-through dollars. The rain made things more fun, and those of us warriors who returned to the muddy park when it reopened surely deserve a badge of courage. Even the sun breaking through the clouds as Kurt Vile sang “Wakin on a Pretty Day” proved that day two easily trumped day one of the fest. But once 8:30 hit and Sleater-Kinney took the stage, everything else was wiped away. They slayed their set with a perfect mix of new hits and old classics—every song I could’ve dreamed they’d play (“No Cities to Love,” “One More Hour,” “Modern Girl”), they ripped through with an unmatched gusto. If Pitchfork awarded Best in Show, it would go to Carrie, Corin, and Janet, no questions asked.

  • Logan Javage
  • Jimmy Whispers isn’t any more likely to stay on the stage at Pitchfork than he is anywhere else.

Leor Galil: Kurt Vile apologized for the rain that briefly forced everyone out of the park earlier in the afternoon, but it’s hard to point a finger at anyone for the troubles that befell Pitchfork’s second day. Well, maybe the person in Vince Staples’s camp who booked his flight to Chicago for the morning before his performance—his plane got delayed, of course (but I also say that in hindsight). And while the drenched, muddy park felt inhospitable as the day wore on, I found enough to enjoy to help me plow through the day to get to Sleater-Kinney’s fierce closing set.

  • Rosario Zavala
  • Joe Casey of Protomartyr

Bill Meyer: While festivals and fashion often go together, the essentials today were a good poncho and a pair of well-sealed boots. The most absurd attire in the hour leading up to the storm was the black suit of Protomartyr singer Joe Casey, which must have been pure misery to wear in the pre-deluge humidity. Second prize goes to Kurt Vile’s bassist, who surveyed a vista of clouds, puddles, and soaked concertgoers from behind a pair of black shades.

At a Book Fort reading, Boston-based music writer Maura Johnston riffed on Riff Raff’s splendidly atrocious “Peach Panther” tour bus, and Jes Skolnik of Chicago band Split Feet described (in excruciating and hilarious detail) the archetypal crust-punk show house. She imagined that only one such house might exist—that it sprouts legs and strides with supernatural speed around the world to settle in every spot with a dirty DIY rock show on the books. Sort of like Baba Yaga’s hut, except stinking of stale piss, armpits, and cumin.

Damn girl. I need to step up my nail game. ❤️ Repost @astrowifey. @Sleater_Kinney album art for @Pitchfork on @torridly 🎶🎤 #OneBeat #WildFlag

A photo posted by CRB (@carrie_rachel) on Jul 9, 2015 at 4:58pm PDT