I’m not the biggest Odd Future fan. I think Earl is brilliant and Goblin has a bunch of bright spots, but I’m still hesitant to cosign anyone who glorifies violence toward women without a couple of serious qualifiers, even though I don’t think Odd Future are a bunch of rapists or that those lyrics come from anywhere but the raging id of a teenage boy—given that I was a teenage boy myself at around the same time Tyler was first putting together syllables, it looks kind of familiar. (Though as Marge Simpson pointed out once, “Boys will be boys” is an extremely tired tautology.) And in terms of musical experiences at this past weekend’s Pitchfork Music Festival, I don’t think Odd Future even made the top ten.

On the other hand, there wasn’t anyone else on the bill who was even close to being as fascinating as Tyler and his crew. For better or worse, Pitchfork (the festival and to a much greater extent the website) has been one of the major forces in rounding off the sharp corners that indie rock inherited from punk and hardcore, thus making it palatable to the vastly wider audience that it has today. Some aspects of that makeover are great—it’s hard not to enjoy seeing bands like No Age and Ariel Pink, who still hold tight to punk’s freak flag, performing in front of tens of thousands of people. The downside is that an operation like the Pitchfork Music Festival, with not just those tens of thousands of festivalgoers but also a small army of corporate sponsors to keep happy, tends to play it a little safe. If this means sacrificing some of the free-floating potential for chaos that permeated the DIY punk fests that the Pitchfork festival counts among its ancestors, so be it.