Saturday’s final consensus: I’d definitely gotten too much sleep. Seven hours is a lifetime at Lollapalooza—much less at any music festival. With heightened resolve, I tumble out of bed couch at 8:30am, a mere four hours after being let in from the hallway I had settled on calling a resting point for the evening. The ringing in my ears, bleariness in my eyes, and general emptiness in my head: everything felt just right for a successful final festival day.
My first stop in downtown Chicago is at the Hard Rock Hotel, to check in for an afterparty later that night. The receptionist knows me by name—impressive. I’m given a tour of the VIP press area, which starts with picking up a free Dos Equis, middles with a free selection of Garnier Fructus product (really: what the hell am I going to do with this bottle of stuff that’s, well, not supposed to color your hair, but be good for your hair when you’ve already colored it?), and ends with a Fuze salon sporting free massages, facials, and manicures. Hayden Panetierre is purportedly in the next room over, getting a tattoo. I go for the executive treatment and get all three, while nursing a third beer. The girl to my right at the manicure table suggests getting both pinkies painted black. James Murphy, I love you; this is happening.
I’ve arrived on festival grounds with far too much time to spare before any of the already-hyped, mainstream-level-hip bands are set to go on. Better spend the next three hours on tour of any of the remaining VIP areas of the festival I’d yet to enjoy. The Red Bull VIP section has its own wristband, and nobody at the entire festival seems to know where it’s located (turns out, right behind the Perry’s DJ stage). The regular old VIP section has free make-your-own tacos—I sneak a plate over the barrier to a friend before fixing myself another beef+rice+can o’ beer platter. The VIPs have their own perch overlooking the Budweiser stage, where MGMT is playing. They finish “Time to Pretend,” now’s as good a time as any to take a nap.
I’m up in time for The National, but haven’t the mental fortitude to cross festival grounds to get there. 45 minutes under wasn’t nearly enough. A boxed water (what the hell is up with water packed in juice boxes?) and an energy drink later, and the Arcade Fire seems like a tolerable prospect.
Hard to believe the main fest is already over. Someone outside the gates has cartons of Apple Cider to share. We toast to our favorite city, and head out for a final hurrah of afterparties with Mumford & Sons, celebrities, and beautiful people.
Tomorrow morning’s victory lap? Homage to (and corned beef & pastrami from) the best-named diner in the known universe. See you next year, Lolla. Happy Lolladays.
