Stuck Inside Of Lollapalooza With the Chicago Blues Again

Earlier today, I traipsed the grounds of Lollapalooza with LNE. Rather, I staggered while holding onto her like a pliant palm tree in the middle of a hurricane.

It's about Endgame-time, in the Samuel Beckett sense. Tomorrow I head to Northwestern for the beginning of tests for the stem cell trial. It could not have possibly come sooner... Anywho, back to Lollapalooza.

So I've acknowledged that I have ignored my own warnings and outright admonitions about outdoor concerts. Standing by the stage, I never enjoy myself, and always wish that I were elsewhere. The allure of it has never polluted my own revulsion for these outdoor shows. At Lollapalooza, this is a feat that truly clarifies things, especially when there were three stages and I saw nary a one. Actually, we entered next to one stage and walked in with Snoop Dogg in our ears. Nevertheless, I never saw him. I could just hear "Gin & Juice" emanating from the stage on my left. I didn't take the time to figure out who was setting up on the middle stage, where we entered. (By the way, no one asked for our tickets, which is a horrible testament to the security of the festival.)

On the walkway between that stage and Buckingham Fountain, we quit. More truthfully, I quit. I could not go any further. The oppressive humidity had won, and my legs locked up. We stopped and sat down on the ground underneath the trees of Grant Park. This was oddly funny because we were triangulated in the middle of all the stages. Simply, we could hear everything and nothing. At one point, I heard a wailing saxophone that turned out, later, to be part of the coda of "Walk On The Wild Side." My brother, who also went to the festival, verified this. His remembered set list comforted me more, because I had heard all of the songs in prior concerts. Or, in the case of "Waves of Fear," on various bootlegs or live albums (mostly from the mid-to-late '70s and early '80s). Now, too, through the miracle of YouTube, I can see the whole set.

But walking through the crowd was an utter trial. At the end, when we finally decided to leave, some guys helped me up, which was both hilarious and, to be honest, a little emasculating. I held onto LNE's arm with such a tenacious grip that I fear she may have bruises. I told her just to say that she fell if anyone asked any questions, like a comical reenactment of a Lifetime movie about domestic abuse. Or, in the spirit of Snoop Dogg, that she asked for it. As LNE observed, I did/do have a b/w snakeskin cane that Bishop Don Magic Juan would approve of.

It was funny, though. We stayed in the middle of the bombastic festivities and gave up on the music. This gave us ample time to ogle, critique, and make fun of passers-by, a skill I've honed over the years.

Alas, Monsieur Reed, you'll have to play a theater if you want me to attend another of your shows. I've said it before, and I realize I sound like a recurrent victim of domestic violence, but I'm emphatically done with outdoor music festivals. (At least until the end of this stem cell trial, for which I have several appointments that begin tomorrow).

I think of them now with the same nihilistic nonchalance with which I see random trinkets that I find when I'm packing in preparation for a move. Do I really need this or that or these?

The answer is always the same: No. In the trash you go...

R