In the last summer of my thirties, I found a rock outlet. Not Bonnaroo: too Phishy. Not Reading: too far. I went to Chicago's Pitchfork Music Festival with my college roommate to hear old favorites (Os Mutantes), new downloads (Ted Leo, Spoon), and welcome oddities (Spank Rock, CSS).

But what makes Pitchfork work is not the lineup curated by dot-com stuck-ups, but the ability to see the shows I want, when I want, without having a one-note weekend. In July, the city is more steamy than windy, but it's a breeze to have random access to the Union Park stages, to the Joseph Cornells at the Art Institute, and to a plate of Berkel-sliced prosciutto at Avec in the West Loop. This summer (July 13–15) the rock fest gets one notch more inviting for a newly minted quatrogenarian. It's like a college radio reunion for me with hip-hop hippies De La Soul, Pavement's Stephen Malkmus—and Sonic Youth defying middle age with a song-by-song replay of Daydream Nation. It's an age-appropriate three-day excursion, and I won't be dropping anything except a couple hundred dollars. In return I'll have my comforting summer soundtrack of indie oldies. —NED MARTEL