Lollapalooza opened in Grant Park on Friday to — what else? — rain and a soggy turf that required wood chips to be imported and portions of Hutchinson Field to be roped off. Inclement weather is now a regular visitor at this festival, especially after a major storm prompted a brief evacuation last year.
The opening hours Friday weren’t nearly so dramatic after morning rain puddled the field. The three-day, 30-hour, 130-band mega-concert is expected to draw 270,000 people to the park, and fatten the city’s wallet by more than $4 million.
Greg Kot(GK), Bob Gendron(BG) and Andy Downing(AD) give us the play-by-play of day one.
12:30 p.m.: Ella Jenkins, a week shy of her 89th birthday and easily the oldest performer on the Lollapalooza bill, is completely at home in front of the fest’s youngest attendees when she kicks off action on the Kidzapalooza stage. The longtime Chicagoan exudes boundless optimism (upon exiting she says, “Instead of saying goodbye I’ll say hello”) as she leads a few dozen children through call-and-response versions of songs like “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Though Jenkins is decades older than everyone in the crowd, the generation gap is only evident when she’s momentarily caught off-guard by a young girl’s dyed-blue pigtail. “Look at how her hair is colored,” she says, “That’s very…ok.” During her set, she sings in English and Spanish, and she leads the audience in counting to 10 in English, Spanish and French. The lesson at the heart of the performance is clear: music remains a universal language. (AD)
12:31 p.m.: First cover song of the festival? Quite likely. Robert DeLong accents the Rolling Stones’ “Miss You” with a rave edge as part of a set during which the one-man band splits the divide between purely electronic and hybrid pop elements. Twisting knobs and hitting buttons, DeLong relies on loops, MIDI samples and programmed beats while intermittently providing live vocals and taking turns on a drum kit. It’s a techno-splashed dance party even if his voice lacks depth and his songs, despite the anything-goes construction, strike a one-dimensional note. Who cares? When you’re your own boss, you can do what you want. (BG)
12:52 p.m.: Hundreds of fans patiently wait behind yellow tape stretching across the width of the field to prevent access to the first 200 feet of the southernmost stage. Apparently, field conditions are horrible, as security says mud is “knee deep” in certain locations. Mulch is on the way to try and repair e problems. But it’s too late. Security is helpless as fans break through and run towards the stage in anticipation of Emeli Sande. It’s going to get muddy and organizers will almost assuredly be replacing sod after the fest ends. (BG)
1:13 p.m.: Emeli Sande wastes no opportunity to expose herself to new audiences and impress with a big, gospel-kissed voice. Donning a blonde and green mohawk, white shirt and cherry-red lipstick, Sande hops around the stage in a crouched position, suddenly bouncing up when her singing swells. In between subconscious hand gestures that coincide with the lyrics, she introduces nearly every song by name and exudes optimism, independence and thankfulness. Sande briefly sits at the piano for the introduction to her hit “Next To Me,” which soon evolves into a soul-jazz anthem that soars courtesy of her smooth timbre and a thumping backbeat. Equipped with both personality and pipes, the Scottish-born singer could be primed for an American breakout provided her future material reflects the boldness of her churchy voice. (BG)
1:47 p.m.: Duo Deap Vally blends cranky guitar and enthusiastic drumming into the latest take on White Stripes-style garage-rock minimalism. But the songs are pure Katy Perry escapsim, detailing a morning-after “Walk of Shame” and misadventures that “are bad for my body … my health … my future.” At least they’re not recycling “Robert Johnson at the crossroads” blues cliches. (GK)
1:57 p.m.: Spice Girls for a new generation. Icona Pop touts the festival benefits of “making out with strangers you might never see again.” Indeed, the Swedish duo’s tinsel-thin electropop subscribes to a similar forgettable disposability. Plastic, silly and splashy, the female pair bops around to pop at its basest, the songs designed for jumping around between innings at a baseball game or shouting at the top of one’s lungs while driving with a bunch of teenagers in the car. As rain pours down, the crowd becomes a combination of pumping fists and activated umbrellas. People love the mindless nature of Aino Jawo or Caroline Hjelt. Neither possesses a memorable voice, and their lyrics evoke the kind of boy-crush thoughts scrawled by a seventh-grade cheerleader in the margins of her homework. but it doesn’t matter. Icona Pop keeps its club smash “I Love It” in its collective back pocket until the finale, celebrating everything carefree and stupid. (BG)
2:15 p.m.: Twenty One Pilots musical output proves nearly as unpredictable as the weather, which shifts from rain to intense sunshine over the course of the Columbus duo’s afternoon set. Frontman Tyler Joseph lays out the band’s ethos near the midpoint of its performance, saying, “We’re just a couple guys doing what we think is ok.” This extends from the music, which incorporates elements of hip-hop, piano balladry and screamo explosions, to the pair’s onstage antics. Joseph sings “Holding On to You” while being held aloft by the audience, while drummer Josh Dun interrupts another song to perform a backflip off the piano. At times the two musicians fall prey to gimmickry (there’s little to enjoy about the keytar solo Joseph breaks out on “Car Radio”), but their energy is so radiant one could almost credit them with singlehandedly staving off the rain. (AD)
2:30 p.m. Sweden’s Ghost B.C. instantly becomes front-runners for best-dressed rock band of the weekend with their black hoods and capes. The music is nearly as memorable with its quasi-Medieval overtones and heavy-metal melodies.The singer addresses the crowd in what sounds like a Transylvanian drawl, though the campiness belies just how accomplished these musicians are. They perform with surgical precision, the knotty arrangements and nimble guitar solos never calling undue attention to themselves because the songs are paramount. (GK)
2:52 p.m.: Smith Westerns battle against losing their first ten minutes to setup issues. The Chicago lads epitomize politeness to the degree that their wispy, 70s AM radio pop-rock threatens to get blown away by the breeze. The quartet, augmented by a keyboardist, plays retro-based fare suggestive of good-intentioned guys that spend their Friday nights sitting around their house wondering whether to call the girls over which they’re obsessing. Vocalist Cullen Omori’s light falsetto sells the dreamy intentions, and the band’s swimmy guitar effects and sincere jangle do the rest to project longing and sadness. Quick, somebody get these guys a tissue to dry their tears. (BG)
3:20 p.m.: The vibe at Perry’s stage is reminiscent of the early party scenes in director Harmony Korine’s “Spring Breakers.” Countless revelers hold aloft sweating tallboys of beer, and the wardrobe of choice appears to be skin. Onstage, London-based Monsta lays down massive beats as city-consuming as its name suggests. The musical outpouring draws on soul, hip-hop and house, and vocal snippets act as “Simon Says”-worthy commands for revelers. When a computerized voice repeats the word “jump,” a sea of humanity immediately begins pogoing. When it later commands “shake,” the mass seizures begin. Behind the pair, geometric patterns flash on the stage’s outsized video screen. But the music eschews such military order, instead lurching in unexpected directions like a drunk stumbling home after a long evening at the pub. (AD)
3:26 p.m.: Is that the Eagles’ Glenn Frey onstage singing in a feminine upper register to Laurel Canyon folk rock? No, it’s Father John Misty, who also happens to be kissing a plush unicorn head mounted on a stick. And Frey would never do that. Nor would he deliver one droll blow after another. Misty, aka ex-Fleet Foxes drummer Joshua Tillman, takes humorously ironic pot-shots at an array of targets. The crowd’s fluorescent apparel. Festival sponsors. Pricey Lollapalooza ticket upgrades and privileges. Perry Farrell’s old band Porno for Pyros. Disposable mainstream-aimed dance music that gets feverishly popular. The very notion of celebrity. Inane, cliched banter. Apathy. Banality. Taste. Corporate slogans. Meanwhile, he and his band manage to play a satisfying batch of equally clever songs steeped in bluesy ramble and country twang. The small crowd suggests most people aren’t getting Misty’s elevated, between-the-lines commentary on issues such as mass consumerism (“Now I’m Learning to Love the War”) and hopeless romance (“I Love You Honey Bear”). Too bad. Misty is as understatedly smart an entertainer Lollapalooza has welcomed in years. (BG)
3:38 p.m.: British neo-soul singer Jessie Ware fills the Sade gap with sultry vocals and gently bumping beats that ramp up as the set proceeds. Unlike Sade, the subtle vocal delivery is a choice rather than a constraint. She’s got terrific range and a robust tone, but she rarely lets loose. Her skill becomes evident when she drops refined trills and frills, little wordless incisions between verses and at the end of lines. Those moments are the most enchanting in the set. But it’s also clear she’s just getting started in exploring her musicl possibilities. Ware edges toward more upbeat, dance-pop, eventually shaking it up on stage and wading into the audience. “I’m glad I wore flats,” she says. (GK)
4:22 p.m.: Alice Glass clutches a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. The Crystal Castles vocalist indulges in a long swig and proceeds to crawl on all fours up to the microphone stand. Glass quickly becomes a figure you can’t dare take your eyes off. Her creative partner, electronics maestro Ethan Kath, opts for a more reserved approach. Clad in black leather and sunglasses, he and a guest drummer resemble Hell’s Angels that haven’t bathed in a month. Their dark, grizzled appearance mirrors the ugliness, violence and chaos of Crystal Castles’ throbbing electropop, which storms by at a pace and volume common to heavy metal. Glass’ shouts and screams exist solely for texture, and she can’t be stopped. With holes in the knees of her white tights, she wades into the front rows of the crowd, slams around with the unbridled energy of an aerobics instructor, slaps her face and wraps the microphone cord around her neck as if strangling herself. More wine and nicotine supply the fuel. Chirping 8-bit beats enliven the dance pulses. Dry-ice fog adds to the gothic atmosphere. The only thing Crystal Castles need now is nighttime; the overcast afternoon skies don’t suit the Toronto band’s gloomy underground vibe. (BG)
4:35 p.m.: Band of Horses ratchets up the intensity when Ben Bridwell plaintively sings, “Is there a ghost in my house?” A finger-picked guitar introduction gives way to a landslide of noise. Bridwell sounds like a ghost himself, chasing something he’ll never find while the world crashes around him. (GK)
4:46 p.m.: Theophilus London, backed by an agile, five-piece band, attempts to turn his set into a globe-trotting affair that transports listeners from Brazil (“Rio”) to Jamaica (a new, reggae influenced tune) to his hometown of New York City (nearly everything else). Unfortunately, the Trinidad-born musician can’t get out of his own way, and he struggles to generate any momentum as he cuts some numbers short and restarts others multiple times (“Hold up, hold up, hold up. I can hit it harder!”). Even so, some songs still manage to take hold. The concrete-hard “Why Even Try,” for one, doubles as a potent attack on artistic malaise, while the musician repeatedly howls “digital world!” on another tune as his band locks into a futuristic groove that could best be described as space station funk. But more often than not the material sounds half-formed, with London approaching the performance with all the urgency of band rehearsal rather than a prime festival slot. (AD)
5:23 p.m.: Silence. Less than two songs into Imagine Dragons’ set, the power goes out. Almost ten minutes expire before the problem–attributed to a failed generator–gets resolved. The hiccup, along with vocalist Dan Reynolds’ Patrick Swayze-styled mullet, proves to be the most exciting aspect of the Las Vegas group’s appearance. Imagine Dragons haul out and bang on a few circus-ready drums but the band, bolstered by the ubiquitous crossover hit “Radioactive,” is as bland, feeble and over-emoting as contemporary synthpop artists come. Reynolds also elects to turn “Tiptoe” into a call-and -response duet with the audience despite having been muted for an extended period. Now’s the time to seize the moment, not rely on fans that waited out the delay. (BG)
5:34 p.m.: Thievery Corporation conjures a transglobal meet-and-greet of exotic rhythms. Sitar-inflected Eastern accents bump up against strutting, Caribbean flavored hip-hop and simmering electro-funk. The eight-piece band, including a small horn section, delivers the goods, but the rotating cast of vocalists is the weak link, a relatively faceless bunch that lacks the panache or personality to light up the songs. A “remix” of Bob Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up” is particularly undercooked, a crowd-pleasing cliche that moved dangerously into wedding-band territory. (GK)
6 p.m.: Early in Disclosure’s set, British brothers Guy and Howard Lawrence give ample credit to a key inspiration behind their output. “Chicago, home of house music, how are you doing?” they say. “We love Chicago and everything its music has done for us!” The pair’s music is universally danceable, built around a throbbing bass groove, pressed-to-a-crease drums and vocal samples that draw on everything from soul to disco. Despite the music’s density, every detail is absolutely crystalline, and even songs with misleading titles like “White Noise” come across with all the all the clarity of a hi-definition sports broadcast. Though arguably the most buzzed-about band on Friday’s bill, the brothers appear unfazed by the attention, layering their seamless electronic compositions with live vocals, drums and guitar — a touch that helps further distance the two from the dubstep fare booming through the soundsystem across the park at Perry’s stage. It proves to be an irresistible mix. As the pair puts it on a slyly seductive “Voices,” “I tried to resist, but you caught me.” (AD)
6:02 p.m.: A rare sight: Actual instruments on the Perry’s stage. England’s Modestep serves stadium-sized dubstep via a combination of live playing and programmed samples. The presentation is loud, bombastic and tethered to the same monotonous low-to-high dynamic beat swells nearly every other electronic artist utilizes. Often, the quartet is drowned out by its backing tracks. Verbal commands to get “get ready,” “jump” and “break stuff” also reinforce an ill-suited match of styles from nearly two decades ago: rap-rock. Modestep’s testosterone-rich grind, cover of Prodigy’s “Smack My [Expletive] Up” and aggro deliveries further the notion that Limp Bizkit’s unheralded legacy lives on in the form of repetitive fare such as “Freedom” and “Burn Up.” The tank-top-wearing muscle men slamming into each other in the crowd, too, recall the days when Fred Durst and Co. sold millions of records. Eesh. (BG)
6:17 p.m.: Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme appears to be a relatively affable fellow, but his music arrives in a foul mood. The darkening sky and gray skyscrapers behind the stage provide the perfect backdrop as Queens send cement blocks of sound firing from the speakers. The bass sounds like Godzilla strolling through Tokyo. Homme calls down “fire from above,” as if demanding that the Sun show itself while his band steps on the accelerator. The singer cuts the momentum when he settles behind an electric piano for “The Vampyre of Time and Memory,” but it’s a well-timed moment, pulling the crowd closer after the opening guitar assault. “I’m all alone in this crowd,” Homme sings. Before long, he and his bandmates are swinging some hip-swaying rhythms, and the mood turns festive. (GK)
6:43 p.m.: New Order’s recognizable songs hit with a flurry: “Bizarre Love Triangle,” “Regret,” “Ceremony,” “Blue Monday.” And by any measure, every band at Lollapalooza that uses a synthesizer owes a proverbial tip of the hat to the overwhelmingly influential British band, whose disco groove-spiked fare remains more attractive, engaging and seamlessly blended than that of a majority of its younger peers. Crystal Castles’ Alice Glass watches with the general public and no one seems to notice. Yet New Order now sounds softer, more dependent on keyboards than it did in its heyday. The loss of original bassist Peter Hook is hurting its bottom end and reducing leader Bernard Sumner and his mates to what qualifies as enjoyable albeit non-vital nostalgia. (BG)
7:02 p.m.: It probably sounded like a good idea to book Chance the Rapper on the relatively small BMI stage tucked between two rows of trees in the northeast corner of the park a few months ago. But since then, his second mix tape, “Acid Rap,” has arrived, and it has turned the South Side MC into one of hip-hop’s most talked-about new voices. Chance needs a bigger stage, as thousands strained to catch a glimpse of his set. Some desperate fans even resorted to climbing trees and light poles. It didn’t allow for a lot of nuance, and Chance himself came off as slightly unprepared for the huge crowd — his DJ and microphone set-up looking a bit puny. The rapper has no problem lifting the crowd’s energy and keeping it stoked, though he does so at a cost, racing through the introspective “Acid Rain” and cutting short his instant classic “Pusha Man.” But the good will of the audience is overflowing, and an arm-waving celebration breaks out during “Everybody’s Something,” a fitting punctuation for what has been a dizzying year for the 20-year-old MC. (GK)
7:16 p.m.: British DJ Joshua Steele, who performs under the name Flux Pavilion, has a knack for turning obnoxious sounds into inherently danceable grooves, and he has his full arsenal on display during his early evening set at Perry’s stage. On one tune, it sounds like he’s sampling a fleet of emergency service vehicles. On another, he lays down a buzzing bassline that mimics a dentist’s drill. While much of the action on the fest’s go-to electronica stage could best be described as relentless, Steele enjoys toying with tempo, and occasionally he slows the beat to a crawl. On “Cracks Begin to Show,” for one, he drops everything from the mix save for a solitary piano, allowing the song to catch its breath before resurrecting the beat. Perhaps because of this, Steele’s drops sound huge by comparison, and there are times the thundering beats conjure images of the “Pacific Rim” robots locked in an epic battle. (AD)
7:32 p.m.: In the midst of a rollicking “Late March, Death March,” Frightened Rabbit frontman Scott Hutchinson unwittingly stumbles onto some solid advice for the festival’s numerous liquored-up attendees as he sings, “Get home and sleep this off.” Fittingly, the Scottish six-piece swaggers through an array of folk-tinged epics as though the bandmates themselves had knocked a few back before hitting the stage. “You’re making a mistake if you think I’m interested in quality,” says Hutchinson while laying down the ground rules for an audience sing-along. “I don’t care if you’re in tune.” Indeed, there are times the frontman’s Scottish brogue grows thicker than moss when he sings, and his bandmates skillfully walk the line between loose and too loose on endearing ramblers like “December’s Traditions” and “Nothing Like You.” Best of all might be “My Backwards Walk,” which starts off wobbly, like an infant taking those uneasy first steps, before the band discovers its footing near the midpoint and brings the tune to a memorable close. (AD)
7:49 p.m.: Synthesizers and sequencers continue to dominate the south end of Grant Park. Following New Order’s established brand of new-wave and synth pop isn’t an easy task, but fellow Englanders Hot Chip take the tempos down a few notches and relax the bass lines. The co-ed group plays shimmering music tailored for the crash-pad come-down after a late night out at the discotheque. Cowbells, tambourines, Atari-derived bleeps and even a steel drum flavor slithery, kinetic, hip-swaying grooves. Vocalist Alexis Taylor flexes a sweet falsetto as drummer Sarah Jones keeps the propulsion light on its feet. An apt version of Prince’s “Irresistible [Expletive]” and flirtatious glam-rock accents don’t disturb the band’s alarm-clock precision. Refusing to hit the audience over the head with an assault of volume, Hot Chip persuade by way of cool understatement. (BG)
8:48 p.m.: Singer Lana Del Rey walks onstage dressed like a mystic in a headband and flowing dress and eases into a version of “Cola” so ethereal it nearly threatens to disappear altogether. Against a video backdrop projecting cloudy skies, the early portion of the set takes on a distinctly new age feel. Things perk up noticeably with a cinematic “Blue Jeans,” driven in large part by the four-piece string section supporting the singer and her four-piece backing band. Del Rey, a singer so polarizing her name should come with a permanent hashtag attached, doesn’t disappoint here, wavering between moments of stunning beauty (“Young and Beautiful” lives up to the second half of its title) and sheer curiosity. At one point, Del Rey interrupts her set to play a ponderous video that could pass for a perfume commercial. Fortunately she rebounds with an elegant “Ride,” offering further proof of her ongoing development. (AD)
9:06 p.m.: Cue the pyrotechnics. The Killers launch into “Miss Atomic Bomb,” a tune with as massive of dramatic flourishes as the title implies. Returning for a second headlining stint, the Las Vegas group is one of the few artists on the three-day lineup whose music is designed to work in spaces as large as a football stadium–and in front of crowds that fill them. Akin to a big-budget Hollywood film, you know what will happen during a Killers song and yet, popcorn in hand, you’re drawn into the spectacle, glitz and predictability nonetheless. Flashing like neon lights on the Vegas strip, “Smile Like You Mean It,” “Human” and “Spaceman” fizz with the cheap, quick satisfaction of an ice-cold soda on a hot summer day. Dandyish front man Brandon Flowers captures the attention of both sexes. Girls cherish his romance-novel narratives of hope, love, devotion, companionship and resolution. Guys yearn to utter his mawkish lines with such conviction in order to secure the attention of sexual partners. Hammy antics aside, the Killers also give the audience a history lesson. They pay homage to New Order by way of covering Joy Division’s “Shadowplay” and acknowledge they took their name from a New Order video. It’s almost enough to compensate for later covering Tommy James and the Shondells’ cheesy hit “I Think We’re Alone Now.” Tiffany, anyone? (BG)
9:08 p.m.: Nine Inch Nails’ Trent Reznor breaks into the explicit chorus of “Closer” and a spasm of impressionistic dancing breaks out among the fans stretched out to the south end of Butler Field. Has the Man from the Black Hole of ’90s Industrial Music turned into a nostalgia act? Despite a set list dusted with vintage material, Reznor sounds like anything but a relic. The exceptional audio quality of the festival’s northermost stage undelines not just the oppressive thrust of Reznor’s music, but its eerie subtleties and darkly beautiful colorations as well. After a five-year hiatus, Reznor has retooled the band yet again, with a new album on the way. But everything still revolves around the leader and his exacting standards. A new song declares, “I’m just trying to find my way,” but he hardly seems lost. (GK)
