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.
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