From: alexa@county.lmt.mn.org (Alex Alexander)
Subject: Lollapalooza Review (Mpls., St. Paul)
Organization: LaserMaster Technologies, Minneapolis, MN
Date: Fri, 4 Sep 92 13:15:59 GMT


A review of the Lollapalooza extravaganza Aug. 28 on Harriet Island in St. Paul, MN.

(Reprinted without permission from City Pages, Sept. 2, 1992)

HURT SO GOOD

by David Livingstone 

ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA -- It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The music hadn't started 
yet, but a substantial crowd had already gathered, with hundreds more arriving by 
the minute. The young man with the long red hair leaned against the chain-link fence 
encircling the sound booth, banging his head against the fence. Lightly at first, 
then with increasing force, receiving fleeting attention from those standing nearby. 
A young female friend, conscious of the minor spectacle, attempted halfheartedly to 
dissuade him. When he stopped for a moment, another young man took up the fence 
abuse, repeatedly smashing his fist full force into the thick steel wire. Soon they 
were banging away together. It made noise. It killed time. Evidently, it felt good.

Lollapalooza '92, Perry Farrell's attempt at a show to end all shows, careened into 
the Twin Cities Friday afternoon. Over the course of 10 hours, six bands played; 
tens of thousands of people came, saw, and left a few tons of garbage smeared across 
Harriet Island. While it was there, it made noise, it killed time,
and evidently it felt good.

In most regards, Lollapalooza '92 did manage to live up to its billing -- certainly 
in terms of size; in the world of Farrell's Hollywood spectacular, there is no such 
thing as a small gesture. The immense stage, the massive sound system, the dozens of 
concession stands, the hordes of human beings coalesced to create an event that was 
larger than life. Little can be said to fault the show's organizers, who somehow 
managed to take a logistical nightmare of a show and make it almost seamless. The 
acts almost ran on time, and the sound didn't even suck. But despite success in 
these areas, Lollapalooza ultimately flopped in terms of presenting 35 bucks worth 
of entertainment, or even 35 bucks worth of anything. In comparison to last year, 
the band line-up was even more timid.

Lush, the show's openers, coughed out the pleasantly droning, ultra-forgettable 
alternative pop pap that the unlamented KJ104 has been trying to foist off as "new 
music" for the past couple years.

Pearl Jam followed with their high-energy but hollow, stolen-from-everybody faux 
Seattle/'70s rock.

The Jesus and Mary Chain presented a soundtrack for a methadone clinic waiting room, 
replete with positively the most non-energetic stage presentation possible.

Soundgarden managed to liven things up a little with a rousing rendition of Ice-T's 
"Cop Killer," which unfortunately for them sounded a lot more energetic than their 
own material.

Ice Cube, the latter-day king of aggro-doofus rap, struck the afternoon's only 
discordant notes. After berating the lily-white crowd (many of whom magically 
disappeared onto the sidelines after Soundgarden) for their non-enthusiasm, he 
delivered a pseudo-angry, "fuck"-punctuated performance, which -- while never 
matching the intelligence, intensity, or groove of Ice-T, Public Enemy, or vintage 
NWA -- still rocked along sorta convincingly.

Ministry was the day's greatest success story aesthetically speaking; although their 
stage set and visuals were for all intents and purposes stolen directly from David 
Lynch, their set was loud, fast, and intense.

It was considered a foregone conclusion that when the Red Hot Chili Peppers took the 
stage, everything would go nuts, and it did; the slamdancing extended well beyond 
the sound booth. Unfortunately for anyone who actually wanted to pay attention, it 
was necessary to push, shove, struggle, and kick in order to avoid being stomped 
upon by the mock-frenzied. By that point, whether they played well or not was 
immaterial; the crowd had to unleash the price of a few tickets' worth of energy 
somewhere, and this was their last chance.

The best things of the day were the things that almost no one saw. Minneapolis's own 
Cows, who played on the second stage at 1 o'clock in the afternoon, and the 
thoroughly repugnant, thoroughly enjoyable Jim Rose Circus Sideshow, which featured 
a guy named Mr. Lifto who lifted cinder blocks with hooks in his eye sockets, and 
the show's namesake' who laid his face in broken glass and invited audience members 
to step on his head -- just the sort of wholesome family entertainment people are 
crying for.

But it says something when the best thing you've seen after being crushed between 
thousands of people, waiting interminably, and fighting for a space in the porta-
john line is a guy sticking his face in broken glass. When all was said and done, 
LollapaIooza wasn't spectacular; it was barely there at all. Just another Big Rock 
Show, despite the "alternative" billing.

As alternative as Lawrence Welk, as safe as milk, as challenging as a vigorous game 
of shuffleboard. But it killed time, it made noise, and evidently it felt good.


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