Lollapalooza: Only For Rock N Roll

If Warped Tour is New Jersey, Lollapalooza is New York. More exciting, more intimidating, and way more hostile. Imagine a sea of people--like in those old Ellis Island pictures-and cram them all into Chicago’s Grant Park, a sizeable chunk of land which covers roughly four blocks. And go ahead and crank the thermostat to ninety-something for the hell of it (pun very much intended). Yeah, that’s probably a good start.

So, I was left with a few different options: fight it out with the hot-and-hungry masses, chill in the press tent with its below-average view of one stage, or sneak behind the press tent and into the artist area surrounding the main stage. We go big or we go home here at Cinema Blend. All I had to do was sneak past one guard. She was about nineteen or so and deceptively wily--maybe from Portugal or Venezuela or that part of Texas where everyone looks like a cruise ship waiter. What would Hunter S. Thompson do? Probably coke lines off her ass in a nearby Port-A-Potty. Unfortunately, it was a little too early in the day to slide nose first into hard drugs; so, I just acted real confident and walked past, straight through an opening clearly labeled “Not An Exit.” She never said a word.

You know that scene in Almost Famous where the geeky journalist gets smuggled behind enemy lines? Well, that’s pretty much how I felt. A little nervous and almost positive I would be heaved out on my ass at some point, I made the most of my little journey, stealing three bottles of water and a diet coke before parking myself at a table in the shade. I looked around to find I’d stumbled into a bizarre counterculture where the facial hair grew a little thicker, the tattoos shined a little brighter, and the breasts perked-up a little quicker. It wasn’t exactly a Valhalla for yuppies, but any man with a working penis and eye for the mysterious would do well.

Only for Rock N Roll, I kept thinking. Only for Rock N Roll could so many high school graduates with goofy hair and questionable hygiene con King David’s harem into sauntering backstage and fighting it out with each other for attention. And only for Rock N Roll would I be smiling and soaking it all up.

Lollapalooza is a goddamn monument to twenty-first century America. There’s restaurants, port-a-potties, oversized directional signs, and recycling baskets everywhere. There’s even a kids-only stage. It’s probably the most politically correct, faceless conglomeration ever assembled, and yet being backstage and seeing thousands upon thousands of roadies, groupies, drummers, and hangers-on, I couldn’t help but mumble only for Rock N Roll.

A few hours later I stumbled upon free Southern Comfort Margaritas at the press tent. I downed a few and watched Radiohead’s light show from a lawn chair. Only for Rock N Roll.


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