Sometimes, on your own, you arrive at the realization that “hey, it isn’t so bad. I’m attending a music festival for free in a very beautiful city and even though I’m trying hard not to gawk at the mustachio’d sailer-hatted hipster either in the merchant marines or an aspiring killer clown, things is alright.” But at other times, nothing can palliate you, outside of the right street pharmacist, one who will sell you $100 worth of that sweet chiba in an apartment a few blocks from Union Park, while bumping M83′s “Graveyard Girl.” Yesterday was one of those days. And in conjunction with my new found ray of light (no Madonna), the murky, muggy rain that had been washing down on the streets of the Chi lifted, just in time for me to miss the last 10 minutes of Caribou’s set. 

Things were different yesterday. The publicists who I had so lustily condemned the day prior were able to fall for my cheap ruse about there obviously being some sort of mistake in my not getting VIP passes. Or was there? Maybe it was wise for them to throw me the VIP tags, after all, as the saying goes, hell hath no fury like a jaded, spoiled reporter not being able to smoke blunts the size of burritos and eat burritos the size of blunts. Plus, free beer and free Sparks–and while Sparks might taste like “perfumed asshole” as one of my colleagues so eloquently put it, it not only give you wings, it convinces you to climb to the top of the nearest building and play Daedelus. (Who should’ve been at this festival now that I think about it).

Besides, the energy was different on Saturday. Long gone was Friday’s indier-than-thou crowd lured in by unremembered nostalgia for Mission of Burma, Sebadoh and PE. In their stead were a bunch of teens and people in their early 20s, drawn by the promise of Vampire Weekend’s dulcet pop and The Hold Steady’s sincere sing-a-longs. It was the proverbial “next generation,” and anybody lambasting Vampire Weekend for their depictions of an idle, spoiled rich class might be well served to note their fanbase, full of MTV sunglasses and girls with purses bought at Saks 5th Avenue, and understand that hating them for singing about Louis Vuitton and Reggaeton is like hating a chicken for laying eggs.

The first band I caught was Fleet Foxes, who pretty much owe 80 percent of their fanbase to a whopping 9.0 rave that the Fork gave them earlier this year. I’ve been resistant towards the Fleet Foxes bandwagon. Not because I dislike them per se. Watching Robin Pecknold and co. sing their America meets My Morning Jacket hymnals, you can’t help but note how pretty the songs sound. But for a website this focused on originality and progressive sonic ideas, it was a little strange to think that these are their new poster boys. Earlier this year, I asked Jim James how he felt about bands like Fleet Foxes and Band of Horses essentially stealing the blueprint from At Dawn and The Tennessee Fire. Wisely, he dodged the question, claiming he’d heard them and didn’t really have any thoughts on the matter. Good for him for being tactful enough to side-step any controversy. However, were it be me, I’d be halfway towards re-enacting the “Shark N–Z” sketch from Only Built For Cuban Linx, where Ghostface and Raekwon indict copy-cat rappers. Bottom line, Fleet Foxes sound identical to My Morning Jacket. They do what they do well and their songs are winsome, affable and at times very poignnant, but I’m not nowhere near ready to pronounce them the next best thing.

The same can’t be said for the Hold Steady. I know a lot of people hate their music and it’s not hard to see why. At times, they’re almost painfully sincere and occasionally they can veer dangerously close to parody, but on any given Friday night, this band be in any top 5 of bands that I’dwant to see. In the festival environment, their guitar rock is damn-near explosive, their songs rollicking, boozy and often brilliant. Perhaps the most joyful performer in all music, every show Craig Finn summons the sort of joy and catharthis that often provides the foundation for great rock n’ roll. They’re the sort of band that can make cliches come to life. You “lose yourself in the music.” You become “one with the audience.” Or more aptly, as they put it,  ”Party Pit,” it’s the sort of music that makes you want to walk around and drink some more.

So I listened, liquored up good, heading to the C stage, way out in a no-mans-land corner of the park to see No Age thrash and twist and somehow prove what a lot of people thought was impossible: that it is possible to re-invent the punk song. Were New Found Glory, NoFx and all those other hacky mall-punk bands to have seen No Age in person, I can imagine them being reduced to tears, struck with the realization that they’re frauds and that with just a drummer and a guitarist Dean Spunt and Randy Randall could cauterize their flesh and bleach their bones. Real vicious, powerful Punk music that justified the acclaim and hype and left me feeling guilty for having never dragged myself out to the Smell once. Thankfully, they’ve outgrown their first home and are ready for prime-time, local boys made good. God willing, in due time they’ll have strung Pete Wentz up by his assymetrical haircut, stolen Ashlee Simpson, forced Panic at the Disco! into a full-on panic and saved an entire generation of 14-year olds from being emo. All in a day’s work.

But speaking of a day’s work, like the White Rabbit, I’m late for a very important date. Besides, I need to get my Lewis Carroll on, as there are herbal refreshments to be rolled and there are Times New Vikings to be seen. To say nothing of Spoon or King Khan or best of all, Ghost and Rae performing together. Hopefully, they will play “One” from Supreme Clientele, if only so Ghost can offer the question, “How Many Blunts We Smoke.” To which the crowd can only respond, “One…at a Time.”