This year’s Pitchfork Music Festival was, as usual and as it should be, a mixed bag of adventure, professionalism, and grand aspirations. Here are some of the highlights.

Wilco took the biggest risk of the weekend, opening their set by playing all of their newest record, Star Wars, which had dropped via the internet less than 24 hours before. They were four songs in before Jeff Tweedy explained what was going on to the bewildered crowd.

Future Islands came into Saturday riding a wave of expectations and they played with all the bombastic crescendo one could hope for, leaning into the cinematic sincerity as frontman Samuel T. Herring busted out moves from the Merce Cunningham reject pile. None of this was surprising, of course, but it was still impressive to see them deliver exactly what the moment demanded.

When I saw them in March, Sleater-Kinney (pictured above) put on a thrilling live show and played enough “hits” to satisfy my sentimentality. Saturday night, they were far better, more confidant and more fun. They’ve found their fifth gear and songs like “Entertain” and “Dig Me Out” really benefitted from the added horsepower.

The award for “Best Surprise of the Weekend” goes to bedroom-popper Jimmy Whispers, who started his unheralded Saturday set by jumping into the crowd, collapsing on the giant speakers, draping himself in the American flag, and leaving every bit of his broken heart on the boards.

Other surprises: Chvrches are way more fun in person. Natalie Prass’ band has more boom and thump than her album implies. Same goes for Parquet Courts (pictured above), who mostly dropped their ironic attitude to put their backs into the music.

There were disappointments, too. Single Mothers have a big personality on-record, but it deflated on stage. Despite an interesting backstory (four Ramones-loving, Catalonian teenagers making a rare U.S. appearance), Mourn remained underwhelming. And I Love Makkonnen is easily the worst rapper to ever get the benefit of a Pitchfork set.

The weekend reached a perfect peak on Sunday, and whoever programmed the Festival deserves a solid gold star. Viet Cong won a few thousand new fans with their angular anger. The Julie Ruin channeled similar frustration into a set that had the crowd bouncing off the trees. Madlib and Freddie Gibbs received a remarkably warm welcome before Gibbs set the weekend’s standard for charisma. And Perfume Genius’ undulating movements underscored the changing tenor of his music as he shifted from wicked beauty to an ear-splitting shriek that echoed across the park.

And then the festival turned into a dorm-room party. Courtney Barnett and her band were exuberant with a groove that mellowed everyone out. (It helped that after a weekend that included 100° heat and a storm that evacuated the park, the weather had finally settled on being perfect.) Just as everyone’s heads were happily bobbing, on came the DJs: Jamie XX and his disco ball on the main stage and Clark on the side stage. Then Caribou brought it all together, with a transcendent set that brought even the uninitiated to their feet. Those who wanted to keep dancing headed over to Todd Terje’s extravaganza at the side stage. Most folks, though, crowded together at the Red Stage for the most anticipated set of the weekend, Run the Jewels.

I’m convinced that no one—no one who performed and no one in the audience—had more fun at the festival than El-P and Killer Mike, a.k.a. Run the Jewels. Mike (pictured above) has an infectious smile for such a Killer, and in a decade of live shows, El-P has never been so uninhibited and unrestrained. The two goofed off like pre-adolescant neighborhood buddies, executing slapstick routines and mining the RTJ catalog for puns. In the meantime, they executed a monstrous set that included a rare appearance by Zach de la Rocha in a Bad Brains t-shirt.

Then came Chance the Rapper. This was clearly a special night for the headliner and he repeatedly intimated that this performance, his first and last in Chicago this year, was the end of an era and the beginning of his transition into adulthood and artistic maturity. If you were unfamiliar with his work, you would be forgiven for wondering why he’s called Chance the Rapper. Backed by his band, Donnie Trumpet and the Social Experiment, Chance shifted from hip-hop to jazz to R&B to gospel, enjoining the crowd to sing and dance with abandon. Hugely creative animated projections and a color-filled light show reflected and amplified the energy of the music. It was already a jaw-dropping display, and then Chance took us to church, revealing a white-robed choir led by gospel superstar Kirk Franklin. Forgive the pun, but holy moly! It was awesome, as in awe-inspiring.

Thus ended Pitchfork’s 10th music festival in Chicago. That nice, round number makes it tempting to wax poetic about how this year’s fest was the best ever. (It wasn’t, though Chance the Rapper’s set may have been the most memorable ever.) Or how it was the epitome of what the festival has been doing for 10 years. In truth, it would be difficult to choose a single year that stands above the rest because Pitchfork has been remarkably consistent at creating a venue for discovery, for artists to push their limits and reach new fans. So it’s an anti-climactic sort of praise to say that this year, like every year, was full of exceptional moments, but it really was. And as usual, many of those moments were far more amazing than I could have hoped.