The Happening
All you need to know
Is that this movie should have
Been called Crappening
Mr. Brooks
Demi Moore, soooooo bad.
Costner fine, I guess, for him
Dane Cook, what the fuck?
TimeCrimes
Spanish time travel
Works just like American
Confused by the end
Considering I spent nearly three entire days without my beautiful baby girl, I thought it would be nice to collect some life lessons while at Lollapalooza. I’ll share these with her down the road, when I’m fairly certain she’ll understand what I mean by “douchebag.”
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First of all, you’re going to have to deal with some rain. You’re going to get some mud on you. You’re going to sweat and ache and have to go to the bathroom. You will walk many miles. You’re going to need a shower.
At times, you will be surrounded by douchebags. This is especially true if Kings of Leon has been spotted in your vicinity. Don’t worry, just shower again.
You should dance. Really, you should. It is an expression of how you process music and how music processes you.
Hand sanitizer is your friend.
Take lots of pictures along the way.
Sometimes you just need to lie on the ground and look up at the trees. Just make sure you don’t get stepped on.
Drink plenty of water.
A good sense of humor is more important than a good sense of direction.
You will have a lot of choices to make. Some will turn out to be mistakes. Some will turn out perfect. Don’t waste time regretting the former. Enjoy the hell out of the latter.
Two words: comfortable shoes.
At times you will be alone. At times you will be surrounded by people you care about. At times you will be both.
Fun and comfort don’t have to be mutually exclusive, but sometimes you'll want to sacrifice one for the other.
Try to catch Dan Deacon if he hasn't keeled over from an infarction or been committed, but please bring earplugs.
People move at all different paces. Don’t let the slow ones get in your way.
Fun is fun and done is done. Also, sometimes done is fun.
Friendly Fires – We start Sunday off like we did Saturday: Dance Party. Only this morning we trade the petite firecracker DJ A-Cup flouncing around in her skivvies for this outstanding Brit-pop band’s insatiable hooks. They rip through pretty much every track off their debut album, the lead singer popping to the music like he’s getting defibbed. At one point he says “I hate this wind. I hate you, wind. Fuck off.” This is sort of confusing as it’s already getting muggy as hell. Ah well, I guess the English like tea and hate wind. Who knew? Regardless, I move my butt as hard as I can without the requisite amount of inhibition-deflating alcohol in my system.
Bat for Lashes – We march all the way across the park to see Bat for Lashes, the weekend's winner for Artist Most Unfairly Maligned By My Companions. Where I see a burgeoning Kate Bush, they see a retread Tori Amos. Where I see an exciting new Björk, they see a boring old Björk. Their unhappiness is catching. Oh, and it doesn’t help that three days of heat and feet have turned the field into an olfactory nightmare. It smells like someone shat into a box of movie popcorn. I try gamely to enjoy BFL’s quieter moments, but the stench is making me antsy. Damn it people, it’s time for lunch.
Lunch – I eat a jalapeño cheddar sausage, while listening to The Airborne Toxic Event. I wonder which one makes me want to shit more. Side note: Shouldn’t a band purportedly inspired by Don Delillo come up with better lyrics than “Standing on a bus stop, feeling your head pop?” Hey, that’s just my valuable opinion.
Dan Deacon - The most memorable set of the weekend. We sit right in front of the sound booth. Before the show starts, I hear the sound guy say “He wants to mic everything separately. We can’t do that.” I shudder to myself. Deacon does not want to hear the word “can’t.” He is an insane perfectionist. However, he amiably shrugs off his issues, and dives headfirst into his set, which features approximately 30 people on stage at different times. Tubas, trumpets, keys, vibes, drums, glockenspiel, more drums, etc, etc, etc. We give up our spot against the sound booth and get drawn into the maelstrom of the pit. Shit goes crazy. The heat index hits 105. I feel myself baking off the heat from other people’s flesh. I watch younger, skinnier people surf the crowd on all sides. I allow Mr. Deacon to take me on a guided imagery tour in his ramp-up to Snookered. I picture my baby’s face. I absolve myself of sin. This is what it is like to see the man perform. Near the end, I pull away from the crowd to watch a mass game of Simon Says, Deacon slowly building a song like a metaphysical sandwich, crescendo after crescendo, topping after topping, the crowd heaving hundreds of plastic water bottles into the air as each wave of music crashes over us like a tidal wave of aural condiments. The experience is communal, awe-encompassing and all-inspiring, utterly, phenomenally, ear-bleedingly wonderful. And when it’s over, I sort of want to go home.
Passion Pit – We make a game attempt at being enthusiastic for this superhuman sugarpop group. The crowd is like cat piss, seeping into every nook and cranny. I lie on the ground and try not to focus on the parade of dirty feet that whiz by my face. Man, there’s a lot of dirty feet at Lollapalooza. They should call it Footapalooza. Anyway, we leave halfway through. I feel like a traitor to music. It’s not you, Passion Pit. It’s me. Well, and Dan Deacon.
The end - After a languid march to Buckingham Fountain, my wife and I decide to cut our losses. Chances are, we won’t see another act as monumental as DD, and we’re butt-tired. Even though I would love to see Snoop, Deerhunter, Lou, Band of Horses, Janes, The Killers, I just can’t muster the get-up-and-go. Tradition holds and I drag my tired carcass home before the fest is officially over. I feel lame, so I head over to Lollapalooza.com to see if there are any rumors about next year’s headliners. Only 360 or so more days!
Next: All I ever needed to know I learned at Lolla.
Moneypenny – Well rested and full of pancake, we stop off at Perry’s stage to catch a little Moneypenny. DJ Mother Hubbard and DJ A-Cup melt my face immediately. And then DJ A-Cup, who is scorching hot in 1980s, Ratt-inspired hair and black t-shirt/undies ensemble, prances to the front of the stage with four girls in silver face paint, black shrouds and silver gym shoes. The ladies proceed to jeté around the tiny stage while DJ A-Cup has several orgasms into the microphone. I am in love.
Federico Aubele – We leave the heat of the Moneypenny set to roast in the heat of the sun. Thankfully, much of the slop from yesterday has turned back into a ground-like substance. Federico, who looks like a cross between Andy Samberg and Bob Dylan, plucks at his guitarra in a completely inoffensive fashion. My wife refers to it as “dinner music.” It kind of is, but it’s still a nice companion for a Bud Light.
Animal Collective DJ set – What Animal Collective DJ set? Oh, you mean they are having a DJ set? While I'm standing here? I don’t think so. Really? But I just see two guys talking to each other and twiddling the occasional knob while a few strains of music quietly leak out of a speaker somewhere in the vicinity. Are you sure they're playing?
Arctic Monkeys – I expect snot rock. I expect bouncy, jangly attitude from pub brawlers. I expect to bop up and down. I get Rush. I get confused. I get up and go to the portapotty.
Santigold – The evening starts to pick up here, and it doesn’t let up, thankfully. Santigold sounds outstanding. Every song that she plays, I’m like, “Oh yeah, I love this song.” Except for Unstoppable. That song should be stopped. A portly white man in dire need of a shampoo gyrates wildly close to my blanket. I watch him since I can’t see the stage. He is a serviceable dancer. Santigold plays a cover of Killing an Arab, which absolutely kills. I find myself wishing The Cure would play Lolla.
TV on the Radio – My favorite act of the fest. These guys suck the everlovin’ marrow out of every single song and spit it all over the audience. Love Dog turns into an epic opener once the sound gets tweaked. Young Liars into a surprising yowler. Wolf Like Me into an unsurprising headbanger. Dancing Choose into 4 cans of Red Bull. Staring at the Sun is a beautiful close to a beautiful set. Can’t wait to see them in a proper venue.
Diplo – With the fail at Animal Collective’s DJ set, it is a difficult decision to not run over to the southside to catch their “regular” set. From everything I hear, they put on a disappointing show, and I am not left with Fleet Foxes levels of regret. Instead I catch Diplo, a blonde beanstalk in a black suit serving up big meaty beats in a spicy red sauce. I am amazed at how skillfully he works the crowd, playing us more than he does the music itself. And even though the every-2-minute climax is predictable, it never fails to get my hands in the air. The fest’s biggest surprise for me.
Yeah Yeah Yeahs –Karen O is a force to be reckoned with. She comes out in full peacock regalia, and owns the night the second she hits the stage. No one in the crowd is thinking about the Beastie Boys until the guitarist throws a Whatcha Want riff at the end of Phenomena. One thing I can say for Karen O, she definitely treats the microphone like a penis. Another thing I can say, wait, I'm distracted, she has that microphone in her mouth.
Planxa de la Mercat – We hit the hotel bar for a quick drink and cheese nibble and then head over to this trendy little Barcelona-market-inspired hot spot. Morsel after morsel of edible food at a fraction of the cost of other restaurants (the fraction has a higher numerator than denominator, FYI).
Next up, we wrap up the Lolla report with a truncated Sunday and a few observations on life in general.
First off, a huge thank you to Gramma and Papa for taking Mazlin for the weekend. We might have brought her with us one day, but she expressed interest in seeing Asher Roth, so I had to send her to reeducation camp.
The morning – The sun goes into hibernation. A fine mist fills the air. The taxi driver chooses to take LSD. Not the drug, the jammed up thoroughfare. By the time we check into headquarters (ie, the Hilton), we’ve missed the baroque stylings of Other Lives and the electronic jolts of Hey Champ. No problem, right? I’ll at least get to see The Knux and get Lolla started with a little raptastic goodness, right?
The lines – Lolla gets it right, right away. An expanded main entrance, plus a new side entrance make lines non-existent. Security issues apparently close down the side entrance after one day, but that doesn’t seem to create any more of a problem. A bright, shining Polaris compared to the sucking black hole of the ’08 lines for Radiohead.
Zap Mama – Lolla gets it wrong, wrong away. I forgo The Knux to create a more seamless meetup with companions at Zap Mama. Bad Idea Jeans. I observe the band and the sound crew fiddle with faulty equipment for 25 minutes. This does not bode well. I was supposed to start rocking an hour and a freaking half ago. Might as well go get a beer.
The beer – Lolla halves their landfill load by eliminating plastic cups and serving beer in the can. For some odd reason this seems to make the beer get warm sooner, despite the fact that it feels like it’s 52 degrees out. Warm Bud Light in the cold rain of a gray August day while a band you don't even want to see can’t even conjure sound from their gear. Who could ask for more?
Builders and the Butchers – Ah. Now we’re talking. A small-time band with a big-time sound. These guys tell rocking dusty Old-West epics with electronic banjos and mandolins and ukuleles and such. The two drummers wail on toms not one foot apart from each other. They sing two songs about the rain and the rain starts to fall harder.
The rain – The rain sucks, by the way.
Crystal Castles –This weather makes me feel like I need to rock, not sway, so I see Crystal Castles instead of Fleet Foxes. And Crystal Castles DO rock. A rising, rollicking set that sounds like you tossed a Nintendo Entertainment System and a drum machine into a blender and hit frappe. But when I leave the set early to trek over to the other side of the park*, I realize my grave mistake. Fleet Foxes sound positively otherworldly. I get two songs of crystal clear harmonies to crystallize my regret over seeing crystal castles.
*The walk across the park – When I’m alone, unfettered by my wife’s faulty flip-flops, I dart around dullards like Frogger. I love Frogger. My sister once tried to break my arm because I reset the game after she got to the twelfth level on one life. I deserved it.
The mud – The rain has kind of sort of almost maybe stopped for a bit, possibly. But great googly moogly, the mud it has left in its wake is horrid. The southside looks positively Sahara-like compared to the north, where huge swaths of grass have been torn up and transformed into heaping hills of muck. The proceedings start to look and feel like Lord of the Flies, and, as I am seemingly the oldest person at Lollapalooza, I feel I am in grave danger.
The Decemberists – A few years ago, I started to tire of The Decemberists. Everything seemed too lilting, too literate. And then they unleashed the power of prog. And made an epic story-album called The Hazards of Love. At Lolla, they play the album through, start to finish. And it is good. And when they fire into The Rake’s Song, with three players wailing on toms and snares, it is great. A guy next to me remarks to his friend, “This song would only work if it had more drummers. Like four or five.” I have no idea if he’s being ironic.
Of Montreal – After another pinball-like journey across the grounds, I hear some Of Montreal. I wish I could see their antics on stage, but they are swamped, literally, with a huge crowd ankle-deep in mud. I want no part of this. I retire to the outskirts with a group of friends to wait for Depeche Mode.
The portapotty – While I wait, I go to the portapotty. No line. No tower of Crapylon. Pitchfork, take note.
The Hilton bar – Our traditional post-Lolla hangout. We get there in time for a window seat. We eat extremely overpriced and underrepresented food as various and sundry Lolla fans march past. A young man presses his bare bottom up against the glass. Appetizing. Time for sleep and hopefully better weather tomorrow. Although I fear the mud will ruin the rest of the weekend.
Coming up next: Saturday, or Hey! The Weekend Isn't Ruined!
I used to really love the playfulness of a portmanteau.
Smog
Galumph
Spork
Good innocent, clean fun. But then society had to go and put the man in portmanteau, and things got a bit precious.
Murse
Metrosexual
Bromance
And then Snickers came and gang raped the portmanteau in its eye socket. Ahem. Sorry for the visual there. But, I mean, look at these.
Patrick Chewing
Nougatocity
Master P-Nut
Chewmute
Seriously?
"Hey dude, why you eating a snickers on the bus?" "Cuz, man. This is my chewmute."
Crappetizing
Scramptious
Shityourpantilizing
Do you have any good suggestions? Share them in comments!
Thank you, Corn Refiners Association, thank you.
Let’s take a look at the facts clinging to the side of that pudding cup, shall we?
Fact: Your dry cleaner doesn’t know shit about shit.
Fact: Kevin totally caught a typo in that last fact, sew eye fixed it.
Fact: High fructose corn syrup is simply a kind of corn sugar.
Fact: Corn sugar is harvested from the teat of a virgin unicorn.
Fact: Virgin unicorns are more common than you might think.
Fact: Did your dry cleaner even go to school?
Fact: High fructose corn syrup has no artificial ingredients.
Fact: AI: Artificial Ingredients was a movie starring Haley Joel Osmont.
Fact: Haley Joel Osmont is a virgin unicorn.
Fact: All sugars should be enjoyed in moderation.
Fact: That does not include the sugars contained in this blog.
Fact: Or in cocaine. Go nuts with that stuff.
Fact: “You’re in for a sweet surprise” was not the tagline of Ginger Dead Man.
Fact: Ginger Dead Man did not star Haley Joel Osmont.
Fact: That would have been sweet if it did.
Fact: Your dry cleaner’s a dick.
In 1989, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn’t commit. They promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Las Vegas underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as strippers of fortune. If you have a wad of cash, if no one else can help get you off, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire the A-Team. To show you their boobies.
But whatever you do, don’t hire them to copyedit your term paper.
“…for find out we’re up to”
Are you serious? I expect my strippers to at least have a minor grasp of grammar. Otherwise, how will they know when they have their period? How will they know what to do with a dangling participle? Will they even be able to master top-down language learning?
I bet if you actually text ATEAM to 89074, your follow-up text would be:
“I want for find out your up to. Let know. You dollar on skirt and panty.”
