Day 6

Caked in soot, the turbines lurch to life while I bleed their whir, grass festers at boot heel's caprice. Far above my head my arms cradle the blades, pare away the nickel, incise an anagram. Purple amoebas belch wet vapor beyond the silos. Perspiring icicles I feed them the orange slices, horrified, blotting their acuity. I pace, well aware the sun is tasting my neck, grin plastered with ingratiation. The watch dangles an appendix, informs me it's 12:41 for the tenth time.

Horned lizard chased by unseen forces darts and snakes through brush, corners a raisin, pounces, peels back its skin, devours its guts, sashays away. I swat a fly against my leg. A cloud of licorice and mothballs protrudes. Babbs said he would be here by now. Harvester must have held him up. Bet it was Sandy, another one of his crystalline visions.

A crag slides a wink my way. It's slippery. It sparkles and fizzes within the choked grass. Lunging in vain I rake topsoil, intake a solid wall, fall into a thicket near the bottom of the bedrock, cough grain for five minutes, rotate to shield the gash, expel sandy slugs through the sieve. Minute vine tendrils tighten grip around my ankles, the bush flails into the right side of my skull. Fuck. Too much this time, red and green begin seething, robbing each other of magic, wisps of nimbus begin a tango with the mesa, approaching nightmare, stop balling the jack, you're not Neal and you never were, oh shit the accelerator has been jammed all this time? Behind cacti leer cracked leather windshields, the smacking of their lips stifles the air, for want of any kind of purpose, leaking vats of prattle, eating holes in my frayed jeans, Babbs said he would be here. I begin to miss his commander parlance. Even Browning's foggy machismo. The sky began to bleed into ochre. A halo of ash from the northwestern corner of the map spits all over the turbine, drenches my feet with the ferocity of a marshmallow.

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It's been a minute, Blogger...

And of course I have nothing of importance to say. Just some more poetry that most people will probably think is lame but that I am quite proud of.

And suddenly the whole vibe has changed
She tells me I’m lucky that I’m alone

I blinked one eye and it happened
Grasped for a tie that could bind
You appeared

Churches are silent tonight
Steeples’ quiet fall
The snow a cushion of secrets
Can you see?

And if you turned a blind eye
Could the sun shine through it again?

Now I sit beneath cloudy skies
And why
Was my mind so awry?

I searched regions unknown
Before sinking alone
The current led me home

You have co-opted my time
Stolen the words right out of my mind

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Various musings on the opposite sex

No girl wants the perfect guy. If you give her her idea of the perfect guy, if you embody it in the way you act towards her and treat her, it will instantly cease to become the perfect guy to her. She will crave something else as soon as she has what she thought she wanted all along. If you treat her like a queen all the time, she will feel unimportant, complacent. She will lash out for a drama, for a good fight. If you resist this fight, it will only fuel her feelings of contempt or dissatisfaction for you. Nice guys so often finish last.

Unwilling to treat her like dirt, wishing only to give her your best, she will grow bored. She will move on to the next jackass in line who’s more than willing to fuck with her head, and then probably fuck her in your stead, while you’re stuck prowling the sidelines alone, wondering what could have been had you just been lucky enough to more instinctively be an asshole.

Girls don’t want flowers. They don’t want romantic dinners and they sure as hell don’t want you to write a song about them. That’s too straightforward and simple – too honest. The fun is in the hunt, they say. When you are just barely out of reach, the prospect of having you consumes her, burns in her heart and courses through her veins. She envisions being able to obtain you all for herself, and she won’t stop chasing you until she gets you.

Some have it lucky enough that they are able to lure men in with this sort of behavior without much resistance, lucky enough that their feelings of longing and desire are reciprocated in full. But this is far too convenient, far too easy and coincidental. The boat must be rocked. Once she has you ensnared in her trap, she no longer wants you. Even if you fulfill all of her desires, she will create new ones you can’t satisfy.

Part of it is a fear of trusting, being genuinely understood and accepted. But a larger part of it is a fear of being satisfied with what you have – a more subconscious and more powerful fear, a fear of actually being content with someone, a fear of not needing anything else or not searching for some abstract idealization of a “perfect” man.

If a man had his way, the game would be over much earlier. The game is fun when getting to know her, but then he’d like to drop the whole charade and enjoy the beautiful company of the other. Girls are bloodthirsty. The chase is so glamorous and exhilarating that suddenly the overall goal of the chase starts to pale in comparison. Suddenly she wants to fill the void with more and more chases with equally gullible men. They’re not in it for the goal like you are – just the journey to it.

Then they regard you as the odd one for not growing bored so quickly, for actually wanting to see a potential relationship through. They make you feel like you’re in the wrong for being satisfied with what you have. For genuinely wondering how her day was, for wanting to know her plans for the weekend, for trying to get to know her just like you had assumed she’d wanted. Then the rug is yanked out from under you and you find her laying it out again for the newest flavor.

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The best viral video ever

I may try to embed this directly within my blog, but for now check out myself and James in a video we made for class... on display on YouTube in all its *cough* glory. Click below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e_YJyKeFAL8

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On disconnect and modern insanity

Flecks of gravel fly

Whisked by wind

to mingle with the dust

boil to shrapnel

assault in the name

of a name since forgotten.

Here a lone cricket can alight

to drink in the unholy draft,

Blanched and barren as ruptured fossil,

Timeless as a stagnant tomb.

Here there is how without why,

A lens but no eye,

a reservoir drained dry,

mired in a quarry of

angular echoes,

content to unhinge

to shovel and bury

the thinning threads

of recognition.

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A perfect mirror

"And she turned, swayed slow to one side
And with a glint in her eye
She poured the night out of my soul"

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Greetings from Tampa, Florida

Hello blogosphere. I haven't been around the computer too much this week because I've been busy living it up in Tampa for spring break. It's been a really fun, relaxing, stress-free weekend and accordingly, I've posted some pictures from the week beneath the link below.. More to be added soon.

A couple views from the gorgeous Lopez house

A shot on the way to Busch Gardens. This rollercoaster was called Montu, I think

Alligators at Busch Gardens

And some elephants...

And the Shiekra? I think it was? The new one with the ridiculously steep drop

A couple pictures of the beach at sunset

And the causeway at night. That's all for now!

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Review: John Frusciante - "The Empyrean"

Published on March 5, 2009 in The Red & Black

JOHN FRUSCIANTE

THE EMPYREAN

"'The Empyrean' is a story that has no action in the physical world," the renowned Red Hot Chili Peppers' guitarist John Frusciante wrote on his personal Web site.

"The outside world is only known to us as it appears within us by the testament of our senses. The imagination is the most real world that we know because we each know it first hand."

This bold statement of intent naturally signals an album of similarly ambitious caliber: "The Empyrean," his first solo record since 2004, is his most conceptual yet.

Whereas the majority of Frusciante's solo material was composed quickly (the guy recorded a full six albums in 2004 alone), "The Empyrean" has been in gestation ever since the RHCP did "Stadium Arcadium" in 2006.

The extra time Frusciante spent on the album clearly shows, luring the listener into a mellow, psychedelic journey that oscillates between concise rock songs and elaborately designed epics, which positively boil with emotion.

Of the longer material, "Dark/Light" and "Central" emerge as the album's nuclei. The former features a Gothic choir propelled by a hyperactive bass line and MIDI drums, while the latter layers experimental guitars and keyboards over an otherwise straightforward progression.

Frusciante may not have the gritty, balls-y style or natural instinct for rhythm possessed by RHCP's vocalist Anthony Kiedis, but his own voice is tenfold more powerful and emotionally charged.

In fact, many of the songs on "The Empyrean" center on his impassioned vocal performances - notably "God" and a brilliant rendition of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren."

Not to mention his singing has grown more experimental, evident in the otherworldly vocal manipulation on "Unreachable" and the abnormally low register heard on "One More of Me."

The emphasis here is obviously Frusciante's vocals, but he doesn't let anybody forget the reason he became famous in the first place: his exceptional guitar prowess ("Enough of Me," "God" and "Unreachable").

The guitar melody in opener "Before the Beginning" unfolds and climaxes, like a feather caught in an updraft. But there's also a chance that unless you're stoned it may not be quite as enthralling.

VERDICT

With "The Empyrean," Frusciante creates a compelling landscape that brims with passion, cementing for himself a unique identity removed from the realm of the RHCP.

Oh and for what it's worth...

Happy 311 Day! (Get it, March 11th? Yes, of course you do.) They just uploaded some new information on their ninth studio album Uplifter today on their website. The album's release date has gotten pushed back to June 2, but considering they haven't put out an album since 2005, it's really right around the corner... I'm keeping my fingers crossed for it to be good. If it sounds like Don't Tread on Me I very well may have to officially quit listening to them. And the video clip of their new single "Hey You" didn't exactly help to quell any doubts I already have.

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Review: Umphrey's McGee - "Mantis"

Published on February 12, 2009 in The Red & Black

UMPHREY'S MCGEE

MANTIS

Let me state it as loudly and clearly as I can: Umphrey's McGee is NOT a jam band.

Even though the Chicago quartet's live performances are filled with double-digit songs and extensive improvisation, its music is too advanced and chameleonic to truly be pigeonholed as "jam," bearing a closer resemblance to progressive rock.

Its new album "Mantis" departs from previous studio efforts. This time around, the songs actually originated in the studio, in contrast to the band's usual practice of testing new material on tour.

The result is Umphrey's least "jammy" record yet, focusing on colossal, elaborately orchestrated epics that find the group shifting gears more times in a single song than most bands can manage in the span of an entire record.

The two-part "Cemetery Walk" boasts a slick, gliding groove and the catchiest chorus of the record, while "Spires" channels the clear-eyed Southern rock of My Morning Jacket and resolves it into a mellifluous string-laden coda.

The 11+ minute title track is the album's nucleus. A wildly diverse, multi-movement odyssey, "Mantis" touches on everything from irregularly metered prog-metal riffs to blistering guitar solos equal parts Eddie Van Halen and David Gilmour, hazy psychedelia and arms-outstretched instrumental climaxes.

But Umphrey's McGee tempers its grandiose ambitions with a handful of concise, polished numbers.

Of these, "1348" and "Prophecy Now" are the most successful. The former melds Les Claypool funk-bass with manic, pseudo-Rush vigor, while the latter plays like a reticent TV on the Radio song.

"Made to Measure" struts along to menacing soft-shoe, which makes for a perplexing album leadoff. But the ensuing choir of dreamy, ethereal guitars leaves a disarming impression.

The only shortcoming on "Mantis" is the lyrical content. Frontman Brendan Bayliss is a proficient guitarist, but most of his lyrics are hackneyed and predictable, running the serious risk of alienating potential new listeners.

VERDICT
Carrying Umphrey's McGee further into the progressive realm, "Mantis" teems with musical ideas and diverse styles that should easily please any fan of dynamic rock music.

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Review: Andrew Bird - "Noble Beast"

Published on January 29, 2009 in The Red & Black

ANDREW BIRD

NOBLE BEAST

On "Noble Beast," Bird dials down the volume, exploring a quiet, leisurely channel of songwriting he hinted at on previous albums but never fully embraced.

As the pastoral album art suggests, the songs that comprise "Noble Beast" sport a style steeped in the folk tradition, unfolding at a serene pace.

Unfortunately, this method will not likely capture new listeners' attention, or please those expecting the more elaborate side of Bird seen on "Armchair Apocrypha" and "The Mysterious Production of Eggs."

This aside, the quality of the album's material cannot be ignored. Bird weaves a variety of instruments into his songs, adding subtle nuance. The solemn, elegant "Effigy" begins with tense, uneasy violin that drifts around an accordion dirge, and "Masterswarm" is propelled by a faint Latin rhythm, echoed in the prominent use of the guiro.

Perhaps not the best leadoff candidate, "Oh No" is pleasant but not quite remarkable - its whistled melody not enough to truly distinguish it from the pack.

After a deceptive beginning, "Nomenclature" provides the first truly blistering moment, with strands of distorted guitar and violin tearing through a frantic drum earthquake. After the brief lull of "ouo," "Not a Robot, But a Ghost" stands as the utterly intense centerpiece of an otherwise placid musical tapestry.

The remainder of "Noble Beast" continues peacefully, with the sorrowful, downbeat epic "Souverian" being the most memorable of the cut, and Bird's signature lyrical wordplay finally shines forth on "Anonanimal."

VERDICT
Each of "Noble Beast"'s 14 songs is masterfully composed and arranged, yet so professionally executed that it blends into an immaculate but not quite captivating whole.

But for all of Bird's preoccupations with arrangement and structure - a not-so-unusual trait for classically trained musicians - "Noble Beast" benefits from a natural, almost rustic aura stemming from its refreshingly relaxed pace.

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Check out my NEW blog project!

Follow the link below:

My Rhetorical Analysis of Apple.com

I put a LOT of effort into this, especially with tweaking the HTML/template design, etc. etc.  Now as soon as I have some more energy, I'll start changing things around on this blog layout too...

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Blog post -- Writing for the World Wide Web

I'm assuming most of my blog entries for this class will be pretty cut-and-dry, but I felt compelled to post this one -- I thought it was a fairly easy read... fairly.

I’ve owned a blog for around four years now, but in just that short amount of time the whole nature of the medium has changed. My introduction to the “blogosphere” came when my first girlfriend convinced me to make a Xanga so I could update pointlessly about my boring high school life just like she and all her friends did. As it turned out, I got pretty into it, and most of my friends wound up jumping on the Xanga bandwagon. But it was a passing phase, as Xanga was very public (kind of like a blog mixed with a Myspace-style social network) and spammers were covering the site with clutter. So I switched to the more private LiveJournal where the entries got more personal and serious due to its comparatively exclusive design. I fell out of the whole “online diary” thing around senior year of high school and never really got back into it. Now, as I’m gradually becoming reacquainted with the blogosphere thanks to this class, I’ve found that it’s pretty much exploded into the mainstream. Suddenly people everywhere are actually trying to elevate it into a credible source of information, updating about issues and topics of importance and attempting to make a difference in the Internet community. And it’s working in many respects — several popular blogs (i.e. Perez Hilton, Hipster Runoff) have gone so far as to become fixtures in modern culture.

One of my close friends and I were hanging out the other day and I told him I had to write a blog post for this class, and he laughed at me and called me “gay” for having a blog. I was surprised that this mindset was still in place today. In high school, it certainly was the case; blogs were for the “weird people” — in-crowd meathead code for people who had their own thoughts, feelings and ideas and wanting to express them via a (potentially) public means. So I used to think at the time. I’d just assumed that society at large had finally embraced the idea of blogging, since it had begun to utilize it for new purposes other than online diaries. But my friend’s reaction made me realize that maybe the world hasn’t completely warmed up to blogging culture yet — there still exists a stigma against it.

Blogs began as individualistic and personal outlets of communication and expression and then, as its popularity snowballed, transitioned to facilitators of information about news and other various areas of the media as well as for business, search engine and Q&A uses. As such, some people who previously regarded blogs as trivial or untrustworthy due to their highly personal qualities still hold this opinion now — and that’s understandable. Obviously without a universal code of ethics, blogs cannot be trusted as 100% factual by any means. But perhaps the most defining quality of the blog is that it offers the user the freedom to do anything they choose with its template. No filter, just pure freedom of speech and expression — which, in my opinion, should never change. So unless blogs that strive to be taken seriously take it upon themselves to perpetrate high standards and prove they are providing accurate information, I don’t see much of a solution anytime soon.





And not to ramble, but just as a small aside…

Maybe the opaque nature of the essay we had to read is to blame, but I felt like its authors weren’t really talking about much of anything. In particular, the differences they outlined between opinion posts, voting posts and reaction posts are really abstract and unclear. I read this section several times over to make sure I wasn’t just misunderstanding and began to understand where the authors may have been coming from, but the differences between voting posts, opinion posts, reaction posts and summation posts seemed marginal at best. I admit I’ve been away from the blogging world for a while and can’t really speak as an authority, but most of the blog entries I’ve ever read seem as though they could fit into several of said categories… Maybe I just don’t think like a scholar… to me blogs represent a simpler, more universal way to communicate then they’re making it out to be.

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JOUR 3510 blog

For one of my classes this semester we are required to blog about various topics, and I felt like sharing my most recent post because I really like how it came together.  If anyone reads this thing, please let me know what you think.

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Glasvegas S/T review

Published January 15, 2009 in The Red & Black

GLASVEGAS

GLASVEGAS

Although it has been on the shelves in England since September, Glasvegas' self-titled debut finally saw its U.S. release last week.

The album casts the Scottish rock quartet as a post-punk outfit. All the hallmarks of the style are in place: anthemic melodies, wall-of-sound production and ethereal guitar work copped from U2, all anchored by a pulsating bass undercurrent.

The problem is, of course, that while all of Glasvegas' musical traits mesh well together and display a promising sense of internal chemistry, little from its debut feels markedly original - as if the band is content to retread the sonic terrain achieved by its predecessors rather than construct its own identity from it.

Even so, "Glasvegas" is a relatively solid debut, a handful of its songs boasting gorgeously crafted melodies and acute sense of dynamic ("Geraldine," "Polmont on My Mind," "Flowers and Football Tops").

Allan has a frustratingly familiar vocal style, resembling a rough-edged, Scottish version of The Shins' James Mercer at his best and AFI's Davey Havok at his worst. His melodies are stylized in the same fashion in nearly every song, but when his lyrically verbose tendencies push the band into spoken-word territory - particularly on "Stabbed" and "It's My Own Cheating Heart that Makes Me Cry" - it suggests a unique nuance for Glasvegas to explore in the future. Only "Go Square Go" leaves an unfavorable impression: its awkwardly jaunty momentum feels affected and borders on being outright silly.

VERDICT

It suggests enormous potential - but if Glasvegas has any hope to separate itself from the slew of post-punk imitators in the future, it'll have to bring something new to the table.

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As the lame duck enters its eleventh hour...

We are quickly approaching inauguration day and Obama will soon rightfully assume his position as the 44th president of the United States and hopefully help undo the monstrosities that the Bush administration created over the past 8 years. So I figure now is as good a time as any to publish some of the only outright political lyrics I've written... This has been a slow-burning, gradual process, and you can probably expect me to revise these lyrics any number of times in the near future.

Without further ado...

"Rose Colored Lens"

Stand facing the crowd
Tell them all you love their beautiful frowns
Poised above them all
You’ve convinced them that they chose their own fall

It’s hard to be more than in-between
When nobody can see which way you lean
Step back, get off my lawn
Find someone content to join the hell ride you’re on

Eyes don’t conceal fear
They fester impulses you wish would disappear
Surely you thought this out
The falling towers cleared quite a convenient route

It’s hard to tell where the madness ends
When we’re fed the world through a rose colored lens
Step back, hands off my dreams
This façade won’t erase what I saw behind the scenes

What did you expect you find when you looked inside?
Did it make you scream?
I guess turning a blind eye can’t provide
Your mind with sound reprieve

What did you expect to find inside?
But a frayed and tattered dream?
Idle power won’t allow you
To spread your brittle wings

I’ll pull up your roots, I wanna know just where you stand
Did your pride change your tune
Or were you caught scanning the dial?
I’ll dig your fucking head up from the sand
Did you hear me? Are your ears clean
Or are they coated in denial?

I may be blind but it’s better than seeing through your eyes
I may live in fear but it’s better than living your lie

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Mutability in 2009

Took a walk alone in shifting sands

Mistook them for a muddied path

The one thing I decried you now commend

Attach a steel echo to your laugh

Can't get comfortable with here and now

When tomorrow succumbs to yesterday

Lend me something I can hold somehow

Anything that won't melt away

And disperse among the shifting sands

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A holiday cheerier-than-you'd-think poem

Just think about it before assuming it's dark in nature... that's all I ask.

Christmas Presents

They wrapped me in trees and snowflakes

and garnished with ribbon

though the moonlight pierced

a slat of ivory lead

and I breathed

and the beltway rattled beneath

they forgot to close the drapes on me

what good is

scattered thought

coalescing into weak clouds

that passionately reach

and idly disperse

to grow complacent with the designs

dazzling distractions

that grow and fill the iris

I'd love to listen

but it's easier just to hear

passion reached its zenith

overflowed its glass

with droplets of a subdued

desperation

that fit snugly around the waist

or learn to prize

cozy

cramped quarters

and mold the mind into polished clay

sandpapered down

absolved of inconsistency

and harbor fear

of chance in a world

without walls

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Lollapalooza reminiscence

Originally published on the blog section of The Red & Black's website, but few people would ever think to go there and read it. So I'm taking things into my own hands and using my domain to my advantage.

In all seriousness, I worked quite hard on writing this and I find it to be a thorough account of the weekend, so please read:

My 2008 Lollapalooza Experience
by John Barrett
the Red & Black

FOR REFERENCE: a map of the Lollapalooza grounds

I know what most of you are probably asking yourself (Red & Black editors and moderators included): if Lollapalooza was held on August 1-3, why has it taken me almost a month to publish any sort of recap of the festival? Well, lucky for all of you readers I have some answers/excuses prepared.

First, this whole “blog” thing is brand new to me, so it took me a while to get my bearings on this whole project. Second, organizing my notes was a fairly tedious process. Third, the photos I took weren’t developed until a few days ago (which were taken via a disposable camera and turned out kind of lousy anyway), and I had to track down some video footage courtesy of my good friend Krista Slavik. Lastly, I was bitten pretty hard by the procrastination bug. Probably something to do with this not actually being printed in the newspaper, and also wanting to enjoy the last few stress-free moments of summer. Hey, honesty is the best policy, right?

But enough of this preamble. Since it’s been a few weeks, any news about this year’s Lollapalooza festival in Grant Park, Chicago, is quickly bordering on irrelevance. For those of you that wanted to attend but couldn’t, or those who attended and want to relive the excitement… or those who have been living under a rock and have somehow missed the entire boat on this whole “Lollapalooza” thing… I hope I can help provide a colorful account of the weekend.

Let’s take this by day then, shall we… So much music, and so little time…

FRIDAY

Just a little contextual backdrop: my brother Andrew and I arrived at my aunt’s place in Chicago the day before the festival – free boarding is a major perk. My aunt lives in an elegant, trendy loft in the newly opened Palmolive Building, smack in the heart of downtown Chicago, literally a couple blocks north of the Hancock Building. (Fun fact: Vince Vaughan has a place there too. And no, I didn’t get to see him.) Festival destination Grant Park was a brief walk straight down Michigan Avenue and south of the river. Andrew and I had been there before in previous visits to Chicago: it’s a fantastic park, bordering the serene expanse of Lake Michigan on one side and the endless sea of downtown Chicago skyscrapers on all the others. In the center of the park is the majestic Buckingham Fountain.

We arrived at the park at 12:30 in hopes of catching an early performance by Atlanta flower-punk quartet the Black Lips. Didn’t happen. Though we heard them from the fence, we were forced to stand in an interminably long line until we could finally present our tickets and receive our weekend-pass wristbands. Security (if you want to call it that) was unbelievably lax, as people around me stuffed drugs into their shoes and hauled in massive backpacks filled with who knows what. Once we finally entered the festival premises, 2 hours had already elapsed. Meaning we’d missed not only the Black Lips but also Manchester Orchestra, Butch Walker and Rogue Wave.

But this was no time to be mourning these losses; we had already missed the first fifteen minutes of one of the most underrated bands on the circuit: tribal indie-rockers Yeasayer. We headed to the south side main stage (AT&T) to catch the bulk of their show. The Brooklyn foursome delivered a powerhouse performance to a surprisingly large and enthusiastic crowd, showing the power and momentum that debut album All Hour Cymbals has already gathered. Bassist Ira Wolf Tuton wielded a fretless bass, contributing a fluid, gliding backdrop for guitarist Anand Wilder’s ringing, atmospheric passages and singer/keyboardist Chris Keating’s progressive keyboard melodies. The set consisted of most of their debut album, including show highlight “Wait for the Summer” near the end. Fans watched in awe as the group combined indie pop/rock with world music and tribal-tinged effects into an irresistible genre-bending final product.

After Yeasayer, Andrew and I decided to grab lunch and explore Grant Park some. Since Lollapalooza was reconfigured in 2005 from a traveling festival to a three-day music destination very much akin to New Orleans’ Voodoo Fest or Atlanta’s now-defunct Music Midtown, the atmosphere has undoubtedly changed. This year’s festival drew all sorts of different fans to Grant Park… Ordinary people getting a taste of the festival atmosphere. Moms and dads with their children. Indie kids. Lots of indie kids. Everywhere. Wearing the latest ironic T-shirts and skintight jeans and weird-for-the-sake-of-weird hairstyles and raving about being more excited for Dr. Dog and the Ting Tings than Radiohead and Rage Against the Machine. Dudes that would’ve looked more at home in a frat house, drinking Keystone Light and wearing the latest rawkin’ stylz from Hollister and Abercrombie & Fitch. Your occasional punk with the Mohawk – and the real deal, mind you, fully spiked and colored. (Your occasional misguided soul rocking the faux-hawk too.) Occasionally you’d spot a dreadlocked Rasta-esque guy or a tie-dye clad hippie, but compared to campout festivals like Bonnaroo or Langerado, the peaceful pot-smoking hippie demographic was vastly underrepresented. Not to mention that Blues Traveler and John Butler Trio were the only two bands in the circuit that could be considered “jam bands”. For the most part, the crowd leaned on the more mainstream side, and I struggled to soak it all in as we rushed from stage to stage trying to absorb as many bands as possible.

Next on our agenda was the Kills, a stylishly minimalist duo featuring vocalist Alison Mosshart and guitarist Jamie Hince, playing at the south side’s second stage (Myspace). On the way over we caught part of Louis XIV’s show at the smaller Citi Stage, which was ho-hum at best. Most of their songs sounded similar, and the lyrics were so blatantly and overtly sexual that it was actually distracting. And not in a good way. I would periodically find myself tuning out the music and thinking, “Did he actually just say that?” After their fluke single “Finding Out True Love Is Blind”, a good portion of the audience (ourselves included) left in a mass exodus. The Kills’ lo-fi indie vibe was impressively high-energy for a mere singer and guitar player. They got the crowd on their feet and dancing with a set list comprised of new tunes from this year’s Midnight Boom as well as past albums like No Wow.

Shortly after the Kills left the stage, it occurred to me how ungodly hot it was. Though we had only been at the festival for an hour and a half, I could feel my entire face getting sunburned. A note to all people planning on attending a summer festival: for maximum enjoyment, don’t forget to put on sunscreen. Seriously. Don’t do what I did. The hot Chicago sun brought temperatures well into the 90s, and the lack of a breeze left fans quickly dehydrated and exhausted, often seeking refuge in the various clusters of trees lining the park. But we had no time to rest – we were still pissed about standing in line for two hours and didn’t want a single moment to pass us by. We rushed back to the AT&T stage to watch the first half of Gogol Bordello’s set. The plan was to leave halfway through and head to the north side of the park to catch the Black Keys, who were playing at the same time.

I can say with the utmost certainty that Gogol Bordello is one of the most bizarre and unique bands I’ve ever encountered. Eastern European immigrants from New York playing punk rock with a flair for Eastern/gypsy melodies, the large ensemble was led by the eccentric, shirtless Eugene Hutz, strumming a classical guitar maniacally and bellowing multi-lingual lyrics into the mic, jumping around all parts of the stage like a maniac on the loose. Aside from Hutz, violinist Sergey Ryabtsev and accordionist Yuri Lemeshev harmonized together with exotic minor-key melodies, which was fascinating. Gogol Bordello also included six other members playing to maximum potential, resulting in a whirlwind concert where there was hardly a moment to catch your breath, much less a dull one. Biggest eyebrow-raiser: around the third or fourth song, two girls in skimpy green outfits rushed out onto the stage and began dancing hypnotically to a pummeling punk rhythm, then out of nowhere launched into a chorus of piercing high-pitched screams. My head was starting to spin. Was I really watching this? At any rate, it was one of the most fun shows I saw that weekend.

We migrated to the other end of the park to check out the Black Keys on the north side main stage (Bud Light). As a blues-rock duo consisting of singer/guitarist Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney, the Black Keys have drawn heavy comparisons to the White Stripes in the media. Truthfully, the bands are extremely similar (and the Black Keys were scheduled to play right before Jack White’s full-band outfit the Raconteurs on the same stage – coincidence? I think not). But the Black Keys came off as a less messy (but also less idiosyncratic) version of the White Stripes, turning out a bluesy, no-frills set that made ample reference to greats like Jimmy Page and Jimi Hendrix. Though not nearly as maddeningly exciting as Gogol Bordello, the Black Keys certainly had an attentive crowd and kept their interest till the very end. Something that kept my interest in particular was the duo’s effortless time signature gear-shifting.

Andrew and I took a bathroom break at the dreaded port-a-johns, most of which were already completely out of toilet paper and smelled like ten East Campuses in one spot, before heading back to Citi Stage to see Brooklyn experimental rockers Grizzly Bear. The ethereal, psychedelic textures that characterize albums like 2007’s Yellow House was well-represented and eagerly taken in by a reverent audience. As impressive as the band was, we opted not to stay for very long. The day’s two bands of greatest magnitude were just around the corner: the Raconteurs and Radiohead.

The Raconteurs were back across the park on the Bud Light stage. By the time we got there, the group had just taken the stage and were tearing into a fiery rendition of “Consoler of the Lonely”, the almost-title track from this year’s Consolers of the Lonely. Following that with “Level” from debut release Broken Boy Soldiers, it quickly became clear that this was not going to be anything like the last time I saw Jack White (with the White Stripes in 2005). No, these guys were full-powered rock n’ roll at its finest. Studio-wise, the White Stripes are probably the more unique and interesting of the two groups, but the Raconteurs deliver a more thoroughly rewarding live experience. Though he will never replace Meg White’s irresistible minimalist bashing, Raconteurs drummer Patrick Keeler played with precision and finesse that acted as an entirely different template for Jack White’s fiery guitar freakouts. Another welcome addition was Jack Lawrence’s slithering basslines. But alongside White, the member who shone the most was his longtime friend and solo artist Brendan Benson, whose professional, fluid approach to the guitar meshed perfectly with White’s comparably raw, frantic style. The two tossed solos back and forth and often engaged in harmonized twin guitar runs that kept the crowd thirsting for more. Not to mention that White is an engaging, charismatic performer and, by virtue alone, continually found his way into the limelight. Smash hit “Steady as She Goes” included a crowd chant-along to the oft-repeated phrase “Are you steady now?”. And if it weren’t for White’s spontaneous use of a small Dubreq Stylophone causing me to double-take several times over, my answer might have been yes. All in all, the Raconteurs delivered a powerhouse performance, mixing heavy blues-rock with the occasional tender folk-influenced ballad.

It wasn’t easy to do, but Andrew and I pulled ourselves away from the Raconteurs a half hour before they were due to finish in order to secure some kind of favorable spot for Radiohead. If I’d been able to have my way, I would have been front and center for Radiohead. But the painfully mediocre indie group Bloc Party played before them on the AT&T stage, and quite frankly, I wasn’t gonna sacrifice seeing the Raconteurs and endure an entire Bloc Party set just to secure a close spot for Radiohead. We figured we’d take our chances. As we neared the south end of the park and passed the Citi stage, where eccentric Brazilian group CSS was busy kicking up a storm (I think the lead singer was actually wearing flowers all over her body – but then again this observation was just in passing), a familiar face caught my eye from the Myspace stage. There in all of his subdued glory was Stephen Malkmus – for those of you unawares, Malkmus was the mastermind behind 90’s indie-rock heroes Pavement. He was playing with his new project, Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks, a co-ed quartet with a female rhythm section. Though we only lingered for a few songs – and would have stayed longer if we hadn’t noticed that the AT&T stage was growing exponentially more crowded with every second – Malkmus turned out a quirky, progressive-tinged indie set to a small and surprisingly less than enthusiastic crowd. I thoroughly enjoyed what I saw, but there were bigger fish to fry. We hurried into the gaggle of fans and pushed our way forward as far as we could go, assuming we could eventually push our way into the front. We were wrong. We got stopped somewhere to the left of the main light booth, finding ourselves pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and side-to-side, with hardly even enough room to comfortably breathe. It was 7:30, meaning we would have to stand like this for a half hour until Radiohead took the stage. In short: it was f***ing packed.

Just when I thought I wouldn’t be able to stand it anymore, the off-kilter electronic beat of In Rainbows’ opening track “15 Step” permeated the audience and liberated the rabidly excited crowd, resulting in immediate cheers and screams of ecstasy from all around. One by one, each member emerged onto the stage as they launched into a flawless performance, led all the while by vocalist/pianist/guitarist Thom Yorke’s aching falsetto. Immediately, Radiohead turned the clock back to 1997’s landmark OK Computer, unleashing the eerie, twisting melody of “Airbag.” Recent radio staple “There There” followed with such an intensity that it took my breath away. And these were just the first three songs. To try and select highlights from their stellar set list is an entirely pointless and self-defeating task: every song was its own indispensable highlight, all a glowing part of a beautiful whole that can only be understood after experiencing Radiohead live. Nevertheless, I’ll try to name some of the best moments or I’d wind up raving about Radiohead’s show for pages upon pages… Thom Yorke, guitarist/multi-instrumentalist Jonny Greenwood, bassist Colin Greenwood, guitarist Ed O’Brien and drummer Phil Selway (yes, I had to list them all by name because that’s what kind of mega-Radiohead-dork-fan I am) were phenomenal, playing a red-hot set list that didn’t lose steam for a single waking moment. They played cuts from every single studio release (except for their mediocre debut Pablo Honey – but thankfully I didn’t spot any wannabe/poser Radiohead fans yelling for them to play “Creep”), including every single track from newest album In Rainbows. Yes, that’s right, the entire album, though not in order. “Weird Fishes”, “Reckoner”, and “Jigsaw Falling into Place” were positively jaw-dropping. For the majority of the concert, there was very little movement or noise among the 70,000+ crowd – a reverence that you hardly ever witness at large-scale festivals like Lollapalooza. For me, make that never. Which speaks volumes about the type of crowd Radiohead draws. The band has fans like few other: ones that know all the obscure lyrics, who can anticipate all the unusual changes in each song. In short, fans whose attention to every moment of the concert shows how much they’ve listened to and cherished every part of their epic, sweeping catalog. Unfortunately, from my position in the crowd, any attempt at a photo of the band was a complete shot in the dark – raising my disposable camera high above my head, snapping, and hoping for something (anything) to develop.

With much difficulty, I have thought long and hard and selected the one song that was the unquestionable peak of the show: “Fake Plastic Trees.” Although it’s one of Radiohead’s most ubiquitous songs, let’s not forget that it’s also one of their most gorgeous ballads to date, with enough fragility and passion to make the most iron-hearted of souls collapse and sob into their hands. It was a shocking moment in the first place that Radiohead chose to play it (they typically stray from playing their major 90s radio hits, and probably for the better – “Creep” is overplayed and “High and Dry” is probably the worst Radiohead song ever written), but their timing couldn’t have been more perfect. As Thom Yorke opened “Fake Plastic Trees” alone with his acoustic guitar, the entire crowd was deadly silent – so quiet you could hear a pin drop over by the bathrooms. Everybody was rapt with complete attention. As the song continued, the sun sank just below the horizon, lending the Chicago skyline a deep emerald green hue. All around the park the towering downtown skyscrapers began to light up with the excitement of the night, and from a building not far from behind the stage, fireworks were being shot off. Of course, all the indier-than-thou snobs were quick to point that it detracted from Radiohead’s performance – and it very well could have, had Radiohead planned the fireworks themselves – but the fireworks were actually complete coincidence, coming from an unrelated event being held nearby at Soldier Field. Meaning it actually enhanced Radiohead’s already fantastic performance tenfold. The way it synced up with “Fake Plastic Trees” was nothing short of magical. For five minutes I was literally trembling from head to foot and couldn’t stop for the life of me. After a mind-blowingly intense closing encore of “2+2=5” and “Idioteque”, Radiohead left the stage rather abruptly, leaving several fans hoping to prolong the magic in the dark. Leaving the park was an absolute stampede – moving bodies in every direction as far as the eye could see. I was still floating in an almost surreal state of awe. There would be no partying for me tonight – I could do nothing to taint the performance I had just seen. Plus, Saturday afternoon would arrive in a hurry and we were nothing short of exhausted.

SATURDAY

Andrew and I got a later start than planned, finding it pretty difficult to wake up in the morning. Luckily, the schedule for the beginning of the day comprised mostly unremarkable indie bands (Does It Offend You Yeah, the Ting Tings, etc.). The first band we’d really wanted to see was Dr. Dog, who we completely missed. We arrived around 3:00 and managed to catch the tail end of the Gutter Twins’ harrowing performance. It was nice to witness former Screaming Trees frontman Mark Lanegan and former Afghan Whigs frontman Greg Dulli collaborating together, albeit with a much darker edge than we’ve grown accustomed to from these guys. Unfortunately, we saw a full two songs before they left the stage, so we decided to check out the bands on the other side of Grant Park. On the way to DeVotchKa on the north side’s second stage (PlayStation 3) we stopped to watch some of Steel Train’s performance on the smaller BMI stage. They were full of energy and had the crowd’s full attention, but they were a band clearly in their infantile stages still developing their sound. All the same, it was enjoyable and fun. But DeVotchKa was truly a sight to see. We planned to catch half of their show and then bail for MGMT back on the Myspace stage on the south side, but wound up so engrossed in DeVotchKa’s performance that we wound up staying for nearly the whole thing. The band’s unusually eclectic choice of instruments was the most distinguishing feature of their show – accordion, violin, double bass, trumpet and even sousaphone – and delivered a thrilling romantic Latin-tinged set. After leaving we got a quick lunch and rushed over to the Myspace stage to catch popular indie-psychedelia duo MGMT. Sadly, as we walked into the crowd they pretty much played their last chord, took a bow and left. Nothing much to report.

Frustrated, we decided to stop skipping around – the park was a little big to be traversing all over it so much, and we kept missing large chunks of bands’ shows – and opted to duck emo-esque rockers Brand New in favor of experimental rock group Explosions in the Sky, playing on the Bud Light stage across the park. We showed up just as they were getting started. The quartet’s all-instrumental set was invigorating despite (or perhaps because of) the lack of vocals. Each song was laden with feedback, ethereal textures and melodies, and volatile, explosive dynamic shifts. The band would dial it down to almost zero and then thrash away full-steam in synchronized movements in the blink of an eye. The amazing part? It sounded completely natural instead of forced and contrived. Nobody wanted their set to end; the enthusiasm of the crowd was positively electric. Random onlookers were shouting, “Best band of the weekend!” Aside from Radiohead, they were dead-on.

Okkervil River was next, just across the field at the PS3 stage. This indie-folk hybrid, led by eccentric singer/guitarist Will Sheff, whose lyrics were at the center of the band’s performance for the duration of the show. And rightfully so; if you ever read Okkervil River’s lyrics, Will Sheff is a poet in every sense of the word. His lyrics are multi-faceted, brilliantly constructed and never mundane or cliché. It was especially exciting to hear cuts from both halves of their two-part double album: 2007’s The Stage Names and the upcoming September release of The Stand Ins. Not only was the large ensemble exciting to watch, they were clearly excited, going to extra lengths to involve the crowd – including witty stage/audience banter and tons of multi-speed hand-claps and chant-alongs. At the end, Sheff leaped down into the front row of the crowd to pay a personal thanks to his loyal fans, resulting in the most genuine live show of the weekend.

Back to the Bud Light stage across the way for Canada’s indie supergroup Broken Social Scene, who had around 9 members onstage at all times. Although echoing a bit too much of the repulsive twee-pop sound that their country has unfortunately made famous (think the New Pornographers or Stars or other similarly unappealing bands), the band’s constant whirlwind interplay was surprisingly captivating and kept us watching long enough to completely miss Lupe Fiasco – whose feverish, verbose and backflip-filled set I’d heard from everybody was fantastic. The 9 members of Broken Social Scene employed various unorthodoxly-strung guitars (some only had 3 strings on them, and in different places). And though I usually turn my nose up and indie-pop, I found myself embracing their catchy, invigorated brand of it, especially the delicate male-female vocal interplay. Midway through the set, frontman Brendan Canning encouraged everyone to vote for Obama in Novmber – a sentiment that resonated well with the young crowd, myself included. Seems these guys have more going for them than I’d originally thought.

After showing up for Lupe Fiasco’s final bow (this was happening annoyingly often on that day), we got dinner and braved the port-a-johns again, which were (if possible) in worse condition than the day before. After struggling not to puke my guts out from the smell alone, we rushed over to the south side for the remainder of the night to check out Toadies before staking our ground for legendary political rap-metal band Rage Against the Machine. I’d like to clarify that Saturday night’s lineup presented me with the toughest choice in bands that I’d have to make for the whole festival – because you see, a little band called Wilco was playing at the exact same time as Rage on the opposite end of the park. But since I’ve seen Wilco twice already, was supposed to see Rage at New Orleans’ Voodoo Fest in 2007 but missed them (long story), and not to mention RATM’s future is uncertain, the decision wasn’t as hard as you might think. I was just sad that, to my chagrin, I would have to sit out on Wilco’s always welcome chill country-indie-alternative hybrid, complete with guitar virtuoso Nels Cline. Side note: Barack Obama himself was rumored to be making an appearance at Wilco’s show, but (as I suspected) this just turned out to be hearsay.

90’s rockers Toadies (remember that song “Possum Kingdom”?) newly reunited in 2007 after their initial breakup six years ago. And it showed. The band had a vigor and drive that made their borderline-generic post-grunge take on an edge and freshness I hadn’t expected, and it was clear this foursome was happy rekindling their chemistry onstage. The set was juxtaposed with classics like the aforementioned “Possum Kingdom” and “I Come from the Water” and songs from their brand-spanking-new album No Deliverance. (Seriously, it came out like 5 days ago.) We left early to make our way closer to the AT&T stage in hopes of landing a good spot for Rage Against the Machine, this time almost 45 minutes prior to their show. Our luck turned out to be about on par with the Radiohead show: as we neared the light booth (again!), we found ourselves immediately in the middle of a tightly compressed sea of anxiously waiting RATM fans. We fought our way through people – literally pushing with all our might – until we could not go any further forward for the life of us. But I was starting to think that maybe that was for the better: the crowd was so tightly packed that I didn’t even want to think about what it would turn into once Rage’s ferocious rap-rock set in. Well, I wouldn’t have to think long. After standing wall-to-wall with Andrew surrounded by people on all sides for 45 minutes, the moment had arrived at last. Again, it would be a shot in the dark taking photos of Rage, but I did my best.

I’d always heard a Rage Against the Machine show is intense, but you have to see it – er, feel it – to really believe it. Once the first whirring guitar noises of “Testify” dropped, it was an absolute free-for-all in the crowd. Andrew and I had to jump, mosh and push with all our tired, sunburned, dehydrated power to avoid getting crushed, trampled, or worse. During the popular “Bulls on Parade”, I was being pressed hard from both sides by bodies and at one point thought that I would not be able to breathe if I tried. Mosh pits were breaking out in every direction you looked, and I participated in a mosh pit for the first time in my life. I’m relatively small – 5’10” and 150 pounds thereabouts – and even I was able to hold my own in the pit for awhile. That is, until someone from behind nailed me in the spine with their elbow, forcing me to recoil to the sidelines and take a breather. Never have I felt in serious danger for my life at a concert until Rage. I kid you not. If you weren’t ready to step up and take the heat, you’d best get your ass out of there stat or you weren’t gonna live to see tomorrow. It was so violent, in fact, that rapper/frontman Zack De la Rocha, one of the most aggressive voices in modern music, had to stop the show three times to settle down the overwhelmingly wild crowd, asking us repeatedly to take five to ten steps backward. People were breaking or twisting their ankles or passing out from dehydration, and from outside Grant Park 60-80 people crashed a gate. The surprisingly humane De la Rocha was aware of this. He stressed raging against the machine, as his band name implied, not against ourselves, reminding us that we had an obligation to take care of one another. The crowd listened somewhat, but not much; it was still an absolute frenzy.

Zack De la Rocha never shied from his extreme-leftist political messages: a warning to “Brother Obama” that if he didn’t stay true to his word to pull troops out of Iraq and Afghanistan, a whole new generation of blacks and Hispanics would revolt and burn the United States’ corporate and political centers to the ground. Rage against the machine indeed! If Obama doesn’t follow through (knock on wood), I’ll be right there alongside those vigilantes, setting all the corporate fat-chewing liars’ dens ablaze and rejoicing as their hideous money-bitten lives incinerate with the smoldering flames. (A note to any authority figures reading this who might take that as an anti-patriotic threat: I’m not gonna say anything more about that except that you should only take that statement in the context of me making a point about RATM’s powerfully inspiring show.) As far as the songs themselves went, Rage drew from their absolute best material (almost exclusively from their 1992 eponymous debut and 1999’s The Battle of Los Angeles), including a blistering encore of “Freedom” bled straight into “Killing in the Name” without a moment’s pause. Though Zack De la Rocha dominated the concert, guitarist Tom Morello cannot be overlooked – his blistering, experimental solos that take the possibilities of feedback, tremolo and alternate tunings to vast new levels give Rage a singularly unique sound and mesh brilliantly with the pummeling, rock-solid rhythm section of bassist Tim Commerford and drummer Brad Wilk. Again, the mass exodus from the festival grounds was a difficult endeavor. The bottoms of my shoes aching and blistering and so exhausted and dehydrated from moshing that I thought I would keel over, Andrew and I dragged ourselves home to sleep – no scratch that, to pass out – in preparation for the final day.

SUNDAY

I guess you could say Sunday was the day when all the loose ends were tied together. Until today, Andrew and I had been completely unsuccessful in meeting up with anyone we knew at Lollapalooza (mainly due to the horribly spotty cell phone service), wandering around from stage to stage together in search of anyone we knew. We got going a little faster than the day before, which was a miracle considering how heavily we slept after Rage Against the Machine. We once again set off down Michigan Avenue and arrived at the festival grounds in time to catch most of the set of Athens’ very own The Whigs, who put on a gritty, no-muss-no-fuss rock-n-roll set on the Myspace stage. For just three members, the Whigs displayed an incredible amount of seemingly boundless energy: guitarist Parker Gispert was pouring sweat and slashing away at the guitar like his life depended on it, and drummer Julian Dorio was a whirlwind of motion, pummeling the drums into submission every chance he got. They blazed through a set consisting of new tunes from this year’s Mission Control and their debut, 2005’s Give ‘Em All a Big Fat Lip. For the closing song, Gispert relinquished his guitar duties to bassist Tim Deaux and assumed the role of keyboards. A tight, rousing and effective three-man performance all-around.

We ventured over to the AT&T Stage to watch Brazilian Girls, a trio hailing from New York and containing only one female: the sultry, eccentric singer Sabina Sciubba. Her unconventional beauty and charisma, coupled with an extremely short skirt, provided suitable ear and eye candy for an eclectic, danceable set which included the summery lounge anthem “Pussy” (perhaps better known as “Pussy Marijuana” due to its unforgettable chorus). It was here that we finally met up with my friend Jackie, a college student and native to Chicago; we had been trying to find one another all weekend but only finally succeeded now. Jackie was with a few of her friends, who were all content to stay put at Brazilian Girls. Andrew and I decided to catch the end of John Butler Trio, performing at the Bud Light Stage on the north side. And so the tedious march across Grant Park in the blazing summer sun began again. John Butler Trio put on a great show with multiple solos that showcased Butler and company’s stellar musicianship. Bassist Shannon Birchall played an upright bass with as much power and finesse as a bass guitar, and Butler joined drummer Michael Barker in a show-stopping drum/percussion solo right before the final song. The funky bluegrass-jam rock hybrid was enticing and alluring, and John Butler Trio received just as warm a reception at Lollapalooza as he would receive at a more jam-oriented festival like Langerado or Rothbury.

Andrew and I grabbed lunch and some water and regrouped. We caught the tribal, polyrhythmic world music of blind African duo Amadou & Mariam, though only briefly, at the PS3 stage nearby. We cut this act short because A) I wanted one of those cool Radiohead In Rainbows shirts and the lines were extraordinarily long, and B) we were due to rendezvous with Jackie and her friends again. We hung out at the Q101 FM-sponsored Hammock Haven, which was essentially hammocks set up in a thick cluster of trees near the center of the park. Oh, and there were various Q101 dudes shooting people with super-powered water guns periodically. I eagerly took my place within their line of fire, desperate for some refuge from the heat. We found Jackie and her friends under one of the hammocks and passed around rum and coke and reminisced about the best bands of the weekends. They didn’t seem in too much of a hurry to leave the shade (and it honestly would have been nice to continue relaxing there), but Iron & Wine had already taken to the Bud Light stage and Andrew and I didn’t want to miss any more of their show. We bid Jackie farewell, as unbeknownst to us this would be the last I saw of her. Iron & Wine is, in the studio, essentially the one-man project of perennially grizzled singer/guitarist Samuel Beam, so I was expecting a downbeat, mellow performance in the vein of somebody like Jack Johnson. Probably for the better, I was proven far from correct. Beam was accompanied by 7 or 8 other members and led them through a set of spacey, folk-infused jams on a variety of instruments, including warm, ringing lap steel guitar passages and chaotic piano solos. They closed with a monumental rendition of the title track from 2007’s acclaimed release The Shepherd’s Dog.

A split second after Iron & Wine finished, an announcer across the field at the PS3 stage loudly proclaimed the arrival of Irish punk-rockers Flogging Molly. The band, touring in support of their newest album Float (which was prominently on display behind them on stage), was as in-your-face as could be, and the only band to rival the Whigs in terms of raw energy. Instead of straight-up rock, though, Flogging Molly mixed in plenty of authentic Irish flavor. The seven-piece outfit played instruments ranging from banjo to mandolin, violin/fiddle and accordion, in addition to the usual guitars-bass-drums backbone. Their music was blissful good-time bouncy exuberance with a Celtic twist, exactly the unique sound that they became known for, leading the crowd through favorites like “Drunken Lullabies.” It was here more than ever that I wished I had a pint of Guinness in my hand to merrily toast to their punk-infused drinking songs. After half of their set, Andrew and I figured it was time to pay our dues to jam-band favorites Blues Traveler, and on the way out of the crowd ran into my old friend Krista, who I hadn’t seen in nearly two years. It was a surprise and total joy to see another familiar face. Krista was running around with a higher-quality camera that was video equipped, and I immediately asked for her help in getting footage for the festival. The video clips that you see on here, as well as some of the photos, are courtesy of her stunning photography talents. Krista luckily also wanted to check out Blues Traveler, so the three of us made our way to the south side of the park. Blues Traveler was well into their set on the Myspace stage, and their jam-filled set list lit the crowd on fire. The band was anchored mainly by the interplay of singer and virtuoso harmonica player John Popper, relentless guitar shredder Chan Kinchla, and dexterous 6-string bassist Tad Kinchla. The set was rounded out toward the end by a surprise cover of Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me” and closed with a bang with one of Blues Traveler’s most popular songs, “Hook.”

From there, me, Krista and Andrew proceeded to work our way into the already forming crowd of Gnarls Barkley on the AT&T stage. This was one of the harder decisions we faced in terms of who to check out: Gnarls was playing at the same time as Love & Rockets (essentially Bauhaus minus lead singer Peter Murphy) and popular DJ/mash-up artist Girl Talk. I had no qualms about sticking around to watch Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse in action, though, and figured Gnarls Barkley was the most appealing of the three options. Although Atlanta native vocalist Cee-Lo and producer extraordinaire Danger Mouse are the only two official members, they were joined onstage by a full-band outfit. Cee-Lo led the group in all its soulful glory with his stunningly powerful pipes. Danger Mouse meanwhile stuck mainly to the keyboards and organ. Thankfully, after smash hit “Crazy” was played midway through the set, most of the fans stayed firmly put. The biggest surprise came shortly thereafter when Gnarls unexpectedly broke into an impressive cover of Radiohead’s “Reckoner.”

Once Gnarls Barkley finished with a moving bow from Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse, we migrated back toward the food area to get dinner and stopped to check out guitarist/arranger Mark Ronson, who showcased a flurry of guest musicians, singers and rappers in his grandiose, and above all fun, performance. But 8:15 was drawing near, which meant so were the final two acts of the entire festival: the ever-hyped and ever-egotistical Chicago native Kanye West, and legendary industrial rock group Nine Inch Nails. Not as difficult choice as one might think; I tend to lean heavily on rock over hip-hop (obviously) and figured seeing Nine Inch Nails would mean a lot more to me. We caught some dinner, visited Green Street, the environmental section of the festival, for the first time, and bid farewell to Krista, who was going to catch her friends near the AT&T stage for Kanye West. Andrew and I trekked once again across the park to the north side in preparation for Nine Inch Nails.

As soon as we arrived at the Bud Light stage, we knew we were in for an intense ride. Nine Inch Nails had just taken the stage, opening with the first four tracks from their latest release, this year’s free digital download and full-length album The Slip. The reception was fairly enthusiastic, but there was a noticeable spike in noise and excitement once “March of the Pigs”, from 1994’s acclaimed The Downward Spiral, sounded over the speakers and turned back the clock to Reznor’s hate- and drug abuse-filled years. Their light show was wildly chaotic, blinding and impossible to take your eyes off of – and although Radiohead and Rage Against the Machine may have put on technically better performances (or maybe I’m just biased to liking their music a little bit more), but Nine Inch Nails’ light show easily topped any band of the weekend. Trent Reznor and his loyal, low-profile minions brought the heat like only veterans of their stature can. For the majority of the show’s duration, Reznor looked and sounded positively frightening – pouring with sweat, bellowing menacingly into the mic, and always with an enraged sort of gleam in his eyes. Which is ironic, because in actuality, his life has gotten much better. The proof was in their live show: Nine Inch Nails was currently touring in support of not just The Slip, but Ghosts I-IV (also from earlier this year) and 2007’s Year Zero. (Year Zero Pt. 2 is rumored for release later this year.) That said, NIN had an incredible wealth of new material to draw upon for use, and Reznor’s recent outpouring of material is largely due to finally kicking the cocaine and heroin habits that plagued him for most of his career pre-2005. Aside from the new material, Reznor and company blazed through a set of tunes ranging from late ‘80s/early ‘90s classics to fresh material from Year Zero and With Teeth. Even a handful of Ghosts I-IV’s ambient soundscapes cropped up here and there, during which the reverent crowd was transfixed in a state of awe. The singularly most defining part of the NIN live experience is the quality of the music: Trent Reznor has a knack for writing songs that are incredibly danceable, yet also retain an unbelievable amount of aggression. The band’s final song before exiting the stage was the classic radio- and fan-favorite, “Head Like a Hole”, which got the entire crowd shouting along to the cathartic chorus.

We skipped NIN’s encore to catch Kanye West’s encore on the AT&T stage at the other end of the park – after all, it was Kanye and to totally miss his performance altogether would be kind of sad. We showed up to find Kanye West playing with a visible backing band in a greatest-hits-style setting, rather than the high-concept space theme I’d expected to see. He played “Hey Mama”, followed by a cover of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’,” which I guess instills a positive message into the turmoil of the present day, but was slightly puzzling and frustrating to watch. But fortunately he ended with a bang, closing with recent smash hit “Stronger.” A perfect cap to the weekend that sent the audience into hysterical screaming and cheering. Again it was a madhouse getting out, but this time there was a certain bright, happy rejoicing feeling floating among the throngs of moving bodies. Even after the insanely hot and exhausting three-day weekend, spirits were high upon exit: cheers and hollers and celebratory whoops were fired off from all directions of the magical downtown cityscape of Chicago.

For a look at all the pictures from the weekend (some are good quality, and some are beyond horrible), click here: http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v252/jbarrett1987/Lollapalooza%202008/

For video clips of Iron & Wine, Blues Traveler, Newton Faulkner, and The Whigs (courtesy of Krista Slavik), click here: http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v252/jbarrett1987/Lollapalooza%202008/Lollapalooza%2008%20Videos/

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Portishead "Third" review

In conjunction with my just-now-posted top 10 list, here's a review I wrote for the #1 album of the year: Portishead's "Third". Unabridged and very slightly tweaked from the original draft. Enjoy!

Published April 17, 2008 in The Red & Black

PORTISHEAD

THIRD

The trip-hop pioneers unleash their first proper release since 1997. Considering its decade-long hiatus, Portishead has completely reinvented its sound, bearing little resemblance to the spacey, beat-driven music that put it on the map in the ’90s.

One thing is for certain: “Third” is a dark album. Portishead has created a gloomy sonic underworld filled with ethereal sounds and textured beats. The production is detached yet enticing, and lead vocalist Beth Gibbons sounds – if possible – more haunting and emotional than she ever has before.

Opener “Silence” begins with an eerie, twisting chord progression set to a rollicking tempo. It ends appropriately enough, cutting to complete silence without any warning whatsoever.

The darkness continues on “Nylon Smile”, which features one of Gibbons’ most unsettling melodies. “We Carry On” sports a relentless industrial groove, while the skittering beat and droning synths of “Plastic” are nothing short of frightening.

Portishead delivers a few unexpected gems as well. “Hunter”, one of the album’s best songs, is a misty jazz piece that gets torn apart by rebellious distorted guitar and manic synth melodies.

The gothic folk of “Deep Water” is brilliant, but it’s a brief lull before the earth-shattering pulse of the ominous “Machine Gun” drops and leaves the listener breathless and begging for more.

Elsewhere “The Rip” morphs from plaintive acoustic ballad into epic rocker, and “Magic Doors” incorporates off-kilter psychedelia complete with cowbell.

“Third” ultimately proves Portishead is still a creative force to be reckoned with after all these years. The band has thankfully retained all of its focus, its musical ability and, most importantly, its ambition.

VERDICT: Portishead’s extended hiatus has worked wonders: this a breathtaking, haunting album with no missteps.

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My list of the top 10 rock albums of 2008...

*Disclaimer: even though I review music regularly for The Red & Black at UGA, there are still a ton of albums that came out this year that I have yet to hear. Obviously, with the rate music is produced and released these days, it's damn near impossible to hear everything – so it should be kept in mind that this list is just the opinion of one person. All the same, a LOT of new music has passed through my ears this year, and after careful deliberation I present:

THE TOP 10 ROCK ALBUMS OF 2008

10. Shearwater – "Rook"

9. My Morning Jacket – "Evil Urges"

8. Of Montreal – "Skeletal Lamping"

7. Have a Nice Life – "Deathconsciousness"

6. Beck – "Modern Guilt"

5. Deerhunter – "Microcastle"

4. Fleet Foxes – "Fleet Foxes"

3. Sigur Rós – "Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust"

2. TV on the Radio – "Dear Science"

1. Portishead – "Third"

And just for shits and giggles, here is a much shorter look at:

THE BOTTOM 3 ROCK ALBUMS OF 2008

(although these should be of no surprise to anybody with some form of musical taste...)

3. O.A.R. – "All Sides"

2. Nickelback – "Dark Horse"

1. Hinder – "Take It to the Limit"

POST-SCRIPT

It's funny; I have long held Nickelback in such contempt that I've considered them unquestionably the worst rock band on the entire music scene. But I must reevaluate my stance and admit that they're actually not the worst. (And that's no compliment whatsoever to the turgid, unimaginative tripe Nickelback continue to hash out and make millions off of.) Instead, the worst bands are the myriad faceless groups of dudes who (get this) actually strive to imitate Nickelback's sound. Obviously anyone taking cues from this band is looking for inspiration to sell records rather than to make art – which is one of the saddest travesties in music I've ever heard. The most blatant culprits: Hinder, Saving Abel, and Theory of a Deadman. ATROCIOUS music, people. Music that makes me want to slice kittens in half. No joke.

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