Pitchfork

Photos by Kirstie Shanley and Joseph Mohan; Above: Cat Power by Kirstie Shanley

Welcome to our coverage of Lollapalooza 2008, which will continue through the weekend and conclude Monday. Check back for daily reports from Joshua Klein, Amy Phillips, Scott Plagenhoef, and Matthew Solarski.

For Joshua Klein's coverage, click here: Friday
For Scott Plagenhoef's coverage, click here: Friday
For Matthew Solarski's coverage, click here: Friday

Cat Power [5:15 p.m]
Photo by Kirstie Shanley

A hot, hazy summer evening is the perfect setting for Cat Power's current incarnation as a Southern-fried torch singer. Her dusky voice crooning heartachey covers, backed by the Dirty Delta Blues band's studied barroom crawl, evokes rickety wooden back porches groaning in the swampland humidity. Sure, a concrete stage in the middle of downtown Chicago, with a huge PLAYSTATION 3 sign above it, isn't exactly atmospheric. But when the dude on my right sparked up a bowl, and somebody on my left accidentally poured beer all the way down my back, it might as well have been a Mississippi juke joint. (OK, not really.)

Chan Marshall spent her Lolla set sticking mostly to the material included on her latest album, Jukebox, though "Lived in Bars" and "Could We", both from The Greatest, made appearances. (The latter, revved up to a bluesy strut, took on a pulse not found on the lifeless album version.) "Metal Heart" sounded particularly lovely… too bad a guy behind me felt the need to honk on an air horn throughout the song.

Among Chan Marshall's many gifts is her ability to maintain a certain calmness in her voice no matter how intensely she may be singing. So even when belting out the climaxes of "New York, New York" or "Ramblin' (Wo)man", her vocals remained muted. This lead to some shining moments, such as what had to be the most relaxed and sad version of Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Fortunate Son", ever. But it also meant that her performance lacked dynamics. The same woozy, even keel persisted. Despite Marshall's awkward yet charming dance moves, as well as the fact that her low-cut, off-the-shoulder tank top continually threatened to expose more than it should, it wasn't exactly a riveting display. Minds and eyes wandered throughout.

At the end of the set, Marshall remained on stage a good five or so minutes after her bandmates had departed, bowing, shaking hands with fans, and handing out set lists and water bottles to the crowd. For a woman who could barely make it through a show without tears just a few years ago, this was a triumph.

Photo by Kirstie Shanley

The Raconteurs [6:15 p.m.]
Photo by Joseph Mohan

The Raconteurs are a fine band. Just fine. They get up there, they rock out, they sweat a lot, they get the crowd clapping, waving their arms, singing call and response ("When I say 'Steady as she goes', you say 'Are you steady now', all right!"). Their songs are fine, mostly classic rock-derived ditties about being mad at somebody for some reason or other. They seem to be enjoying themselves up there, and their fans seem to be enjoying themselves while watching them. (Except when they stretched "Blue Veins" out into an interminable jam around 7:30 p.m., and the audience collectively decided that it was time to go stake out a good spot for Radiohead, resulting in a mass exodus.)

Photo by Joseph Mohan

This is all a damn shame. Because Jack White is so much more than a fine rock star. He's a great rock star. Charisma leaks from his pores; his fingers breathe fire when he's playing guitar. But when surrounded by Brendan Benson and the dudes from the Greenhornes, he threatens to become just one of the guys, out having a good ol' time at the neighborhood bar, pounding back a few before it's time to go home to the wife and kids.

Photo by Joseph Mohan

No. This needs to stop. Meg White, wherever you are, please, please, come back. We need you. Jack White is not just one of the guys. He's a gifted entertainer and showman. I don't want to watch him relaxing and jamming with his beer buddies. I want to see him testify and plead and jump around and fall to his knees, tortured by guilt and sexual confusion. This is what happens at White Stripes shows. During the Raconteurs' Lollapalooza set, we got to see him fiddle around with some effects pedals and shout into what sounded like a tin can microphone. Yeah, yeah, he ripped some pretty amazing solos, but so what? This was not a man possessed by the evil demons of rock'n'roll. This was just a guy sporting some unfortunate mutton chops who happened to be a really good guitar player.

Photo by Joseph Mohan