Feed kids breakfast. Make coffee. Get paper. Hustle kids and Cpu into
the car in time to make our 9:30 am Evanston play date. Meet up with
friends and talk about the Radiohead set. Al is disappointed that I
didn't like the set. He spent the night outside on the sidewalk
avoiding the cops, who apparently kept patrolling and kicking people
off the sidewalk so they couldn't listen. Didn't sound like a good use
of my tax dollars, enforcing a business's policies.
Al really likes
Radiohead, and recommended an album (The Bends?) to start with. Al
also really hates Stephen, the lead guitar player of The Jicks. He also
hates Pavement. For the record, he also hates the Velvet Underground.
We're not seeing eye to eye, but agree to disagree. His neighbor, who I
meet later, says he lacks the low-fi aesthetic. She is, for the record,
an actual philosopher. But, she can't be correct. Al adores Ween.
There's something else afoot.
Did I mention that we are on the beach, only a block from their condo? Or that Al's wife is hugely pregnant and very late 3rd trimester? The kids are slathered in sunblock. The water is apparently poisonous. Something about e-coli levels. Bpu has dug a pit in the sand and buried my leg in the pit sand.
Crispy, we head back to Al's for pizza and more water. Cpu drives me back down Lakeshore drive, and drops me off on Jackson. I walk over to the show and camp the Citi stage, waiting for Saul Williams at 6:00pm.
I catch each of the acts, but only remember Black Kids (awesome!) and Saul.
Saul's set started out poorly; although each dude powered onto stage in their campy outfits (Drum Major, Dracula, Astronaut, and Indian), the Lolla sound crew had fucked up the levels. The mix was so bad, that you couldn't hear anything but the sampler. No voice, very little guitar, and no keyboard. Which was awful, because they owned the stage with strutting and rocking.
After the first song, the sound issues seemed worked out. Saul's 12 year old daughter was up on stage in a fitted striped t-shirt and big skirt, bopping around and dropping MF-bombs. The tunes and the 'tude and the showmanship and the message were awesome. Saul and the sampler dude each crowd surfed.
And then he closed it out with Sunday, Bloody Sunday. Holy shit. I thought my head would explode. But it was the perfect capper for his message of individuality and racial unity. Why the hell not have a black techno-rapping Indian chief sing an Irish pop anthem from the 80s with his daughter?
What the hell was going to live up to that? Kanye? NIN? I think not. I decide to split so as not to ruin the buzz.
On the walk back, I try to pop off my wristband to hand to anyone else. I mean, just because I am too old to rock doesn't mean that someone else can't enjoy my shows. Great, my blood flow stopped and my thumb is going to break. I work it back to the wrist. A few blocks later, I meet some fans trying to catch the show. They seem a little too old, maybe they are in the business of reselling.
Whatever. A little sunblock at the choke point, and it slides off. And I am free.
Did I mention that we are on the beach, only a block from their condo? Or that Al's wife is hugely pregnant and very late 3rd trimester? The kids are slathered in sunblock. The water is apparently poisonous. Something about e-coli levels. Bpu has dug a pit in the sand and buried my leg in the pit sand.
Crispy, we head back to Al's for pizza and more water. Cpu drives me back down Lakeshore drive, and drops me off on Jackson. I walk over to the show and camp the Citi stage, waiting for Saul Williams at 6:00pm.
I catch each of the acts, but only remember Black Kids (awesome!) and Saul.
Saul's set started out poorly; although each dude powered onto stage in their campy outfits (Drum Major, Dracula, Astronaut, and Indian), the Lolla sound crew had fucked up the levels. The mix was so bad, that you couldn't hear anything but the sampler. No voice, very little guitar, and no keyboard. Which was awful, because they owned the stage with strutting and rocking.
After the first song, the sound issues seemed worked out. Saul's 12 year old daughter was up on stage in a fitted striped t-shirt and big skirt, bopping around and dropping MF-bombs. The tunes and the 'tude and the showmanship and the message were awesome. Saul and the sampler dude each crowd surfed.
And then he closed it out with Sunday, Bloody Sunday. Holy shit. I thought my head would explode. But it was the perfect capper for his message of individuality and racial unity. Why the hell not have a black techno-rapping Indian chief sing an Irish pop anthem from the 80s with his daughter?
What the hell was going to live up to that? Kanye? NIN? I think not. I decide to split so as not to ruin the buzz.
On the walk back, I try to pop off my wristband to hand to anyone else. I mean, just because I am too old to rock doesn't mean that someone else can't enjoy my shows. Great, my blood flow stopped and my thumb is going to break. I work it back to the wrist. A few blocks later, I meet some fans trying to catch the show. They seem a little too old, maybe they are in the business of reselling.
Whatever. A little sunblock at the choke point, and it slides off. And I am free.
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