It might seem like I haven't been around, and haven't been writing, but if you consider the thousands of words I've dropped on Pitchfork on Chicagoist over the last week you'd realize I'm actually in a blossoming period, and not in retreat. I've also accomplished the previously unimaginable task of actually catching up with all my magazine reading (goodbye mammoth stack of Atlantics!) and have been nose, well eyebrow actually, deep in books in the sorry attempt to catch up to my 52 books in 52 weeks goal. Admittedly, it' looking like 26 books in 52 weeks might be more realistic at this point, but I'll press forward and fit as many in as possible.
I've also been grappling with some serious musical ennui, that sort where all the new stuff sounds unexciting and there's so much old stuff I can't ever decide exactly what it is I want to listen to. The Girl Talk set Saturday started to crack that restlessness, but got cut off before the shell finally broke apart. (And I'm only now realizing how lucky I was to be next to the stage with a nice view and good sound, since I've heard that beyond a couple hundred feet diameter, no one could really hear Greg Gillis' outstanding set.)I enjoyed all the bands this weekend, and I still love writing about music -- don't get me wrong -- I'm just going through one of those aural funks where I'm just waiting for the right noise to bring me back to the surface and break through the meniscus to gulp in sweet earfuls to re-awaken my soul.
Lollapalooza, I'm looking at your overflowing cornucopia to deliver the shock treatment my heart needs and reignite the passion in my long-term love affair. I'm betting Daft Punk at sunset just might do the trick ...
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