Reports from Thursday, day one at Lollapalooza in Grant Park, from Greg Kot (GK), Kevin Williams (KM) and Tracy Swartz (TS):
12:15 p.m.: The newly expanded Lollapalooza got off to a slow start Thursday as gates opened about 40 minutes late. Organizers tweeted that they were watching the weather at Grant Park. Light rain fell on the restless crowd waiting outside the main gate, which was scheduled to open at 11 a.m. Just after 11:30 a.m., some of the crowd began to chant “let us in.” Security officials obliged a few minutes later. (TS)
Noon: Canadian electronic duo Tennyson is a brother-sister act, Luke Tennyson Pretty and Tessa Rain Pretty, that specialize in the sorts of genteel little bleeps and burbles that slide innocuously past the ear. Boring? That’s a strong value statement for music that aspires to precious little. “For You” oozed along pretty much like “With You.” She slays at playing the drums, metallic, basic beats, while he hops around behind a couple of laptops. This isn’t EDM enough for Perry’s, part of the trend we’re seeing more of — humanizing EDM with a few organic touches, such as voice or percussion. It rarely works, and certainly doesn’t here. But still, there is guilt: It’s almost unfair beating on these two, like kicking puppies or something. This legit adorable sibling duo even have the right last name: Pretty. But it’s ambient stuff that Brian Eno was doing eons ago, way before it was cool, in a vastly more interesting manner. Now, in a festival setting, it’s suitable for nap time. There are hints of funk, but mostly a childlike trilling that betrays the still-forming tastes and creative urges of the brother/sister tandem. They might become something interesting later. The nuclei of cool music is here. Keep an eye on Tennyson. (KM)
1 p.m.: That massive thud you heard around this time was a whole bunch of folks, falling hard for Frances. This young lady took the stage at a rock festival, armed with nothing more than a piano, great songs and a bared heart. And it was glorious. Tribune critic Greg Kot called Sophie Frances Cooke “fast rising.” And then some. Great songs don’t need a band, but rather for someone to get out of the way. Frances got her exquisite “Grow” out of the way, four songs in. Yes, the song that blew up the web last year. It wasn’t even the best song of a set that rocked. Hard. Rock in this case isn’t noise, but attitude. Frances is a singer. It feels like she can do it all, buttressed by an absolutely beautiful voice that manages to couple vulnerability and power at the same time. Like Adele, in the live setting her voice loses some of the luster that it has after some studio sheen has been applied. But that sometimes quavering vulnerability adds a looser, competely human quality that made her gushed “Thank you!” feel heartfelt. The piano work is rudimentary, a setting for tunes about love, empowerment and life. In the hands of another, a lyric such as “You’re putting my heart in your hands” would be insufferably cheesy. From Frances, you were ready to kick the person’s butt who dared damage said heart. The crowd of young ladies didn’t have phones out, they weren’t chattering or doing the “Lolla Yell.” They were transfixed. “Don’t Worry About Me” starts a cappella, and she introduced it with a story about her chickening out the first few times she did it. Frances needn’t have worried. It was the moment of her set. She knows the range of her voice, and uses that knowledge to poke and prod at those limits. The crowd was right there with her. “And if I rise/We’ll rise together.” That’s exactly what happened, and it was wonderful. Set of the day? A tough call at 1 in the afternoon, but she’ll be in the mix. (KM)
1:35 p.m.: Lucy Dacus saves the best for last in a set that richly rewards early arrivals. The Richmond, Va., singer-songwriter delivers “Pillar of Truth,” a song about family and mortality that is part hymn, part catharsis. Dacus’ voice cracks as the music surges behind her. Till that moment, the singer’s voice remains unperturbed as she delivers lyrics that veer from self-deprecating to cutting over combustible rhythms. She describes how four years ago she attended the same festival as a fan, and now finds it “surreal and weird” that she’s performing at it. But rather than be overwhelmed by the moment, she crushes it. (GK)
2:15 p.m.: Wonder if this is what Daniel Burnham had in mind? The old merch stands of Woodstocks past just can’t compare to the Lolla Shop, which resembles a mini box store abutting the lakefront. As festivalgoers line up outside to gain access to the roofed, air-conditioned retail outlet, the place inside is packed like Forever 21 on a Saturday afternoon at a suburban shopping mall. Who needs music? (GK)
2:37 p.m.: Instagram favorite Kehlani is the first buzz act of the day, with fans rushing from the entrance gates across the park to catch her set. The big field on the south end of the park is about half full — a rarity for an artist performing this early on a weekday afternoon at Lolla. The singer splits the difference between R&B and hip-hop, a mix of street savvy and round-the-way-girl sweetness. She bumps and grinds with two dancers in “We are not Disposable” T-shirts, and sings in a voice that mingles sincerity and just enough brassiness. But her set list becomes a little redundant, a parade of midtempo ballads that never quite builds enough momentum to command the big stage. (GK)
2:50 p.m.: My heavens, Bob Moses is awful. It’s the kind of music that can make you mad if you let it. As in angry. Because a Lolla ticket costs a lotta cash, and people should be hearing better than this insipid, droning thud. The “music, not EDM” trend continues, and people are eating it up. There are guitars, mostly for stage adornment. There’s the obligatory electrics and a drummer. But it’s all like when a rock band invites a string quartet to sit in — they don’t really do anything with it. This was a poor EDM set with a synth providing live chorus assist. But it sure was loud. And don’t the kids like that. New York/Canadian duo Tom Howie and Jimmy Vallance bore not entirely because of the mostly monotone vocals, drab electronic textures and guitar fills, though that certainly has a lot to do with it. This isn’t a show. It’s a few guys, standing around while beats pulsate. It could be at Perry’s. The songs are all the same: atmospheric beats, repetitive and a primal, thumping beat. When the beat stops, there is just atmospheric drone. The rain intensified during this set, like the upstairs neighbor stomping on the floor to make it stop. To no avail. After the soaring high of Frances, this is a low. (KM)
2:55 p.m.: Melissa Stratton, a spokeswoman for the Chicago Office of Emergency Management and Communications, said the opening of Lollapalooza gates were delayed by about 40 minutes Thursday because organizers were “watching a storm cell to the west that had potential for lightning. Event organizers and the city felt it was safer to temporarily delay the opening while we verified the direction of the weather.” (TS)
3:20 p.m.: Mellanie Martinez continued the string of acts that shouldn’t be at Lollapalooza. If you’re wondering where you’ve heard this name before, you have betrayed yourself as a devotee of “The Voice.” Ha! Sucka! Martinez didn’t last all that long on the show, but quickly decided that her almost was good enough. And now look, she’s at Lollapalooza with a keening sorta semi-rap that spends as much time talking as singing. It’s a safe bet she wouldn’t last all that long on the current version of “The Voice” either, her nominal degree of fame notwithstanding. The ambition is that sort of pop-infused, big beat jamming backed by female voice that we’re hearing a lot of these days. The reality, in the case of Martinez, is more high school talent show than rock fest performer. There is no vocal range, no emotion, no real quality, wrapped around insipid songs. “Training Wheels” opened with a music box sample, which raised the curtain on what she called a love song, but was in fact the same song at a different tempo. This was, essentially, a female version of the tripe that Bob Moses was ladling out earlier. But instead of thud/drone/moan, it was thud/drone/chirp. (KM)
4:01 p.m.: Rainfall at Lollapalooza tends to bring attention to the condition of Grant Park. Festival organizers were billed $236,000 for park repairs after last year’s festival, which was marked by periods of rain. In an amendment to its multi-year festival agreement, Chicago Park District superintendent and CEO Michael Kelly and Lollapalooza promoter C3 Presents agreed to “use commercially reasonable and good faith efforts to develop a long-term strategy to enhance drainage at the venue.” A Park District spokeswoman said this week no plan has been finalized. (TS)
4:02: Yeasayer’s Chris Keating can’t help himself. He’s fallen for another woman, hard. “I’m in love with a special Chicago lady … her name is Michelle Obama.” Pandering aside, Keating is clearly all wound up about the upcoming election, as he pauses between songs to speak his mind about the candidates. Fortunately, there’s also music, and in this case, the third time’s the charm. Keating recalls how he was so nervous when Yeasayer played Lolla several years ago he threw up on stage. On the band’s third trip to the festival, it clearly has mastered how to make its music translate on a big outdoor stage. Its skewed art-pop songs suggest the legacy of David Bowie and Talking Heads, with touches of funk, hip-hop and Bollywood movie soundtracks. “Ambling Alp” and “O.N.E.” become extended pieces that energize the set, and Anand Wilder’s guitar playing splits the difference between scratchy funk rhythms and psychedelic textures. (GK)
4:30 p.m.: Wild Child is neither, but is kinda fun in controlled doses. This group is from Texas, and revs up folky-sounding country with rock slam. Twang and bang combine for an engaging presentation, the complexity being that the potentially interesting instrumentation (cello, trumpet, trombone) gets lost in the need to compete with the surrounding din. Yes, you’ve heard it before, but stop being a snob. You’ve heard everything before. This Bjork-goes-to-a-hootenanny approach works because it’s different enough to be charming, but not so different that people get scared. In many ways that describes the pop music template in the here and now. And they’re from Austin, so they got a head start. Because everything that comes from Austin is cool, right? Problem is after that controlled dose wears off, the stultifying sameness sets in. And frontwoman Kelsey Wilson flung panties into the audience. Yes, panties. Why? Lord only knows. Told you Wild Child was a party. You never listen. (KM)
5:30 p.m.: Elena Tonra’s Daughter project first caught the ear in 2013 via one of those NPR Tiny Desk concerts. The music was almost impossibly beautiful, basic arrangements buttressing Tonra’s fragile voice wrapping its high-toned self around introspective lyrics: “Most of us are bitter over someone.” The band has grown since then, looping in the oh-so-trendy electronic textures that everyone’s doing now. It has lost something in the grab at full maturity, but man, that voice. There’s still that voice. Always that voice. It’s smooth and elegant, it quakes with vulnerability, digging deep into a song to convey beauty and subtlety. The shame is that in swinging for the Lolla fences with volume and fury, it’s hard to get Tonra’s luster. It’s like she’s a background singer in the band that she fronts. Would but that the noisy, droning arrangements were as interesting as her voice. “Alone/With You,” a haunting, almost dirge-like number, came closest of any to making clear what makes this band so worth your time. Tonra leaned in close to the mic as if afraid a word would escape. But even this song was, eventually, sabotaged by the great thud. It’s the dilemma of a lovely band. Guitarist Igor Haefeli said “We’re going to try a quiet song,” tossing off an aside about the “rave going on over there.” Perry’s. Always Perry’s. (KM)
5:52 p.m.: Towkio’s cameo-filled 2015 mix tape, “Wav Theory,” should’ve provided a few hints. His set is equally loaded with guests. Typical of the Chicago music community, he likes to share, and the MC brings out Joey Purp, keyboardist Peter Cottontale and finally Vic Mensa to share his limelight. With rain spilling, the fans maintain their enthusiasm from the get-go, but Towkio takes his time finding his stride. His delivery of “Reflection” finally connects, and the gospel-stoked surge of “Heaven Only Knows” ratchets things to the next level. How to top that? Why bring out a cast of dozens, including Mensa, for a closing Save Money crew celebration on “G W M (Gang With Me),” that’s how. So-so start, strong finish. (GK)
6:30 p.m.: “I got it all / I’m young, rich and handsome.” Presumably that list doesn’t include flow, because that is something G-Eazy doesn’t have as his raps battle against the beats — courtesy of drummer and DJ — rather than working with them. That said, G-Eazy has solved the dilemma of how to make live rap work, with an almost feral stage presence that relies heavily on his charisma. Lots of pauses for effect, even a nod to a truly international audience by translating “B—- You Got Me F—– Up” into about a dozen languages. Working the stage edge to edge, sweating like a field worker, he leaned heavily on his hook-rich, anthemic choruses that are tailor-made for a full-throated sing-a-long. There’s a connection. He did shout-outs to individual audience members, as well, an exceptional touch that’s different from too many self-absorbed rappers. He’s a very intelligent performer, whose fame is clear to comprehend, even if you aren’t a fan. Would but that all live rap sets had this kind of life. With some serious flow, G-Eazy might rule the world … well, the rap world, anyway. P.S. There was fire. Because, yeah. Every scene needs fire. And speaking of hot, G-Eazy knocked off a little ditty called “F— Donald Trump.” As a contemporary protest song, it was simple, effective and there was that chorus. (KM)
6:40 p.m.: Kurt Vile drawls his lyrics like he just rolled off the hammock after smoking a freshly rolled spliff, and his lyrics often feel just as dazed and confused. He can load a line as simple as “I’m already gone” with multiple meanings simply because of his ultra-casual delivery, but at other moments he can’t seem to be bothered. The hook in one of his better recent songs, “Wakin on a Pretty Daze,” consists of the word “yeah” repeated several times. But the guitar playing, that’s something else. Switching among acoustic and electric guitars and banjo, he trips wildly but expressively across the strings. His hair tumbling across his face like a veil, he at times resembles J. Mascis in the way he seems to lose himself inside the storm his finger tips create. (GK)
7:45 p.m.: Cashmere Cat is late. Once Magnus August Haiberg arrives, he does little to dispel notions that DJs should be heard and not seen. What makes this suitable for Pepsi and not Perry’s? That’s the million-dollar question, and one that separates electronica from EDM. These are beats that are elegant and almost comtemplative, danceable but with layers, intriguing textures that make the constructions hit the ear as complete soundscapes. The point, in other words, isn’t as much booty shaking as immersion. The Perry’s refugees didn’t quite know what to do with these elegant structures, until the beat got big. Then up went the hands, even if you sort of got the sense that Haiberg would rather people took the journey with him. The enduring issue is also what does the beat manipulator do? Haiberg mostly bopped along in an introspective semi-trance, working as diligently to make his epics as a guitarist would at a particularly daunting solo. That these were, however, more than beats was evident by the difficulties folks at the Pepsi stage were having in going full Perry’s. The trips were at times metallic and grimy, working vocals in flawlessly as part of the complex rhythms. Was this a satisfying electronica set? Sure was, even if it was like watching paint dry as a shaggy dude stood there and twiddled knobs. (KM)
7:58 p.m.: The Undisputed Truth revival starts now, thanks to the Arcs, who drop a cover of the Motown group’s 1971 hit “Smiling Faces Sometimes” into its set. The Arcs are led by Dan Auerbach, the singer-guitarist who can’t seem to take any time off. When not playing in his longtime band with drummer Patrick Carney, the Black Keys, he’s producing albums by the likes of Dr. John and Lana Del Rey, who’s headlining tonight at the opposite end of Grant Park. The Arcs are his latest musical detour, a big band that approximates the soul-rock template of such ’60s ensembles as Delaney and Bonnie and Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen road show. With two drummers and three back-up singers plus bass and keyboards, Auerbach swings through ambitious arrangements with heavy gospel and soul overtones, raucous harmonies and winding guitar solos. It’s not a particularly new idea, but Auerbach looks like he’s having a ball and the mood informs the boisterous arrangements. (GK)
8:30 p.m.: Grant Park was almost ready to tilt to the south as J. Cole drew an immense crowd for his headlining set. Clad in a Chicago Bulls 45 jersey (hipster cred, right?), J. Cole came with his A-game early, before falling into the usual live rap pitfalls. Did the incendiary G-Eazy set on the same stage have something to do with his hot early start? Possibly. Because J. Cole stomped the terra like a mastodon, full of energy and flow, each song shooing its predecessor aside almost as if he was impatient. The momentum loss began, oddly enough, when J. Cole engaged in what he self-hyped as a “dazzling lyrical display.” It wasn’t, and things got messy from there. This is exhortation rap, creating its energy from vehemence as much as flow. When J. Cole settled down to rap he was convincing, particularly when he leaned on the rolling, fat beats from his “2014 Forest Hills Drive” album. But it was also here that the set continued to go off the rails. Is a rapper a party MC or a singer? The songs became increasingly disjointed as J. Cole stopped rapping to let the crowd sing along. But instead of ego gratification, it sounded like one of those YouTube versions of a J. Cole song with the naughty words zapped. After a while things degenerated into a dude just stalking the stage, screaming intermittently into a mic. And the old quandary returns, one answered by the people leaving his set in droves: At what point is it just as much fun to stay home and play the album really loudly? Armed with backup singers, the obligatory live drummer, etc, the trappings of a real concert were there, but J. Cole never fully integrated with his band, so it never felt like a concert. And after the first 10 minutes, it stopped being convincing, or all that interesting. (KM)
9:15 p.m.: Lana del Rey brings her headlining set to a dead stop to descend into the pit separating the stage from the front row, and greets her fans. She poses for selfies and signs autographs. The reaction is over-the-top, and one expects nothing less from a singer who has turned that much-derided wooden performance on “Saturday Night Live” a few years ago into a kind of anti-charisma that cannot be easily dismissed. Even when she slips her left hand under her right arm pit in the most blase of poses, her fans continue to shout the lyrics of her songs back at her. While a keyboardist summons dramatic chords and a guitarist conjures waves of Grand Canyon reverb, Del Rey sings of drugs, decay, regret and vixen-as-victim love affairs gone horribly wrong. The songs move slowly, but there’s an undeniable creepiness — if the Weeknd ever wants to record a duets album of his twisted love songs, del Rey should be first on the list of candidates. In a lineup filled with strong female artists, del Rey stands apart. There’s something undeniably fascinating about that — and more than a little disturbing. (GK)
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