Lollapalooza Friday, or The Best Laid Plans

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.

Depeche Mode – My nostalgic and geeky love for this band helps me weather the many songs off their new album. I’m here for the old stuff. Dave Gahan sounds great, and the band rips through a lot of extended versions of songs, which lends a more organic feel to what could easily come across as a cold set. Enjoy the Silence gets the best treatment here, with Stripped coming a close second. For a brief period, I am back in high school, opening my newest CD from DM, praying there are lyrics included so I can sing along. For a brief period, I am seated at the old piano, playing Pimpf over and over and over. And then, Personal Jesus starts. That’s our cue to beat the crowds back to the Hilton bar.

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!