Reports from Saturday, day two at Lollapalooza in Grant Park, from Greg Kot (GK), Bob Gendron (BG), Kevin Williams (KM) and Tracy Swartz (TS):
9:30 a.m.: At least five arrests were reported at Lollapalooza Friday, mostly for drug possession, according to information obtained by the Tribune. When asked for details about five arrests, a spokesman for the police department said the request was “too onerous” and the department would not give out information about arrests until after the three-day festival ends Sunday. The city Office of Emergency Management and Communications and Lollapalooza promoter C3 Presents also refused to give information about the number of concertgoers who sought help at medical tents Friday. Temperatures reached into the mid-80s Friday and some concertgoers seemed to have difficulty handling the heat. An estimated 300,000 attendees are expected at the fest this weekend. Eight arrests were made on the first day of Lollapalooza last year, according to a WGN report at the time. (TS)
12:07 p.m.: Alabama MC Mick Jenkins wants to be everybody’s mom. He turns one of his songs into a chant that recurs through the set. “Drink more!” “Water!” Hydrate your body and feed your head is the message. The audience is still straggling in, but there are no signs of hangovers as Jenkins gets the crowd jumping from the get-go. He mixes substance into the flourishes, with a flow that suggests Dirty South funkiness combined with some of the consciousness-raising of the Chicago scene. Words and lyrics “can make a difference,” he says, as if throwing down a challenge not just to his zealous fans but to the rest of the day’s performers. (GK)
12:50 p.m.: Catfish and the Bottlemen begin with the youthful zeal that’s de rigeur among youthful British rock groups. Vocalist Ryan McCann initially sings like he doesn’t care that most people still haven’t woken up, and the quartet hints at a swagger that seems to run as the American version of fluoride in English tap water. Yet as is the case with far too many bands, everything Catfish & Co. do is passable but none of it qualifies as distinctive save that the band plays guitars in an electronic age. While the collective’s bio bills it as a garage act, these lads are far too polished, rehearsed and conscientious of keeping songs neatly tucked in and ironed out. Where is the snottiness or sass? Not here. They refuse to let their guard down. Songs such as “Business” and “Homesick” could be by anyone and preapproved by a record-label publicist. Catfish and the Bottlemen even already have a mostly hidden auxiliary member handling various instruments to beef up their arrangements. Can an opening slot for Kings of Leon be in the cards? No doubt that’s the track these guys desire. (BG)
12:55 p.m.: There it is, the first keytar sighting of the weekend. The 19-year-old Georgia artist Raury invites his fans “inside my world,” one which apparently incorporates the staple of cheesy ’70s arena rock without apparent irony. His blend of folk, hip-hop, soul, electro-funk and silky R&B hooks spans decades and genres. “Devil’s Whisper” speeds along on double-time handclaps and gospel harmonies, and there’s punk-rock drive in “God’s Whisper.” The soaring yet searing “Fly” addresses the ongoing epidemic of racial violence. “Times are too serious to be making music about b.s.,” he declares, and he’s determined to set an example. (GK)
1 p.m.: Holychild has no business at a major festival, never mind on a main stage. The feel is like a castoff from a Lady Gaga tribute shootout. Having two drummers is cool. Having them pound away in unison, not even taking advantage of the polyrhythm potential, is NOT cool. Frontwoman Liz Nistico primps, preens and shimmies in the hope that will distract from pedestrian songs, poorly sung, in a voice that shatters the moment it deviates from its narrow range. “Will you guys dance with me,” she purrs before kicking off an undanceable bit of moodiness. So, um, no. (KM)
1:51 p.m.: Ryn Weaver is a bit of a puzzle. She’s like a pony-tailed go-go dancer at times, yet her songs rarely come across as celebratory. Her demeanor suggests the pop-leaning arrangements are hemming her in, as her band’s generic mid-tempo rock rarely reflects the emotional extremes that coarse through her songs. On “Traveling Song,” about death, grieving and the way legacies are passed down to surviving friends and family, she brings things down to a dramatic a cappella section. Yet the moment doesn’t quite have the impact it might have in a more intimate setting. On a big stage in the mid-afternoon sun, the audience is restless. “You’re here to party, right?” Weaver asks after the song ends, the moment lost. (GK)
2 p.m. Zella Day: Big crowd at Pepsi for this singer-songwriter, for good reason as it turns out. These are good songs, well sung, backed by a very good band. The music fest discovery process works sometimes. Day’s approach flirts with bombast, but stays just on the right side, with a wispy, high-toned voice that she uses to belt. This is rock, make no mistake about it. Some singers get a good band and have no idea what to do with it, choosing to just hang on for dear life. Day understands how to present tunes that let her legitimately back her, lending power to a voice that could easily veer into annoying reediness. My one wish would be that she tones down the Stevie Nicks gypsy stuff. She’s good enough to just stand there and let it rip. Hooks galore, and choruses that swing for the fences. Even the set was excellently paced. Probably not a set of the day contender, but a for-real good time. (KM)
2:27 p.m.: Django Django casts a spell with a tandem harmony, but for the Scottish band, vocals remain ancillary to the main goal: Getting people to dance. Percussive blocks, extra drumsticks and tambourines help in the mission. Songs build around taut grooves and welcome most any style. Surf rock? Sure. New wave? Deploy the keyboards. A spy-movie passage that could pass as a doppelganger for the theme Peter Gunn? Order it up. An interjection of yakety-yak saxophone? Blow it loud. An air-raid siren that precludes a Spaghetti Western motif and a clanging cowbell? Hypnotic. Anything goes as long as the dance train continues to chug. Within the first few minutes, the quartet explores a variety of genres but the ideas keep coming. A majority of tunes resemble early Beach Boys hits Django Django completely reorders and modernized with throbbing bass and percolating beats. Heavy reverb and a mix favoring instruments obscure most words, but everyone is too busy getting down to notice anyway. (BG)
2:57 p.m.: “Like to play some bluegrass.” Those words aren’t often, if ever, heard at Lollapalooza. But Sturgill Simpson and his five-piece band are more than up to the genre’s demands: precision, high-speed twists and turns. Simpson’s reputation as a no-nonsense songwriter who puts his own spin on the plainspoken worry and tragedy of honky tonk precedes him, but for a big stage at a festival this sprawling, you need a potent band to put that craftsmanship across, and the singer came armed for the occasion. There are no cowboy hats or fake rodeo-rider props. Indeed, the stage couldn’t be more bare-bones. But there’s lots of room in the arrangements to move, and the musicians take advantage, merging the daredevil precision of Southern rockers such as the Dixie Dregs with the more steadfast skill of Merle Haggard’s road band. Guitarist Laur Joamets’ tone approximates a pedal steel, but he also edges into territory that straddles jazz and rock. Simpson himself gets into the act with an acoustic solo over brushed drums, finally stoking power chords that bring the band back for one final set-closing crescendo. (GK)
3:08 p.m.: Charli XCX straps on an oversized inflatable guitar and strums as if she’s a teenager goofing off in front of friends in her basement. Not only is the prop the ultimate air guitar, it signals the British singer doesn’t take herself or her songs too seriously. And that’s a good thing. The carefree vocalist recognizes both the short shelf life of fame and empty facade of celebrity (“Famous”). She twerks, thrashes on the floor and drops to her knees, all in seeming mock fashion. Flippancy rules. A pair of 80s-style athletic socks pulled up to her knees, bright red lipstick and skin-tight shorts further indicate she’s simply here to entertain. As for the music? Outside of the mild feminist statement “Body of My Own,” her brain-cell-killing pop claims no agenda other than permission to act like a bratty juvenile. On the witless “Break the Rules” and bubblegum-flavored “SuperLove,” Charli XCX’s voice squeaks or whines. Being in tune doesn’t matter here. Her all-girl band is equally rudimentary. Still, the familiar hits flow — if you’ve listened to Top 40 radio in the past year, you know Charli’s work–and she reclaims the glossy banger “I Love It” back as her own. As for rapping the Iggy Azalea smash “Fancy,” which Charli wrote? Not such a grand idea. Better go back and grab that air guitar. (BG)
3:15 p.m.: As temperatures topped 80 degrees Saturday afternoon, there was a steady stream of concertgoers seeking sunscreen, water and bandages at the medical tent at Balbo Avenue and Columbus Drive. A second medical tent is located at Columbus Drive and Jackson Drive. A spokeswoman for the city Office of Emergency Management and Communications would not immediately provide information about the number of people treated in the medical tents since the three-day festival began Friday or the types of ailments being treated. An estimated 300,000 concertgoers are expected this weekend. Medical services are provided by CrowdRX, a Pennsylvania-based company that counts Bonnaroo and Electric Forest music festivals as clients on its website. (TS)
3:55 p.m.: Perry Farrell, who makes a habit of showing up at the festival he founded in some of the least expected places, hijacks the Kidzapalooza stage with a band that includes Metallica bassist Rob Trujillo. They slam through a couple of vintage Jane’s Addiction tracks, “Ocean Size” and “Mountain Song,” and Farrell’s voice still blares like a trumpet. The appearance arrives without notice, so nearby fans trekking between stages do a quick detour when the singer shows up, joining confused toddlers who are hoisted atop parents’ shoulders to see above the suddenly crowded viewing area. The rock stars-visit-Kidzapalooza tradition dates to the festival’s arrival in Grant Park 11 years ago, most memorably when Patti Smith appeared in 2006 to perform three songs, including one about the deaths of 27 children in Lebanon. Sleep tight, kids. (GK)
4:05 p.m.: “We are playing all 100 percent original music for you today and we’re keeping it live,” announces Hermitude. Having flown over from Australia and landed on a stage other than Perry’s, the electronic duo gets a chance to impress and stand apart from the bottleneck of similar EDM acts across the way. Yet the veteran duo’s statement immediately invites critical reflection. “Live” under what definition? Yes, Angus Stuart and Luke Dubber strike electronic drum pads with sticks, punch square buttons and twist knobs. The low-key, rubbery mix gets created in the moment. But what about the vocals, samples and loops emanating from computers or hard drives? They’re prerecorded. While Hermitude offers a more discerning composite of hip-hop, dubstep, funk and classical elements in its work when compared to the slam and drive of its peers, the results aren’t altogether too different. Besides, watching two dudes hover over machines remains practically the same unless Daft Punk commandeers the equipment. Hermitude tries to make the set special by announcing when it plays unreleased or new tracks, but such exclusivity fails to stoke prolonged interest. (BG)
4:23 p.m.: Death from Above 1979 drummer-singer Sebastian Grainger is having one of those “How did we get here?” moments. “I was looking at the lineup for this stage, and it’s the perfect equation. DFA plus Tame Impala equals Metallica. Kind of? Sort of?” At a time when a lot of rock music can sound like it’s a step or three behind the more innovative pastiches of many New Millennium artists, Death from Above reduces the rock band to a ruthlessly efficient two-piece format, with Grainger’s chaotic drums jousting with the guitar and keyboard skronk of Jesse Keeler. You could dance to these rhythms, but you’d probably kill yourself, and the songs don’t encourage sing-alongs so much as provide a soundtrack for three quick rounds with a punching bag. Two shirtless guys on the lawn take turns doing push-ups as Grainger and Keeler keep raining down the sonic carnage. The sweat equity is appreciated. (GK)
4:35 p.m.: White Sea: The day of powerful female singers continues. Morgan Kibby (you know her from M83) talked about taking the reins of her sound in a Tribune feature. And how. If “ethereal aggressiveness” is a valid descriptive, that nails this band. Kibby can flat-out sing, with a broad range and high style that extended to her bedazzled belted dress. And this is how to command a stage. No earth mother nonsense or coquettishness, just a singer in full control of a band as good as her voice. Well maybe not THAT good, but in the neighborhood. The songs are straight-ahead rockers, tunes that in the hands of lesser performers are just bar band fare. Kibby and her band elevate the material to almost operatic rock tunes that, shimmer and soar, packed with drama without a hint of excess. Also a very interesting sound from her band of drummer (who was clearly feeling the occasion), two guitarists and a keyboardist. The ensemble gave her sound an agility that almost makes you wonder why more bands don’t eschew the thumpy-thumpy bassist. Maybe because most bands don’t have a drummer like this. (KM)
5 p.m.: Tallest Man On Earth: Possessed of one of the best band names in history, Kristian Matsson is Swedish, but, man is this pure Americana. You John Mellencamp folks know exactly what’s going on here, singer-songwriter stuff with smart lyrics and a killer band, presented with sincerity. This is how a twang band can carry a stage at Lollapalooza (take note, Mumfords). Even stripped of his band, plucking away at fingerpicking-style guitar, the Tallest Man was always galvanizing. So much of live rock is how the performer works it. Just like with White Sea over at BMI just before this set, there is a genuine quality about Matsson that makes the songs as wide-open as the singer’s heart. The driving beat also helps, a quality that suffuses even the simplest Tallest Man ditties. Every coffeehouse with an open mic has a guy almost this good. But the margins are slim between playing for tips and doing the twang thang at Lollapalooza. Great songs are only a start. (KM)
6 p.m.: Texas rapper Travi$ Scott was charged with disorderly conduct Saturday and his set at Lollapalooza was cut short after he told fans to jump the barricades during his show, a city spokeswoman said. Scott, whose real name is Jacques Webster, played one song before telling fans to come over barricades into the security pit, according to statements from the Office of Emergency Management and Communications and Lollapalooza promoter C3 Presents. In response, C3 issued the following statement: “Fans jumped the barricade into the security pit at Lollapalooza during Travis Scott’s performance on Saturday at Lollapalooza. The situation was resolved quickly and no patrons were injured. Operations have resumed as normal. Chicago Police are handling the matter.” Scott, 23, was scheduled to play the stage named for Lollapalooza co-founder Perry Farrell between 2:15 p.m. and 3 p.m. Scott, who was shown getting into a scuffle with a fan at a concert in a video posted to YouTube in March, fled the scene Saturday and was taken into custody shortly after, Stratton said. One fan was also charged with disorderly conduct. The incident comes on the second day of the three-day annual music festival at Grant Park. Seven arrests were reported at Lollapalooza on Friday, Stratton said. Thirty-five tickets were issued and 85 concertgoers were transported by medical personnel, Stratton said. Stratton did not say what spurred the tickets, arrests and medical transport. (TS, GK)
6:12 p.m.: Tyler, the Creator sprawls out on a gigantic bed that, along with a fake chest of drawers, turns the stage in a recreation of his bedroom. The Odd Future member briefly pauses to collect his thoughts and then, in the blink of an eye, jumps on the mattress and throws a tantrum. Such drastic mood shifts in which he morphs from whisper-quiet calm to hyperactive spazz function as the New York rapper’s modus operandi. The bipolar displays also account for his appeal. Fans overflow the field. They crane their necks, stand on top of each other and, in some cases, sit on one another’s shoulders to see the what-will-he-do-next freakshow unfold. Needing to be the center of attention, Tyler is hip-hop’s version of a low-rent reality TV show. People love to watch potential train wrecks or, in Tyler’s case, unpredictable oddballs. He owns up to his eccentric reputation. “I [expletive] hate you but I love you,” he sings, delighting in the conflict. Offensive insults, vulgarities and references to his genitalia arrive in fast and furious fashion. He broadcasts mentally unstable admissions. “I want to strangle you until you stop breathing,” he raps, realizing shock factor sells. Tyler’s bizarro world also includes bouts where he engages in conversations with himself. Who knows how much is an act, but he’s lucid enough to lead clichéd chants with the audience that burn even more time. As an emcee, he shows flashes of promise with gruff, raw and unhinged deliveries and a visual attack that involves flying elbows and scissor-kicking legs. These talents, however, ultimately succumb to figurative and literal child’s play. (BG)
6:37 p.m.: The only thing missing from Tame Impala’s trippy light and video presentation is the cover of darkness. Somehow, this band’s time-bending, shape-shifting music makes more sense at night, rather than under the blazing early evening Sun. But these Australians are tough as nails when it comes to weathering heat and sunshine — they play their entire set without sunglasses. Though Kevin Parker is a master guitarist, his music is well beyond what most new millennial rock bands are offering. He turns his rock songs into what could be epic club tracks. “Let it Happen” manages to be both cerebral and danceable at once. Parker’s deeper exploration of keyboards and club music has broadened his musical scope, so that Tame Impala now moves fluidly among what were once deemed distinct categories: progressive rock, soul, psychedelia, electronic dance music. He’s just as liable to conjure the majesty of King Crimson as he is the post-house flourishes of Kaskade. (GK)
6:45 p.m.: Kid Cudi: Immense crowd at Bud Light for what, exactly? This semi mixture (rap stylings, r&b-style singing) was devoid of charisma, energy and pretty much anything compelling. When the hootenanny held by Tallest Man On Earth brought more dynamism to the stage than Cudi, that was a sign that something was off. Backed by a percussionist, Cudi soldiered on through song after dull song. Legit rap sets have audience interaction, big beats, something that makes a connection. R&B sets have songcraft. Cudi’s hybrid was his nasal voice, bereft of a rapper’s agility and an r&ber’s ability to carry a tune. The result was a monotone mess, no structure, no actual song. Choruses were simple moans from a charisma-free singer. Sometimes, performers get off to slow starts, other times the set is just bad. Thankfully in a massive sonic buffet such as Lollapalooza, a listener can find delight in another stage. (KM)
6:57 p.m.: After being sent away after just two songs, Chet Faker’s two-piece band returns. Timing couldn’t be better. The Australian singer, who’s really Nicholas James Murphy, needs something — anything — to wake up his set. Anyone at risk of an after-dinner food coma should run the other direction. Granted, Faker specializes in chilled-out electronic music ornamented with his breezy vocals and finger-snapping beats. Ideal for a post-2 a.m. comedown after a wild night clubbing, his material smiles on relaxation and frown on aggression. As he covers Blackstreet’s “No Diggity,” the song that put him on the indie radar, Faker strips it down to its bare essence. The sincerity, smoothness and subdued approach command respect, and when he ups the pace ever so slightly, as on the swaying “Gold,” the jazz/soul/electro hybrid clicks. Alas, like a major-league starting pitcher’s need to change speeds, Faker must get a better grasp of fluctuating tempos–and livening up his languid stage presence. Right now, there’s little separation between his drowsiest fare and tuneful karaoke. (BG)
7:34 p.m.: A day earlier, Father John Misty built a set around the notion that “my feelings” has become a cliche for just about any male rock singer that is best avoided. But Brand New missed the memo. The New York band is in full-on emo mode, with throat-tearing vocals that sound like the onset of a nervous breakdown The music mirrors these charged emotions with bullish single-mindedness, but it’s enough to wear out all but the most dedicated fan. Musical therapy — sometimes the cure isn’t worth the pain. Misty knows best. (GK)
9 p.m.: G-Eazy: Striding out.to the adulation of a colossal crowd at the Pepsi stage, dressed like he visited the metal store at the mall, G-Eazy presents a difficulty: he’s a white rapper. If you go in for all of the cultural appropriation stuff, that’s a complexity. But that’s nonsense. And it isn’t that he’s a white rapper, it’s that he’s a bad rapper. “Molly in that whiskey / That’s Monica Lewinsky” limboes under the already abysmally low bar set by rap lyrics. In the flow department, G-Eazy decides to not bother with it, almost fighting the beats (provided by DJ and a live drummer) rather that working with and within them. The typical beats are there, but the content isn’t. Song snippets, backing tracks, even the special guest in collaborator Marty Grimes. “Did you.come here to rage tonight,” is his oft-repeated question. He pauses for a Snapchat moment, his hype man demands noise, he pauses.to.accept a t-shirt from a fan, even dons a Chicago Bulls jersey, because pandering always works. But despite the presence of all the rap tropes, G-Eazy again presents the problem with rap as a live music genre. It doesn’t do anything except present the opportunity to see a performer in the flesh. Why not stay home, stare at a poster and play the music really loud? In the case of G-Eazy, you get the simplistic raps and flow-free lyricism, only you aren’t stuffed in a crowd. (KM)
9:10 p.m.: Ominous looking dragon flies buzz Metallica’s set, suggesting a scene out of the next “Jurassic Park” movie. There’s a bad dinosaur joke in there somewhere. But it’s worth noting that in the early days of Lollapalooza’s run at Grant Park, one of the promoters mentioned that it would be unlikely for it to book Metallica because of the band’s reputation for stirring up its fans. Now years later, Metallica is headlining the festival, and the promoter needn’t have fretted. The quartet’s roughest edges have long ago been sanded off, and it now stands as a respectable heritage act that leans on decades-old songs that can still draw a crowd. The audience at Hutchinson Field stretches nearly as far back as the one for Paul McCartney’s closing set Friday. The thrash tempos that defined Metallica’s first brilliant decade are in the past. The beats-per-minute have been shaved to the point where most of the songs settle into a mid-tempo chug. James Hetfield still growls, but the head-banging has been retired. The band briefly finds the box of fury it has kept hidden most of the night when it digs into “Cyanide,” with Hetfield squaring off with drummer Lars Ulrich while Kirk Hammett delivers his nastiest guitar solo of the night. Otherwise, it’s just a night of fun with the Metallica “family,” as Hetfield refers to the fans, dozens of whom have been brought on stage to serve as a human backdrop for the festivities. “We are here,” the singer says, “to make things better.” (GK)
9:32 p.m.: Sam Smith boasts a gorgeous voice. Only a tone-deaf curmudgeon would disagree. The British star reaches highs with effortless ease, croons in a milky falsetto and reaches down to hit lows in a humble, expressive manner. He posseses the kind of pipes that can melodiously fill a big cathedral without the aid of a microphone or amplification. The four-time Grammy winner can’t be faulted for arrogance, either. He’s modest, gracious and, when singing gentle ballads such as “Leave Your Lover,” aware of nuance and the placement of piano and cello. He also fancies himself a storyteller, explaining the context behind certain songs and admitting that they represent “the first time I was truly honest through music.” It’s his way of admitting that, at just 24, he’s still learning. And while that crystalline voice makes pretty listening, Smith’s headlining set proves he has a long ways to go to be a formidable soul artist deserving of such a high-profile slot. (At the other end of the park, Metallica K.O.’d his attendance, notably small given the slot.) Moving around as if he’s constrained in an invisible straitjacket, Smith looks overly stiff and uncomfortable. There’s no looseness, no trace of the raw, vibrant black soul that inspired much of his gospel-kissed fare. Rather than trying to improve on the intimacy or expressiveness of the studio versions, Smith seems out to simply replicate them. Phrasing and shading run on auto-pilot. Worse, his static stage presence does nothing to bring out any heat from his band, and when almost every tune follows the same pace, urgency isn’t a luxury but a necessity. A swelling song “Like I Can” should be demonstrative and authoritative, but here, it’s a recital. Even with the support of backing vocalists, a cover of Marvin Gaye’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” overdoses on vanilla flavoring. The other major problem resides with the material, largely watered-down soul and tepid pop pleas primarily devoid of personality, funk and, well, soulfulness. Maybe it’s no wonder he won’t let loose. The music won’t allow him. (BG)
