A Pitchfork Villanelle.

Well, I got back this morning from the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago, completing my three urban music festivals in as many weekends. Of the three, Pitchfork was by far the best. Because I have to write an article for the newspaper on it, I decided to interpret my feelings here in a villanelle instead.

Ah, The Cool is Good? (In the Heat)
a lame villanelle

The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Hipsters filed into the dusty diamond Union Park to see
Again! The same orange dress from H&M, similar bands on the bill.

And despite the heat, they all still found a lovely, peppy thrill
while buying ethnic food quite cheaply, and sitting under trees.
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.

Large sunglasses and shitty dye-jobs, beer all spilled
On boys with concave chests and American Apparel tees,
The same orange dress from H&M, same bands on the bill.

And water was cheap, and toilets gross: a good time with no frills
And nobody making awful talk, lots of posters to see.
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.

Danielson was cute, Mountain Goats sang about awkward kills,
Spoon was true, CSS were paper dolls, Jens orchestral twee—
The same orange dress from H&M, similar bands on the bill.

When Diplo rocked the tent so steam swum upwards, though no hills
Decorate the city, there still was a loud longing reaching, light and free.
The sun was hot, but sweaty hair and lanky limbs beat faster still.
Despite, because of the same orange dress, the similar bands on the bill.

To top it off, I just got back from seeing Sleater-Kinney. I'll write on that tomorrow.