I was so excited about Lollapalooza this year, I was actually nervous.
I couldn’t sleep the night before. I kept getting out of bed and making sure my ticket was in a thick folder, inside a Ziploc bag, in the padded laptop sleeve in my messenger bag. I checked and re-checked the seals on my twin one liter bottles of water, to be sure that I would be allowed to bring them in. I carefully planned my outfit (tall leather boots were sweaty, yes, but I’d rather stand in my own sweat than in a puddle of a stranger’s pee!). I was so ready.
I felt like someone who was new to the whole outdoor festival scene, like I’d never even been to any kind of show before. That wasn’t the case. It’s just that this was the first time that really seemed to matter...what if my ticket got wet or lost or STOLEN? What if my water bottles didn’t pass inspection and I got kicked out?! What if I ate something bad on the morning of the show and was too sick to leave home? The what-ifs were overwhelming.
Because this was Radiohead.
I don’t yet have the words for how amazing the show was...two straight hours of the depths of their enormous catalogue. I don’t even know how to express my absolute satisfaction in every second of the show.
The strength of their act can probably be summed up as follows:
I had an argument recently with a friend who said he “liked” Radiohead, but felt that they were too overrated. He went so far as to say they were “probably the most overrated band of the 90s.” Now, I’m a pretty big fan, if you couldn’t tell, but I’m not one of those die-hards who will stand atop a mountain of their albums and preach the glories of everything they’ve ever done. And it’s cool with me if they’re not your cup of tea. However, I wholly disagreed with this friend’s viewpoint, and I think he got a little glib satisfaction in watching me try my best to argue against it without sounding like a SUPERFAN!, which I hate, obviously.
During the show, my friend, who was somewhere in the almost-silent sea of dazed people, sent me the following text:
“I take back everything I ever said. Holy f***.”
Yeah...I think it’s safe to say I won the argument.
I guess I’ll just have to own the fact that I’m the biggest documentary dork known to man. Maybe also the biggest history dork, if there is a separate tier of history dorks who don’t seem to know a lot about history, but like to try and soak in as much as possible.
Strange work patterns completely threw off my sleep schedule this past week, and I often found myself awake at odd times: too early to call anyone, too late to go anywhere, nothing but infomercials on TV. I counted myself lucky that my very conscientious librarian mother very recently sent me a set of PBS dvd’s, which her library system had received for free from the good folks at PBS, but were just going to throw away. That’s how I ended up watching all four discs of “Chicago: Mudhole to Metropolis” at 3 a.m. every morning this week.
I had read the diaries of Father Marquette, the French missionary who spent a grueling winter along the banks of Lake Michigan in 1674, and found them very interesting. I loved reading passages and then thinking that beneath the very sidewalk I stood on, people were building the future on this land hundreds of years ago. The documentary begins with Father Marquette’s experiences, since they were so meticulously and beautifully documented, but spends ample time discussing the many Native American tribes that populated the area in the late 1600s. It is in this segment of the documentary that the origin of Chicago’s name is revealed: it is the French rendering of the Miami-Illinois word shikaakwa, meaning “stinking onion weed.”
Apparently, some smelly types of river reeds grew in large amounts near the banks of Lake Michigan, and the Native Americans stayed away, lest they smell like onions for days.
The story of Chicago’s growth takes off from there, and slowly but surely weaves its way through the Civil War, the Great Chicago Fire, the Columbian Exposition, and tiresome labor struggles, never leaving out period architecture, the building of railroads, the famous Chicago stockyards, and the first elevated train line. The series also spends a lot of time revealing the extraordinary lives of famous Chicagoans, such as Jane Addams, founder of Hull House, Marshall Field (who, you will find, was actually kind of a jerk), and Albert and Lucy Parsons, a free interracial couple who worked as labor activists against the city’s biggest, richest politicians and businessmen. Of course, then there’s just the amazing and little-known facts about early Chicago. Did you know that in the mid-1800’s, when the water level rose due to pollution and man-made structures, the city hired a man to design a crank system that could raise an entire city block, one building at a time, so that a higher foundation could be raised higher beneath it? That’s right: it took them a while, but they lifted all of young State Street’s buildings until they were, eventually, five feet higher than their original foundations.
It’s amazing to see the slow growth of this beautiful and sometimes troubled city, and to learn all about the people who helped build and shape it, directly from the mouths of their living ancestors. Now that I’ve spent the dark hours before dawn watching our wonderful city come together, I must say, I feel happy to be a part of such a young place with such deep, rich history.
What first struck me about Sigur Ros back in 1998 was that I already knew I had just discovered a band that would remain with me for years to come. Sure enough, over the past ten years they have managed much more than that. This past weekend I finally watched their film Heima. Sigur Ros goes without mention that they have instilled a quantitative measure to atmospheric melody. What leaves their instruments is often harrowed into escalation or deafness. None of their albums could be quickly categorized or contained -even their most recent effort, með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust In short, their film is shot over several locations, many of them unannounced to those who even lived there, in their homeland of Iceland. Most of the film is concerned with the music though occasionally there are small conversations and observations from the band members - of which their are a very shy eight. Though what can be argued for in the film is the member of the band - the ninth member - who has always existed - is Iceland and her wondrous landscape. So many bands can attribute their sound to the strong connective tissue of where they are coming from. Take the first My Morning Jacket album. It was undeniable that these guys hailed straight from the south. Or maybe look at a more obvious example, the Buena Vista Social Club. What makes Sigur Ros so remarkable is how deeply their connection with their surroundings transposes itself into and onto their albums. What made this documentry so vital to the understanding of Sigur Ros- is that their audience is finally introduced and immersed in the landscape that has been the heart and soul of their band since inception. There is such an emotion of feeling anchored to place in the film - with shots of ice breaking, shots of pealing paint on an old barn, shots of them playing late at night at a community bonfire. Over time I feel that Heima is not only going to be a document of a band - but perhaps it will be one of the only remaining documents of a place that is constantly threatened by modernization, and global climate change. After watching the film I was left with the residual beauty of Heima - or what they say translates into “Home.”
Sigur Ros plays the Chicago Theater, September 24th (I will be sitting in the balcony.)
My Morning Jacket plays Chicago Theater October 9-10th.
For some reason I still don’t subscribe to Netflix. I couldn’t even give someone a reasonable or justified answer if asked why not. So, I simply order films with my “On Demand” feature with my current cable provider. What is really great about this service is that I can also watch IFC films that are currently playing in the theater. Lately, I’ve been struggling to watch anything related to the Toronto Film Festival which this year was in it’s 32nd year! A few months ago I had watched a trailer for the film Starting out in the Evening. Unfortunately I haven’t read the book the film is based off of, though I am hopeful and from what I’ve read, the film manages to give the book some justice. You will recognize one of the lead actresses from Six Feet Under, and of course Lili Taylor (whom I fell in love with at a very young age with her film DogFight) ie: one of River Phoenix’s last films. The film centers around a writer played flawlessly and beautifully by Frank Langella. Not surprisingly Langella was nominated for several awards for the role - deservingly he was nominated for the Independent Spirit Award. What struck me independent of the characters and the storyline, was the score. I have always marveled at how a score can bring me to tears - how it can create the emotional inertia that brings the characters to an even fuller sense of purpose and being. Watching films like this leave such impressions on my psyche as a writer.
What films about writers have inspired your writing?
This is the first year since the “re-inception” of Lollapalooza that I have chosen not to go. Fortunately, each year I have attended this mammoth show (which I can estimate I have been attending since the ripe age of 15 minus all the years that there was festival hiatus due to Perry meltdown?) I have had my twin sister by my side. This past August my sister and I somehow got through the sweaty and often strenuous event with the promise of yet another barrage of bands we had yet to experience live.
Last year some highlights were the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s, Daft Punk, TV on the Radio and Interpol. Pearl Jam even headlined the last night of the event. My sister and I have always managed the weekend through careful planning and attention to hydration and cautious trips to the portable toilets. Each year has been an adventure, a lesson in tolerance and a practice of the most avid and devoted of music fans.
But this year something was different. Something just didn’t trigger the response of “hey, let’s spend another three whole days at an outdoor music festival with hundreds of people and spend tons of money on bottled water and corn on the cob on a stick (bless the venues that finally offered vegetarian/vegan choices last year!)” This year was tough to pass up, I mean Rage Against the Machine and Radiohead and Nine Inch Nails?!! Are you serious??
What is a girl to do though – when half the lineup also consists of bands that either have just broken out on the indie/scenster/ipod circuit and several of the bands have played Lollapalooza more than once? I have always admired the foundation of Lolla and why the festival wanted to exist in the first place – to give new bands a chance, and an opportunity to widen their audience, and for the “common (wo)man” to once and for all be exposed to music that otherwise they wouldn’t have the fortune of stumbling into when watching the latest Budweiser commercial (and yes, the new Santigold song on the latest Mojito lime Bud commercial really bothers me…)
So my sister and I have opted to not shell out $80 for a one day pass or $205 for a three day. Instead, we have chosen to spend the weekend together possibly going on a short weekend road trip. With living expenses going up and daily existence becoming more of a balancing act, spending that kind of money listening to live music is more a luxury than anything else. Don’t get me wrong, live music is like nothing out there – and having been to music festivals for years I can attest to the often therapeutic and spiritual nuances of seeing and hearing one of your favorite bands/songs live.
Needless to say, I am disappointed that I’m not going to be at Lollapalooza this year and it’s going to be tough looking back and knowing that I had a chance to see Che, Thom and Trent all in one weekend.
Yet, looking backwards I can also remember the summer that Sonic Youth played Lollapalooza and the festival was more about the bands and the music and the sense of belonging to an underground culture of bands – versus the corporate sponsored stages (all the stages are named after a corporation). There was no threat of being thrown out because you had more than two water bottles in your backpack and you could stage dive with your own discretion. (Ahh the good old days..)
Maybe I sound old. Maybe I sound jaded, but I have done Pitchfork the past three years too – and I’m choosing not to buy into that one this year either. I don’t know. I guess I’m tired of seeing and watching everything I once believed in become everything I’ve always stood against.
(And no this is not me saying that bands who play these festivals “sell out.” Hell, we all want to make a living on our passions, we’re writers for Pete’s sake!)
But instead maybe I’m getting to that point where I believe my money really is “hard earned” and I should be a little more diligent about making sure it’s put towards the things I really need.
So what’s your opinion? Are you going to Lollapalooza this year? Or are you saving your cash for groceries and a good pair of sneakers?
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