Day In Day Out Festival took over the Seattle Center this weekend with performances by Carly Rae Jepsen, Bleachers, Mannequin Pussy, Peach Pit, Suki Waterhouse, and so many more. We'll be sharing lots of coverage from the event on our Instagram throughout the week—including video of some performances!—so be sure to follow along there. For now, here are a bunch of photos—and some words about a couple of our favorite headliners—from the three-day party:

Carly Rae Jepsen: God, I love seeing a bottle-blonde theater kid make the big-time. In the world of overproduced pop music, Jepsen somehow comes off like the people’s pop star. It’s hard to explain why. I don’t think she ever played the mall circuit, but her skills seem honed from the grind. She’s got the charm of Dolly Parton, the moves of a mom dancing to a Stevie Nicks song in the car, and the crowd-control skills of an elementary school Teacher of the Year. She’s approachably unstoppable. When she closed out DIDO on Friday night, she wore an intricate leotard wrapped in what appeared to be a lot of flouncy bedding, and at one point she wielded three inflatable swords–or, more accurately, two inflatable long swords and one inflatable scimitar–which she procured from some audience members in the front row. Because why not? She played the major singles, starting with “Psychedelic Switch” off the newer album, The Loveliest Time, and she closed with “Cut to the Feeling” from Emotion. And she wasn’t too good for a rendition of “Call Me Maybe” in-between. Long live the queen. RICH SMITH 

Bleachers: Watching a Born-to-Run-era Bruce Springsteen knock-off band close out a music festival a few hours after Donald Trump raised his little fist above his bloody ear with the American flag waving behind him created within me a profound sense of disconnect with my fellow man. 

I’d spent the previous five hours staring at my phone, talking on my phone, and texting on my phone, but now here I was on a broad lawn with an absolutely necessary gin and tonic in my hand, listening to Jack Antonoff, one of the world’s biggest producers, lead a group of tastefully dressed men in a shouting chorus of, “I wanna get better!” It all just seemed so naive. But everyone else was having a good time, so what the fuck was my problem? I relaxed my shoulders and started paying attention. 

The band had set up the stage like a recording studio, complete with a lit “Recording Studio In Use” sign hanging above their heads. They ran through the hits, sometimes mixing a couple of them together like a DJ, sometimes turning big numbers into acoustic numbers, always projecting a sense of urgency and sincerity. When I started paying too much attention, I got confused. I understood Antonoff was feeling deeply, and that some of those feelings carried a romantic valence, but what did he mean, exactly, by the lyric, “Baby, love me! You’ve got me, runaway!” I had no idea, but halfway into the set, I stopped caring. I felt like a New Jersey high school football player about to catch the game-winning touchdown. I was going to tell her how I felt tomorrow, damn it. I was going to be open and honest about my needs and expectations. I was going to confront my grief. I was going to cry. I did. The two saxophone players ruled, the drummers sounded amazing, and one of them reportedly had a hometown connection. 

At a moment in American history when the most toxic form of masculinity imaginable seems poised to retake power, the kind of cute, communal, tee-ball masculinity that Bleachers projects into the world felt like a welcome counterweight. It felt like good politics. Oh god, and now here I am making music criticism all about Trump before he’s even completed his second ascension. Bottom line: Bleachers was fun as hell to watch, and no one can deny the power of a couple chatty saxophones cutting through all that warm summer air. I certainly couldn’t. RICH SMITH