Lollapalooza 2010: Day 1 in review

11:35 a.m.
Chicago master chef Graham Elliot is in charge of food at this year’s festival, and his touch is immediately evident. The GE food stand brings back a favorite from last year: lobster corn dogs for $9. Read my restaurant critic colleague Phil Vettel's review of the food offered at Lollapalooza. (GK)

11:40 a.m.
Tom Van Buskirk, singer for Brooklyn-based duo Javelin, still appears to be shaking off sleep as the group takes the stage. “We've never played this early in the day before,” he says, bouncing and stretching between songs. The group combines robotic drum machines, analog synths and glitchy, hazy vocals into its junkyard disco-pop, which gradually gets a hundred-or-so early arrivers dancing. Performing next to a mini tower of vintage boom boxes stacked together Tetris-style, the pair radiates a distinctively retro vibe — as though it somehow sprung directly off the set of “Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo.” This fractured memory, flashback-feel is further enhanced by the snippets of Mariah Carey (“Fantasy”), Blondie (“Heart of Glass”) and Billy Idol (“Dancing With Myself”) the duo works into its tunes. Other songs are more blatantly reminiscent of childhood, nodding to classic video games both lyrically (a shout out to “Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!!” villain Soda Popinski) and sonically (“Vibration” which melds 8-bit blips, shimmering synths and treated R&B vocals into a summery whirl). (AD)

11:58 a.m.
Backstage, an amicable Jesse Elliott of These United States explains the benefits of kicking of Lollapalooza 2010. "We've been here since 6:45 in the morning. So it's like the middle of the day for us. It was kind of cool to be here so early before anyone else was here. It was eerie, like a movie set or that scene from "Vanilla Sky" when Tom Cruise is walking through Times Square and it is just deserted." (BG)
 

12:11 p.m.
Friday boosts one of the more pop-centric lineups in Lolla’s recent past, with Bobby “B.O.B.” Simmons coming off a No. 1 single, “Beautiful Girls.” As he sings it, a young woman walks directly in front of me sporting hair curlers made out of beer cans. The Atlanta artist raps, sings and plays guitar, perhaps to compensate for the fact that he doesn’t do any one of those things very well. He and his band crank out a serviceable blend of rock, hip-hop and reggae that owes as much to Linkin Park and Coldplay as it does fellow Atlanta rappers Ludacris or T.I. Earnestness doesn’t suit him, as on the pedestrian “Letters from Vietnam.” His music is catchy and undemanding, an appropriate way to start a day that hasn’t quite hit its stride. Little wonder he closes with a faithful cover of MGMT’s hit, “Kids.” (GK)

12:30 p.m.
At last year's Pitchfork Music Festival, Wavves singer-guitarist Nathan Williams scrawled out a barrage of noise that was closer to one of Andy Kaufman's patience-testing audience experiments than anything resembling music. But backed by the late Jay Reatard's rowdy rhythm section — drummer Billy Hayes and bassist Stephen Pope (a pair of hairy metalheads that look as though they're on break from their day jobs working the door at the Pearl Room) — and a new batch of punkish, melodic anthems, an entirely different Wavves emerges here. A tuneful “King of the Beach” races along on Williams' jagged guitar and sneering-teenager vocals, while “Idiot” veers endearingly between self-loathing and who-give-a-heck dismissiveness. Additionally, Hayes is in the early running for the most quotable artist at Lollapalooza. Between punk-blasts, he riffs sarcastically on past lineups (“To think, we're sharing the bill at a festival where Porno for Pyros once played!”), celebrity culture (“Look everybody! Ben Stein of 'Win Ben Stein's Money' is in the front row!”) and the group's pre-concert ritual (“We smoked [weed] out of a Bud Light can before the show. It's okay...I've got early-onset Alzheimer's.”). (AD)

12:35 p.m.
Balkan Beat Box puts me in mind of a really wild East European wedding where klezmer music plays and dancers party on the tabletops. Saxophones and percussionists double up to create a dizzying whirl of sound, broken up by fractured guitar solos that flirt with atonality. (GK)

12:38 p.m.
Look ma, no hands! Poni Silver, the drummer for the Ettes, is just using her foot on the bass drum to create a stomping intro for yet another of the band's raw garage-rock songs. This coed Nashville quartet is all about big beat, which are then covered in proto-punk grime and low-end bass fuzz. Singer Coco Hames wraps her voice around words in the same manner a snake coils around a pole. With oversized sunglasses and a blouse that hangs off her left shoulder, exposing her bra strap, Hames is a pouty picture of New York cool even if her slight drawl makes her a transplant to the fringe worlds of Lou Reed and Television. Overdriven strings buzz, snare drums clang like metal garbage cans and rattling tambourines are just add to the giant rumble. "No Home" and "Red in Tooth and Claw" thrive on no-frills vibrations, the concise lengths and gritty thrust hinting at the riot-grrl days of early Sleater-Kinney. It almost makes one forget there's little variation involved. (BG)

1:06 p.m.
After patiently waiting for the Balkan Beat Box to finish, the Walkmen start "Blue As Your Blood" but there's a problem: no sound. The amplification hiccups are soon fixed, and it's back to business for the quintet that still looks out of place in the early afternoon. Dressed in a white button-down shirt and a black tie, singer Hamilton Leithauser appears as if he just exited his dead-end white collar job in a Michigan Avenue office building. Akin to the band's woozy arrangements, his vocals follow no set path, instead stumbling, stammering and staggering like a resident booze hound at a corner bar. The Walkmen are a long way from it's garage-rock beginnings, with guitars chiming like church bells, rhythms mimicking the sound of train tracks and vintage organs contributing to the sonic haze. The sparse, sun-dried "Juveniles" goes in and out of tune, Leithauser howling and murmuring with the purpose of a hopeful suitor outside standing on the ground trying to win the affection of a girl sitting in an upstairs apartment. A four-piece horn section supplies mariachi accents, and for a while, the Walkmen entertain old-time romance before deep-seeded personal issues boil over and tension explodes in the form of "The Rat." Somebody get that man a whiskey. (BG)

 
1:15 p.m.
At least two Slayer fans are out to represent for Gaga. You read that right. The space in front of the main stage is already packed with fans staking out territory, determined to wait the rest of the day until the headliner hits at 8 p.m. Two of them, at least, are avowed head-bangers: Stephanie Hebeisen, 20, of Lake Zurich, and Jake Fromkin, 20, of Wheeling. Fromkin wears a Slayer T-shirt and looks the part with his flowing black hair; he plays in a metal band. His fiancé, Hebeisen, is an artist outfitted in studs and a necklace that could probably hurt someone if swung with malice. “Metal heads love Gaga,” Hebeisen says. “We’re not Lollapalooza people, but we’re here for her. The artistry, the music, the show she puts on — she’s not a typical pop singer.” Fromkin concurs. “Metal is a performance, and she gives a performance. We know a lot of metal-heads who are into her.” (GK) 

1:20 p.m.
With dozens of beach balls drifting about in the crowd, Venezuelan collective Los Amigos Invisibles eases into a pleasant, kaleidoscopic set that has the feel of a laid-back, South American beach party. The group, which exudes a carefree, vacation-vibe onstage, effortlessly blends a variety of genres — disco, funk, electro and Latin rhythms — into its equally breezy sonic tapestry. At times the sound grows a little too weightless and unanchored, but guitarist Jose Luis Pardo (he of the pom-pom afro) repeatedly draws things back to earth as he wrestles an array of chiming riffs and psychedelic, acid-fried washes from his instrument. (AD)

1:45 p.m.
Drive-By Truckers booze-filled, marathon performances might seem like a poor fit for their afternoon time slot, but guitarist Mike Cooley says the band actually enjoys playing earlier in the day at summer festivals. “People aren't burned out, hazy from the sun or stumbling around drunk yet,” he says, wobbling for effect. “You kind of get to 'em when they're still fresh.” As for how the band's second Lollapalooza compares to their first Grant Park go-round (the Truckers played the inaugural fest): “It's not nearly as hot. That's all I remember from the first time: the heat.” (AD)

1:50 p.m.
Jukebox the Ghost pianist/vocalist Ben Thornewill is doing his best Schroeder impression on the keyboard. The Philadelphia trio's lighthearted pop is similarly animated as it splits a thin line between overly precious and creatively quirky. "This is probably one of the nicest days I've ever seen," declares Thornewill, and follows up the statement with melodic songs that are, well, equally nice. Sometimes too much so. The intentional vocal stutters and syllabic twists on "Empire" are reminiscent of the cooing expressions of a Valley Girl overwhelmed by the selections at a shopping mall. Yet a sense of humor, fondness for Broadway show tune devices and cohesive harmonies occasionally balance the soft-spoken politeness, as does the band's ability to get the crowd clapping along to a tune about the Antichrist. Still, a little more edginess and less cuteness wouldn't hurt. (BG)

2:10 p.m.
Devo's Mark Mothersbaugh might seem like an unlikely candidate to keep up with player comings-and-goings in the NBA, but the Ohio-native is fully aware of the recent defection of Cleveland Cavalier (and fellow Akron-ite) LeBron James. “He left by choice, though,” says Mothersbaugh, referencing the band's long-ago decision to move from its hometown. “We were forced out.” (AD) 
 
2:20 p.m.
Oakland-born soul man Raphael Saadiq (right) is absolutely masterful leading his massive, ten-piece band through its afternoon performance. Armed with a buttery tenor, Saadiq swings between impassioned pleas (“Can I ask you a question?” he shouts at one point, channeling a gospel preacher) and vintage slices of soul like “Sure Hope You Mean It,” a song that starts as a whisper before climaxing in a flurry of horns and coffee-rich organ. Saadiq and his bandmates open the set wearing dark, three-piece suits, but by the time a horn-flecked “Staying In Love” rolls around, the hard-working frontman has disposed of his jacket, unbuttoned his crisp, white oxford and rolled his sleeves up beyond the elbow. Fittingly, the gradual disrobing starts with a deceptively simple gesture: Saadiq loosening his tie as he croons about getting freaky on a prowling, seductive “Dance Tonight.” (AD)

2:15 p.m.
“Open up, this is a raid,” Mavis Staples sings with left palm raised to the heavens. “I want to get through to you/You are not alone.” It’s time for church in the great outdoors. Off Staples’ right shoulder is Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy, who wrote and produced the title song from her forthcoming album, “You Are Not Alone,” due out Sept. 14. Tweedy strums acoustic guitar, and appears slightly in awe as he accompanies the soul matriarch. Later she gives a goose-bump-raising performance on The Band’s “The Weight.” When she sings, “Put the load, put the load right on me,” while slapping her chest with both hands, her conviction is palpable. (GK)

3 p.m.
Very cool that as Mavis Staples’ set ends, the Drive By Truckers begin playing across the field. Singer-guitarist Patterson Hood shouts out in tribute to Mavis, and well he should. Hood’s father, David Hood, played bass on many Staples Singers sessions at Muscle Shoals studio in Alabama during the early ‘70s. (GK) 

3:05 p.m.
It's a shame that soul fans had to make a choice between Mavis Staples (below) and Raphael Saadiq, since Saadiq impressed across the park at exactly the same time Staples was wowing Drive-By Truckers singer-guitarist Patterson Hood. “Give it up one more time for the great, great, great Mavis Staples,” he says immediately after walking onstage. From there, the Southern rockers lock into a rumbling “Get Downtown,” singer-guitarist Mike Cooley marrying his cigarette-and-cheap-beer rasp to the tune's hardscrabble lyrics. Indeed, nearly every time Cooley — who plays the tight-lipped foil to Hood's grinning showman onstage—takes a turn on the microphone, he shares the tale of some hard-luck individual who survives the grind by “thinking happy thoughts and breathing deep.” So it goes on “Birthday Boy,” a deep-rocking, oddly-hopeful tune about an exotic dancer doing what it takes to get through her days. While the Truckers are notoriously heavy boozers — known to pass multiple bottles of whiskey around between songs — alcohol only surfaces in the songs here, Hood snarling his way through a towering “On the Fourth Night of My Drinking” that weaves sprawling guitar jams with spiky organ interludes. (AD) 
 
3:24 p.m.
Bring the noise. The Big Pink sets guitars on stun and creates the intensity of an industrial-sized can opener searing into cheap aluminum. But one gets the impression the group could be louder and heavier if it wanted. A majority of its set leans on subtlety and intense textures that instill shimmering electro-rock songs such as "Tonight" and "A Brief History of Love" with the sort of desperation, longing and torment affiliated with precarious relationships, a theme that the British act obsesses about. Robbie Furze's vocal timbre is that of raging heartbreak, unrequited attraction and severed dreams, and he seems immune to any cure. The blend of mechanical and organic sounds reaches an apex during "Dominos," peppered with spacious atmospherics, pounding beats and catchy, beautiful hooks. It's the sound of shoegaze's evolution. (BG)

4:35 p.m.
Devo dispenses with its more recent material early in the set, which sounds like knockoffs of its vintage stuff, and then gets down to the business of de-evolving, as it were, down memory lane. Nostalgia can treat bands rudely, a reminder of a time when they were younger and more vibrant versions of their current selves. But since Devo always poked fun at the way humans behaved in the name of “progress,” the idea of revisiting their world of spuds, energy domes and hazmat suits still makes for wickedly good fun. Playing with brittle concision and topped by Mark Mothersbaugh’s still impossibly adenoidal voice, Devo gives us music to twitch to: “Mongoloid,” “Whip It,” “Uncontrollable Urge,” and then tops it off with the oddly moving anthem “Gates of Steel.” (GK)


4:23 p.m.
Are you under there, Neko? Singer Neko Case's head is barely visible being that it's concealed by an extra-large floppy hat that protects her from the beaming afternoon sun. It's a wise accoutrement. Guitarist/vocalist Carl Newman later offers her $500 for the fashion accessory but she's not handing it over. What the dynamic Case and her fellow New Pornographers are offering up, however, is even better: mellifluous, infectious power pop. One song after another features glorious melodies and multi-part harmonies that function as failsafe mood lifters. "Sweet Talk, Sweet Talk" gets heads bobbing, the airy "Myriad Harbour" benefits from Dan Bejar's lush accent and "Your Hands (Together)" rises like a tidal wave. While lacking the instrumental nuances of its studio albums, the Canadian collective takes every advantage of coed vocal opportunities, with wordless refrains intertwining with splashy choruses. The Hold Steady's Tad Kubler lends a hand on guitar and, against a tapestry of plinking pianos and soaring chords, the New Pornographers come on like a refreshing Belgian beer, their music scented with honey, toffee, figs and coffee tones. More, please. (BG)

4:39 p.m.
Danielle Zeiss is attending her third consecutive Lollapalooza and says the festival is great, save for the confusing new entrances. She's also tired of drunken fans. "There are too many younger kids here this year, and it wouldn't be such an issue if so many of them weren't wasted and running me over. But the water prices are legit and the festival is the right size." The 21-year-old came from St. Louis mainly to see the Strokes, and while she's excited to hear a few other bands, she thinks the undercard should be better, as it was in years past. And she has another recommendation that's become common: "More water fountains." (BG)

5:02 p.m.
Andrew Hung and the awesomely-named Benjamin John Power, the Bristol, England sound anarchists behind [Expletive] Buttons, stand facing one another at opposite ends of a table littered with electronics, like would be table tennis opponents. Utilizing an array of samplers and drum machines (the table is so jammed with equipment and random, multicolored wires that it looks like it's been transported from some mad scientist's lab), the pair create dark, towering walls of sound that range from the metallic crunch of robot warfare to test-pattern white noise. There's little grace or subtlety in the mix; the duo instead favors ground-shaking volume and a range of ugly, immersive sounds (rockets launching, massive gears grinding and shrieking voices) to construct its dense, gnarled sound sculptures. (AD)

5:20 p.m.
Not an article of clothing is removed when Matt and Kim perform “Lessons Learned,” which inspired a notorious 2009 video in which the duo stripped in Times Square while passers-by gawked. Even with their clothes intact, the duo still projects a certain amiable, inhibition-busting energy. Though the songs tend to blur together and the perpetual cuteness can verge on cloying, the endless smile on Kim’s face as she bashes away on the drums can’t be denied. She encourages more crowd-surfing in the audience and three guys dressed in green gremlin suits comply. A little bit of the group’s perpetually sunny vibe goes a long way, but on a glorious afternoon by the lake their enthusiasm bobs and dances like the dozens of balloons they hand out to the fans. (GK)

5:10 p.m.
Are these songs or fussed-over art collages? Perhaps a little of both. The Dirty Projectors' off-kilter indie-rock often recalls a record being played backwards, with the discordant arrangements trying too hard to be different. The jagged sonic scribble works better when experienced through headphones than via a live stage. Voices don't mesh and tend to grate. And while "Knotty Pine" clings to an acoustic base and an obvious Talking Heads influence, other material drifts and distracts, to the point where it's easy to imagine the intentionally odd compositions being scored for an orchestra of mbiras (thumb pianos). The dedicated faithful fawn over the frequent shifts, trendy Afro-Caribbean rhythms and overlapping vocal combinations, yet the Dirty Projectors progressively lose momentum and merely test patience levels with needlessly complexity. (BG)
 

6:22 p.m.
Would it be Lollapalooza without the Black Keys? (pictured above) Counting guitarist/vocalist Dan Auerbach's solo set last year, the Akron tandem has only missed one year since the festival relaunched in 2005. The bluesy duo opens with it's trademark attack-release bluster, Auerbach scraping his guitar strings and producing fat, droning notes that drummer Patrick Carney pounces on, scuffs up and spits back as scuzz rock leftovers. "Stack Shot Billy" is fraught with drama and looseness, and the throbbing "Girl Is On My Mind" drifts until it decays, the pair pushing the limits of gnawing distortion and gunky textures. Yet the Black Keys expand outside of their comfort zone when they're joined by a bassist and a keyboardist that help carry the music in funkier directions. Auerbach lends a sensitive falsetto to "Everlasting Light" and plays the role of smooth, persuasive loverman on a smattering of recent fare from "Brothers," replete with a dark soul afterglow that simultaneously haunts and affirms. While not completely unexpected, the configurative transformation serves the band well, particularly since the energy never wanes. (BG)

6:33 p.m.
Hutchinson Field is a vast outdoor disco tonight, as the British quartet Hot Chip gets the audience primed for Gaga and Chromeo with a set that plays like an overview of the last 30 years of dance-pop. They touch on house, chill-wave, synth-pop, and even add a touch of Caribbean flavor with a steel drum. Then they flirt with an old-school soul melody on the closing “Ready for the Floor.” (GK)

6:45 p.m.
Bearded British soul man Jamie Liddell, looking something like a slim Zach Galifianakis, emerges about 15 minutes after his set's scheduled start time and tears right into “The Ring,” a bit of soulful funk spiced up by his full-throated falsetto belting. Not everything clicks; despite closing with a trippy flourish, “Enough's Enough” comes across like lukewarm, elevator funk. But while clearly not on the level of the soul technicians who performed earlier in the day (Mavis Staples and Raphael Saadiq), Lidell, backed by a six-piece band and decked out in a psychedelic, multicolored jacket, disarms with his with his droll, self-deprecating wit. “The song I'm about do now is a huge hit in the Canary Islands,” he says introducing “Another Day.” He also beat-boxes (briefly), wonders aloud “if there are any people out there who might be slightly into me” and performs what might be the funkiest song ever inspired by the telecommunications industry (“I Wanna Be Your Telephone”). (AD)

7:10 p.m.
Chromeo (right) is singing about “tendorini” — which is about as subtle as this Montreal duo gets. Tact is not the forte of P Thugg and Dave 1. Hedonism is, usually accompanied by an electro-funk beat borrowed from vintage Zapp or the Gap Band, lots of nick-knack percussion (woodblock, tambourine, cowbell!) and several P Thugg talk-box showcases. They’re backed by three singer/dancers who look like vaguely disenchanted Roxy Music album-cover models, their blasé attitude perfectly contrasting with the boys’ smirking come-ons. (GK)

7:29 p.m.
So much for diversity. The crush of people that greeted the Black Keys — recalling the mass that watched the Arctic Monkeys on the same stage last year — has dissipated, and it's too bad, as Jimmy Cliff is in the midst of one of the day's best performances. Adorned in a white jumpsuit, the Jamaican native is in fine voice and proves to be a nimble dancer, scooting across the stage with a reverse moonwalk and keeping his feet in perpetual motion. Cliff's reggae doubles as a beam of positivity. A tender cover of Cat Stevens' "Wild World" inspires a sea of waving hands. "I Can See Clearly Now" witnesses Cliff closing his eyes and searching for deeper spiritual meaning. The flute-accompanied "Sitting in Limbo" mirrors the peaceful vibes and pacifist messages spread in other songs. Meanwhile, Cliff's Sun Power octet kicks up a series of burbling grooves and brassy marches that neither overwhelm or wander into jam territory. As Hold Steady leader Craig Finn is prone to saying, "There is so much joy in what we do here." One glance at Cliff's face confirms that, in this case, the statement has seldom been truer. (BG)

7:30 p.m.
Drive-By Truckers frontman Patterson Hood is still beaming after finally getting the chance to see Mavis Staples perform. “I thought Mavis was great,” he says. “My dad (Muscle Shoals bassist David Hood) played on a bunch of her records, so it was like I grew up with her. I'd met her a few times, but I'd never seen her [live]. She played right before us and I got to see most of her set. She was amazing.” (AD)

7:43 p.m.
Strokes bassist Nikolai Fraiture, dressed in a simple dark suit that makes him look something like a more-fashionable Ichibob Crane, is surprisingly calm as his band prepares for its biggest show in years. “Really, I'm not nervous at all,” he says en route to the group's trailer. "We're ready. It's going to be fun.” (AD)

  
8:30 p.m.
Lady Gaga (above) has been onstage for nearly 30 minutes, and the set is still having trouble getting untracked. Her pacing is terrible. The stage is as elaborate as advertised, a tri-level monstrosity that features a stalled car and a simulation of a subway train amid glittering neon and a tenement-like staircase. But the singer isn’t interested in a strictly choreographed, arrive-and-conquer sensory assault in the Madonna mold. She’s got issues, and she wants to share. The cold remove or canned patter of many pop divas can be a drag, but Gaga overcompensates by engaging in long monologues that come off as speeches. What gives the night a fascinating spin is her vivid recall of her 2007 set on a much smaller stage at the same festival. That memory of being ignored and misunderstood even as she played many of the same songs that would later become huge worldwide hits fuels her set. And so this becomes something of a live therapy session, positively fierce in moments, but an absolute drag in others. Strolling through the audience, the restlessness is apparent as Gaga vents, meanders and takes her time setting up songs early in the set. But once she focuses on the music instead of the psychotherapy, her talents as a singer, musician and provocateur take over and she finishes strong. Will she sacrifice spontaneity for a more focused show next time? She’ll need to if she wants to keep playing in front of audiences this size. (GK)

8:50 p.m.
With nighttime settling in, Perry's dance stage, bathed in a veritable neon rainbow of lights, starts to feel like a cross between a tripped-out hippie commune and that rave scene from “The Matrix.” Into this glow stick-encrusted morass of hula hoopers and lycra-clad dancers step Belgium mash-up maestros David and Stephen Dewaele, better known as 2 Many DJs. Compared with the clothing-optional mass flocking the stage, the duo, decked out in white tuxedo jackets, might be a tad overdressed, but there's nothing stuffy about its thumping techno beats. Together, the pair weave a hypnotic groove awash in reverberating synths, sampled voices crackling with radio static, relentless, pounding drums and buzzing squiggles of bass. Things only get trippier as surreal images of actor Nicholas Cage flash onscreen and the two DJs gradually morph into animated silhouettes, bobbing and swaying to the mechanized beat. (AD)


9:09 p.m.
"How long must I wait?" wails Strokes vocalist Julian Casablancas (above), the line from "Vision of Division" an apt metaphor given that this is his band's first U.S. show in more than four years. And after the long hiatus, the New York quintet's much-ballyhooed comeback is going as planned. Casablancas dons a leather jacket and dark sunglasses despite the fact that it's pitch-black out. There's practically no verbal communication amongst the members. As for the debut of any songs from the Strokes' forever-rumored forthcoming album, forget it. The group's show barely breaks the hour mark. But the Strokes play like a band on fire, revving up tempos and reeling off scabby riffs at a breakneck pace. Their hallmark detached cool and casual indifference clash with the instrumentalists' laser-like focus, pinpoint control and wiry, tightly wound music. No one embraces the dichotomy better than Casablancas, much more at home in the Strokes than he was as a solo act. He nasally sneers, snarls and slurs his way through songs in the brash manner that a frustrated lover spurns advances. He erupts at crucial moments, occasionally ceding the barbed bite to guitarist Albert Hammond Jr., who repeatedly uses his hand to comb his facial hair when not supplying an effortless solo. Despite the apparent lack of chemistry, the Strokes are unshakable. "Last Night" rings out like an alarm, "New York City Cops" swaggers and "Reptilia" teems with restless ferocity. It's as if they never left, but the question of whether there's a future beyond reprising formative material remains unanswered. (BG)

9:47 p.m.
After a brief costume change, Lady Gaga emerges for the "Monster's Ball" in a jagged, crystallized costume that looks like it was unearthed rather than sewn. During "Paparazzi" she duels with an inflatable monstrosity, urging fans to kill the yellow-eyed, fanged creature by photographing it (Side note: Hasn't she seen "King Kong"? Flash photography? You'll enrage the beast!). Following an encore of "Bad Romance," Gaga and her ensemble cast take a bow as though it were a theater production, departing with these words of wisdom: "Thank you for believing in us. We believe in you. Now let's get drunk!" (AD)
  
Photos by Mike Rich, Brent Lewis, Tim Harrison, Terrence Antonio James