Reported by Mairead Case. Photo of Clipse courtesy of Chicagoist.

For the first hour or so at Pitchfork Music Festival, day two, I saw at least four kids carrying large bunches of schoolbus-yellow bananas. I thought it was a kink thing, like handkerchiefs in the back pocket or flower leis at Trader Joe’s, but then I realized the Whole Foods booth was selling them (along with tofu bowls). My bad. Other than bananas, then, the kids are wearing big glasses with small ponytails, expensive-looking tattoos, handkerchiefs and cowboy boots, plus at least one stuffed-lion backpack (his name was Frank).

Pitchfork’s three stages are named Connector, Aluminum, and Balance; they’re separated by booths selling show posters, skeleton-shaped belt buckles, health care, stuffed parasites, plus a sweet basketball court and more Fuze juice stands than pox on a chicken. Spirit fingers to the WBEZ DJs, who staffed the record fair despite being told their station was folding just three days prior.

Saturday’s sparklehorse favorite was Battles, a virtually unclassifiable quartet mixed from former members of Helmet, Lynx, and Don Caballero. Their sound has more layers than baklava (to name a few: Afro-Cuban world music, a ten-foot high crash, chipmunk valentine vox, and many coloured wires), and it’s funny because rock criticals keep wanting to label it, but all Tyondai Braxton will say is “it’s modern.” which I guess it is. “Come to Fraaa-aaance,” yelled the guy next to me, who wore heart-shaped glasses and was eating peanut-butter granola.

Other afternoon highlights included Iron and Wine, and Sam Beam’s beard is still large enough to nest birds; Clipse’s druggy rhyme (“Egg shell on the scale for me snow coppers / Don’t ask what I sell, shit—I’m Betty Crocker”); and Mastodon, with forearms tattooed a mossy green and sound that hits like a heavy heatwave. Dan Deacon played to an ass-to-crotch crowd, and Cat Power’s mercury was high. She blazed “Satisfaction” and sang the rest on a Marlo Thomas slow burn.

Last came Yoko Ono, in dapper hat and sunglasses, and backed by a band of 20-something guys (plus Hedwig’s Stephen Trask, who juggled instruments and acted as her third and fourth arm). “I wrote this on the way here,” Ono said, “so now I’m going to play it. People used to do that, you know.” She gave the crowd penlights, and told them to flash ‘em in a six-beat pattern that translated to “I love you. I love you”—a bit cute, perhaps, but also a genius way to reverse the cameras’ invasive flash.