Lollapalooza 1996
Is Bigger Really Better?
by Lex Marburger
illustrations by Tadpole
Home of gorgeous trees, majestic lakes, and some of the most mediocre ski slopes in the country. But today, a convergence was in effect. Alterna-slacker-pop-rock-metalheads all gathered in Pownal, VT for one reason: To give all their money away to major corporations in the guise of a music festival. I do have to say that this year was much more organized than the tales I’d heard about years past. I only had to wait half an hour to get in, and this time there was a “Rain Tent” where we could drench ourselves if the heat got too much. But enough about the $6 sandwiches and the $2 sodas. Let’s get on with the music!
Psychotica kicked off the show with a spectacular visual extravaganza. An electric cello player in black leather pants, a guitarist in hot pink vinyl, a backup singer in not much at all, and an overly manic bass player, set up a stomping rock groove while red smoke jetted from the stage floor. A mirrored cross began to revolve, and Pat Briggs, king freak, appeared in a skintight, silver latex bodysuit, silver hair, and an orange slash across his face. He proceeded to run about the stage, singing and shouting, working the crowd into a frenzy. As the rock and roll thundered around us, Pat leapt into the crowd, surfing the best he could while hanging onto the mic. He really knows how to get an audience going without pandering to the “Hello Cleveland!” routine. The only downside was the lack of a decent mix. Maybe it was just where I was standing, but the bass drum dominated the mix by a huge margin, burying the guitar, vocals, bass, just about everything. For thirty bucks, I expect more than “Buh-DUH BUH BUH-duh.” Ah well, it looked good.
At this point I was getting hot and thirsty, so I scouted out the press tent for the free beer (y’know, there are perks to being a music journalist). It turned out to be on the other end of the grounds, so when I pushed my way through the horde (man, summer is great for bird-watching. Less plumage), I found myself face to face with Slymenstra Hymen of GWAR. She and a few other freaks were doing a side-show bit that included escapes from (black leather, of course) straightjackets, lying on a bed of nails, and a half-man/half-woman accordion player. I decided that this was the place to be.
I finally arrived at the third stage where Capsize 7 was running the show, tight and hard. They took the guitar lines out to the left, and then reined it back in again with catchy melodies. I was immediately (albeit temporarily) stopped in my tracks in my quest for beer. The sound was better over here, too. Go figure.
After finding the press tent and tossing back a few, I was lured back out to second stage, due to very strange percussion and what could only be a sitar. It was. Cornershop incorporates lots of drums, Indian drone notes and a laid-back funk groove. But what takes them beyond being just another worldbeat funk group is their use of twisted and contorted samples, which add a freakish element to the music, throwing one’s expectations off-kilter, keeping interest alive. I knew I was in the right place.
Screaming Trees played the main stage, and sounded like, well, Screaming Trees, only louder, with a worse mix. Anyway, back on third stage, Lütefisk was doing their thing, and their thing was good. Loopy and convoluted and (at times) straight ahead post-punk loud stuff. The players were jumping around the stage (for a guy, the guitarist looked rather fetching in his negligée), throwing fruit and soda into the crowd. At times, the music degraded beautifully into absolute noise, taking everyone aback, and I liked it.
Rancid played the main stage, and sounded pretty much like Rancid. No surprise there.
Clouds were looming darkly when Ruby hit second stage. Far from being the studio queen she appears to be on her album, Ruby was one of the more honest performers of the day. Her brand of aggressive trip-hop was carried so much further by her completely relaxed nature and candor. She was just so real that the music took off and soared. Then I went back to drink more beer.
I saw David from Moonshake, and we chatted a while about this and that, and how their van blew up in New York. Then he had to go, and I went out front. A few drops of rain were beginning to fall, but there was no way I was going to miss this one. They opened with “Exotic Siren Song,” the first cut off of Dirty and Divine, and they didn’t let up. The visual combination of David, hunched over and sort of bobbing up and down, and Victoria, looking all the world like a very slim and attractive sumo wrestler, matched the music perfectly, a combination of samples and live instruments, curious twittering and solid bass, frenetic rhythms and mellow feel. It might have been an overabundance of the Harp, Heiniken, and Coors (hey, it was free, okay?), but there was no way you could stop me from dancing. So it might have been just me and some anonymous woman in red and white tights and a Bazooka gum t-shirt boogieing down, but what the hell? Those other cretins will never understand. About now, I was informed Wu-Tang Clan was playing. When I asked how it sounded, I was told, “Sounds like the Wu-Tang Clan playing live to an audience of thousands.” Works for me.
Just as Moonshake was finishing up their set, the sky cracked open and the deluge began. And so did Ben Folds Five‘s set. As always, he rocked the crowd with his mad piano, and this time he was supplemented by a pair of leggy women who were doing tricks with a bed of nails. I did venture out when the downpour lessened, and he was as animated as ever, mixing all-out rockers with jazzier numbers, throwing in occasional bursts of keyboard slapping and forearm playing. The set ended when he picked up his stool and threw it at the piano. I’ll buy it.
And then, from out of nowhere, punk rock lifted its mangy, glorious head. Chune was playing, and doing their best to antagonize the audience with their aggressive dissonance and brooding anger. I was realizing that I’d better not bump into anyone, when the unthinkable happened. A guy in the crowd had somehow gotten a bottle in (no glass allowed on the grounds), and hurled it at the band. Okay, that wasn’t unthinkable. What was, at this media conglomerate event, was that immediately, the singer leapt off the stage, over the barrier, and was quickly followed by the rest of the band, who proceeded to kick the living shit out of the guy. By the time security had gotten over their shock and broken it up, he was a mess. Chune decided to stop playing, as the guitarist had injured his hand from punching the guy’s face in. They proved that $35.00 tickets aren’t gonna stop music from being a violent, driving, moving force.
The Ramones hit the main stage, and sounded for all the world like a live Ramones set. You know the story.
Girls Against Boys took second stage, playing their “get violent but not as fast” music, stirring up emotions (but not jumping off stage), and getting the shit moving. Yup, they’re good (as our dear publisher would say). Their slow, deeply intense grooves rumbled and stampeded as yelps and shouts accentuated the slippery beat and the plough-churning-the-earth beat.
I chose that as my cue to leave, as the Shaolin Monks failed to appear on third stage (I am mildly upset that I missed them), the Beth Hart Band sounded too much like Alanis, and I had no intention of seeing Soundgarden or Metallica. But you know, I’m sure they sounded just like… You guessed it.
