I’m going to be honest here for a second and admit my political views probably don’t line-up with yours. I hate the government--not in a gee whiz George Bush has ruined America sort of way--but in a Thomas Jefferson is rolling over in his grave because of almost every decision every president has made since Teddy Roosevelt sort of way. I won’t be voting for John McCain or Barack Obama--but I’m sure ninety-eight percent of registered voters who attended Lollapalooza will be. So, that’s why, with much amusement, I scratched my head and smiled as the night ended with fifty thousand yuppies, burnouts, and middle-class whities uproariously cheering Rage Against The Machine front man Zach de la Rocha’s call for a violent overthrow of the government.

I know why it happened, and further more, I’m going to tell you how it all happened (in an homage to Tim Curry‘s last twenty minutes in Clue). Let’s start at the beginning.

I arrived at Lollapalooza around three-thirty. The atmosphere was relaxed and go-with-the-flow inside the press tent, but the common man seemed a little more on edge. Not angry or perturbed--almost determined, as if he felt a little cheated out of his two hundred dollars and come typhoon or whooping cough outbreak, he’d get his worthwhile fill in before sun-up. My free press pass didn’t afford me the same hunger or passion; so, I set off backstage to once again hobnob with the heroes and hangers-on. But a funny thing happened on the way to debauchery city, namely, a new security guard. And she was having none of my hurried excuses about why I needed access. Finally, she offered me entrance, if I’d sign in, state my intended purpose, and agree to be chaperoned, all of which were unreasonable requests considering I had no real agenda and both the paper trail and escort could expose my plans of drunken carousing.

So, it was back inside the press tent for a steady diet of free Merlot samples and Southern Comfort Sweet Tea mixes, not exactly the Breakfast Of Champions but the overwhelmingly popular choice among the internet journalism set (and a handful of legitimate newspaper men too). A few drinks later, rumors began circulating that Barack Obama would be introducing Wilco, much to the chagrin of several representatives of the man who were then ordered to head North by their superiors for Jeff Tweedy and his band, in case Mr. Obama showed up. I may be responsible most of the time, but thank God I’m not responsible to the man. Cinema Blend is the type of company where I could tell my boss about not being able to score pot this morning, and he’d be genuinely pissed--for me--about not being able to get high on the job. There was just no way in fuck I was walking a mile to miss Rage Against The Machine on some Chinese telephone bullshit (he didn‘t show anyway).

So, like clockwork, after the Obama rumor started, bands began name-dropping the Junior Senator from Illinois, most notably the loose configuration of underground djs known as Spank Rock, who referred to Chicago as the home of Barack Obama, which got a massive response from not only the crowd but all those purchasing overpriced Italian Beef sandwiches nearby, as well. That’s right about when I began noticing a surge in energy. Excitement was building. Shortly after, Lupe Fiasco walked out to the theme from Rocky on the main stage, and well, the Chicago emcee is no Rocky. He’s more like the guy who won the undercard right before Rocky and Apollo Creed tangoed. While providing an essential hype-service, that guy didn’t get his own theme song. And neither should Lupe, but still, job well done for sufficiently warming up the crowd with a passing level of adrenaline and angst.

By the end of Lupe’s set, the tension throughout the crowd was thick and steamy. Fifty thousand mother-fuckers, all lined up and waiting, eagerly cheering everything from beautiful women to sweet hacky-sack maneuvers. The sound tech guys even got a massive round of applause, though probably less for their skilled plugging and unplugging and more for their being a precursor to Tom Morello.

At about eight-thirty, the band famous for its anti-government sentiments hit the stage with a pipe bomb, launching straight into “Testify.” And that’s right about when things began veering off course. You remember that whole energy thing I’ve continually referred to? Well, it manifested itself in the form of forty-eight thousand Lolla-ites pushing forward at the same time, nearly crushing the two thousand or so unfortunate souls near the front. Several were seriously injured, dozens more will undoubtedly wake up with bruises and broken noses. So, the music was stopped--and Zach pleaded with fans to back up. And the music continued. And then stopped for more warnings. And the music continued. And then stopped for more warnings. And the music continued---but cautiously. The audience, as a whole, seemed quite unwilling to unsheathe their cocks (in order to properly rock out). But the warnings stopped. And little by little, that energy started building through “Guerilla Radio” and “Calm Like A Bomb” and a dozen others, until Zach unleashed a verbal tirade, lambasting the Bush administration, chastising the Democrats, and warning Barack Obama that if he didn’t bring troops home the cities would burn to the ground.

And that’s when fifty thousand yuppies, burnouts, and middle-class whities uproariously cheered for a violent overthrow of our government. I know you’re probably thinking those exhausted sons of bitches would have cheered anything at that point (and they would have), but there was a little more to it than that. Radiohead’s light show didn’t really work because it wasn’t dark for most of their set. Perry Farrell’s microphone cut out during a duet with Slash on “Jane Says.” Nothing has been overly memorable about 2008’s Lollapalooza--until Zach de la Rocha opened his mouth and tore the United States of America a new asshole. There was desperation in his voice--the same desperation many concert-goers were feeling. And that’s why they hooped and hollered and went bat shit crazy for anarchy.

I wish the feeling would last. Believe me, I do. But it won’t. Fifty thousand people will return to yuppie-dom tomorrow, and forty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety won’t give a second thought to poverty or health care or state-approved domestic terrorism. Most of ’em will vote for Barack Obama and feel good about themselves for being so with it and twenty-first century faux-Bohemian. Fucking idiots.

But I don’t care. For an hour and a half one Saturday afternoon in August, fifty thousand people were on board with giving our government the finger, and that’s a glorious consolation prize you’ll have to pry out of my cold, dead fingers.