@colekincart

If day one was about arrival, day two felt like finally settling into Porto.

Or at least that’s what I was thinking this morning (the morning of day 3) over an açaí bowl and a cinnamon espresso.

Jet lag is still hanging around, though I think it’s finally beginning to lose. I woke up a little later than I hoped, found a nearby café, and started doing what I’ve apparently made into a morning ritual: scrolling through yesterday’s camera roll and trying to piece together everything I’d seen.

The first thing I did was text my dad a handful of videos from Gorillaz.

Yesterday was the festival’s only sold-out day, and honestly, you could tell. Gorillaz shirts were everywhere. I had an absolute blast with their set. The new album feels like a natural next chapter for the project while still embracing the thing that’s always made Gorillaz, well… Gorillaz. Guests came and went all night long. Joe Talbot showing up made perfect sense once I remembered Idles were on tomorrow’s lineup, but it was still a fantastic surprise. Yasiin Bey on “Stylo” was unbelievable, especially hearing his verses through that signature crackling microphone effect. Bootie Brown joined for “Dirty Harry,” Moonchild Sanelly appeared for “With Love to an Ex,” and Chicago’s very own Kara Jackson also made an appearance.

As much as I loved the guests, though, I appreciated how much room the band gave their back catalogue to breathe. Somewhere during “Clint Eastwood,” I realized it was probably the first rap song I ever knew every word to. That feels like a pretty universal experience if you grew up as a vaguely alternative white kid in the 2000s.

Somewhere between finishing my espresso and replaying “Stylo” in my head, the owner of the café wandered over and, completely unprompted, taught me a rubber band magic trick. I’m still not entirely sure how we got there. If you see me back in Chicago, ask me about it. I’m currently batting about .500 on actually pulling it off.

Thinking back on yesterday, things almost started much differently.

My hostel locker decided to stop working, which somehow turned into replacing batteries and reprogramming the lock. It ate up far more time than I expected, so instead of waiting for the crowded 500 bus, I decided to trust my Chicago biking instincts and grabbed a Lime bike.

Porto, however, has hills.

Despite a couple wrong turns and some unexpectedly ambitious climbs, I made it from downtown to the festival in under thirty minutes, which I’ll happily count as a victory. The ride ended up taking me through Parque da Cidade, which may have become one of my favorite discoveries of the trip. The festival borders the park, but riding through it made me wish I had an entire afternoon set aside just to wander the trails. Whenever I make it back to Porto (and I’d really like to) I already know where I’ll spend a day.

The rushed bike ride paid off because it got me there just in time for Annahstasia.

Her debut was one of my favorite records from last year, and hearing those songs with nothing more than upright bass, cello, and nylon-string guitar was every bit as moving as I’d hoped. Some voices feel impossibly warm on record. Hers somehow felt even warmer standing twenty feet away.

The rest of the day settled into a rhythm. I accidentally caught a nap on the Primavera Stage hillside while Mark William Lewis and his band soundtracked the afternoon. Black Country, New Road reminded me just how absurdly talented six people can be when everyone seems capable of playing everything. Watching instruments constantly swap hands while harmonies effortlessly weave together made me even more excited to see them again with my parents next weekend in New York.

And then there was Slowdive.

Watching the sun disappear while those impossibly hazy guitars drifted across the festival grounds felt like one of those festival moments you couldn’t script if you tried.

More to come tomorrow.