Lollapalooza 91?

Everyone’s first concert is usually an incredibly special event. Even if it is a crappy top-40 pop group, it is at the very least memorable. I lucked out – my first concert was the first Lollapalooza. I was in seventh grade.

My younger brother Tim and I, who are two years apart, grew up listening to the Brown radio station. 95.5 WBRU is now, unfortunately, a right-wing Christian station. It couldn’t be more different than it was in its heyday – it was the greatest bastion of indie/college rock in the Northeast. I think music critics are being a bit hyperbolic when they complain about Nirvana ruining college rock. It is more fun to say, sure, but Nirvana didn’t ruin college rock as much they changed the landscape of it forever. WBRU did an end-of-the-decade countdown when it changed from 1989-90. They counted down “the best 100 songs of all time.” The Smiths, “How Soon Is Now?’” was number one. BRU did another “best-of-all-time countdown” five years later, and number 1 was “Zombie” by The Cranberries. What a terrible miscarriage of justice. RIP Dolores, but no one thinks that song is the best song of all time.

For a lot of people, “alternative rock” started with Nirvana. It didn’t. They opened the door for countless terrible bands that had no business being in the music industry. “Alternative rock” was supposed to be an alternative to the mainstream AOR format that so many “classic-rock” stations had adopted. Now, it is more like its own genre of music. It describes bands that are, or sound like, any band that featured a guitar in the mid-90s to early 2000s. What was Matchbox 20 an alternative to? The correct answer is “good taste and common decency.” I digress. Your old-school musicologists would declare that what I’m saying applies to the early punk-rock movement and that those bands and artists were rebelling against the AOR format. They are correct. Maybe all good music is a rebellion against the fucking Eagles. There was a short, weird period between 1989 and 1991 that is heavily underappreciated. It is post post-punk and pre-Nirvana’s Nevermind. This was the era of “college-rock.” Bands like The Pixies, The Replacements, Throwing Muses, XTC, and Sonic Youth could enjoy moderate success playing with bands like Soup Dragons, The Mighty Lemon Drops, Ride, The Charlatans, and The Stone Roses. While unfortunately most of these bands were not in the lineup for the first Lollapalooza, they were part of the stew that helped cook up the talent showcased at my first concert.

Much like the bands I heard that day, my taste in music was not born in a vacuum. The closest thing I have to an older brother is my uncle Bob. He is eight years my senior and has been a very influential force in my life. None more so than in my predilection for good music. It was Bob’s fault that my brother and I were the only 4th and 2nd graders we knew who listened to BRU with a passion our friends reserved for Paula Abdul and NKOTB. My brother was very into writing lists. He would record “12 Cuts Above the Rest” on BRU every Friday night. We had subscriptions to both Spin and Rolling Stone magazines, and we owned the album guides from both publications.

Since the day I had read the SPIN interview with Perry Farrell, lead singer of Jane’s Addiction and the man behind Lollapalooza, I had been angling to get my parents to let me go. Not only was the greatest music festival of my young life happening, but my favorite band in the world was headlining it. To say that I liked Jane’s Addiction, is similar to saying Annie Wilkes had a passing knowledge of Paul Sheldon’s work. How could I get my parents to somehow let their 12-year-old go to an all-day music festival? And if I did, would Tim ever forgive me? 7th grade is a big difference from 5th grade. Did I care? I would have to work on Uncle Bob.

Bob was an easy sell. He was a freshman in college who was living at home during the summer. It helped that Bob had always been my mom’s favorite, and he’d been babysitting me since he was 10. After a bit of coaxing, my mom was warily on board. I was going to Lollapalooza.

As always, the line of cars to get into Great Woods parking lot was ridiculously long. I didn’t care. I was looking so 90s punk rock; there should be a poster of me somewhere. I was casually wearing a black t-shirt that was covered in skulls, perfectly worn and slightly ripped, and frayed cargo shorts with a torn flannel tied around the waist. Of course, I was rocking broken-in Dr. Martens 8-eye combat boots. And a silver dagger earing dangling below my skater haircut. I could’ve been the love-interest in an Edie Brickell video.

Bob suggested we pee in the woods in case the bathroom lines were too long. We had brought his friends Pete and a kid named “Worm,” who years later would die trying to sneak over the fence at Great Woods. They had brought hashish. Not that I asked, but I was told, “Maybe next year, you can try some, Sean.” I just didn’t want to miss the first act.

I didn’t know who Henry Rollins was. It’s 1 o’clock in the afternoon and this monstrously ripped man was on stage in nothing but a pair of black gym shorts. His bare feet are pounding on the stage and the veins in his neck are popping out so severely that I swear they’re hitting us in the back row where our seats are. He screams into the microphone, “I think you got a low self-opinion, man!” I see you standing all by yourself.” Uncle Bob says, “You know who that is? That’s the lead singer of Black Flag.” Oh. Shit. I know Black Flag. I hadn’t been allowed to listen to them until a couple of years prior. The most intense man in the US was my first introduction to live rock n’ roll. Could this get any better?

It did. Butthole Surfers and their acid-punk-psychobilly craziness was mesmerizing. Gibby Hanes was stalking the stage with a sawed off shot gun in one hand firing blanks into the crowd.

Ice-T came out with two backup rappers and a DJ. He ripped through an amazing set that culminated in “New Jack Hustler” the hit song from the much-maligned movie New Jack City. Then just when you think that he’s done, he’s just getting started. The two guys rapping with him drop their mics and pick up guitars. The DJ settles in behind a drum kit and Body Count, Ice-T’s hardcore thrash band, start their set. Of course, they end with the PMRC favorite, “Cop Killer.” The lawn behind our seats had already erupted into a tornado of a mosh pit during the Surfers set. Now, there is a sea of sweaty white, suburban punks, screaming “Fuck Tha’ Police!” It is 4pm.

During Nine Inch Nails’ set, Trent Reznor jumps off of the synthesizer and tackles the guitarist from behind. The guitarist falls on his fingers breaking the majority of them. The set ends early.

Years later a rumor circulates that Reznor is still paying the poor guy for taking away his livelihood.

Living Colour is a revelation despite having to start earlier than anticipated. They bounce and rock through a set that is funky and rocking. Corey Glover’s voice is incredible. His range floors me. He goes from bluesy reggae to metal rage. Vernon Reid plays with an electricity that can’t help but draw Jimi Hendrix comparisons. They bring the house down with an ear-splitting rendition of “Cult of Personality” as the sun, finally, sets.

Siouxsie and The Banshees are enigmatic and lovely. “Kiss Them For Me” is dancey and fun. “Peek-A-Boo” is a trip. They finish with their cover of The Beatles “Dear Prudence.” Their set is relatively short. Siouxsie is battling some vocal issues.

“Up the Beach” starts in complete darkness. A spotlight comes up on Eric Avery as he glides through the opening bassline. The lights come up on Dave Navarro and Stephen Perkins as they begin their respective parts. They play everything I could want them to. They have a ravishing violin player come out to do the second half of Ritual De Lo Habitual before the stage becomes a carnival. Fire-eating women ride unicycles across the stage while Perry Farrell croons and banters back and forth with the crowd. It is truly a spectacle. All of my young, jaded, punk-rock pretense melts away as the first rock n roll concert of my life comes to an end. Will it ever be this good again? Maybe. But there is nothing quite like your first time.