Lollapalooza 2006 - Day One
By: Music Staff |
Thursday August 31, 2006 |
| The Captain, Wagner and Sully all attacked Day One of Lollapalooza with gusto. This is their story. |
| We need to give you a bit of a guide map to this review as it's all sort of
crazy in the way it's set up. The first day recap of Lollapalooza is going to
be a bit staggered as far as coverage goes. Brett Hickman, Static's Managing
Editor, arrived the earliest, with Jennifer Wagner and Carrie J. Sullivan (or
"Sully") arriving sometime after 4:30.
You'll be gently handed off at each pass to the writer in question. If you have any questions, feel free to write in to us and we'll personally help you out. Static Multimedia: Because We Care The Captain, Brett Hickman, is first to go: Missing deadboy & the Elephantmen was my first regret of the entire weekend. Their debut on Fat Possum Records, We Are Night Sky, remains one of the best albums of the year and I heard that they rocked it hard this day. I did see the tail end of Sound Team's performance and the band, who have a new release on Capitol called Movie Monster, are the sort of indie-rockers that don't make me puke or want to slap the members about. There's nothing precious or pretentious about them, just high energy and quality musicianship. The same could not be said for the band on the stage nearby, however. Ghostland Observatory, an Austin, TX-based group of tossers who screech into the mic, run around like mental patients with one particular loon wearing a cape, an accesory that will no doubt spread like wildfire in the indie-rock world. This was the third worst set of the weekend. The Subways are sunk by lead singer/guitarist Billy Lunn, a singer with no command of voice and a guitarist with no chops. Apparently, he was the first person to climb the scaffolding of a stage this weekend, but I was already off to other parts and didn't catch his lame attempts at crowd love. Husky Rescue were a lovely respite from the borefest of The Subways, with the Finnish ambient-popsters creating a peaceful lull that is better suited for an evening performance away from the hustle and bustle of the food tent area. Singer Reeta-Leena Korhola was like a gentle naif combating the midday sun. I walked into the photo pit for Cursive early enough to get a good view of frontman Tim Kasher. While the band performed and I snapped pictures I felt a slight tugging on a VIP pass for the Hard Rock Hotel that was slung around my neck. "Stupid kids," I thought. But I didn't expect to be walking away later only to find out the stupid kids had actually swiped my fucking pass. Oh well...I probably wasn't going to go back there. Cursive were solid, if a bit uneventful based on what fans often describe as a combustible unit onstage. Makeshifte are typical modern day punk rockers of the Warped Tour variety and I'd already had enough of that the previous week. Aqualung are still Coldplay wannabes, but there is something a little more original about the band live than on record. Hometown faves The M's brought the soul & spirit of classic rock interwoven with a modern day feel, even more so than they normally do. They were accompanied by a four-piece horn section, which brought more out of the material from the band's Polyvinyl debut, Future Women than what is found on the album. The gig served as a sort of Bachelor party for drummer Steve Versaw who was getting married the following day. "Plan of the Man" was the highlight of their set. Though wildly different from The M's, Panic! At the Disco were every bit as enjoyable. From the regal clothing, suggesting a glam vibe that is oddly complimentary to the Amadeus-as-Punk rocker style of playing the band employs. Vocalist Brendon Urie overflows with effervescent aplomb. The band covered Radiohead's "Karma Police" and Smashing Pumpkins' "Tonight, Tonight" with discretion and reverence at the same time. There were some mimes dancing onstage while they performed, which also worked despite this critic's aversions to all variations and manner of clowns. The highlight was the band's big hit, "I Write Sins Not Tragedies." This was also the first band of the festival to impress me enough to change my opinion of them. Consider me an admirer now. My vote for the best performance at Lollapalooza goes to an extremely unlikely source: Kidzapalooza performers The Blisters. Despite the fact that the kids are all under age 11, no one else this weekend matched their energy and love of playing. Though the sole reason for being there was to see how the band featuring the first born son of Wilco's Jeff Tweedy performed, that bit of star worship faded fast as the kids tore into ecstatically performed covers of The Flaming Lips' "She Don't Use Jelly," Neil Young's "Rockin' (In the Free World)," The Beatles' "Dear Prudence," and best of all, The Ramones' "Blitzkrieg Bop." A bunch of the Wilco guys were in attendance, with Spencer Tweedy's drum coach (Glenn Kotche) and his father hanging out while such Chicago luminaries as Fred Armisen and Metro owner Joe Shanahan milled about. From there the afternoon began to take a bit of a nosedive starting with the wretched phoniness of Mute Math, who employed a buffoon banging on a bass drum like a mental defective in a marching band. Fuuuuucckkkk... Editors played a solid set of songs, with "Blood" being particularly compelling. I listened to their set while waiting for Jennifer Wagner to get her happy ass to the park. But waiting for Wagner was beginning to cut into my time to get from the south end of Grant Park at Hutchinson Field all the way past Buckingham Fountain to the north end at Butler Field where Ryan Adams was playing at 4:30. Though I was happy to see Wagner and Sully, I wasn't happy about missing Adams. Once we all divvied up what artists we were seeing for the rest of the day, I hoofed it over to see if Adams could deliver a performance that transcended every other one he's ever performed in the city. Turns out my hurry to get there was unwarranted as Adams spent his time onstage going all jam-band, playing several limp covers of Grateful Dead songs, one wretched version of Gram Parsons' "Hickory Wind," and some decent, if passionless takes on his own material. Adams mumbled incoherently and at ridiculous length in-between songs, further shitting on what could have been a redemptive performance. I was also told by a friend that I bumped into that Adams showed up about ten minutes late. Adams then proceeded to take that ten minutes out of Iron & Wine's time. Which may have helped that quitely introspective band out a bit as it had a problem all its own brewing. Lady Sovereign, like Adams, showed up late for her performance, easily outdoing the troubled troubadour's time by fourteen minutes. But unlike Adams, Sovereign at least made up for her tardiness with energy. In between yelling for Chicago to "make some fucken noise!!!" she bounded about the stage like a little hood rat pixie. Sovereign was brash and loud. Too loud for the aforementioned Iron & Wine. The delicate tendencies of one Sam Beam, aka Iron & Wine, were no match for Sovereign, at least not at first. It didn't help that it took fifteen-twenty minutes into the band's already delayed set for someone to finally figure out how to turn the sound up to any considerable level. Sparking the second instance I was shown the light at Lollapalooza, Beam and his cohorts changed my tune and made me think of the killing that lies in wait for the band should they decide to go the jam band route. The day of sun and running back and forth between stages took its toll and I stretched out on the grass as the sun began to set a bit, enveloping the area I was in with some much needed shade. It was glorious. I gave up the chance to see the Chicago debut of The Raconteurs to finally see My Morning Jacket live and, while I do regret not seeing Jack White's new project after hearing great things, I do not regret staying for Jim James' ridiculously perfect rock band. They've done the festival crowd thing a few times and know how to create a deft balance between heart and heat. MMJ's crew is also very skilled at bringing that wonderful sound found on the band's albums to an outdoor setting, resulting in a perfect cap for my first day at Lollapalooza. With that I pass the coverage on to Jennifer Wagner. Thanks Captain! I took off my day gig early and headed to some thingie at the Hard Rock Hotel where there was free tequila. I had three margaritas as fast as I could, hoping to simultaneously induce both some sort of freeze headache and a healthy drunk, whilst avoiding supper. It is nice, to do it that way, as I am a glutton for pain followed by quick numbness. Sully and I made our arrangements via text message, and I headed down south through the city ending at the corner the Captain had previously designated. There he stood in all his baby-faced glory, oversized tee-shirt (no labels, man) gracing his torso and wristbands in hand, looking sort of uncomfortable. We shared a laugh about smack and I burped cheap tequila, then we strapped up and headed in. The campus was humming with excitement and youth, some dust and some pot smoke, and even the waft of awareness and hope, as we are on the brink of economic depression over here and in the throes of monstrous strife over there. This was a sharp bunch of crayons we were dealing with, it was tangible. The press amenities were more than adequate, with juice and space for laptop plug-in (I tried to use somebody else's at one point - yeah don't do that), a nice big tent with space for writing and equipment and crap, a large yard, as it were, a grassy knoll where interviews were held throughout the fest, big boom microphones in faces, cameras snapping, writers crowded 'round. Two, count 'em two, port-a-potties just for us media. I've mentioned it in festival reviews before, but my god can we SHIT. We're really disgusting. Electrolyte-laden water and weird little healthy snacks were there for the taking, and just about the time we settled in to formulate our coverage strategy Sully nimbly spied the first golf cart carrying us our ration of nightly beer. Yeah, you grab two, yeah you stuff one in your bag for the show you're about to cover, yeah, you're pretty much just a dick about it 'til it's gone. Some connection to the heinous poo we produce exists in this gluttonous beer squandering, clearly. My simple goal of the night was to catch The Raconteurs, Jack White's "new band of old friends" recently relocated to Nashville. They played the fortuitous AT&T stage, and the sound for the sheer size of the stage they played on, and the crowd they played to were fantastic; the guitars were incredibly clean. It was pretty much a perfect August night, and the "Nuclear Physicist" (Patrick Keeler - The Greenhornes) pounded on the drums, incapable of being ignored. We were treated to the breakout single "Steady, As She Goes," furthering the momentum of the crowd. It occurred to me that the whole band sort of looks like Jack, and not just Brendan Benson. It's a style, I guess really, one that makes you think these guys are capable of stonily slaughtering something pretty formidable, but then later that night knocking out a pretty delicate risotto of the poor downed beast. Jack had on the plaid; rockin' the country shirt. He played loud, he got sweaty, and he covered Ron Davie's "It Ain't Easy," a deeper cut and the only non-Bowie song from Ziggy Stardust, impressive to take on. I'm starting to think that Jack may be the rock star we've been waiting a decade for. Talent and mirth aside, he's got a look about him for sure - say Ozzy Osbourne and Michael Jackson had a kid, it would be Jack White. And after all, all three in their own way enjoy creating lot of distortion and inspiring that agonizing, painful wail. Two of them accomplish those things with guitars. The Raconteurs are a very hardworking band, and Benson's deeper, later Beatles influence dawned in "Yellow Sun" and "Hands," with big, full-blown guitars in wonderful harmony. He strutted that Gibson. Animated, sweaty, with a couple of blunt black haircuts they proceeded into some nice long slow blues; great hard, wrenching guitar. And quite suddenly, White's guitar heaved wracking sobs in the middle of 60,000 people in the summer's eve of Chicago. Sweaty hair in their flushed faces, they ended the set with racy passion to put it simply. As I basked afterwards, I was taken aback with the reality of my situation. I was at Lollapalooza with a press pass and all sorts of perks. I was at that point listening to the Violent Femmes perform "Add it Up," perfectly from the Q101 stage; so perfectly, in fact, that I went into a sort of regression to high school, images of soccer fields and buses conjured to mind, memories of curious slumber parties and the squeak of high-tops stopping short on a gymnasium floor. Twenty years later, it still counts. Ween and Sleater-Kinney made me very happy. Ween especially made my night. Well, they were neck-in-neck with the Raconteurs. No, they made my night. Sully's reviewing that portion of the evening, Ween and Sleater-Kinney, so I'll leave it at that for now. Sully? Take it away. Thanks Wagner. Unfortunately, I missed the first half of the historic, potential second-to-last-S-K-show-ever due to an underestimation of the sheer enormity of Lollapalooza. The "campus," as Wagner and I came to refer to the festival grounds, was friggin' HUGE: a mile from end-to-end. I made it in time to hear the end of "What's Mine is Yours," silhouetted perfectly against a sky succumbing to dusk. The mellowness of the crowd surprised me given the sheer rock that was being thrown down with such authority - didn't they know that this might be the very last time S-K will be seen (final show in Portland notwithstanding)? Or maybe they did know and that was exactly what was keeping them prone; watching every move, basking in every song, committing them to memory. The girls certainly provided more than enough to overload anyone's cranium, ripping through "Modern Girl," "Entertain" and "Let's Call it Love." Janet pummeled, Corin and Carrie shredded, and I fed my denial of their indefinite hiatus with vodka-enhanced water. Who will be my Joey Ramone now? Earlier, while I was blissfully enjoying the Raconteurs when, for no apparent reason, the gangly teenager to my left leaned over and asked me what Ween sounded like. I was shocked. "You've never heard of them??" He explained that he was trying to decide between seeing Ween or Death Cab for Cutie. Fortunately for him the punch-to-the-throat reflex his quandary normally would have elicited from me was significantly subdued by my liquor intake, so all his ignorance received was my astonished facial reaction. I took the opportunity to bestow upon him several universal truths: 1. Ween is pure brain-numbing, on-the-verge of frightening rock and roll. 2. All the cool kids will be watching Ween (lame sounding, but true). 3. Ween will put on a show that he will never regret seeing. I then instructed him to purchase Chocolate and Cheese as soon as humanly possible, invest in some Stridex and eat a few extra hot dogs. And Ween, those crazy brothers, did me proud, playing the majority of their set from C&C: a scorching "Voodoo Lady," the mellow-bitter-rock of "Baby Bitch," the always lovingly offensive "HIV song" and the uncomfortable-yet-inexplicably-hilarious "Mister Won't You Please Help My Pony" along with a few other choice C&C jams. Additional unexpected nuggets new and old ("Captain" from Quebec and "Piss Up A Rope" from 12 Golden Country Greats) rounded out a fantastic set of pummeling rock, perfect for kicking off such a prodigious weekend of music. I just hope Mr. Tall, Skinny and Awkward was there to see it. Back to you, Wagner. Thanks Sully. So I left Lollapalooza that Friday night with Ms. Loaded Sully, and we got into some sort of a drunken argument about the whereabouts of her bike. Then I decided if she was too drunk to locate her two-wheeled vehicle she was clearly too drunk to operate it, and she is not a helmet-wearer, mind you. So we fought about it and she told me to leave her the fuck alone and I said fine and split, heading down the grass between Columbus and Michigan Ave. somewhere around Balbo. A lady walking her dog came up to me all frantic, desperately scared. She asks breathlessly, "Do you have a cell phone? I think somebody over there is getting raped!" and pointed to a little dip in the grass about thirty yards south of where we stood. I started walking over there, not really sure what I was gonna do, but mad enough from my fight with Sully and inebriated enough to think I could handle anything. I see two people fucking. Just fucking, clearly consensually, the lady lay back with white knees parted and the black man she was with on top of her was just pounding away. I immediately thought the woman with the dog who was so concerned had to be a fucking racist for the rape assumption, but was very grossed out by the display anyway. I turned to the frightened dog lady and said, "They're just fucking," then at the top of my lungs, bellowed "HEY! We see you!!! That's fucking disgusting!! Get a fucking room!" Needless to say they weren't happy at being interrupted, as about fifty people nearby who heard me yell turned to gawk at the coitus disgustingous. Hey, it's pretty when I fuck, that much I know. Anyway, they jump up and pull on their pants and they both look at me like they want to slit my fucking throat. I don't blame them. I turn back to the racist chick and say, "That should take care of that." She replied, awestruck, "I wish I could yell like that." Then I sort of saluted her and jumped into an available cab rolling by, and raced off like Batman. Sully and I patched things up the next morning over the phone, first thing: "Dude?" "Dude." |
