Reports from Friday, day one at Lollapalooza in Grant Park, from Greg Kot (GK), Bob Gendron (BG) and Kevin Williams (KM):
12:07 p.m.: The first of the 130 bands to play the eight stages in Grant Park this weekend arrive, and they most likely realize it’s a crap shoot — most will be forgotten in a few years, if not sooner. So the Mighty Oaks, a trio from Berlin, are determined to enjoy their moment, because this might be as good as it gets. They say they’re “amazed” to be playing their first American festival ever. “We didn’t know if anybody was going to come at noon,” they say, gazing out at a few hundred early arrivals. Their set is earnest and harmony heavy, in a way that suggests they’ve been studying Crosby Stills & Nash video from the late ’60s. Their songs owe plenty to that era as well, a not exactly fresh take on folk-rock tropes that have been around for decades. (GK)
12:26 p.m.: These are the kind of guys you bring home to meet mom. The lads in the multi-continental Mighty Oaks couldn’t seem any nicer or more sincere. Playing their first-ever U.S. festival, the Berlin-based band offers continual thanks and appears in genuine disbelief to be performing with the Chicago skyline in the backdrop. All they desire, according to lead vocalist Ian Hooper, is for people to check them out on the Web. They didn’t even bring any merch to sell — a possible first for Lollapalooza. Thematically, the group’s narrative sentimentality matches its demeanor. Songs such as “The Great Northwest” and “You Saved My Soul” could score rescue-me scenes in modern soaps, i.e. “Grey’s Anatomy.” Their three-part harmonies convey hints of churchiness, yet their earnest folk-rock clings to predictable convention. Some kind of jump or edge would be welcome. Suffice it to say that a savvy cover of Kraftwerk or even the Scorpions or any other German artist never crosses Mighty Oaks’ minds. (BG)
12:47 p.m.: SZA, a St. Louis R&B singer, brings some Chaka Khan sass with copious hair cascading in ringlets past her shoulders and a feel for sultry bedroom soul. With her girl-next-door demeanor and modest outfit, she gives off no diva airs. She’s got a strong voice, enough to project on the big stage at the south end of the park, and dances between verses to keep the energy bubbling with her four-piece backing band. But none of the songs clicks in a way that suggests she’s ready for this moment. She would have been better served in a more intimate setting on a smaller stage. (GK)
1:30 p.m.: James Bay: Huge Friday afternoon crowd for that fest oddity, a singer-songwriter, complete with plugged-in band and acoustic guitars. The other fest oddity is real music, performed by a band that knows how it’s done. He didn’t have to ask people to make noise, or sing along — it happened organically, as a response to music that sparkles with that Americana vibe that is starting to rear its head more and more, in the face of big, stringed successes like Nickel Creek. Harmonies! To call it earnest jangle is exactly what it is, even as it’s selling Bay short. There’s a fearlessness to this music, right down to the erratic falsetto. Being unafraid to take chances is one thing; having the quality to pull it off, and shine even when you fail, is the sign of a road dog. In a fest full of pop bands, it’s nice to see and, more important, hear. (KM)
1:43 p.m.: The aroma of suntan lotion mingles with freshly burned weed, and with U.K. singer-songwriter James Bay onstage, it’s time to hit the wayback machine to a festival in 1973. Bay serves up plaintive vocals over standard folk-rock arrangements that would’ve made him a good fit on the California soft-rock scene in the early days of the Eagles and Jackson Browne. Except his lovelorn lyrics juggle cliches instead of insights. The enthusiastic reception suggests his audience couldn’t care less. The willowy singer with the black hat gets points for charisma if not craftsmanship. (GK)
1:51 p.m.: Someone get that girl a trampoline. Like a cork just shot out of a shaken Champagne bottle, MisterWives singer Mandy Lee won’t be contained. Wearing a sparkly dress that reflects her radiant personality, she hops, skips, high-steps and runs. She does pushups while talking into a microphone placed on the stage floor and ventures out to touch hands of fans in the front row. She pumps up the crowd every chance that arises. Her bandmates don’t match her physical energy, but they’re in line with the party vibe. Souped-up with ska accents, MisterWives’ effervescent pop-rock turns the early afternoon into a truly casual Friday complete with cutoff shorts and coolers filled with drinks. All that’s missing are volleyball nets. Lee’s voice leads the feel-good parade. Big, chirpy and outgoing, it carries across the field and cuts through the breeze. Everything else, including the horns, becomes incidental. (BG)
2:15 p.m.: Black Pistol Fire: When James Bay got moody and quiet, you could just pick up a mean-sounding skirl in the distance. At BMI, Black Pistol Fire was guitar and drums … slide gutar to be exact, a power duo from Austin, Texas, that is pure roots rock, mixed with punk and cranked up to 12. Folks familiar with Dex Romweber and his efforts will know exactly what this is: two dudes trying to make as much noise as they can. A more modern analog would be Benjamin Booker. A funk backbeat makes the genre’s kinship with rock abundantly clear. The overdriven, lo-fi sound just seals the deal. And these dudes can play. A growing crowd attested to the power of this set, a complete surprise and one of those happy music festival accidents as you graze sounds. In many ways, Black Pistol Fire sounds a lot like James Bay’s unruly cousin, still with strong Americana roots but deeply embedded in the garage tradition. Some rap sneaked in, fueled not by a DJ, but rather by a big, distorted pile of nasty. “Let’s feel each other’s sweat on each other’s arms,” the frontman urged. No thanks, but this is an early contender for set of the day, that old Beatle dude notwithstanding. (KM)
2:25 p.m.: Glass Animals singer David Bayley contorts and twists, outstretching his arms to his sides as if he’s under the control of a puppet master. He’s at least trying to make the English band’s minimalist art-rock somewhat exciting but faces a Herculean task. The collective almost exclusively relies on a recurring series of snapped beats and atmospheric samples that hurt for variation. Bayley’s measured, breathy voice doesn’t exactly provide electricity, either. Owing considerable debts to the more experimental sides of Thom Yorke and Radiohead, Glass Animals come across as a mainstream band forcing arty elements into its work. Bayley spends time kneeling in front of effects pedals, yet he fails to use the toys for a greater purpose. Another obvious sign things aren’t going as planned is when a group resorts to the cliche of asking who is excited about seeing the day’s headliner (Paul McCartney). Sigh. At least Glass Animals can sleep well knowing they’re probably the only act at Lollapalooza with a tune, “Gooey,” whose refrain includes the repeated mention of “Pooh Bear.” How cute. (BG)
3:19 p.m.: Tove Lo persuades those in the crowd to point their fingers in the air and sway their arms. Moments earlier, the Swedish singer convinced fans to pump their fists. It’s easy work for the dance-pop artist, who appears slightly deflated by the heat. She begins her set barefoot but quickly relents and fetches her shoes, declaring, “I’m burning my (expletive) feet off.” On record, Lo’s confessional words compensate for her so-so voice, but here, they’re lost to the wind. The desired shimmy turns syrupy. Even when the singer breaks out “Talking Body” — elevated by a hyper-sexual promise — sparks don’t fly. At one point, she references her own breasts, but again, the charisma is missing. Her call to “fondle somebody” during a rote ballad feels desperate. Save for a few momemts, the performance serves as another example of how music meant for dark, sweaty nightclubs doesn’t always transfer to sunny, sweaty festival settings. (BG)
3:35 p.m.: St. Paul and the Broken Bones are dedicated to their presentation, or maybe they’re just crazy. The Alabama octet delivers a set saturated in sweat and soul, and while staring directly into a relentless midafternoon sun, they refuse to discard their suit coats. The soaked-through garments don’t deter singer Paul Janeway, who jumps, rolls and gestures as if he’s getting tips from one of his primary inspirations. Indeed, the band frames its set as a response to the musical question, “What would Otis Redding sound like fronting a punk band?” Janeway is not Otis II — and who is, after all? — but he blasts through two horn-stoked Redding covers, the frenetic “Shake” and the wrenching ballad “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long (to Stop Now),” with a disciple’s zeal. Janeway’s not just a shouter, but a nuanced dramatist, and the band shadows him or trades punches like the seasoned road warriors they are. Plus, Janeway’s shoes are straight out of “The Wizard of Oz.” (GK)
3:46 p.m.: “My voice is gone … I’m depressed … I feel like a grotesque cabaret act of myself,” says J Tillman, now in character as his alter ego Father John Misty. He looks out at a corporate beer sign across the north end of Grant Park and becomes more depressed. “But the show must go on,” he mutters. It’s all in a set that’s partly stand-up comedy masquerading as a festival rock-band performance and partly a series of brutally self-deprecating confessions misrepresenting themselves as songs. Misty is not for everyone, but his willingness to shred everything, including his oversized male ego, is a refreshing change of pace on a day devoted to bands striving earnestly for recognition. “What about my feelings?” he demands, like an infant throwing a temper tantrum. His “Bored in the USA” comes complete with its own laugh track, as the gangly singer in black skewers his illusory hopes of living large. There’s also an audience Q&A, but it ends quickly because, you know, “my feelings.” A “grotesque cabaret act” he might be, but Misty is hugely entertaining. (GK)
4:50 p.m: Work it. The members of Hot Chip strike a pose — several, actually — and flaunt choreographed dance moves in the midst of the irresistible “Flutes.” The British group brings beats by the bucket load and locks them in via insistent grooves. Daring listeners to stand pat, Hot Chip’s fare remains in constant motion and bridges ostentatious disco with engaging electro-funk. The reason every tune wriggles with dynamic freshness, especially at an hour when the sun could wilt the impact? Live instrumentation and vocals. Hot Chip counts a drummer and percussionist within its ranks, and devices from steel drums to shakers and handheld cowbells add vibrancy and quirkiness. And the ensemble has the latter down pat. Bespectacled, nasal-toned vocalist Alexis Taylor and company belong among the ongoing wave of geeks exacting their revenge. Onstage, they sport an array of mylar shorts, Panama-style hats, white pants and boating loafers. One keyboardist even bears resemblance to the Pornstache character from “Orange Is the New Black.” A prominent MOOG synthesizer and respectful albeit disco-swirled cover of Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” proudly put it all over the top. (BG)
5:45 p.m.: DJ Snake: The difficulty with a DJ, a beast who should be (and really is) seen and not heard, is he confounds the evaluative criteria applicable to most bands. So what, then? Pacing, innovative use of beats and how the performer layers the sounds. Perched atop a massive platform, moving back and forth between laptops, Green Day gets a beat-heavy remix, backed by visuals that suggest, to the eyes, this really isn’t a dude with a laptop. So shut your eyes and dance, which is what the folks at Perry’s did, while waiting for That Song. “Turn Down for What,” whose fame was made by a remarkable video, was quite correctly held in abeyance. In the interim, Snake brought the party, building beats the way a veteran rocker paces a set, always with a foundation of massive bass. It’s a dude playing songs, never forget. But if this was a dance club, which Perry’s in effect is despite the art claims of the DJ crowd, I’d be counting the days till I could get back to that spot. Except that in the aftermath of the appearance of “Turn Down for What,” the club would have been destoyed. (KM)
5:52 p.m.: The War on Drugs plays on a bare stage, but its echo-glazed music calls out for black-and-white video projections of the kind of natural scenery best viewed from the window of a low-flying plane. Akin to open roads leading to big skies and grand vistas, songs stretch out and invite long, studious observation. They’re also modestly triumphant and subscribe to the belief life is a marathon, not a sprint. Leader Adam Granduciel takes charge of the sonic dreamscapes. He speaks words as much as he sings them. His band maintains a requisite midtempo clip, allowing solos to ooze and any bursts of momentum to register with the sudden impact of an earthquake. Today, the War on Drugs could use a few more such shifts. Perhaps sensing the need to release the tension from the growing swell, Granduciel dials up the distortion and oversees an extended coda in which saxophones, keyboards and bass seamlessly interweave with the guitars. Scenic, open and wordlessly poetic, it’s the War on Drugs’ way of conjuring Ansel Adams. (BG)
6:30 p.m.: Oh, the grandeur. This is one of those performers who would fit right in at Pitchfork, with his full-band presentation that nonetheless burbles and pulsates like EDM. Electronica? Maybe, but too organic and intelligent, even as the sameness is there, to the detriment of the attack. These songs are very pretty, and you’ll never be sorry your friend put Alt-J on at a party. Bonnie “Prince” Billy would find a comforting space in here, as electrified as this stuff is. The biggest problem is that it all starts to sound the same, as smooth as a disco version of new age music, even with those hints of Bowie’s “Golden Years” that popped up during yet another of his drones. This isn’t bad music. Not at all. But in a world in which music is (still) supposed to make you say “Whoa!” and want to play that song again, Alt-J just sits there. It’s pretty at times, even aspires to beauty. But you wonder if it aspires toward being interesting. (KM)
6:32 p.m.: Lightning can’t strike twice, can it? In 2012, the Alabama Shakes set was canceled by a storm that caused the first-ever Lollapalooza evacuation. Now a power outage stops the quintet’s scorching set dead in its tracks. Fortunately, the power is restored after a few minutes, and Brittany Howard returns with a scream and an appropriate chorus: “I don’t wanna fight no more.” She informs the audience that “technically this is our first time at Lollapalooza,” and the band is determined to make the most of it, power outages or not. Howard comes out throwing musical punches, and her voice ranges from nearly whispered delicacy to corrosive cries. A trio of backing singers brings a gospel grandeur to “You Ain’t Alone,” and there’s an overdriven fury to “The Greatest.” The band sounds more ready for the big stage than it might have in 2012. Maybe things worked out for the best after all. (GK)
6:54 p.m.: Is that dry ice or dust blowing in from the softball infields obscuring the stage? It’s hard to tell as dusk nears and Gary Clark Jr. churns. When the Texas guitar slinger sings, “I’ll be ready when my train pulls in,” it’s a good approximation of what he does best. When Clark grinds into a steady rolling freight-train groove, his rhythm-lead style of guitar playing builds unstoppable momentum, pulling the audience along in its wake. But when Clark slows down, his chops don’t cut nearly as deep. Clark sometimes tinkers with another persona: a cooing, falsetto-toned ballad singer. But he’s merely a second-rate crooner. It’s only when he climbs aboard the locomotive inside his guitar that he begins to realize the promise that his still-young career holds. (GK)
6:59 p.m.: Nobody saw this coming. Backed by a drummer and a multi-instrumentalist, First Aid Kit pulls off a true surprise and lays into Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” with the heaviness intact. Well before it’s over, any illusion of the charming duo using the cover as a novelty-minded atention grab fades away. Indeed, while First Aid Kit could easily rely on the adorability factor, the Swedish sisters don’t need it. This is a rare example of artists who played the opening time slot at a prior Lollapalooza, seized the moment with a breakout set and graduated to a bigger platform. And compared with their 2012 performance here, Johanna and Klara Soderberg display more poise, confidence and maturity. Not to mention a more diversified palette. Each sister possesses a snow-pure voice capable of whippoorwill deliveries. But when they connect on harmonies, they hit gorgeous emotional peaks. Amid high-and-lonesome country and Laurel Canyon-inspired folk-rock backdrops, First Aid Kit spins tales of loss, anxiety and hope. Sighs and moans coexist with shouts and celebrations. The appearance of a charged train-song rhythm initiates a tambourine-laden jamboree — and an excuse to whirl their hair around. Mostly, however, they focus on music the Nashville establishment has long ignored. With their aching voices threatening to flutter into the ether, the two brush off problematic trivialities on “Waitress Song” and embraces simple pleasures on the soothing “Emmylou.” Who says a pair of young sisters can’t be old souls? (BG)
8:30 p.m.: DJ Kaskade: The intro of “O, Fortuna” from Orff’s “Carmina Burana,” accompanied by massive gouts of fire, was pretty hard to top. The Chicago beat manipulator raised the bar visually, again with the net effect of making you forget, for a few moments, that it’s a dude spinning a party mix — and a pretty mundane one, at that. The beats hit you in the gut, but ended just as they were gathering momentum, leaving a set that felt a lot like a performer with a lot to say, trying to get it all done. That proved a challenge to both pacing and continuity. On the same stage, DJ Snake showed how to amp up the intensity and keep it there. An EDM set needs to be more than club beats. It’s a curated tour through the DJ’s creativity. Kaskade relied on too much of the same beat, a basic thump that made it all start to run together. Audience interaction, key to elevating a DJ set from navel gazing to performance art, was also absent, coming only between songs. Snake made you move almost involuntarily, while Kaskade came off like your cool friend who likes a certain kind of music, spinning at the local club. Nice, but not at all compelling. (KM)
9 p.m.: Flying Lotus: Art combines with artifice to yield something approaching magic. When a man takes the stage dressed in a human fly mask, complete with lighted eyes, then takes up residence in a sort of cyber cube … that’s cool. Flying Lotus is more than a DJ, rather a creator of soundscapes, atmospheric mood music that is, for lack of better phrasing, indie as hell. There are beats, but the sound is the thing, elaborate constructs that work with the visuals, rather than the common DJ usage of visuals as something to distract. With Flying Lotus, it’s all part of the show, and it works. Think space-age lounge rather than dance party, and you’re onto something. Look and listen. Strobes dance, patterns form, creativity in tempo and structure makes the soundscapes songlike. No way would this work at Perry’s, though it is EDM. It isn’t big, dumb dance music. It’s art — and compelling. (KM)
9:15 p.m.: Paul McCartney’s voice shows signs of wear and tear, but he roars through “Back in the U.S.S.R.” with a little extra vigor. He’s in a feisty mood. During an acoustic set, the sound bleed from the nearby Perry’s stage and its booming EDM bass beats is clearly audible. “I planned this,” he jokes. “It’s like a mashup between me and whatever (expletive) they’re playing.” Talk about generations colliding. The line gets a big roar of approval from a crowd that stretches to the back of Hutchinson Field. Pity the act — especially any EDM DJ — that is scheduled against a Beatle, even one who’s in his 70s. McCartney looks lean and loose despite evident hoarseness on a few tunes, and he and his quintet play a brisk set that spans generations and decades, including such relatively recent releases as “New” and “Kisses on the Bottom.” Though not as strong as his first Wrigley Field set a few years ago, this Lolla performance brims with generosity and nods to the singer’s peers, friends, former bandmates and wives. He pays tribute to Jimi Hendrix, one left-handed guitarist to another, and plays touching tributes to John Lennon and George Harrison. It’s not all somber and sentimental. “Live and Let Die” arrives with fireworks, figurative and literal. The ’70s Wings-era material, particularly “Let Me Roll It” and “1985” sounds particularly confident, with McCartney in his strongest voice of the night. And then there’s a solo acoustic “Blackbird” backdropped by a full moon. Yes, that works. (GK)
9:33 p.m.: The Weeknd’s falsetto suggests sensuality, but many of his thoughts — and a majority of the claustrophobic, dense music — indicate emotional chaos. After a 20-minute delay, the Canadian R&B singer otherwise known as Able Tesfaye is tasked with the least-enviable headlining slot in Lollapalooza history: opposing Paul McCartney. Despite the odds against him, a relatively large (and young) crowd eventually gathers and shrieks along to his litany of carnal desires and introspective lyrics. Etched with an industrial grind and gothic undercurrent supplied by a backing band, his songs brood and dwell in secrecy, darkness and shame. He croons of being a prisoner, of being an addict. Not exactly what’s usually associated with a mainstream artist. And while Tesfaye emerged from the underground, uploading albums for free on the Web, he now has his sights fixated on arenas. A multitiered stage, stylized lighting, pyrotechnics, cutting-edge video projections and a commercialized new song (the Michael Jackson-esque “Can’t Feel My Face”) announce the intention. As do Tesfaye’s interactions with the crowd, which occasionally result in interesting juxtapositions in that fans sing along to fare aimed inward — and certainly not for communal celebration. Combining with Tesfaye’s bold approach to soul, including a disorienting version of Beyonce’s “Drunk in Love” and stripped-back reimagination of Ariana Grande’s “Love Me Harder,” the contrasts fuel a multifaceted artist for whom the gray areas between lust and love beg to be exposed. No matter what the cost. (BG)
9:47 p.m.: The spirit of generosity continues in Paul McCartney’s epic set as he brings out Alabama Shakes’ Brittany Howard to share the microphone and play guitar on “Get Back.” Howard doesn’t look one bit intimidated as McCartney beams in approval. (GK)
