The dashboard was dusty again, with a substance that I still haven’t correctly identified. Salt, maybe? Glass particles? Whatever it was, it used to be the entrails of a novelty pig that a friend of mine gave me as they moved out for the summer. You could squish him into unusual forms and he would keep a dumb smile throughout. He had his day as a dashboard ornament for 48 hours- but whatever he was made of, wasn’t built to take the full blast of a summer sun. While sitting in a parking lot on a cloudless day in late June, he went BOOM and all the minute pieces that made him squishy went everywhere, but most unfortunately into the central cooling system. Now, every time I want to use the heat or the A/C in my Mini Cooper, the first thing that comes out is a stream of dead pig dust that tickles your skin and feels a little bit like a sandy beach volleyball. On Northern Illinois’s disperse and sterile I-90 North, I was getting tired of my vents spraying me with debris instead of doing the work of making my car cool. I was hungry.
“They have a Culver’s off the next exit,” Tyler pointed out.
“CULVER’S!!!” I yelled out the window.
My initial enthusiasm had greatly diminished by the time we got to the exit, as I remembered that the last Culver’s butterburger I had made my stomach upset for the rest of that afternoon and somehow two standard meals had cost 33 dollars (an accounting error? I’m still not sure). Across the street sat a Chipotle, world famous for making stomachs everywhere feel absolutely awesome, and so we rolled into their domain, which for whatever reason contains an absolutely breathtaking pond. The sparkle of the water at noon is dazzling, almost blinding- the lake looks different in every brief moment as the reflection changes again and again according to some remarkable physical relationship between the surface and the light. Tyler swore that they saw a blue heron skim for fish while I was inside eating my carnitas, queso, black beans, white rice, pico de gallo, medium salsa and lettuce burrito. And looking at the Chipotle on Apple Maps- the pond isn’t there. I sat in awe and silent speculation above the reeds on the shore. What type of magic is there in Huntley, Illinois, where you can find such an oasis?
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In a city like Chicago, you can find one on a Friday night if you’re in the right place. On Lake Michigan north of Soldier Field is Huntington Bank Pavilion on Northerly Island, an outdoor venue sized somewhere between a concert hall and an arena (so, a pavilion). It’s a little under 20 years old, but with the prices for drinks and parking alongside honking lines for rideshare drop-off it fits right into the 2020s. An artist takes a risk performing open air in early October, but this one was worth the risk- Anderson .Paak and the Free Nationals, performing all of Malibu, his breakout 2016 album that bridged generations of West Coast rap and R&B as he would later prove to be the final superstar Dr. Dre signee, at least in 2024. No risks were taken in showing up late: if an artist advertises a front to back album performance, punctuality is a necessity. We walked down the long moonlit roads of Northerly Island, being offered 10 dollar beers along the way. No thank you, I thought- my Voodoo Ranger is leaking in my overalls pocket as we speak.
The open air risk paid off- it’s 70 even with a brisk Great Lake Breeze hitting our backs, making for ideal conditions. Our seats are in the back of the middle-left facing the stage. At first, the view is disappointing, until we realize having no one behind us allows us to stand on our seats. Pretty soon we’re looking over a sea of heads, watching GAWD (Good Ass Women Deserve), a sister/sister R&B duo that sings backup for .Paak, open and warm the crowd up. They cater to me directly with a surprise cover of N.E.R.D.’s “She Wants to Move” from 2004’s Fly or Die. It’s not every day you get a cover of a song from a band like N.E.R.D., and for me not every day one of my favorite bands ever gets such love, and so the oasis begins to form.
They leave the stage. A confoundingly intricate and detailed Lexus ad starring Anderson .Paak takes their place. My phone sits at 14%- just enough for one good flashlight-waver. The Free Nationals warm up. Another film begins to screen, and I dread another commercial- until, fading in, it’s “The Bird”.
“A bird with a word came to me…”
In my experience, I have only ever traveled to another city for a concert once- Brooklyn, Tame Impala at Barclays during spring break, 2022. An off the wall time, but Barclays is so immense and Kevin Parker is so painfully shy that stage presence was a non-factor; the true highlight was their laser lights display. Here, there’s no mistaking who the highlight is- a multi-talented, rapper, singer, drummer, producer and DJ with God-given charisma and a sound bred by 70s Marvin Gaye and the beach boomboxes of SoCal in the 90s. In short, soul and g-funk in their heydays. With Malibu, he brings to the stage what remains his most personal work, a mix of autobiography and player anthems, one of those records that spells instant classic after the first three tracks: “The Bird”, “Heart Don’t Stand a Chance”, and “The Waters”. I bring to the audience my own history with the album, one that has never missed a summer of mine since its release, that spells my first love and beach sunsets with friends that I miss every day. According to my listening history (my thanks to last.fm!), it sits at #7 on my most listened to albums of all time. I know every word and song, and coincidentally the stranger to my left does as well. We’re belting out every lyric with as much as our voices can muster. My presence is falling into the oasis with every passing moment.
.Paak is smiling nearly constantly, showing off a set of flawless pearly whites that have now been on a Super Bowl broadcast. His happiness in returning to his roots with the band he recorded with before Silk Sonic fame is unmistakable. It flows into every action he makes, from his strut around the stage checking in on all his musicians to the moments where he gets back to the kit and introduces thundering drum solos to take the place of absentee features. He cracks jokes, sings with verve, all while the videography crew locks in to new fascinating angles what feels like every 4 measures.
And while the talent and optics make for a great show, what makes for an outstanding show is the sequencing. True to his word, .Paak delivers the original Malibu tracklist exactly as it first appeared with no interruption- apart from an excellent rendition of Sade’s “Paradise” from synth player T.Nava that serves as a brief vocal timeout. When a band performs a setlist as a collection of surprises, going from their most recent work to appeasing old fans without warning, it has its own charm in that you will never be ready enough for the moment when they play your favorite song. In this case, I know exactly when my favorite song will come, and there’s 15 tracks that precede it. The entire time, my anticipation is building, while I’m treated to hits across the board.
One of the essential Anderson .Paak AND the Free Nationals songs is the breakup track “Put Me Thru”, which they dedicate to guitarist Jose Rios’ ex-girlfriend- and they’ve been dedicating that song to her for 8 years now, since their famous Tiny Desk performance. It’s remarkably petty and childish behavior, but it’s also one of his most timeless takes on the toxic relationship trope, and I feel a twinge of pity for the ex as I always do when a breakup song has such a lasting effect that the entire crowd is grooving to it.
Three tracks later comes “Parking Lot”. Enigmatic and nostalgic, it’s a testament to Malibu’s power to capture dreams of summers past that .Paak’s voice summons such a dream in early October and I can see it so vividly, my own ‘parking lot’ from 3 years ago. I can still remember the song we sang, I can still remember the way the car felt in the darkness of a beachside after hours. Jose Rios is using an alternate pedal from the studio version that sounds as fresh as the Atlantic wind felt on that night. There’s no discernment from oasis and reality anymore.
Directly after, “Lite Weight”, one of .Paak’s KAYTRANADA collaborations, is embraced as the dance spell that it deserves to be embraced as. .Paak leaves the stage to mingle in the pit as a recording of his DJ Pee Wee persona plays on the stage’s main monitor and the crowd is in a frenzy of movement.
Memory and dance aside, however, nothing could possibly compare to Track 16: “The Dreamer”. When it was younger, it was symbolic of the uncertainty of .Paak’s monumental 2016, and wondering whether he would crash and burn or go on to new heights. Now, seeing the legend crafted with the prestige of multiple Grammys, #1 Billboard hits and albums, a Super Bowl halftime, and even a late career return to NxWorries/Stones Throw, it’s just as celebratory as the track that precedes it (“Celebrate”). It is a song, like many of Malibu’s songs, dedicated to something- ex-girlfriends, the parking lot, Anderson’s mother (“The Season/Carry Me”). The dedication is explicitly in the hook of “The Dreamer”:
“This one’s for all the little dreamers
And the ones who never gave a fuck”
It’s far from the first time that the little dreamer has gotten this kind of name drop. What makes it exceptional is its context; another major theme of Malibu is the connections it makes between childhood and adulthood in the long process of maturity, from “Six years old I tried my first pair of Jordans on” to “You grew up in the home beside me/ I always had a friend to call”. With these zoom-in moments of reminiscence, the little dreamer becomes the final clue that ties the album together. It’s the story of the rise of the young one who likes Teddy Pendergrass and Sammy Davis staying true to the music that he grew up to, from small gig rags to sold out headliner riches. The earned conclusion feels all the more special while I recall all of the times “The Dreamer” played on my car’s stereo and I flushed out all the disbelief from my system to grasp my own dreams. I’m well past hoarse at this point but I make every effort to sing it out loud.
He waves a quick farewell to the stage, but no one believes his ruse and so the crowd doesn’t budge. The Free Nationals play a couple of their non-AP tracks, including their recently gold certified “Eternal Light”. T.Nava only gets a few chances to take over lead vocals through the night, but each time demonstrates his uncanny expertise with the underappreciated art of the talkbox.
When .Paak comes on for the encore, it’s to play a number of his post-Malibu songs, just to remind the crowd that he never once has abandoned his early hunger for the glory, performing gems “Make It Better” and “Tints” from Ventura and Oxnard, respectively. Then, a medley of his club oriented contributions, “GLOWED UP”, “Bubblin”, and the Venice track “Milk N’ Honey”. Well past 2 hours since call time, he’s at his most raucous and the energy is reborn from within the crowd. He sends off again with the fan favorite “Come Home”, a plea for reconciliation that is bittersweet following the news of his recent divorce- and he delivers every note like the hope is still there.
But this isn’t a show from some burnt-out frontman hardly concealing disenchantment with the stage- it’s from a bona fide born performer who relishes his blessings, and as the shuffle to the exit begins, we hear “Y’all still here?”
The second encore, with folks in the back out of their seats and into the makeshift aisles, is a Return of the Jedi Ewokfest-esque jamboree- 25 songs deep into the setlist and it’s evident the crowd would stay for 25 more. Everything is erupting in a rollicking version of “RNP” featuring trumpeter Maurice Brown stepping in to perform all of Cordae’s part of the back and forth hip hop duet. “Smokin Out the Window” brings even the most ignorant plus-ones out of their sulk to say ‘Oh, I LOVE this song!’.
And to cap it all off (though at this point, it would be unsurprising for this show to go on til dawn) is a heartfelt Mac Miller tribute with “Dang!” We raise our hands up, we shout “we miss you, Mac!’ and we glow as the show truly comes to a close with every musician onstage hugging each other with the abundant love present in the moment. It’s emotional, it’s electric, and it’s unreal considering that this is just a regular tour date for Anderson .Paak and the Free Nationals. The crowd begins to shift back to mainland Chicago, and I fall out of my trance- the oasis washes away like the waves of Malibu itself. I head back to the parking lot…
