Saturday

Storminess recedes into clear skies the next morning, and I take off early to catch an assortment of smaller acts, the most memorable of which proves to be Detroit DJ GRiZ. GRiZ an average-looking hipster with with laughably impeccable diction: “New York, we’re going to take this to the next motherfucking level,” he states carefully. But his ’70s soul samples, combined with the usual dubstep fare of screechy electro-whines and blitzing hi-hats, makes the early afternoon crowd go nuts. This audience is fairly representative of the larger population here: high schoolers and 20-somethings who dress up in what my friend Jenna terms “festival fashion,” bro tanks or jerseys and Ray-Bans for the dudes, cut-up sleeveless tees, khaki short-shorts and colorful headbands/bracelets/necklaces for the girls. For a look that’s designed to be alternative, it’s overwhelmingly standard here. You can usually tell how far out somebody actually is, though, by how unconventionally they dance and flail. Here, a couple girls spin wildly in circles, and one guy dons a horse head mask and gets up on his friend’s shoulders to pumps his fists wildly. It’s a good crowd.

If GRiZ relies on hormones, then the Dirty Projectors are fueled by intellect. Jenna hates them—without prior listening, it’s tough to understand all the moving parts, the “bird-like” shrieks, the indecipherable lyrics. The Projectors are a little obtuse, but also possibly America’s smartest band right now, combining deep songwriting craft with absurd vocal arrangements. Their recent single “Gun Has No Trigger” gives me chills with each throbbing climax.

The set also presents a fascinating study into the cohesion of two opposites. Gangly frontman David Longstreth rarely smiles or engages with anyone, instead shredding his voice to bits with scream after guttural scream. Sidekick Amber Coffman is all grace and precision, bantering bashfully with the crowd and swaying from side to side on her feature, “Stillness is the Move.” When put together, they form a whole new jagged, textured animal, as shown on the immersive 2009 cut “Useful Chamber.”

I’m pondering profound musical thoughts as I leave Longstreth, Coffman & co., but those all get thrown out the window when the next performer takes the stage. Good god, Azealia Banks. To use words like “carnal,” “dominant,” and “exhausting” doesn’t come close to capture the kind of energy she brought Saturday night. She explodes onto the stage in a bright orange Spandex suit, already dancing and screaming. This is the only show I’ve been to where the crowd goes berserk three times, first for her version of Baauer’s omnipresent “Harlem Shake”—the overhead tent trembles during the drop—for her homecoming anthem “212,” and for the encore. As she turns and runs off, men and women left and right assume wide-eyed, stunned expressions: we’re all physically and mentally drained. I run into my friend Michael, whose jaw is practically on the floor. “That was so sick,” is all he can muster.

Dazed, we trudge over to Kings of Leon on the mainstage, who provide exactly the vibe we need. It’s still sunny outside, and a mix of younger and older fans are milling about, some watching the band avidly, others just taking in the good weather. That’s fine: Kings of Leon doesn’t necessitate full attention, as their songs all seem vaguely familiar.

We’re still thinking about Azealia by the time we get to rapper Kendrick Lamar’s set, while he’s in the middle of his pillow-talk hit “Poetic Justice.” It’s probably wrong to compare the two, because their artistic goals are so different, but I can’t help but notice that where Azealia shouted every rapid-fire syllable, Kendrick skips half of his words and waltzes around in cruise mode. Even worse, he introduces “Swimming Pools (Drank)” as if it’s actually a drinking anthem and not a critique, gleefully encouraging everyone to “get fucked up” and sing along.

It’s clear that many followed his advice as he wraps up with a long-winded speech about Compton. It’s only 8:30, with the legendary Guns N’ Roses still to go, but hundreds are staggering through the mud to the exits, some slurring their speech, some crying. This is the only moment of the festival where the scene is dystopic: tank-clad bros guzzling beer and fighting with their girlfriends as their Gucci sandals get entrenched in the mud. We head home with the crowd, thoroughly exhausted and in desperate need of a change of shoes. From what we heard afterward, GnR involved a lot of flames, fireworks, double-necked guitar theatrics—we’re not too bummed over missing the pageantry.