GREG WROTE:
Because I’m an idiot, I played basketball in running shoes on the morning of Day 2, and because I’m a terrible basketball player, I rolled my right ankle. Twice. The first time stung, the second time had me pounding on the court floor and screaming expletives in front of children.
A couple of ice packs and a handful of Motrin later, I hobbled onto the train around 3:00 with Joe and Tarek so that we could get to Grant Park in time to see Perry Farrell deejay. The three of us are huge Jane’s Addiction (and Porno For Pyros) fans, and so we didn’t want to miss this opportunity. Last year at Lollapalooza, when Joe was working for MTV, Perry walked into the MTV cabana during the Daft Punk performance with his boy on his shoulders, and I had to go over and shake his hand and say that I was a fan. I realize that left one less hand to keep his boy steady up there, but that was a risk I was willing to take and not think about.
Oh, and we got official texts from the Lolla people saying that Slash of Guns ‘N Roses was going to be Perry’s special guest.
We arrived at the tent 30 minutes into Perry’s set and politely moved our way into the center.
Hmmm. Um. Ugh. Damn, his new solo stuff is awful. The three of us, plus everyone in my periphery, cringed while watching the founder of Lollapalooza and the front man for one of the best rock bands in history sing boring electronica songs with his hot, gyrating wife. The sound actually went out twice during their set, but that’s not why everyone had a concerned look on their face.
But, hey, Slash did show up - signature cigarette hanging from his lips and all - and he plugged in next to Perry’s guitarist. The crowd exploded, chanting “Slash” until the legendary guitarist nodded a thanks.
The song got off to a slow start. Slash’s guitar was barely audible, as was Perry’s voice. Everyone begged them to turn it up. The other guitarist made guitarist faces, trying not to look like a chump next to Slash. The music began to build.
And then the power went out.
For a long time.
Perry, looking terribly frustrated and embarrassed as he messed with a laptop and some headphones, eventually had to wave goodbye to the crowd. Slash’s and Perry’s kids came on stage to wave, too, and then everyone was gone. But the crowd continued to chant, first for Slash and then for Perry, and we were able to move up even closer as a lot of the audience gave up on an encore. But, after 10 minutes, they got the power back on and everyone came back on stage. Perry pushed a button and Jane’s Addiction’s most famous track, “Jane Says,” started up in an electronic beat-y kind of way. It was recognizable and the crowd went nuts.
And then the power went out.
For good.
Slash kept playing his guitar as if he didn’t even notice, and Perry, after coming to terms with the fact that even though he was able to organize an event that can accommodate 225,000 fans and over 100 bands in the span of three days and yet somehow no one could help him get this little tent’s power pumping, put down his microphone and began singing inaudibly. The crowd instantly joined in and we all sang “Jane’s Says” a capella together under that hot tent, making a lemon-flavored watery drink out of a black lemon.
We had a lot of time before Claire arrived to see Broken Social Scene, so we meandered around like my father at a shopping mall. Eventually we stumbled upon the “Green Street” where there were booths selling sustainable and environmentally friendly products, a Whole Foods tent/plaza, a tent where you could trade in a garbage bag of plastic bottles found around the park in exchange for a free T-shirt or tote bag (which I thought was a brilliant idea), and place where you could offset your carbon footprint by purchasing carbon credits.
Close by was a Barack Obama tent, and I was able to register to vote (no more Ohio for me) in Illinois next door.
Claire arrived to a standing ovation by me, and the four of us sat to watch Broken Social Scene play a great set. Like the day before, I watched half of their performance before setting out for the other end of the park to see a headliner: Rage Against the Machine. Claire walked with us halfway before heading back to get a grassy seat for Wilco.
When Rage stabbed at the first chords of “Testify,” the crowd surged forward. We were about 50 yards away, stage left, and happy with our position, so we stood our ground and let the spastic, shirtless drunk guys move up without us. And almost immediately the singer, Zach de la Rocha, stopped the show because there were people getting smashed against the barrier, people getting beat up in several mosh circles that had formed, and people trying to escape it all only to be blocked from doing so. He pleaded everyone there to take 10 steps back more than once and finally they started up again. But he stopped the show two more times asking everyone to take care of each other and to move back.
Luckily, we were unaffected by all this except for the pauses in the music and the steady stream of soaked pit-goers stumbling past us for a breather. There are only a few things I hate worse than when some sweaty asshole in a sweat-drenched shirt at a concert brushes up against my forearms. It’s definitely one of those touches that lingers for days.
But RATM, reunited after several years, sounded perfect. Tom Morello, as always, was incredible.
And then I limped my way toward the inner streets of Chicago, trying desperately to hail down a cab. Claire was already home, reading and on the computer, and the three of us guys eventually settled for a packed train ride back. The day wasn’t nearly as hot, but the event was definitely heating up.
CLAIRE WROTE:
When I first moved to Chicago I lived in this shitty apartment building on the north end of Lincoln Park. My apartment was on the second floor, sandwiched between a strange, young couple on the floor above me who were prone to 2AM alcohol-infused arguments, and a quadrant of DePaul college boys in a sprawling first floor apartment.
The laundry in the building was in the basement, accessible only by walking through the college boys’ apartment, which they graciously kept unlocked at all times. If I went downstairs to do laundry before noon, the boys were never anywhere to be seen. Quietly pushing open their half-closed back door, I would step gingerly over pizza boxes and empty cans of beer, maneuvering around a giant bong sitting in front of the big screen television in the living room, and being extra careful not to tip over a tower of beer cans near the window. All the bedroom doors would be shut before noon, and I could practically picture the boys, sprawled on their stomachs, still in last night’s clothes, their mouths open, perhaps a little drool edging down the bare mattress beneath them.
If I went down to do laundry after 2pm, they were usually awake. I’d push open the back door, and in the kitchen one or two of them would be standing in front of the microwave, shirtless, in a pair of shorts, watching little microwaveable pizza rolls go round and round and round. “Hey,” they’d mumble in my direction, transfixed by the pizza rolls. In the living room the rest of them, and perhaps an added friend or two, would be sprawled across the two couches watching “Wedding Crashers” or “Happy Gilmore” or playing “Guitar Hero,” all of them smoking cigarettes, the bong now on the makeshift coffee table between them. “Hey,” they’d mumble, never taking their eyes off the television, and I’d wind my way through them, carefully carrying my basket of dirty clothes down to the basement.
All this to say that I often wondered if they ever went outside, except to smoke cigarettes sometimes on the dingy little back porch, if they ever did anything beside drink and watch television and play video games.
And I’d forgotten about those college boys, practically erased them from my memory, just as I had that dark and depressing little apartment I lived in my first six months here in Chicago. I think I would have forgotten about them forever, had it not dawned on me, within my first two minutes of attending Day 2 of Lollapalooza, that if the college boys ever did anything besides drink beer, play video games, and watch television, they, without a doubt, they made one excursion outside each year and it was most likely for Lollapalooza.
I think the first thing I said to Greg, after ten minutes of pushing my way through a teeming sea of thousands of drunk, shirtless college boys so that I could find my way to wherever it was Greg and his friends were by the time I got down to the park on that second day was, “I officially hate Lollapalooza.”
Greg, with his sprained ankle, hobbled off to a tiny grass spot with me, looking a little dejected and disappointed by my proclamation, and I tried to put on a smile after that, but it felt good to declare my vitriol for this event. Our little group headed over to Budlight Stage after a while to catch a very good Broken Social Scene performance. On the way there I registered to vote at the Rock the Vote tent, which was something I’ve needed to do since my move, and may turn out to be the only redeemable aspect of my Lollapalooza experience.
After listening to Broken Social Scene for a while, I finally mellowed out a bit, mostly because they were just so good, and because we’d found a comfortable patch of grass on which to sit. Around 7:30, Greg and his friends headed off to see Rage Against the Machine at the other end of the park, where we’d seen Radiohead, and I stayed behind by myself to catch the Wilco performance.
I had some time to kill before Wilco, so I bought two glasses of red wine for myself and began wandering around, looking for a mellow spot where I could sit by myself. The funny thing was that as soon as I was alone, I felt more comfortable. Maybe there is something about trying to stay in a group at an event like this that makes it hard to enjoy yourself. When there was finally no one else to worry about, I no longer had a problem weaving through the crowds of people, the blue summer sky curving overhead.
I was about to just sit down in the grass to sip my wine and get ready for Wilco when I noticed the music coming from another stage. I propped myself up against a little wall and began to listen. There was a vivacious black woman on stage, strutting back and forth and just singing her heart out. Behind her, an ensemble band kicked out some fantastic sounds and before I knew it my foot was tapping.
“Who is this?” I asked a guy standing near me.
“Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings,” he replied.
“Thanks, they’re great!”
“I know.”
I’m not very good at writing about music but I will say that this woman was just electric. I don’t care if you don’t like funk or the blues, you would have liked this. The music filled up all the space around me and before I knew it, I was just happy. There with my two glasses of red wine and my solitary company, listening to Sharon Jones, was definitely my favorite moment at Lollapalooza.
By the time Wilco came on, it was dark out, I was more than tipsy, and hearing those old familiar songs that have been the soundtrack for so many days and events over my last few years instantly brought tears to my eyes. Jeff Tweedy’s voice, ringing out across the audience, the skyline sparkling behind the stage, I couldn’t help but have one of those moments in which I was nothing but grateful for my life and all the experiences I get to have while I’m here.
And if battling a sea of shirtless college boys was the price to pay for that, then it was well worth it.
Lollapalooza
Grant Park, Chicago
August 1-3
