Lollapalooza 2010 - Friday

The Grounds

The first thing I notice when I walk in through the north entrance is that there is a north entrance. The line takes all of 30 seconds to navigate. Nicely done, Lolla.

The second thing I notice is that Lolla has expanded. Now encompassing a good portion of the land west of Columbus, it dawns on me that I will no longer be forced behind the clustered, bobbing swathes of humanity that flow like frozen molasses past Buckingham Fountain each year. All of Columbus lies open before me, lane after lane after lane, and I envision myself speeding down the road to whatever destination my greedy little heart desires.

Also, there’s a shitload of portapotties.

Ana Sia

I know little to nothing about dubstep other than it apparently hews to a constrained time signature. But the big, meaty beats that tiny, wiry, jogging-in-place Ana Sia drops don’t feel very constrained. This feels like the right way to start Lolla. So does a beer. The beer turns warm in 6.2 seconds flat.

The Big Pink

The field smells vaguely of manure, which turns out to be an apt description for the Big Pink’s sound mix. I like this band. I do. But the bass drum is turned up so high that I can’t hear anything else. Good songs like Velvet and Dominoes feel uninspired, muddy, vaguely manure-like. When they end their set a full fifteen minutes early, I am both annoyed at the short set-list, and relieved that it’s over.

Devo

There is nothing quite like a silver half-mask to accentuate one’s chin fat. But chin fat means nothing when you can bring the energy like these guys. I lose myself in the raucous pace, the frequent costume changes, the large video wall featuring a sashaying, bikinied ass that sprouts cartoon eyes that cry.

And then, from the corner of my eye, I see my wife make a run for it.

“Dude!” she is saying. “Dude,” as she chases after a shirtless, beefy guy who has somehow managed to loop our tote bag around his foot. He trudges along, an oblivious, fleshy juggernaut, as my wife makes faint slaps on his back-steak. I chase after thinking, “I may have to defend her.” He finally stops, turns, gives the fisheye, and disentangles his foot from the bag. Little do I know this will not be our last encounter with the special Lollapalooza Borg known as The Bro.

Devo are great though. Go Devo.

F*ck Buttons

Can you guess what the * is for? That's right. An "a." Who knows why they call themselves Fack Buttons. But whatever. They're unbearably loud. I fight to remain in the small alcove but I fear their volume may uproot nearby trees and cause my bladder to burst. So I take a quick detour to catch a couple of agile tunes by Dirty Projectors, snag something called a Dirty Dawg from Chowtown, then return to catch the remainder of the beautiful, scathing, wall of sound that is Fack Buttons. Only this time I sit all the way across Columbus Drive. It’s really facking loud.

Lady Gaga

After a brief sojourn home to nestle Mazlin into bed, I sprint back to try and “see” Lady Gaga. I wog like mad down Columbus drive, weaving in and out of random bros, twinks and teenage girls. It is Frogger 2010 and I am winning. I get to the South side and realize that to enter the teeming throng of Gaga watchers is to risk having the breath crushed from my chest. Verily. I stand on the far, far outskirts and am able to glean the following:

I am free to be who I want to be / Even if that means I want to dress like a curtain and eat unidentified viscera

Lady Gaga didn’t used to be so brave / She is brave now / This is due in some part to me / I have made her brave / And now she will be brave for me / By playing a giant obsidian pyramid keytar

Lady Gaga is a star / She made it, Dad.

One last observation: Little do I know that the best XX I will see this weekend is the white tape crosshatching Gaga’s nipples.

Coming up tomorrow: Saturday of Lollapalooza: Return of the bro.