By the time it started to get dark in Grant Park the rain had finally given up completely after a seemingly endless series of fits and starts, and there was an almost palpable sense of relief over it as people started spreading blankets on the drying—at least so they hoped—grass and started working up the serious sprawled-out power chill that is a perennial popular festival activity. Of course by then a certain part of the crowd was hammered to fuck, another classic approach to festivalgoing.