July 17–24, 1997

music|reviews

Lollapalooza

July 12, Blockbuster-Sony E-Centre

Jon Stark/City Paper

Maynard James Keenan of Tool.

To say that Lollapalooza no longer represents alternative anything is pointless. It hasn't been anything but "corporate" since its inception. But at least it used to be fun and nearly organized. With the loss of The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and visionary hip-hop practitioner Dr. Octagon, the misplacing of lovely no-depression twangsters Old 97's (they weren't on any schedules), and freaky-deak sideshow stuff at a bare minimum, this horse was ready for the glue. Giddy up.

Hitting the parking lot to the strained strains of a moody James (with all those Eno clicks 'n' clacks; they're much better on record), a maelstrom of bad feeling kicked in. The festival concourse — founder Perry Farrell's arty contribution — was spare and banal. The Brainforest, a respite from the dust and detritus of bands like Radish, was nothing but a humid Quonset hut. While rasta-ed poet Jeff "Cottonmouth TX" rapped over post-techno dub Muzak, you got to look at paintings by Robert Williams and Sue Coe that asked the question of our natural resources — how much of mother earth goes into one hamburger?

Jon Stark/City Paper

Singer Jonathan Davis of Korn.

So, maybe I will have the Korn. With Flea-like basslines, slick metal guitar riffs, programmable bits of synthed strings and DJ scratches, Korn was tame but effectively spooky, even if its live sound was a jumbled mess. HIV-infected singer Jonathan Davis' screaming of "faggot" and "suck my dick" probably wasn't catching this crowd of tanned alterna-lumberjacks.

The much-anticipated Tool had the same problem. Their fussy thrash riffs, clean vocals and slick rhythm section turned them into revved-up Stooges without the danger. On the second stage, Artificial Joy Club sounded like Boston if they had a girl singer with menstrual cramps. Summercamp was uneventful, slashing pop. Only the Eels amazed. With keyboard/singer E's strange tales of beloved monster women over catchy melodies that borrowed as liberally from Mike Oldfield as XTC, the Eels were the catch of the day. Moving from fruggin' psychedelia to fusion to country-billy in one breath was almost enough to make me forget that Spencer, Octagon and the Old 97's weren't playing. But not quite.

Jon Stark/City Paper

Snoop Doggy Dogg.

Back at the mainstage, trip-hoppin' Tricky went for the big-guitar stadium sound. With accompanying songstress Martine, the two became the Louis Prima and Keely Smith of aggro-trip-hop. But this machine-like wall of sound grew tedious. So did Snoop Doggy Dogg. Yes, he was all sexy in his long coat and yellow cap, but his blunt rap, plodding, rolling bass, and his dedication to Tupac didn't work in the hot sun. Nothing but a "B" thing. BORING. And it ain't like the Orbital made it any better. They just sailed out to the parking lot on a bouncy Muzak tip. An elevator ride through Camden.

Next time, Perry, more giant hamburgers.

— a.d. amorosi