Reports from Saturday, day three at Lollapalooza in Grant Park, from Greg Kot (GK), Bob Gendron (BG), Kevin Williams (KM) and Tracy Swartz (TS):
Noon: First things first. This is a stupid name. Now that’s out of the way, this group of Berklee music students — Holly McGarry, Chris Bloniarz and Benjamin Burns, augmented by bassist and drummer — must have been studying how to merge Americana with rock beats and make something pretty. It’s also a brilliant way to start a Lollapalooza Saturday. McGarry’s power-packed alto has just the right throatiness to cut right through the mix. Folks looing for a hook should think Nickel Creek with big beats. But the drummer, rocking a stripped down kit, used mostly snare, with judicious application of kick to keep these ditties moving smartly along. Burns on banjo and Bloniarz on mandolin, can pick and twang with most folks, to keep the Americana strains strong. McGarry’s rhythm guitar (she’s no slouch on banjo, either) works with the rhythm section to provide a polyrhythmic underpinning more than sufficient to keep the foot tapping. And … wait a minute … banjo power chords?! Get outta town! These folks rock. There was another hootenanny on over at Lakeshore with the Strumbellas, being covered by my colleague Bob Gendron. Pretty sure I got the best of this twangoff. Another day, another lovely start. (KM)
12:04 p.m.: “I don’t sing well but I got a lot of heart,” confess the Strumbellas, opening the day with innocuous fare ideal for a lazy day spent lounging at the beach. Earnesty the band has in spades. Airy, happy and swaddled with synthesizers, the Canadian sextet’s songs encourage participatory clap-and sing-alongs at every turn. The occasional appearance of a fiddle flavors the pop-centric structures with hints of country and bluegrass. Strumbellas, however, primarily veer toward the souped-up Americana trend represented by Mumford and Sons and the Lumineers. Mentions of shotgun shacks, being wild and heartbreak in the lyrics seem decorative, in place because they rhyme. Little about the well-manicured jamboree owes to rusticism, craziness or yearning. That might get in the way of the formula. It’s much easier to stomp, clap, smile, stomp. And repeat. Again and again. (BG)
12:44 p.m.: Something tells me Jarryd James has been shy since he’s a little kid and took control of the potential deficiency by practicing singing in front of a mirror in his bedroom. Onstage, the sleepy Australian’s reticence shows in his relative immobility and inability to enunciate loud enough when introducing his patience-demanding soul songs. Thankfully, his sensual vocals carry the day. James’ fluttering croon and wordless oohs hover in the air, possessing just enough weight to prevent being whisked away by the breeze. He also knows well enough to come with a live band, not a deejay. Two keyboardists bookend his light utterances with equal parts contemporary and vintage (think Hammond B3) touches. His drummer supplies light twitches that cause the slow, crawling tunes to inch ahead. As a pleader, James asks nicely and affectionately for what he wants. Now, he needs to pair that politesse with charisma and movements that force him to remove his left hand from his leg. (BG)
1:20 p.m.: The city reported nine arrests for the first two days of Lollapalooza, including two arrests for flying drones over the Grant Park event. Drones are prohibited. There were seven arrests on Friday, up from two arrests on Thursday, according to the city Office of Emergency Management and Communications. The city reported four citations were issued Friday, up from one citation issued Thursday. Citation details were not immediately available. Seventy-nine festivalgoers were sent to hospitals on Friday, down from 84 attendees on Thursday. The city reported 34 arrests, 61 citations and 238 medical transports over the three-day festival last year. (TS)
1:23 p.m.: Tor Miller has got a little vibrato, a bit of a growl, in his voice, but he doesn’t quite fall over the line into soul parody. He plays gospel chords on his keyboards, and his voice sometimes rises into a falsetto, which accents his pop melodies instead of overwhelming them. The three-part harmonies with his band help too. Still, his songs lack true distinction, and his comparison of a love affair to that of “Carter and Cash”? A bit of a reach, don’t you think? (GK)
1:38 p.m.: Lolawolf’s percussive attack and shadowy, sometimes ominous take on electro-soul might make for a creepily fascinating late-night set at a small club. But in the early-afternoon sunshine on the big stage at the north end of Butler Field, it feels badly misplaced. The co-ed duo hammers away on synthetic percussion and a kettle drum, but things don’t pick up until singer Zoe Kravitz flips off her sunglasses and wades into the crowd. She even smiles. A dark, strange set turns into a festival moment, however briefly. (GK)
2:08 p.m.: Geeks and hipsters of the world, unite. Chris Baio performs as if he’s forever trapped in the early 1980s film “Risky Business” and has the harmless synthpop to prove it. The Vampire Weekend bassist’s solo venture exists in a world where Flock of Seagulls still get major airplay on radio stations. Island-hopping grooves, simple drum-machine beats and a treble-saturated guitar shower the songs such as “Sister of Pearl” with blissful, chilled-out textures. A spot-on cover of INXS’ “Need You Tonight” practically begs for Baio to perform the Australian band’s landmark “Kick” in its entirety. When not busy twisting knobs, the vocalist gets into the festive spirit with cheeky dance moves and goofy banter. Everything is totally 80s, including his reference to “delicious guitar licks.” Baio also arrived dressed for the occasion. Donning a bow tie, tan sport coat, white loafers and sunglasses, the London-based artist channels the preppy look of a Reagan-era J. Crew ad. Meet the wedding singer of your dreams, ladies and gentlemen. (BG)
2:15 p.m.: “We got one hell of a show for you,” boasts Sam Harris, the X Ambassadors frontman. Mmmm, not quite. But this group’s brand of soulful everyman rock feels like a tent revival. Everything is positive: lyrics, attitude, even Harris’ kinda dorky stage presence. “Hang On,” followed by “Love Songs, Drug Songs” was pure energy, arena rock with ambitions. Harris even picked up a sax during an instrumental break. The claim to fame for this band is that the Imagine Dragons frontman heard it, and urged his label to sign X Ambassadors. And of course, this story sets up “Fear,” the collaboration with Imagine Dragons, that was also the worst song of a set that, once you got past the seemingly boundless energy of the white-clad Harris, was defined by a stultifying sameness. Lots of bands base a career on doing the same song. But that song should be interesting. X Ambassadors takes a moody, dynamic intro, heavy guitar fill and basic drumming, and does that really loudly. Best part about the tunes are the keyboard fills by (blind since birth) Casey Harris, who sounds like the hotshot slumming with the garage band. And yet, you find yourself tapping a foot to “Unsteady.” The pop craftsmanship is undeniable, working with simple, anthemic lyrics that are easy for fans to remember and sing along with. Every rapper who has ever exhorted the crowd to sing along would turn green with envy at the full-throated roar of the crowd during “Unsteady.” Rage Against the Machine’s Tom Morello joined the band on their new collaboration, “Collide.” Break these songs down all you like, but they work because at its core, successful rock music comes down to emotion. And this either comes through loud and clear from Sam Harris, or he’s the greatest faker in rock history. (KM)
2:27 p.m.: Massachusetts quartet Potty Mouth should probably reconsider that name, but everything else about the band clicks. The foursome has been making records and touring steadily for years, and claim that this is its first festival appearance. The band members do not hide their enthusiasm for their entre into festival world, and they are fortunate to be booked on one of the smaller side stages unlike some of their equally inexperienced peers, who don’t quite know how to fill that big space with sound or bodies. Every fan who joins the crowd raises the band’s spirits, but their gratitude doesn’t interfere with the business at hand. “You guys chose the right stage,” singer Abby Weems says, “we’re going to rock out.” After getting the lone ballad out of the way first, the band charges through a batch of pop-rock tunes that echoes the scrappy guitar-based melodies of the Muffs or the Fastbacks. And the band keeps getting better. Its best, catchiest song just might be one of its most recent, the irresistible “Cherry Picking.” (GK)
2:58 p.m.: Oops. Two members of the Joy Formidable jump the gun and start the beginning of a song one bar too early. Drummer Matthew James Thomas lets everyone know and stops. No worries.The co-ed Welsh trio makes fun of itself for the slip. It also gives singer/guitarist Rhiannon Bryan a chance to point out what should already be obvious. “At least you know we don’t have USBs,” before slamming acts that rely on processing rather than play live. Bryan needn’t be concerned. No computer or hard drive can replicate the dynamic punch and colossal sound her group projects during a set that will undoubtedly stand out as one of the day’s best. Set on “stun” and driven by an armada of effects pedals, Joy Formidable’s guitars double as a herd of elephants trampling across a wide-open prairie; drums fire away like bazookas. Songs such as “I Don’t Want to See You Like This” march forth with melodic ferocity and contribute to sonic squalls laden with drama, hope and clean distortion. The balladic strains of “Liana” constitute a slight misstep, but the band compensates with extra thunder. “Happy for you,” Bryan and bassist Rhydian Dafydd repeat, viewing the line as a dagger and then, a curse. The emotional and aural swell keeps growing. By the time Joy Formidable wraps up, the trio can be heard more than half a mile away on the other side of Buckingham Fountain. This is how it’s done, folks. (BG)
3:21 p.m.: A 26-year-old Naperville man was arrested and charged with reckless conduct for flying a drone at Lollapalooza, Chicago police said. The man was arrested about 2 p.m. Thursday in the 1000 block of South Michigan Avenue after a drone was seen flying over Grant Park. Drones are prohibited at Lollapalooza. The man was located on Michigan Avenue, piloting the drone, and he was arrested and given a citation for operating an unmanned aircraft, according to police. A spokeswoman for the city Office of Emergency Management and Communications reported two people were arrested for drone operation during the first two days of Lollapalooza, which continues through Sunday. (TS)
3:30 p.m.: How many Strokes copycat bands are allowed to exist, particularly when the Strokes aped the post-punk garage style as their own? The Drowners symbolize the latest group to embrace a detached cool and casually trashy approach, cocooning their concise tunes in watery reverb and ringing synth accents. But frontman Matthew Hitt’s backstory as a former model and fact the group’s name stems from a Suede song might be the most memorable aspects of a New York combo overly versed in derivative moves. Too many other bands have covered this territory before, and done a better job. Call it a case of being born 15 years too late. (BG)
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3:45 p.m.: Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats don’t do anything new, but there is beauty in executing this Memphis-leaning skirl at an astonishingly high level. Petrillo was packed for a very good reason: the fame of the live shows by Rateliff and his cohorts preceded them. Bands are supposed to pit out, to come at the audience with the delight of having a dream job. Bonhomie gets a band far when it isn’t reinventing the wheel. This set was pure joy, and what a set it was, a very different high than the jet engine din of The Joy Formidable. “We got blessed with a nice day, and we got blessed with a nice day.” Indeed. And a brilliant set. Pop music always needs to make room for folks like this, even as Rateliff is dismissed by many as a low-rent Bruce Springsteen. For sure, there is some of that sound in there, but credit both men for quaffing from the same deep well of brass-infused, hook heavy rock ‘n’ roll. And it works for both of them for the same reasons in the live setting: great tunes and stellar musicianship. That thump gets rolling, then the brass kicks in like a freight train. It’s the sound of a party, one that goes off the rails only when the bumping stops. It’s also the sound of rock crit snarkers being disarmed, because what a band has to excel at is being itself at the highest level possible. There isn’t any outfit doing what Rateliff and his mates are at a similar level. Period. (KW)
4:03 p.m.: Front Bottoms singer Brian Sella has got girlfriend issues — dating back to high school. He gives voice to every 10th grader who couldn’t get a date. He strums his acoustic guitar as if he were fronting a hard-core band, and he and his bandmates churn out pogo-friendly tunes reminiscent of the bratty, socially awkward but biting folk-punk of the early Violent Femmes. The audience revels in all of it — who hasn’t felt like one of Sella’s narrators in their melodramatic search for life’s meaning in the back of homeroom? “You are water 12 feet deep and I am boots made of concrete,” he sings without a hint of humor in his voice. It was all so serious back then, and — even though Sella’s high school years are a decade in the past — it still is. (GK)
4:17 p.m.: The three members of Big Grams are aligned across the stage like equals, each in front of his or her own rectangular video screen. But the collaboration between Outkast’s Big Boi and Phantogram’s Josh Carter and Sarah Barthel doesn’t quite cohere in practice. Though Big Boi has by far the longer and more distinguished pedigree, he comes off as more of an add-on to Phantogram’s electro-pop, with Barthel’s singing and prancing the focal point. Carter, the trio’s producer on their 2015 EP, stands in between working the electro beats and adding one unfortunate rap vocal. Even the banter among the three comes off forced, and the music lack rhythmic heft or drive. I’ve seen Big Boi both in Outkast and as a solo act, and he’s always made music built for dancing. That’s not the case here, until the MC rides a snippet of Outkast’s “Ms. Jackson” (a song actually associated more closely with Big Boi’s old partner, Andre 3000). When Big Boi commands the closing “Drum Machine,” the funk is finally felt, and it’s up to him to sum it up: “Better late than never.” (GK)
4:55 p.m.: Leon Bridges’ PG-rated songs speak about regrets, wrongs, patience, train tickets and self-improvement. They’re guided by plush saxophones, spare bass lines and plentiful doo-wop backing vocals. Be it “Better” or “Outta Line,” they seem as if they emanate from the late 1950s and 60s. The warm, dusty feel even suggests old wood-paneled hi-fi stereos, scratchy 7-inch singles and tube amplification. No, retro soul doesn’t come more on the nose than that proffered by the Texas-based Bridges. His suave clothes and dapper-dressed band further sell the visual idea that this brand of understated nostalgia ignores the last four-plus decades without any care or consequence. Bridges is fully invested in the rehash. His smooth vocals and crystal-clear deliveries conjure sock-hop settings and postcard pictures of an America that existed before Civil Rights protests shook up culture and society. Still, for all the exactness of his approach, it’s hard to see past him as anything more than a revivalist that provides no convincing argument to choose his music over the original soul legends from which he cribs. The exception? Back-up singer Brittni Jessie, a dynamo Bridges even acknowledges deserves a lead role. Give that girl a record deal. (BG)
5:15 p.m.: When you’re a one-man band, life is easy. No van, no worries about hotel rooms, etc. Garratt drums, plays guitar, bashes away on the MIDI pad and runs his own electronics. In between all of that, he finds space to do the singer-songwriter thing, songs delivered in a high-strung voice that sounds as if it’s always on the verge of shattering, inviting listeners onto the high wire with him. And watch out for that falsetto. One album just out in February, “Phase,” and here he is at Lollapalooza. There is no signature sound, no defining ditty. There was a rocker, an electronica-laced number, a soulful slow jam, even a number that wouldn’t have been out of place at Perry’s. Pepsi was busy, and gradually filled in. And as people heard what was going on, they looked at the stage in expectation of more than a dude who came off like young Joe Cocker. It was fun to watch people as he refused to stand still creatively, even as it was a delight to hear. Garratt has a knack for how to pace a set, what to do with the intensity he brings to the proceedings. An EDM love song was shoved aside by a piano-driven track, frenetic tempo battling with lyrics as the intensity built. The trend is to take songs and add EDM textures to them. So few people pull it off as successfully as Garratt. Another killer on a Saturday of discovery.
6:18 p.m.: Chris Stapleton is all about the smolder. His songs take their time, prizing not the quick immediacy of the fire but focusing on what happens after with the smoke and ashes, which can lead to more interesting situations. The Grammy-winning artist, who has penned tunes for mainstream luminaries such as Brad Paisley and Adele, also brings a sound in extremely short supply at Lollapalooza: Country. The Kentucky native counts as the genre’s sole representative. Judging from the crowd, organizers might want to plan differently in the future. Stapleton doesn’t let the opportunity go to waste. Singing with a drawl so big it could be lassoed, he expresses words with deep-seated passion, hard-edged sensibility and barbed-wire toughness. Stapleton moans, cries and sighs. His economical band responds with deep twang and bluesy grit. “Midnight Train to Memphis” rolls with Southern spunk and snarls with guard-dog meanness. “Outlaw State of Mind” trudges through a musty Mississippi swamp. A slippery “Drinkin’ Dark Whiskey” follows an unhurried route and stays true to Stapleton’s no-frills technique. Disintinct from what passes today as modern country, Stapleton at no point leans on a pop crutch or trite commercial device. His group even places a fresh spin on the tradional classic “You Are My Sunshine,” caking it in red-dirt crunch and worrisome sensitivity. There’s no substitute for crafting sturdy songs and steady melodies, and the bushy bearded vocalist seems to have pocketfuls at his disposal. Keep on traveling, cowboy. (BG)
6:25 p.m.: The song says “Been Caught Stealing,” but Perry Farrell’s bigger crime might be “been caught scatting.” Farrell, a singer born to be a circus carny, is never averse to trying to bend the rules in the name of entertainment. He created Lollapalooza 25 years ago as a farewell tour for his band Jane’s Addiction, and it’s only appropriate that he return with the band to acknowledge the anniversary of the tour as well as the Jane’s album that was its centerpiece, the 1991 “Ritual de lo Habitual.” The album is an erratic affair, with a handful of songs that shaped the dawn of the so-called alternative-rock era on commercial radio, and a few longer, more rambling and unfocused tracks that haven’t held up quite as well. The Perry Farrell Dancers to the rescue — they shake, shimmy, twerk and swing from harnesses over the stage and audience. And there are guest stars as Tom Morello joins Dave Navarro for the guitar avalanche on “Mountain Song,” and Smashing Pumpkins’ Jimmy Chamberlin mans the drums for “Jane Says.” (GK)
6:52 p.m.: Blow, man, blow. Two horn players jazz up Houndmouth’s music with squeal and skronk. Even better, the instrumentalists resemble the brass section from the original Blues Brothers ensemble. Stylistically, the Indiana band ventures all over the map by design. It refuses to be pinned down. Don’t like this song? Hold on. Just wait three minutes for the next one. It’ll be different. Guitarist/vocalist Matt Meyers and bassist/vocalist espouse a greaser aesthetic that informs their tunes. Houndmouth needn’t any electronics to cause people to dance. The group causes hips to shake the old-fashioned way, via rave-ups and boogies that owe a passing debt to juiced-up ska. Gleeful romps such as “Black Gold” resemble mash-ups in that they zig, zag and careen in multiple directions and adhere to no strict tempo. But Houndmouth leavens the zany with seriousness. Vide, the tender persuasion of “Darlin’,” because even rabble rousers need affection. (BG)
7:18 p.m.: The sight of an actual drum kit and saxophone on the Perry’s stage alone qualifies as a minor revelation. Real instruments are exotic rarities in EDM land. Colorado-based Big Gigantic deserve accolades for trying to bring live playing to the tradionallly one-dimensional medium, but its efforts fall short. The usual suspects — booming beats, seismic pulses, rollercoaster drops — override Dominic Lalli’s horn and Jeremy Salken’s percussion. Traces of hip-hop, funk and soul barely peek through the electronic hash. Big Gigantic’s “jamtronic” balance might be out of whack, yet the kids don’t care. Festgoers eat it up, throwing their hands up and racing in from the perimeter to join the sweaty masses. Year after year, Perry’s operates as a black hole. The artist names may be different, but the sound — and homogenized result — remains the same. (BG)
8:05 p.m.: Though she says her movements will be hindered because she twisted both ankles, Grimes (Claire Boucher) is still jumping around like she’s hot-wired to one of her keyboards. Springing from a riser, she rolls on the floor, pops up and let’s out the kind of scream that only fans of “The Exorcist” or the darkest depths of death metal would recognize. It’s pretty startling given that Boucher typically speaks and sings in a chirpy voice that sounds incapable of threatening anyone, let alone screaming like a demon. It’s only fitting for a songwriter-producer-performer who treats her set as anything but a rote button-pushing exercise. She performs a little street-dance choreography with her fellow performers, and waves a drum stick in between bashes on a drum pad as though orchestrating the madly dancing fans packed shoulder to shoulder across the field. Instead of merely clipping together album tracks and singles, she leaves room to extend, expand and disrupt, no matter what that does to her ankles or vocal cords. (GK)
9:42 p.m.: Deja vu. Multiplied by three. The Red Hot Chili Peppers have been here before as headliners. In 1992, 2006 and 2012 to be exact. With more than 30 years under its collective belts, the band members understand their jobs. Bassist Flea snaps into the guise of a shirtless spazz that behaves as if he gulped down 20 cups of coffee in an afternoon. Vocalist Anthony Kiedis pogos around like a skate-punk beach bum scoping out girls on the beach. Onstage, he divides his time between singing, scatting and awkward rapping. Guitarist Josh Klinghoffer does his best to blend in and fill the big shoes left behind years ago by the departure of John Frusciante. Drummer Chad Smith keeps the kernel-popping rhythms on track and doubles as Will Ferrell’s twin. The group sprinkles a few newer funk-lite tunes (“Dark Necessities,” “Robot Love”) into a set dominated by now-familiar sing-a-long hits (“Scar Tissue,” “Dani California,” “Californication,” “Snow (Hey Ho)”) whose soft, sincere accents bear little in common with the faster, crazed work the band performed at Lollapalooza in 1992. Indeed, the flaming helmets, tube socks worn over genitals and fits of spontaneity are long gone–possibly retired to museums. This is the automatic, matured RHCP, molded for mass appeal and trained for arenas. One of the largest Lollapalooza crowds in recent memory rewards the professional albeit predictable approach. Some things haven’t changed. The range-limited Kiedis, who with his baseball cap, shorts and porn-star mustache ironically mirrors the “bro” contingent so prevalent at the fest, never evolved as a lyricist or vocalist. Flea and Smith remain the vital lynchpins. For all the clowning, Flea can torch the bass strings. His work alone prompts “Parallel Universe” to jiggle. Yet even Flea appears hamstrung by the RHCP’s move away from the hard, sinewy funk-metal embodied by “Blood Sugar Sex Magik” and toward a gooey pop center. However, at this juncture, tossing the script seems as unlikely as the band resurrecting its fashionable hosiery. (BG)
9:55 p.m.: Vic Mensa knows how to make a dramatic statement. His backdrop is a group of accomplices dressed as riot police, which underlines the gravity of the South Side MC’s agenda tonight. This is not the high-energy rapper of years past, racing around the stage with an exuberance bordering on manic. In contrast, Mensa approaches his music with a solemn resolve, folding his hands in front of him and bowing his head between songs, as though composing himself for what needs to be said. He addresses everything from the Flint, Mich., water crisis to the slaying of young African-Americans in his home town’s streets. He also calls out Lollapalooza itself, as he recalls how he nearly killed himself trying to scale a fence to gain entrance to the festival years ago because he couldn’t afford to attend. “The festival is not accessible for people where I’m from … the West Side and the South Side,” he says. It’s a theme he returns to again in “Shades of Blue”: “The people with the least gotta pay the most.” He’s also one of the few hip-hop artists to take an outspoken stance in favor of LBGT rights, as he does in “Free Love.” The political tone of many of the tracks is flavored with personal anecdotes and stories. A new track from his upcoming album details the harsh lessons he’s learned from his older brother, while the title track from his latest EP, “There’s ALot Going On,” delivers a personal reckoning. Hunched over at the waist, he raps with imposing ferocity and focus about failure and atonement. As the song ends, so does the set. There’s no way to follow that. (GK)
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