At this juncture, it would take half the day to sit here and write about each and every band I witnessed through day three. Muscles are hurting, brains are fried, feet don’t fail me now—gel insoles are a requirement. I’m making sure I have a square meal today and don’t survive on street food to keep me standing. It’s been debauchery, if only for the amount of quality music I chugged yesterday.

Let’s start at Pitchfork, as it was at capacity before 1:00pm and I only had the nerve to sit through Warpaint—the next generation of jam band—an all-female trio who play ghost-prog and torch songs in the vein of PJ Harvey with dream catchers hanging from their belt loops. Forgive me thinking out loud, but at this point, trying to yawn through Local Natives was a chore—the next generation of generic indie rock.

I randomly picked Brookyln’s Twin Sister as a diversion and was more than pleasantly surprised by their hypnotic soft-rock. Imagine the best AM radio gold (Gerry Rafferty, Fleetwood Mac, Nicolette Larson) run through the gauze of Animal Collective pop and oddball guitar motifs. It was breathtaking, even if only a few were paying attention. At this point in the day, people are just worried about waking up and re-fueling.

Over to the Fader Fort again to meet up with acquaintances and see what exactly is hipper than thou for the day. This day it was Love of Diagrams, the one time Matador-signed Australian trio who once made combustible post-punk, but now sound tired and bored. Harlem, the currently Matador-signed Austin garage-disciples, played it off much better. They’ve got moments, but on the massive Fader stage, the infectious jangle they do proficiently in a dank club was lost in the air. Let’s not even get started about how awful the surroundings were for Japandroids, yet another band that sounds better on vinyl than they do trying to convince a crowd to engage in their sloppy punk.

I’m convinced I’m leaving a well-trodden trail on the east side this year, as we walked back to the French Legation Museum for yet another stellar line-up: Mayer Hawthorne, white boy soul my parents would adore, then Dam-Funk, who plays Dayton street-funk better than most Southwest Ohio legends. Little did I know Dam-Funk has been in the game for years and just now has emerged with his revivalist vision of vocoders, keytars and sick, sick, beats. It was nice to see Riley of Wooden Shjips and Moon Duo in the crowd. At times Dam-Funk did veer towards kraut-highways and something resembling Popul Vuh among the Harlem renaissance. Agit favorite Toro Y Moi was incidental music in the ideal weather, bubblegum compared to his chillwave peers. After that it seemed a storm was brewing right before Woods took the stage. I commented to my companion that if he dug the Dead, he would love Woods’ live show. I was right. Relentless touring and fresh new songs have made them quite the psychedelic force on stage. Though I’ve seen them a million times before, I’m hoping to search them out again today.

I ended the night with Memory Tapes and Washed Out, two of my must-sees, both with very different operations. I was a bit unimpressed with Memory Tapes. His guitar work was mesmerizing and adapted well with a live drummer and the preprocessed back-tracks, but as soon as he opened his voice, it was like seeing the wizard revealed behind the curtain. I think I was more impressed with his anonymity, and now that illusion is shattered. Still can’t get enough of those songs, though. Washed Out fared much better, allowing Small Black to back him and his endless summer pop. I was in a daze through the duration. At this point, I’m in a daze most times. One more day to go.