The Joy (and Terror) of Going to Lollapalooza with My Teenage Son
I went to Lollapalooza in 1992, when I was young and (seemingly) indestructible. I went again this summer, with my teenage son
It was a blisteringly hot August afternoon in Chicago’s Grant Park, and I was not doing okay.
I was at the annual Lollapalooza music festival with my 13-year-old son Charlie. When I agreed to take him—it was his first festival experience, a big milestone for a music-loving kid—I didn’t anticipate it being so physically taxing. By mid-day, I’d been on my feet for five hours straight, and we weren’t even halfway done. We’d seen a half dozen bands, and my legs were wobbling like antique furniture. I was drenched in sweat, my ears were ringing, and I would’ve literally given away my 401k for a cold glass of water and a stool.
Charlie, meanwhile, was enraptured. We were near the front of the stage for TV Girl, his favorite band (who I hadn’t realized existed until earlier that morning.) He was dancing and singing along to every lyric, surrounded by thousands of blissed-out fans. I’m pretty sure I was the only one there in his 50s, and I was definitely the only one concerned with making sure his son stayed hydrated.
“Dad, stop it,” Charlie snarled at me as I tried to apply more sunscreen to his forehead.
That’s my job at the rock show now. I’m the middle-aged guy with the backpack filled with healthy snacks, hand sanitizer, antihistamines (for Charlie’s peanut allergy), and the receipt for parking that I reserved two months ago. I’m basically my son’s sherpa.
It wasn’t always like this. I went to my first Lollapalooza in 1992, when I was barely 20 years old. I couldn’t tell you with any certainty how I got there—I just crawled into some random dude’s car and hoped for the best. I’m not proud to admit it, but recreational drugs were involved. A lot of recreational drugs. I flirted with girls dressed like train hobos, dove into the pulsating crowd during Pearl Jam’s set, and at some point, lost my Doc Martens. I have no idea how they left my feet, but I remember walking out of the festival shoeless.
But that was then. In 1992, I was young and fearless and absolutely convinced I would never die. This is now. I'm in my 50s, and acutely aware that death is possible, and I’m a prime candidate.
I said yes to this father-son outing because it seemed like a rite of passage. Charlie’s reached that age when he’s starting to lose interest in his mom and me. There’s been research that parents who listen to music with their kids have better relationships, especially as their children start to shift into young adulthood. I desperately want that connection. And okay, I also want to prove to Charlie that his dad is still cool. I don’t know much about the music he discovers on YouTube or TikTok. But Lollapalooza? I was here from the beginning. Or close to the beginning, whatever. I was there when they blazed the trail. I’m as OG as this festival gets.
I hoped he’d have questions about the pre-internet Lollapalooza from the 1900s. “Did Soundgarden really do a cover of Body Count’s ‘Cop Killer’?” “Did the audience actually rip up the lawn and toss sod into the air during Ministry’s set?” Well yes, son, come closer and let Papa tell you about the Old West of alternative rock in the early ‘90s.
But Charlie didn’t have any questions. He just wanted to see his bands and hear his music. As the day wore on, I felt less like an elder statesman with lessons to share and more like an awkward third wheel with back pain. Charlie tolerated me, but he absolutely didn’t want to hear my Lolla war stories.
Charlie and I walked what felt like two miles to the next stage, to see a band I probably would’ve loved in my youth, but in 2024 seemed unnecessarily screamy. Also, the amount of cannabis smoke in the air, and the women young enough to be my daughter dressed almost entirely in underwear, were starting to make me physically uncomfortable.
It’s a weird thing to witness the circle of life play out in real time. I know I’m getting older, and I know my son isn’t a child anymore. But Lollapalooza brought both of those things into sharp focus simultaneously. I thought I’d be ready for this, but I’m really, really not ready for this.
We somehow made it to the final performance—the Killers, the only band on the lineup that I vaguely recognized—and I was lumbering like an underslept Frankenstein monster late for his colonoscopy. Charlie weaved through the crowd, zigzagging like he’d been doing this all his life, and I struggled to keep up with him.
“Stay where I can see you,” I yelled, but the warning didn't have as much authority in his teens as it did when he was six.
I lost him for a moment in the throng of bodies, and I panicked. I didn’t have the energy to yell over the din, and all I could hear was the blitzkrieg crash of guitars. But then I felt his hand. Charlie gripped me hard, like he used to when he was a toddler and scared, and pulled me close to him. He still watched the stage, smiling and laughing and singing along, but below the sightlines of his peers, our hands were practically fused.
Was the surreptitious handholding for him… or for me? Was this his last moment of boyhood, one last grab for Daddy before he tumbled into adolescent independence? Or was he making sure his aging father, who clearly signed on for more than he could handle, was okay? I didn’t know—and honestly, I didn’t think I was emotionally prepared for either answer—but at least for now, I was fine with splitting the difference.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered to him over the deafening guitars.
“I’ve got you too,” he whispered back.