 Lollapalooza In Review
Written by Gina Pantone
Photos by Randy Cremean
As the sweaty masses packed into the dust-covered landscape of Chicago’s much-coveted Grant Park, it was evident to all that Lollapalooza was well underway. The flamboyant spectacle has made its home in the Windy City, the only event of its magnitude and volume allowed near the prestigious Lake Shore communities. The summer destination festival often hosts a cornucopia of acts ranging from critically acclaimed to top 40 and even children’s entertainment—all compiled on one of the most scorching weekends of the year.
What started in 1991 as a traveling cutting-edge musical experience has significantly morphed into a stationary rock n’ roll theme park complete with silver painted performance artists and mobile drum circles among an overwhelmingly large lineup. Even founder Perry Farrell (who would appear to be turning into some sort of hybrid between Donald Trump and Michael Jackson) has become a tourist attraction, sporting one silk shirt after another, announcing bands like an auctioneer selling furniture.
Though pricey, hot and far too massive (this year saw nine stages and 166,000 people, spanning one mile), Lollapalooza managed to have some shining moments. After all, it is located in the heart of the scenic Chicago metropolis framed by historic architecture and Lake Michigan—oh, and it had French robots spinning fantastic tunes from a lit up dance pyramid.
Blonde Redhead 
A band that seems to have frequented every major music festival since 2005, New York-based Blonde Redhead should get points for perseverance. The singing duties are split up between two multi-instrumentalists: Japanese-born Kazu Makino and Italian native Amedeo Pace. They took turns Friday afternoon attempting to win the short attention spans of shirtless beer guzzlers with spacey Cocteau Twins-inspired tracks off their latest record, 23. Makino’s white tank top flowed as her delicate tone carried the album’s title track, supported by the bombastic drums of Simone Pace. Amedeo took over on the driving “SW”, with Makino switching over to keyboard. The set highlight, “Melody of Certain Three”, off of 2000’s Melody of Certain Damaged Lemons, stirred the crowd mildly with some heavy guitar work and feedback, but the band seemed to be missing something. Amedeo opting to take lower octaves and Makino’s soft voice buried in a muddy soundboard didn’t aid in overall audience reception, which is a shame considering Blonde Redhead’s otherwise intriguing presence. Daft Punk
It is almost laughable that anyone was scheduled to play against the elusive French gods. As if the hippie jam rock of Ben Harper could hold a candle (and he tried everything: he even managed to coax Eddie Vedder to make an appearance) to the house musicians people flocked from far and near to get a glimpse of. The black curtain opened to reveal what most Chicagoans have only seen in videos (Daft Punk has not played in these parts for several years)—a light-responsive pyramid house. Music legends Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Thomas Bangalter sat atop it, wearing shiny silver robot helmets. Their black silhouette cut through the unfathomable light show and upside-down florescent triangle grids. They took their places on the gargantuan spectacle, and slowly eased into their set with the anticipatory drone of “Robot Rock”. Not even Lolla Security could predict what was about to happen as Daft Punk ripped into “Technologic”: the immeasurable crowd started a massive dance party, and some tried to storm the stage in a frenzy. The duo performed songs from many of their eras, including Discovery’s “One More Time” and “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger”, which raised hopes of a Kanye West appearance (to no avail).
The most notable - though it is difficult to split hairs for a set so flawless - were the Homework tracks “Around the World” and “Da Funk”. Throughout the evening, Daft Punk slowly morphed into partial humans—shedding their outer armor for stunning bodysuits lined in red lights for an encore of reprises and flashing Polaroids. The audience’s seizure-like dancing never ceased under a glowing Chicago skyline. It was truly a sight to behold.
Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah
Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah has a clumsy name—as do most bands in their Williamsburg, Brooklyn class. Not only is their name hard to say, but it has also become synonymous with a lackluster live show. To be honest, singer Alex Ounsworth sounds a bit like a drunk Gordon Gano, and their highly acclaimed 2005 self-titled debut was at times dry. Their latest, Some Loud Thunder, is anything but dry—however, there is a charm to these guys. While walking across the stage—which, in the heat, seemed like a 200-acre park—Ounsworth managed to keep his voice soothing and fluid. The keyboard, on organ mode, oom-pahed as if at a ballpark, and the band interacted jovially with one another. They looked genuinely content without being flashy. “Clap Your Hands!”, featuring a modest Ounsworth, offered the sizeable audience an opportunity for the audience to chime in. “Upon This Title Wave of Young Blood” was filled with raw emotion, something unexpected in a daytime festival slot.
The problem, though, is the inconsistency between their albums. Their first record is straightforward indie—sing songy and sentimental. Some Loud Thunder is more scattered, and the band tries to take more live risks with songs like “Satan Said Dance”. In performance, Robbie Guertin and Lee Sargent tinker on their various electronic gadgets that, while great in theory, doesn’t really sell live in the end.
Yeah Yeah Yeahs 
Karen O embodies years of the hair metal ethos in one petite, female package. Clad in an S&M black strappy getup accessorized by a tin foil silver cape, she instantly commanded attention. The New York-based Yeah Yeah Yeahs have a reputation for energetic, but not always pitch-perfect, live shows. Karen O often straddles the line between treacherous and tuneful for the sake of a scene, but Saturday’s performance remained surprisingly on track. While the set was Show Your Bones-heavy, the Fever to Tell era remained strong. Emaciated and pale, guitarist Nick Zinner danced around O with fantastic tones, feedback, and squeaks, while drummer Brian Chase (always looking very out-of-place in the band) annihilated his kit with precise and calculated rhythms. It’s baffling how so few members can create such a fierce noise—though they are currently touring with an extra member (guitarist Imaad Wasif). The aptly chosen “Cheated Hearts” sent O rattling her slender body in the drizzle, while “Gold Lion” inspired her to sport long, silver tinsel tresses.
Tracks of years past trumped the hour. “Pin”, more heavy than sweet live, ended with O swallowing the microphone. “Date with the Night” was spectacular, really emphasizing the band’s many talents as O’s death growl synched up perfectly with Zinner’s low, bouncy riffs—probably the best live version of this song in history. “Maps” required an introduction from O: “There is nothing sweeter than summer lovin’.” “ Y Control” concluded—O not able to keep a straight face between choruses—to raucous applause. Muse
 As roadies wheeled in extra smoke machines and endless racks of futuristic equipment, the sky opened up, dumping rain on tens of thousands of fans who knew better than to see Interpol (Saturday’s rival headliner). England’s explosive prog-rock trio, Muse, is no stranger to being the biggest band on the bill, but Lollapalooza was their first American headlining slot. Finally, fans on this side of the Atlantic had the opportunity to witness what Europeans have been enjoying for nearly a decade. Singer/guitarist/pianist Matt Bellamy led his band straight into a set beginning with tracks off of their latest album, Black Holes and Revelations, after a lengthy John F. Kennedy quote filled the back screen.
So apparently it isn’t cool to like Muse, at least not in the United States. Critics often pan them, dismissing them as over-ornamented and melodramatic. No matter, for those kinds of qualities makes for an awe-inspiring spectacle. “Supermassive Blackhole” seared the audience as red robots marched in the backlights, and the poppy “Starlight” highlighted Bellamy’s beautiful hyper-vibrato. Though the newer material is somewhat hokey, its live delivery is remarkable. Muse didn’t forget their older fan base: Bellamy said, “This is for anyone who remembers our first album,” as he launched into an old school version of “Sunburn” off 1999’s angsty Showbiz.
Bellamy is extremely adept at both musicianship and rock stardom. He sits at a light-up grand piano (think the “Billie Jean” video)—pounding the keys like Jerry Lee Lewis from hell—for epic tracks “Butterflies and Hurricanes” and “Apocalypse Please” from 2004’s Absolution.
As always, they decided to leave out a good deal of their best record, 2001’s Origin of Symmetry (it was not widely distributed, and not released in the United States until 2005): they only played a few songs off of it, including the Nina Simone cover “Feeling Good”, complete with megaphone and a handful of confetti. The absolute best moment came at their popular set closer “Stockholm Syndrome”, an intense multi-refrain tune driven by a metal guitar riff that never seems to stop climaxing. The night wasn’t finished without a team of balloon wranglers (yes, they pay people solely for this purpose) orbiting Muse’s trademark five-foot inflated spheres, filled with bits of paper over an already-satisfied crowd for their surprising encore choice, “Plug in Baby”. The homage-to-Queen “Knights of Cydonia” concluded their set, with the lyrics to the chorus projected on the screen, Star Wars-style. Interpol fans, while secure in their hip status, couldn’t have been having nearly this much fun.
Los Campesinos!
After a 15-minute delay, the (very young—borderlining on adolescent), modest-sized but adoring crowd went ballistic for the latest indie darlings. The surprisingly-not-American Welsh group Los Campesinos! (yes, the exclamation point is included: they are all constantly excited) took the stage for a powerhouse set complete with violins, emo hair, and sensible, floral print dresses. Singer Gareth Campesinos! was forever paying tribute to fellow indie heroes, sporting a Unicorns t-shirt as he played an impressive cover of Pavement’s “Frontwards”. The hyper seven piece’s set was comprised mainly of songs off their debut EP, Sticking Fingers Into Sockets. (Los Camp! is so baby-faced that their still-untitled LP is not expected out until next year.) That didn’t stop them from performing new material that, though unfamiliar, the teenaged audience ate up like MySpace updates. This excitement is mainly due to the band’s Internet-friendly 2006 demo that included the set highlight “Sweet Dreams Sweet Cheeks”, which involved Gareth diving into the crowd (though not surfing—too many holes, would be dangerous—perhaps next tour) and screaming Johnny Rotten-style. They riled up the kids yet got them home in time for curfew. TV on the Radio
 TV on the Radio was caught between a rock and a hard place—or a Pearl Jam and a My Morning Jacket. Crammed on the MySpace Stage like redheaded stepchildren, they were slaves to their neighboring performers. My Morning Jacket ran long, sadly delaying the impressive New York band from playing their last show on a 14-month tour for Return to Cookie Mountain, easily one of the best records of last year. Once they finally began, the humbled but obviously fatigued group jumped right into the old days with a stellar rendition of “Young Liars” from their first EP. “Dreams” and “The Wrong Way” from 2004’s Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes were next, their usual, harder hitters. Sweat glistened off singer Tunde Adebimpe’s intense countenance as he joined the band into their hit single, “Wolf Like Me”. Guitarist Kyp Malone’s high backups sailed into the stratosphere, and bassist David Sitek nearly sent his wind chimes (attached to his bass) into the eyes of onlookers. The crowd didn’t seem to care that the godfathers of grunge were about to go on mere feet away. Adebimpe polled his crowd: “We only have one more, and we’re not going to play what you want to hear.” He toyed with us, messing with his various vocal effects—tuning each pitch sharp and flat, eventually landing on the familiar opening doo-wop of “Staring at the Sun.” Due to scheduling conflicts, TV on the Radio had to cut their already severed time slot short—prematurely and reluctantly leaving their fans hanging. Soon the applause turned into a catchy chant of “Fuck Pearl Jam!” It was to no avail: soon, the opening chords of “Why Go” were blaring and the TV on the Radio set would be Sunday’s dirty little secret. Too bad.
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