What a relief. Enormous exhale. Sigh. Over exaggerated brow wipe. I thought for a minute there Lollapalooza was actually going to have a band I wanted to see, but hadn’t yet. I can officially put any and all concern to bed. Tuck it in nicely, kiss it on the forehead. Be relieved of the burden that had been attending the last several years. The cross has been lifted.
Looking at the lineup I couldn’t help to think, I’ve seen this all before. Probably because I have. Orangizer Perry Farrell must have been dumpster diving in the shredded lineups of years past, then constructed this uninspired turd. Bound together by vomit scraped from the mud at Perry’s DJ tent and greed. Oh yeah, and garnished with the tears of everyone who got ripped by scalpers, lost their friends at the mile long bathroom lines, didn’t see a single band, and got swallowed by overwhelming swells of humanity at last year’s blunderous outing. There are some great bands on the bill don’t get be wrong, but it all seems like a bizarre rerun. An indistinguishable episode of Bar Rescue that you’re not sure if you’ve seen or not, but pretty sure you have. How many bars could have roaches in the deep fryer? I mean really. Running through the lineup I actually dozed off midway through. Upon awakening I could have swore the year was 2010.
Nickelback, Creed, and O-Town could all be headlining and 10 million people would still show. Perry knows this, so what does he care who plays? Might as well make the festival with all of the quality of a straight to DVD release. This thing has Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj written all over it. It’s become a safe-haven for the jobbers of the city. Where else would the bros go to show off how swoll they got over the winter in a vintage NBA jersey? Where else would the teens go to eat copious amounts of molly and drink enough Shock Tops to be puking on a stranger’s shoe by 11:00 a.m.? Most importantly, if not for Lollapalooza, where would all of those testy middle-aged wonders place their massive picnic blanket and not budge an inch the entire festival, then scoff at people for trying to maneuver around it? I can’t imagine a world without that.
Top Three Painful Gulps of Balmy Swill at the End of a King Cobra 40 oz aka The Headliners:
1.) Lorde has to be the least exciting headliner in history. I have no interest in paying a couple hundred bucks to watch one of the witches from Hocus Pocus lurch around on stage, while the same crowd at Nickelodeon’s Teen Choice Awards waits anxiously to hear Royals.
2.) I thought Kings of Leon went the way of the dodo…’nuff said.
3.) Eminem is a complete and utter has been, also nothing better than getting into a screaming match with a dude wearing a mesh Korn shirt.
This year I’ll be laid up drinking craft brews and grilling watching the mayhem “The Purge” style. Enjoy the relentless finger-blasting (Yes this happened last year, I suggest you don’t Google it) and face eating that will undoubtedly take place at Skrillex. My decision to never attend Lollapalooza again has never seemed so sweet.