YOUNG-IAN ANALYSIS
REJECTED JULY 2004

The Woodstock-inspired nomadic alt-rock concert Lollapalooza was cancelled this year, perhaps because those rabid fans who lined up for the first concert in 1991 have grown up, taken full-time jobs, procreated, and settled down.

Some former Lollies were seen last Saturday night, in Prospect Park, the sprawling, bucolic series of pastures in central Brooklyn, and Frederick Law Olmstead’s favorite of his public park designs. For more than four hours, several generations of once-groupies crowded around the band shell for a free Neil Young tribute concert, curated (this was a high class event—it’s curated, not organized) by Hal Willner, curator of last year’s musical tribute to Leonard Cohen. Rumors flew that Mr. Young himself might show, keeping the audience rooted on the lawn for sultry renditions of Helpless, Southern Man and The Needle and the Damage Done. The singer Antony, with his electric tenor voice, joined folkies like Jane Sibbery, Ron Sexsmith and the bubbly trio The Be Good Tanyas for an overwhelmingly acoustic interpretation of Mr. Young’s vast and varied musical oeuvre.

One group of thirty- to forty-somethings and a couple of three-year olds lay scattered across four blankets, munching on organic carrots and hummus, the unofficial snack of the evening. “There’s more hummus in this park than the rest of Brooklyn combined,” noted one concertgoer, who was busy trying not to fall asleep. The group remembered their younger days, when a concert was an all-day event. There were the preparations: choosing an outfit, stuffing your pockets with cigarettes and possibly other things to smoke, steeling yourself for an entire night of musical entertainment. There was the happy forsaking of sleep, the hoarse voices, the lighters quickly running out of butane as you held their flames in the air for the band to see.

This new incarnation of concertgoers was polite, quiet, and smoke-free. There was no heckling, no lighters raised, and almost no cigarette smoking. One young woman lit up and, looking at the scrunched up noses around her, said, “I feel like a villain,” quickly stubbing it out. Occasionally, whiffs of marijuana floated on the air, a comforting smell, a scent from the past, but it only made the group feel older and a bit more tired. The presence of the three-year olds precluded their joining in, though they remembered dimly how their own parents recklessly toked in front of them. These adults were hoping that by restraining themselves, their own children could avoid the years of therapy they had to endure.

By 11pm, the group began to get restless, dreaming of their mattresses and praying for stellar subway service on the ride home. One woman stood and stretched. “Well, I’ve had enough Neil Young,” she announced. “I’m saturated.” The rest of the group suddenly realized that they, too, had reached their fill of Neil Young renditions. “The best thing about Neil Young’s music is Neil Young,” announced one man. And they headed out of the park, hoping to reach their beds before midnight.

The next morning, they forgot to check to see if Mr. Young had shown.

—LISA SELIN DAVIS