Pitbull, Lil Jon and the Night Tinley Park Forgot It Was Sunday
created by Pam G, visualized by Summer Coleman, photo credit Firm Visuals
Tinley Park on a Sunday night to see Pitbull and Lil Jon, which is either a perfectly reasonable entertainment choice or evidence that I have made several questionable decisions in my life.
By 8 p.m., Credit Union 1 Amphitheatre was packed with people who had apparently decided that Sunday night was no longer a night for preparing for Monday. There would be no responsible meal prep. No early bedtime. No quiet reflection about the week ahead.
There would be yelling.
And lots of it.
Lil Jon opened the show, which felt less like a musical performance and more like someone had accidentally activated a 2004 nightclub in the middle of the southwest suburbs.
Then he started yelling.
“Yeah!”
The crowd yelled back.
“What?!”
The crowd yelled back.
At this point, I realized I had paid money to participate in a very large, very loud call-and-response therapy session.
And honestly, it worked.
Lil Jon remains one of those performers whose entire artistic philosophy can be summarized with a handful of words, most of which are not appropriate for a newspaper. His particular brand of crunk is gloriously uncomplicated. There is no need to decipher a metaphor or debate the deeper meaning of the chorus. The objective is volume.
Mission accomplished.
But Lil Jon was merely the opening act for the man who has built an entire career out of
being everywhere.
Pitbull arrived around 9:15 p.m., and with him came the realization that Armando Christian Pérez may be the most successful motivational speaker in history who also happens to own a microphone and several extremely shiny suits.
Mr. Worldwide does not simply perform.
He arrives.
And once he arrived, the evening became a two-hour argument against staying home.
Pitbull's catalog is astonishingly efficient. “Don’t Stop the Party.” “Hotel Room Service.” “International Love.” “I Know You Want Me.” “Fireball.” “Timber.” “Feel This Moment.” “Give Me Everything.”
Song after song, I found myself thinking, Oh, right. I forgot about this one.
Then the opening beat would drop and, apparently, my brain would remember every word recorded between approximately 2009 and 2015.
This is the strange magic of a Pitbull concert. You don't realize how deeply these songs have been lodged in your memory until 20,000 people start singing them at once.
I had not consciously thought about “I Know You Want Me (Calle Ocho)” in years.
Suddenly, I was an expert.
This is how nostalgia gets you.
It sneaks up behind you, puts on sunglasses and starts shouting, “DALE!”
Pitbull's great talent is not merely making dance music. It is making people feel like they're having the time of their lives while standing shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers and paying $14 for a beverage.
There was plenty of spectacle, naturally. Lights. Dancers. Video screens. A stage production designed to ensure that even people sitting several zip codes away understood that something important was happening.
But the most effective part of the show was Pitbull himself.
He spent portions of the evening talking about perseverance, gratitude, hard work and believing in yourself.
Normally, I am suspicious of motivational speeches delivered by celebrities between songs. Nobody wants to be lectured about personal growth by a millionaire while holding a $17 cocktail.
But Pitbull somehow makes it work.
Maybe it's the accent.
Maybe it's the suit.
Maybe it's because he immediately follows the life lesson with a song about getting somebody into a hotel room.
Whatever the reason, the crowd was with him.
And that was the defining characteristic of the night: nobody was pretending this was high art.
Nobody came to Tinley Park expecting Mahler.
We came for Pitbull.
We came for Lil Jon.
We came to hear songs that once rattled through college apartments, fraternity basements, wedding receptions, bars and car stereos. We came because those songs had somehow survived the collapse of skinny jeans, the death of the iPod and whatever it is that people are calling popular music now.
And for a few hours, the southwest suburbs became a remarkably convincing imitation of Miami.
There was only one thing standing between us and total paradise.
Traffic.
Because no Chicago-area concert is complete without the final act: Everybody Tries to Leave at Once.
The music stopped. The lights came on. Thousands of people walked toward their cars with the collective optimism of people who had forgotten where they parked.
Then came the parking lot.
This is where the international party meets Illinois infrastructure.
The Pitbull portion of the evening may have been “Worldwide,” but the traffic leaving Tinley Park was strictly local.
Still, it was hard to complain.
I had spent several hours watching two artists from two different corners of American music turn a Sunday night into a celebration of being gloriously, unapologetically loud.
Lil Jon brought the crunk.
Pitbull brought the motivational speeches, the hits and enough swagger to power the western suburbs through the winter.
And the crowd brought something perhaps more important: nostalgia.
For one night, we were younger. We remembered the songs. We knew the words. We danced like nobody was watching, despite the inconvenient fact that several thousand people were, in fact, watching.
Then we went home.
Eventually.
Probably.
And Monday morning, as usual, arrived with absolutely no respect for the party.
But for one night in Tinley Park, Monday could wait.
Mr. Worldwide had spoken.
And apparently, we had all agreed to yell back.
Keeping His Light :
Happy Belated Heavenly Birthday
THANK YOU KYMON KINDRED
Behind the Lens : Kymon Kindred
It is with heavy hearts that we share the passing of one of our beloved tribe members, Kymon Kindred, a gifted photographer and a bright light within the South Side Radio Live family.
Kymon wasn’t just a creative eye behind the lens he was a spirit who moved with kindness, humility and a smile that could shift the whole energy of a room. His presence touched everyone he worked with and his artistry captured the soul of our community in ways words never could.
Aṣẹ.
South Side Radio Live Honoring our tribe. Keeping his light alive.
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