Pitchfork

Photos by Kirstie Shanley and Joseph Mohan; Above: Nine Inch Nails by Kirstie Shanley

Today we conclude our coverage of Lollapalooza 2008. Check back shortly for reports from Amy Phillips, Scott Plagenhoef, and Matthew Solarski.

For Joshua Klein's coverage, click here: Friday, Saturday, Sunday
For Amy Phillips' coverage, click here: Friday, Saturday, Sunday
For Scott Plagenhoef's coverage, click here: Friday, Sunday
For Matthew Solarski's coverage, click here: Friday, Saturday, Sunday

The Whigs [1:15 p.m.]
Photo by Joseph Mohan

The Whigs are a lesson in perseverance. There’s nothing especially original about the Athens, Ga., band’s music, nor is there much especially notable about the way it’s executed. At any given moment the group recalls such alt-rock precursors as the Replacements, Nirvana, and the Pixies, as well as bits and pieces of other better, more original bands. Yet the Whigs put so much sweat and energy into their songs that it doesn’t really matter. The reason the band’s gaining traction is because it leaves its fans similarly sweaty and satisfied.

In the case of today’s set, the sweat came regardless as the midday sun beat down. But at the risk of spontaneous combustion the Whigs soldiered on, blazing through the modest but tough little nuggets from their second album Mission Control like they had something to prove. Or maybe they just heard that a reproachable Greg Dulli, possibly steamed over their name choice, was still hanging around somewhere, and they wanted to hightail it out of there.

Amadou & Mariam [3:15 p.m.]
Photo by Kirstie Shanley

Lollapalooza, at least its current incarnation, never claimed to be any sort of global festival, but the relative lack of music beyond the usual rock or rap scope was disheartening as ever. The Malian duo of Amadou Bagayoko and Mariam Doumbia are international sensations for a reason, namely that their Afropop fusion transcends borders just as their songs transcend any language barrier. Most-- or all-- of the audience members who caught their set likely didn’t understand what Amadou & Mariam were singing, but you could tell they still got the point by how much they were dancing.

Amadou & Mariam got a big boost thanks to input of Manu Chao, who produced their breakthrough Dimanche à Bamako a couple of years ago, and their set reflected a similarly diverse approach to so-called “world” music, taking some of the best parts of Mali tradition-- in particular, Amadou’s great, bluesy guitar playing-- and hitching them to a thoroughly modern yet sympathetic rock band. It would have been great to see these guys on a more prominent stage, where it certainly would have gone over just as well, but there was something to be said for catching them in a slightly less imposing setting, where the show came across a refreshing alternative (remember that word?) for those savvy enough to be in the right place at the right time.

Girl Talk [6:30 p.m.]
Photo by Joseph Mohan

By now everyone knows what to expect from a Girl Talk gig. Gregg Gillis’ reputation precedes him as the man to call to get the party started. The problem with so many Girl Talk sets is that, once started, someone freaks out that the Girl Talk party has gotten out of control and calls the cops.

Security kept a watchful eye on Gillis and the gang of lucky hangers-on gathered on the stage to dance and gyrate alongside him as Gillis’ stagehands shot rolls of toilet paper and giant inflatable “G”s and “T”s out over the increasingly vast and energized crowd. As usual, the line between audience and performer was blurred into irrelevance as chaos ruled. Meanwhile, back behind the action, a paramedic crew was busy dealing with a dude waylaid by too much fun, the guy splayed on the sidewalk while the pros went to work.

And what is it that sends these fans into fits of giddy paroxysms? It’s all in the pacing (there’s a reason Gillis has taken to starting out his set in a tracksuit). The cavalcade of familiar songs are part of what makes each Girl Talk set fun, sure, but so is the way Gillis gradually recontexualizes them with fresh beats or contrasting samples. Really, who else would dare funk up Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” or set Journey, Boston, and Styx against chunks of Clipse and the Yin Yang Twins? Only the type of guy who would top off his performance by riding an inflatable raft across the crowd, that’s who.

Nine Inch Nails [8:15 p.m.]


Photos by Kirstie Shanley

After last night’s Rage Against the Machine debacle (injured fans, bum-rushed gates), a lot of folks expected the worst from Trent Reznor and crew (and some still expected Barack Obama to make an appearance, somewhere, as if he'd hitch his wagon to this train). It didn’t help that the northern stage was supposedly ill-suited to good crowd control, or that by the end of the weekend, for the last set of the night, any ya-yas yet to be got out were likely to be let loose en masse.

But lo and behold, Nine Inch Nails pulled it off. It probably alleviated some pressure that Kanye was playing at the other end of the park, leaving behind only a mere, miniscule, barely-there 20,000 or so to relish the lean and mean current incarnation of the group. With Reznor beefed up and the band playing more like a, well, band than ever before, Nine Inch Nails did the best it could to keep up with the once over-methodical Reznor’s rapidly expanding catalog while doing justice to the hits (as such).

Ringers like “Closer” and “March of the Pigs” were dispatched relatively early, meshing well with the new blood of “Discipline” and other tracks from The Slip and Year Zero. For sheer aggression, nothing beat the classic NIN rage and velocity of "Wish" and "Gave Up" (bitter reminders of Reznor's first big record company feud-- oh, how time flies). A lengthy instrumental interlude showed that Reznor’s still got the stuff when he goes soft, and as exciting as it was to watch the National a couple of hours earlier close their set with their reliable barnstormer “Mr. November”, it was something else to hear the back-to-back “The Hand That Feeds” and “Head Like a Hole”, full-on cyborg metal machine music driven by real flesh and blood. It was almost enough to overcome the distant cheers and thumping bass coming from a mile south.