Festivals
Illegally good times.
Bonnaroo 2012
6/14/12
There's a mechanical problem, minutes before we're supposed to take off from LAX. Already on the tarmac, we're taxied back to the gate, where we wait for nearly two hours for a new plane. Chaos, angry passengers, frustration. We jockey for position along with the other Bonnaroo-bound: there are only so many seats available to Dallas/Forth Worth, where weather is precluding all flights to Nashville. We don't make our connection, or the next two attempts at stand-by, so we have to spend the night in Texas and miss the first evening of the festival. At the steakhouse in the hotel where we stay, Greg plays up our plight to the server, who comps us a bottle of wine and desert. We take these back to our room and gorge ourselves in bed.
An early morning flight to Nashville, a hurried check-in to our hotel (where we score a jacuzzi suite), running to catch the bus to the festival. We're there by one, barely missing The Kooks. We quickly learn that our VIP upgrade affords us some huge advantages: no waiting in lines, exclusive seating for big shows, access to a large, air-conditioned tent filled with couches, cushions, free fruit, and cheap massages, incomparably cleaner/larger bathrooms, and remote concert viewing, should we choose.
We stumble around, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the festival grounds, by the sensory overload of things to see, to hear, to smell, to touch, and to taste. It's a bit intimidating, like arriving a week late to summer camp. We try to get our bearings and find a sense of belonging in this pop-up community, but there's very little time to get acclimated before the first show we catch—Two Door Cinema Club. I'm excited to hear some tracks off of an unreleased album, and Greg hoists me atop his shoulders during my favorite song. He pivots so I can videotape the screaming, cheering, waving crowd around us. Girls in dangerously little clothing crowd surf above us, and a guy nearby climbs the rafters for a better view.
Bonnaroo is like nothing I've experienced. Sun, skin, and sound everywhere. Carnival rides and games, food trucks, colorful tents crammed with crafts, art, and clothing, a water slide and oversized fountain, and a sprawling campsite with its own small village, all spread out over 700 grassy, tree-filled acres. Throngs of people, mostly young, many beautiful, nearly all thrilling to natural and man-made highs. Drugs everywhere: smoked, swallowed, shared and sold, all in plain view. We watch kids barely out of their teens pose for photos with acid tabs on their tongues. Over eighty thousand people are here with us, being flooded with music that pours from every corner of the grounds. It's positively surreal.
We wander in wonder at this small city, and plunge headlong into a three-day binge of our own illicit hedonism. We've come prepared, and we've been looking forward to this weekend for months. We feel no hesitancy and no shame about what we're going to do to our bodies and brains. We've earned the shit out of this weekend, emotionally, financially, and physically.
Our first roll kicks in while we watch Trampled By Turtles, and it's pure heaven. Dusk, and the sting of the sun is finally off of our bare shoulders and legs. We're sitting on a blanket-sized piece of vinyl fabric that I bought in the fashion district, just for the occasion. I picked the most colorful, silly, and happy print I could find—bright blue, green, and orange whales. This mat becomes an invaluable part of our Bonnaroo equipment: lightweight, waterproof, and fun, it's the perfect no-fly zone for when we need to carve out a little space from the crowd—not to mention put a layer between us and the dirt and bugs.
As the bluegrass notes wash over us, in the sandy area that divides the standers from the sitters, I'm physically unable to stay still. I jump up to dance while Greg remains seated, chatting with our neighbor on the ground. They talk about psychology and other randomness, passing a joint back and forth, happily crossed-legged on the ground despite the fact that everyone else around them is on his or her feet. I touch the back of Greg’s neck every few seconds as I dance, both to keep my bearings and to connect with him. He smiles up at me, telling me how much he loves the moment, the experience, me. It's an intense joy for both of us, that lasts song after song after song. When the opening strings of Wait So Long hit the air, everyone goes wild. Greg leaps to his feet, then kneels and pulls me atop his shoulders, where I stay for the duration of the song. He bounces and sways, holding my legs tight as we both belt out the words we know and love by heart. I dip my head and kiss his face, upside down. From my vantage point I see the hundreds of frenetic, ecstatic people singing along with us. The lights are synched perfectly to the tune, and our senses are saturated in every way possible. We leave the show electrified, and stay that way for the next three days.
There are over 150 acts at Bonnaroo, and it's impossible to see every one. We follow the schedule we've set for ourselves loosely, coming and going from the eleven different stages as we please. On our way to watch some electronic, for example, a strain of lo-fi indie pop will float to me, and I'll pull Greg off in its direction. This is par for the course, all weekend: we're flexible, high, and just happy to be within a minute's walk, at any time, of some of our favorite music in recent years. We follow beats as we fancy, depending on the whims of desire, hunger/thirst, and state of mind. It'd take pages to detail the entire weekend, but I can at least list some highlights:
Top Ten Eighteen Bonnaroo Moments, In No Particular Order (except #1 really was #1)
18. Sunday night, stopping randomly at a small stage, headlined by some band we've never heard. Less than a hundred people are watching, but the twangy country sound fits our mood. We dance beside a small canopy with stringed lights woven in its branches, oblivious to how we look to anyone but each other. We cross arms, grab hands, and spin, and I take one of the most vivid mental snapshots of my life: my boyfriend's laughing face, the lights and trees blurring behind him, and beyond that, paper lanterns aglow and adrift in the sky.
17. Stomping and sloshing my way through the mud on Sunday, being so glad for my rain boots, and loving the feel of the light, warm rain on my skin.
16. Watching a paper lantern being lit and launched, a few feet away from us, at Red Hot Chili Peppers (the cheers from the crowd are deafening each time one is successfully set afloat in the night sky—we see dozens over the weekend). When it dips back down into the crowd, threatening to crash, a woman catches it and gives it the push it needs to get skyward again. The crowd roars with approval and excitement.
15. The heady feeling of freedom, to be there with Greg. Just us, doing as we please. No obligations or responsibilities to anyone other than ourselves and our dogs, waiting for us back home. Recognizing and appreciating the fact that we can do this again—anytime we like, in fact—finances allowing. We're that free. It's intoxicating. The sense of well-being and connectedness, with my boyfriend, with the world at large—with myself. Finding the first true moments of peace and contentedness since my father died.
14. Discovering Major Lazer, based on a tip from some young'uns we meet on the bus.
13. Skrillex. Mind = blown.
12. Walking by Radiohead, but not actually stopping to watch them. This is strangely awesome. I don't remember where we're going or what exactly we're doing, but we just aren't feeling Radiohead enough to stop and stay at the stage. It's enough for us to be nearby, see the stage, and know we are hearing Radiohead live, and go on with our night. Totally surreal moment, getting to make that choice.
11. The Shin's performance of Simple Song, which has become my favorite track of the past few years. I'm obsessed with it. We watch the show from the VIP section, just high enough above the crowd to have a great view but still feel in the mix. It's drizzling rain, and Greg wordlessly takes out his hoodie and wraps me in it.
10. Walking in to the festival one afternoon while The Beach Boys are playing. We stumble straight into the venue, packed with three or four generations of smiling, singing concert goers, chanting giddily to songs they've grown up with. The group sounds exactly the same as their records.
9. Dancing with wild abandon to Phish, with glow sticks Greg has collected for us, in the misting rain. We wander the outskirts of the crowd, jumping around and laughing like children, lost in the moment and music. Greg completely lets loose and dances with pure, unconscious joy.
8. Trampled By Turtles (especially the moment described above).
7. Discovering the ridiculously talented LP, who Greg's been into for some time, and now I know why. After the show, an older couple approaches us to say, "We saw you guys yesterday, and we just want you to know we think you're romantic and sexy. We'll let you figure out who we think is which." Makes our day.
6. Ritzy Bryan of The Joy Formidable smashes her guitar into the drum set, and the crowd goes bonkers. They do an amazing set, and the girl is a freaking rock star.
5. Dancing at the Silent Disco (everyone is given wireless headphones playing the same live-DJed music). I'm rolling hard, and consequently feel like the best. dancer. in the world. So, so, so much sexy fun. We had plans to go back for another round on Sunday, but it was closed, so Greg proposes we make our own Silent Disco. And that's exactly what we do: we find a semi-private, relatively quiet patch of grass, put on our headphones, and just dance for a while to our own beats.
4. Watching Greg during Dispatch, but especially when they play The General. He's absolutely elated.
3. Mogwai's entire set. Rocking, eyes closed, high as hell. Indescribable beyond that.
2. Young The Giant's performance of My Body, which is pretty much an out-of-body experience for me. I am beside myself. I have never seen a crowd so charged up, and it is far and away my favorite performance of the entire festival.
1. Laying on the grass, on our ridiculous whale sheet, in the middle of the festival grounds at 1:00 am, on a perfect, lovely roll, holding one another, eyes closed in the dark and cold, hearing the strains of music around us, feeling cozily tucked in amongst the thousands of blissed-out people, but special and separate at the same time, kissing for several minutes straight without breaking contact. Now when I ask him for a "Bonnaroo kiss", he knows exactly what I mean.
Bonnaroo 2013 - A handful of impressions
6/24/13
Grief
Sunday, early afternoon, still at the hotel. I'm in a state. I've barely slept the past three nights. I've taken loads of drugs. I've hardly eaten a thing in four days. I'm depleted, exhausted, starving, and dehydrated. I've sent Bryan on ahead of me since a) my stomach is threatening revolt and b) I'm feeling like I need some time alone to get emotionally centered for the day. It's the second Father's Day since my dad died. Normally I'd not let myself sink into that hole, but my body is pissed at what I've been doing to it, and has nothing extra to give me, to keep me afloat.
On the shuttle to the festival, I send text messages to all my friends who are dads. I text Bryan to remind him to call his father. He answers almost immediately. Sent him the sweetest text in history. An ugly, ungenerous part of me responds back in my head. Must be nice. At the fest, I spend the first hour struggling to dial into a happy spot. I watch The Mowgli's, the most upbeat of bands, from the back of the tent, leaning my face against the poles of a raised lounge area. I cling to the posts and mouth the words as I listen to The Great Divide and San Francisco, tracks I've been looping for weeks back at home. I can't sing, because my lips are inches from the ear of a guy reclined on a sofa in front of me. Instead I just press my forehead to the bars like a prisoner, close my eyes, and will myself to count the blessings of the moment until genuine gratitude takes hold. But my throat is tight with grief, and I miss him with an inexplicable fierceness. I wish I could tell him about it, all of it, even the drugs. He'd shake his head and chastise me, but half-heartedly. He'd get it. And he'd delight in my delight. I miss him.
Joy
Two a.m. Sunday morning. That Tent. Billy Idol has just finished playing. Most of the crowd is staying exactly where they are, holding fast to their good spots. It's been a strange Saturday evening. The cancellation of Mumford and Sons cast a bit of a pall on the festival, which, by and large, is vocal about its dissatisfaction with the replacement act of Jack Johnson. Lots of bitter, sarcastic jokes being cracked. Lots of disappointed Mumford fans. There's been a weird hole in the evening where the much-anticipated headliner should have been. People have been wandering, ambivalent about what they wanted to do or see instead. Energy has been low for a couple of hours, as clusters of bummed out fans trickle around the festival grounds in search of something to keep them going. But now the buzz and hum are starting to build again. Empire of the Sun is about to start, and the crowd is fidgety with excitement, despite the late hour, and despite the fact that they're going on nearly half an hour late.
And then they do start. And the roar of the crowd ripples out from in front of the stage, back through and over us, and electrifies several thousand people, all eager to be recharged for the late-late shift. They sound absolutely amazing live, and I'm instantly transported. Everything is blue lights, lasers, and fog. The Australian duo are outfitted in psychedelic costumes, with LED lights lining their instruments. It feels like being in a video. We've somehow, miraculously managed to carve out enough room to dance, cornered against a railing near the back of the tent. While we're not close enough to make out all of the action on stage, we've got a decent view and incredible sound, and I'm beyond thrilled to be able to move and jump like a maniac when Alive comes on. Everyone who knows the words is throwing his or her head back and belting them out. I'm turned around, facing Bryan, dancing with him, singing to him again, smiling and laughing and out of my head with joy.
Affection
It's the Saturday night hole. The empty place where Mumford and Sons should have been. We've just left The Lumineers, but we don't know what we want to do until Billy Idol, at midnight. There aren't any shows going at the moment that are particularly compelling to us. Neither of us is interested in Jack Johnson; in fact, I'm terrified that watching him will actually bring me further down and put me to sleep. We briefly consider the Ferris wheel, but the line is outrageous. Should we take a pill? he asks. I'm unsure about starting on ecstasy this early. It's only a bit after nine, and I'm planning on going all the way until morning. Pretty Lights played until sunrise the night before, so I'm guessing Empire of the Sun and Boyz Noise will go just as late. I want to time my high to maximize on those shows. We could just get high and hang out in the Christmas barn, he suggests. Fuck it, I say, realizing there's nothing else to do. But two caveats, I say. If we start now, it'll be a two pill night for me. He nods. And the other? I reach into my bag, pulling out the tiny baggy from my coin purse. I'm a handful on two pills. Like, I will need to dance. And I might disappear to go do just that, no matter what's on.
We place the capsules on one another's tongues and toast with our water. See ya later, I say, like always.
The Christmas barn is going strong, and we hang out there for a bit, bobbing to the beat and smiling at all the weirdness of it. It's a barn, in the middle of a farm in Tennessee, in June, decked out like the North Pole, and filled with ravers. It's spectacularly bizarre.
I know the moon rocks have kicked in when I start to obsess about the Silent Disco. Jared Dietch is starting at eleven, and I want to catch as much of his set as possible before Billy Idol. I caught some of his set the night before and it was a blast. But I know that with the fest crowd largely disbanded by the cancellation, there'll probably be a line to get in to the Disco. A very, very long one that starts early. So I ask Bryan if we can go sit on the grass near it, to make sure we don't miss out. He agrees, and we step out of the Christmas chaos into the cold night.
My high ramps up noticeably as we do so.
Cold.
I run to the locker to get my hoodie. I return to find the line has grown. Bryan is socializing with some other very high people. A guy and a girl, who, a moment after introducing herself to me, literally crawls off on all fours, disappearing back into the dark. She just fell into my lap, he says. We sit cross-legged. We chat. We chat faster. Moon rock. Heart thumping. My eyes are wide and I'm rocking to a beat somewhere. I run to the bathroom again. I refill our water bottles. Bryan waits for me. I'm thankful for my warm layers. Recorded music pours over us from a nearby tower. Something awful. Some awful artist. We're too far away from everything live, it's all we hear. What it is? Why aren't they changing it? We laugh. We sit closer to one another. Watch out, I say. I'm coming up. I climb onto his lap and wrap my limbs around him. Cozy. Warmth. I do not love this man. I barely know this man. But he's strong and he's kind and he's here with me, and we're having a good time. We're in a great mood now, the headliner hole forgotten. We're ready to dance. The line grows long behind us, and I feel a rush of gratitude and relief that I'm not going to miss my DJ, that Bryan has patiently waited an hour with me, in the cold grass. He holds me. I bury my face against his shoulder, his neck, this man I do not know or love.
I'm glad he's here.
In the Disco, I cut loose fast and hard. He keeps up with me for a while. We retreat to the grass behind the tent. Room for us to goof, to spread out, to sing to one another. The music is a mix, and frustrates me. Some spectacular EDM tracks, some randoms from the 90s. Bryan sits and watches me. Takes photos of me. He points at me, licks his finger, makes it sizzle on his shirtsleeve. I laugh and dance harder. The line to get in has quadrupled. They watch us enviously. I'm giddy. This is my zone. When fireworks start over my shoulder I can't even stop to watch. Alive comes on and I explode into movement and laughter. I sing the words to Bryan, ecstatic. I mean them. Loving every minute cuz you make me feel so alive, alive. And I do feel incredibly alive. I never feel more alive than when I'm dancing to music I love, and here I am, at Bonnaroo, my god, what an amazing thing, what an incredible experience, out here among the stars, thousands of joyful people around us, listening to musical thrill after musical thrill. My heart fills with affection for this person, for being here with me, witnessing and sharing in my joy. He's made it real, more real than when I do it alone, and even though I don't love him, I love him for being with me in this moment.
Drugs
Friday, late afternoon. The sun is slowly dripping into the magic hour. The weather is a gift—a godsend really. Nowhere near as hot or humid as last year. There's even a light breeze valiantly working its way through an eighty thousand-strong mass of bodies, lifting skirts, hair, and spirits even higher than they already are. Bryan’s younger brother has joined us for the day, with a one-day ticket so they can rock out to Paul McCartney and ZZ Top together. They haven't seen one another in two years. Lots of laughter, smiling, teasing.
The three of us grab a patch of grass near a hip hop show. We sit only long enough to share a truly wretched soft pretzel and a handful of shrooms before we get up and wander the grounds, soaking up the chill sunset vibes of the festival. They're not attached to anything until the classic rock shows starts a few hours later, and I'm content to meander and take in the sights while the mushrooms gently, slowly curl their fingers around my senses. I let my gaze linger on things as we pass. Colorful clothes, face paint, signage, the oversized grotesque statues spiked in the ground. Everything has the potential to be a playground for my mind. I loosen my thoughts and relax my body into the drugs, letting them take me where they will.
As usual, it starts with water. Water has always been the gateway for me, with shrooms. Especially in the fading light of dusk. The twinkle and sparkle, the splatter and trickle. When water suddenly takes on an extra dimensionality, I know I'm high. The water of the Centeroo mushroom fountain captivates me as we come upon it. I jump on a bench as the guys walk ahead, snapping pics, entranced by the sound and sight of it, which blend together. Synesthesia, my favorite thing about mushrooms.
Mild giggles kick in as we walk up to This Tent, where Jim James is just starting. It's the perfect musical backdrop. A. E. I. O. U. sounds lush in my ears, drippy and loopy and sexy and silly all at once. I post to Instagram with one hand, my other arm wrapped around David as we half-dance, nodding and smiling and laughing.
Surprise
Here's what I expect of watching Paul McCartney: I expect it will be a ton of fun. I expect an eighty thousand person singalong. I expect to enjoy it and appreciate it for what it is: a once in a lifetime experience. I'm a Beatles fan, but I'm certainly not a rabid one.
Well, I get the singalong, and I absolutely get the fun. We end up in a very cool little cluster of people with whom we sing, dance, and high-five throughout the show. But the whole experience is heightened by the fact that while I'm not a rabid Beatles fan, my companion, Bryan, is. And watching any show in the company of a die-hard fan is always much more fun. He knows every word to every tune, and is just generally beside himself, he's so into it. He sings the ballads in my ear and plays the guitar solos on my hip and my arm. And somewhere along the way I get hit with a wave of holy shit emotion, as in holy shit, I'm watching one of the most famous musicians in the world, a man who's not going to be up to doing these shows for too many more years. I think of all the times I've listened to The Beatles either by myself or with friends who were fans.
I think of the fact that my brother was the one who introduced me to them.
And as Sir Paul pauses in between songs to muse about "his friend John", it dawns on me what an amazing, momentous thing it is, to be living at a time when I can watch this incredibly famous and influential man perform. A man whose life and experiences and connections and friendships are so intermeshed with the 20th century historical musical narrative that it's hard to think of someone more important, or integral to, well, the whole fucking thing.
And it moves me, tremendously. And I think of friends that I love, and who I would be crushed to lose, in the way that Paul lost John. And I cry. Unexpectedly, I cry. And I'm strangely happy to be surprised by this moment.
Peace
I don't meet up with Bryan on Sunday. I don't want to. I'm burned out physically and emotionally. We talk about meeting up for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, which is the final show, but he's already buried deep in the crowd when I get to the field. I'm feeling really low at this point in the evening. So low, in fact, that I actually consider skipping the show and just going home. Everyone else just seems so connected, and I feel so incredibly alone. There's a special kind of bittersweet energy at the last show on the last night of a festival. People stand closer to one another. They're quieter. It seems like they listen to one another more, perhaps soaking up the last of their interaction with each other before saying goodbye forever. It honestly feels like 79,999 people, and then me.
And then it starts raining.
It isn't pouring, but it isn't misting either. The covered tents at the back of the field quickly fill up, as some people retreat for shelter. But most just hold their ground, some in rain gear, though most not. I'm waiting in line for the bathroom, pulling my ninety-nine cent poncho out of my bag, when the band starts to play. And I know instantly that I'm not going anywhere. The sound is so good, so rich and full and pretty, even way back where I stand, at the far end of the field. It lights up the night and grabs a hold of me and says Hey, look, don't leave yet, ok? It's Tom fucking Petty after all. You can be sad, but just be sad to Tom Petty is all's we're saying.
So I don't leave. I go to the bathroom, where I unfold and don a flimsy, transparent triangle of plastic, and then I step back out into a massive, moonlit singalong. I wander around the field for the entire show, socializing a bit, but mostly just stopping in one section long enough to listen to a song or two before moving on to another area. I watch lanterns being lit, and set out to float off into the night sky amidst cheers and applause. I watch fire breathers and glow stick dancers and hula hoopers. I spend a few minutes running in circles with a group of people who are just randomly running in circles, for the sheer fun of it, in the rain. I do all of this alone, and my heart, which has felt so empty and hollow all day, suddenly is full again. I throw my head back and yell out lyrics along with everyone else. Heyyyyyy baby, there ain't no easy way out. Heyyyyyyy I will stand my ground. And I won't back down.
I won't say that I feel joyful, exactly. Not akin to other, higher moments of the fest. But I find peace back there, in the dark, aimlessly wandering and singing to myself, to the crowd, to the band, to the sky, to my past, to my present, and to my future. It isn't some great revelatory moment. I'm not high, and I haven't had a single drop of alcohol. It's just a clean, peaceful feeling, standing there in the rain, being alone, and being anything but at the same time
Connection
Thursday night. We've got our festival legs. It's the warm-up day. No major shows, none of the big stages are open, but there are several smaller or lesser-known acts scheduled to kick the weekend off. Last year Greg and I missed Thursday entirely, so it feels like a bonus to even be here tonight.
We drift and sample shows at will, having fun and enjoying the scene but not getting too amped up about anything. Until we stumble upon Django Django. And that's when our festival starts. I've never heard them before, and Bryan has only briefly checked them out online when making his schedule. They're indescribable. Part EDM, part funk, part question mark, and one more part question mark. I've since listened to them on Spotify and something definitely gets lost in their studio recordings. But live? Live they are unreal. So fun, so funky and danceable.
We catch the show from the outside of the tent, nowhere near close enough to see the stage, but the sound hits us—and the crowd around us—just right. We have a blast dancing with one another, laughing and goofing around to the music we can't for the life of us describe or classify, but which is rocking us hard. Some guy near where we stand shines a handheld disco laser under our feet, twisting the grip to change the pattern as we dance. I'm mesmerized and delighted. Bryan is loving the music, loving dancing, loving his first taste of Bonnaroo.
There aren't a lot of moments during the weekend, that he and I truly connect over the music we're watching. But we connect over Django Django, and it's the perfect sleeper hit start to the weekend.
Luck
I lucked out so many times throughout the festival, in terms of catching the one or two songs I'd wanted to see, at shows that I wasn't otherwise interested in. This happened with Maps and Atlases, Beach House, Wilco, ZZ Top, David Byrne, Divine Fits, and at least a couple more I'm not remembering. I just happened to be walking by, or walking up, or on my way to another show, and I caught some of my favorite randoms this way. Super lucky timing.
Regrets
I missed On an On entirely, because we got to Paul McCartney so early. That's my biggest regret. I also missed The XX completely (I missed them at Coachella, too—double fail).
I wish I'd been much closer for Of Monsters and Men and The Lumineers. The Lumineers put on an awesome show, but their sound got completely lost in the back. We could barely hear them. I would have been much more bummed about it if I hadn't seen them here in LA last year, and smack up against the stage at that. And I can't really complain about the Of Monsters and Men show, since this is the third time I've seen them, and both times before were really amazing for me, emotionally.
There are a couple other smaller bands/performers I wanted to see that were earlier in the day, but I was just way too trashed from being up until 6am the night before to get back up early enough to catch them. C'est la festival vie.
EDM
Porter Robinson, Wolfgang Gartner, Boyz Noise, and Pretty Lights are all, predictably, incredible. Danced my face off, loved every minute of them.
Romance
Negative. Chemistry, yes. Lots of laughs and great conversation, definitely. Romance, no. Ellie is officially still single, kids. Hide your menfolk.
Moment of Random Dancing In the Middle of Everything
One particularly Bonnaroo-esque moment was actually on Thursday night. We took moon rocks, which neither of us had ever had before, and it hit us like a tsunami. I consider myself, for lolz or for lolsobs, to be a pretty savvy user of ecstasy/MDMA at this point. And I've never experienced anything like it. It was nearly incapacitating. We both had to sit down when it hit, lest our legs give out from under us. This happened as we were walking through the middle of the festival. We just plopped down right where we stood. That lasted about thirty seconds for me, at which point, I, of course, needed to dance. The closest music source was the crazy Christmas barn, and it was perfect. Bryan just sat watching, dazed but laughing, as I broke it down right there, in the middle of foot traffic. I didn't have a choice. Then we just sat there for a while marveling at how unbelievably high we were, and every few minutes I'd pop back up to dance some more of it off.
To me a festival isn't complete unless at some point I'm randomly dancing in the middle of nothing/everything. So I got that covered.
Favorites
Band - The Vaccines. Holy shit they rocked. Loved loved loved seeing them, especially since they were a last minute, very exciting discovery for me. I've since added lead singer Justin Hayward-Young to my rock star crush list. I mean, come on. If The Strokes + Weezer + a dash of Vampire Weekend sounds good to you, check them out. Family Friend (just the tune, no video) is fucking amazing, I cannot stop listening to that track. Also great are If You Wanna and Norgaard. Oh, and Wetsuit, which was so, so fun to hear live.
Performer - Matt Berninger of The National, who drank his way through the show like a boss, jumped into the pit inches from where I stood, and wandered around the audience for a couple of songs, dragging and violently yanking his mic cord behind him. Such a badass. I Need My Girl almost killed me. I wish it would have. Then maybe Matt would have revived me when he plunged into my personal space, which he totes did on purpose, I'm sure of it.
Song - Alive, by Empire of The Sun. So magical. I was in heaven. One of my favorite festival moments of all time, if not THE best moment, actually. Can't wait to see them again at HardFest in August.
Were There Any Groups of People Dressed In Banana Suits?
You bet your potassium there were.
vs. 2012?
Gah, do I have to? Put a gun to my head and I'll say 2012 was better. But that's not really fair. Such wildly different experiences. Last year I went with Greg, and we were pretty head over heels, though the fact is we fought terribly when we were there. Drugs and romance, I have learned, do not mix. Like, at all.
That being said, some of my favorite moments of this year way, way trumped some of my 2012 moments. It's just too hard to compare, really.
Gonna 'Roo Again Next Year?
Honestly, I'm not sure. I'm going to wait and see what the lineup is first this time. And I'm itching to do a new festival, if I can. Maybe Osheaga, in Montreal. Or, dream fest—the Isle of Wight. And if I don't go to EDC next year, I can pretty much never go, because it'll be my last chance to go before I'm 40. And your girl really doesn't give a whole lot of fucks about age and all that nonsenserry, because she still has a blast going to EDM shows and such...but EDC is a whole 'nother kettle of (very young) fish.
I'm also thinking of maybe just taking a trip to see one of my huge favorites somewhere cool, such as Explosions in The Sky, or The Walkmen. Making a weekend out of visiting a new city, capping it off with a concert. Dunno.
How Bad Was the Comedown After Bonnaroo?
Suicidally bad. That's not an exaggeration, I'm sorry to say. I was an absolute, utter mess. Even worse than after Coachella, which was unbearably bad. Hence my silence on the blog and IG. I was in the throes of some of the deepest despair I've ever experienced. I don't know if it was the moon rocks, or the combination of lots of moon rocks plus lots of mushrooms, or the fact that I barely ate while I was there (I lost ten pounds over the weekend), or WHAT was going on, but I crashed worse than I ever have. Disastrously bad scene. Spent most of Wednesday wanting to hurl myself off of the roof. Really. Luckily friends near and far were there for me, and I had a ton of support when I needed it most. Like, unreal amounts of love and support, which probably saved my life.
Serotonin depletion is bad news for anyone, at any time. But for someone prone to depression, it's actually incredibly fucking dangerous. I've now learned this lesson twice, the very very hard way. It's something I'm factoring into consideration for all of my subsequent festival plans, including Burning Man. That much usage spells serious trouble for me. One or two nights in a row is one thing, but four nights in a row is just not doable for the Ellster.
- - -
And that will conclude your coverage of Bonnaroo 2013, which was written by your blogmistress all at once over the past few hours and therefore on no sleep, so apologies if it's not her best work, etc and so forth, and also apologies in advance for a few more IG shots she's probably going to post because they're pretty and she wants to, even if they're totally redundant (read: sunset Ferris wheel shots) and to all a goodnight zzzzzzz.....
Bonnaroo 2015 - 40 moments
7/14/2015
It's always an intimidatingly huge task, to try and recap Bonnaroo. Just reviewing the performances doesn't really get you there. And anyway, music blogs and mags do a much better job of that than me.
With festivals, it comes down to moments. Blissful moments. Stressful moments. Carefree moments. Surprised moments. Annoyed moments. Amused moments. Playful moments. Pissed-off moments. Those are what stay with me. So those are what I'm sharing today, albeit a solid month after they've cooled off. Forty moments and forty images to keep them company in my memory. In no particular order, because order is taking the summer off.
1. An industrial truck is rolling through the middle of the grounds. It inches past picnic tables where the sweaty and sun-drenched scarf down pizza and donuts. The cab's windows are lowered; two tanned young men sit inside, looking surprisingly cheerful considering the circumstances. These men are doing god's work: hauling pumped-out waste from the Porta Potties. Their heroics are not lost on the crowd, many of whom rush up to high-five them in appreciation. Bonnaroooooo! they call to one another, slapping palms and exchanging smiles, respect, germs. I have a hard time picturing such a scene happening at Coachella.
2. The things you hear, as you move through the throng. Snippets of conversations, shouts of greeting, laughter. You wonder about the stories behind some of them. I really don't think they have chicken soup, says a male voice doubtfully, and I'm intrigued enough to make a note of it in my phone. Is his girlfriend sick? Cold? It's ninety degrees out, middle of the day. Hot soup hardly seems a refreshing choice for overheated revelers. I hope she finds a pot pie or fried chicken, something more likely to be around but just as comforting.
3. They like to say Bonnaroo fills up your spirit for the year ahead. I think of this as we're laying on our sheet, at the edge of a relatively empty tent, listening to the opening song of Who Is William Onyeabor. It's especially dry and dirty over here. As people drift in to check out the music, they kick up dust and inadvertently add to the thin layer of Tennessee that hovers then settles lightly on our skin. I love it, though. It's part and parcel of the experience. We're especially close right now, maybe that's why. Joking and cuddling, flat on our backs, removed but involved, enjoying what's on offer but also making something for ourselves. These are the best Bonnaroo moments. Taking it in but creating at the same time. I love him so much at this instant, fist propped behind his head, tapping a foot while I slap his leg to the beat. All our small cuts and hurts forgotten, lovingly bandaged up with music and sunshine.
4. We're enjoying one of the few gaps in our schedule. Wandering, catching bits of shows here and there, gravitating to whatever draws us in. Something funky's going down at This Tent. We slide into the back corner, where the reds and purples of stage lights hit the black wall of night, washing us in a pink haze. We dance, and I can't tell if we're being ironic with our ridiculous moves or not. A man approaches us and wordlessly, wondrously hands us a pineapple. He gestures emphatically for us to hold it together, which we do, glancing at one another and at him in amazement. So, this is happening. He still doesn't speak and neither do we, other than to say thank you and laugh. All three of dance for a few moments before I sense that I'm expected to return the pineapple. I do so, and he dances out of sight with it. I think we're festival-married now, says Terence. I think that was some kind of ceremony. I suspect Pastor Pineapple will be in a lot of Bonnaroo stories.
5. Another overheard tidbit. This time I see the speakers: a girl skipping ten steps behind two of her friends—a girl and guy—who lean on one another with linked arms as they walk. Crossing an expanse of grass in front of us, so young and fresh they make my heart ache. There's a softness about them I can't explain, as if the light breaking just now was cleared by the clouds especially for them. Where are you gooooing, Katie, where are you going? sings the second girl to her friend ahead. Joy and friendship twinkle in her voice. We're going to make halos! comes the reply, over a freckled shoulder, equally singsong and inviting. Somehow they've managed to write Bonnaroo in fourteen words.
6. Turquoise braids so close I can see where the blond fades in. A gauzy floral kimono, also turquoise, wisping across my ankles. Funky sunglasses, red lipstick, a smile wider than the sky. Girlfriends on either side of her, but she's obviously the beloved ringleader. They sit practically on our feet, so smashed up against them are we. Row after row of us, cross-legged, facing the Jumbotron where Bleacher's lead singer is torturing a tent full of millennial women. He's one part one emo, one part bro. "Ebro," Terence calls him. Braids and Co., shifting positions, notice how much they're on top of us. They apologize, try to make room. We assure them it's no problem, they're welcome to what few inches of space we're all sharing. Braids is effusive, bubbling with thanks and her goofy stoner's grin. She loves us, she says. I love her hair, I say. If we want any of her, you know (she holds up a small pipe), we're welcome to partake. Seriously, it's the good shit. Terence gives her an orange, which he obtained from the VIP tent but which we have no use for. Braids is delighted, hugs him in thanks. I get a hug, too. If nothing else, I won't get scurvy! There's a topless hula hooper over Terence's shoulder. I discreetly point her out to him and my expression says See? I told you they do that here. I've been thinking about ditching the itchy bra under my tank top, so I'm building my case. Bleachers, a world away from NYC, are a blast.
7. I'm going to kill him, I fume silently. I'm going to absolutely kill him. The thing I dread most, the thing I warned him against repeatedly, has happened. We've gotten separated. There's no cell reception. Texts don't go through and calls disappear into voicemail purgatory. We have a designated meeting place set but a show has just started, one we've both been looking forward to. Tears for Fears. He wanted to catch some of Ben Folds before it started, but we cut it too close and by the time we left the crowd was impossibly thick. Walking too fast ahead of me, darting around crazily, striding over the blankets of people already sitting down. I refused to follow suit, perhaps unreasonably so, but I'd rather take the long way around than be disruptive and rude. And now we're separated instead of singing along together. I'm going to kill him. And I nearly do, when we meet up afterward. Chewing him a new one by the mushroom fountain, overly loud. He counters with fierce, forced cheerfulness. These are the worst Bonarroo moments. Veering sharply off course before you know what's happened, willing yourself to shrug off anger and annoyance, intensified by heat, fatigue, hunger. But I do. I stop us walking and pull him into a hug, holding tight until I feel the tension truly release from his body. I'll hold him all night if I have to. We're not fighting at Bonnaroo. Anyway, they sounded depressingly old to me, to be honest. The whole show felt hokey. You can't go home again. You can only go forward.
8. Childish Gambino. Not my thing, but Terence is fascinated by the guy. Completely gave up a career acting. It's like if I just decided one day to.... I tune out. I can't help it. I'm distracted by thoughts of the night ahead. It's just past nine and in a little while we're going to take pills which will make us want to dance. And I can't wait to dance. Deadmau5 the night before was not enough. I'm twitching in my seat, ready for some Silent Disco, some Bassnectar and Flume. Though it could also be the fact that my ass itches horribly, when I sit on the ground in my Dance Pants. Something about the combination of cold vinyl, the hay-like grass underneath, and the sticky slick feel of my leggings. It's the worst, and I keep finding reasons to stand up, smooth my clothing out. The VIP tent is a short walk away so I make a couple trips over there to pee in relative luxury while Terence gets his rap fix. In the buzzy light of the trailer restroom, I check myself out. High neck crop top that laces up my back. Colorful, slinky jersey pants hugging my hips. Festival outfit planning always brings out my harshest inner critic. No way, Ellie. You are too fucking old for that. That too. And that? Don't even think about it. And I compromised with myself this time, balancing out the amount of skin I'm showing. But the getup is skintight and unforgiving, and I worked hard to own it. This vanity, gross and superficial, is still part of the fun of festivals for me. I'll outgrow it eventually.
9. I always forget how much I love the sprawling, sweltering afternoon shows on the main stage. The frenetic energy of late-night sets is the excitement I daydream about, leading up to festivals. But once I'm there, the truth is that the daytime headliners out at the What Stage—a massive field lined with food stalls and shops, with room enough for 90,000+ people—are what often give me the most joy. And right now, I'm giddy with it, listening to Spoon. The sizzling heat has pinned thousands of fans to the ground, where they sit or lay in various degrees of dehydration, delight, or both. Every last one of us working on a sunburn, none of us caring. The opening chords of "Do You" launch me into a frenzy. I jump up, dancing a circle around Terence, singing to him as I bounce. It's one of the songs I've most been looking forward to hearing live. Their entire set will end up being one of my favorites of the weekend. Britt Daniel's scratchy howling has been on my radar since the 90s and finally seeing him perform is a kind of coming home. Terence dances with me, the two of us jumping around like maniacs. When we collapse in a heap, defeated by the sun, I lean against him, smoothing the hair from his face as I sing.
10. Waiting to ride the Ferris Wheel. In three years of going to festivals, I've never yet managed to get on one. We're high on mushrooms and the length of the line doesn't faze me a bit. Everything is color and light and contentment, and I'm satisfied to just look around. The sun is setting, and our bodies cast twenty foot shadows across the grass. The placard at the entrance tells about the original Ferris Wheel at the World's Fair. Adjusted for inflation, a ticket to ride cost $90. Ninety dollars! I'll tell everyone I know this, back at home. Silly on psychedelics, we assign flavors to the car colors. I hope we get grape. Or lemon. When we finally board, we're amazed at how long the ride lasts. Florence and The Machine is on, way off in the distance. I'd caught her at Coachella and had encouraged Terence to go watch her himself, but he's chosen to stay with me instead. We watch a sea of people surging to the music, which we can hear clearly even at this remove. Terence takes in the vastness of Bonnaroo, the endless camping area and the size of the grounds. I duck as he takes panoramic pictures, craning around in my seat to get my own sunset shots. It's spectacular.
11. Guster is playing "Ramona." I wasn't even sure I wanted to watch their set, I had so little faith they'd play much of the older stuff I know, considering how massive their catalog is. But they're playing "Ramona" and it is absolutely making my Bonnaroo. I. Fucking. Love. This. Song. Terence films me singing along, where we sit off to the side, in the grass. When it ends I realize I'm crying. Not even sure why. Not even sure what it dragged up, from deep inside me. Not sure I want to look at it and see. But it got something, that's for sure.
12. Deadmau5 has just ended. Tens of thousands of people are shuffling back to the main grounds, to catch the rest of ODESZA. Other mau5heads like me have been stunned into silence. I stumble along, my hand hooked into the back of Terence's shorts, "Avaritia" still ringing in my ears. The set was phenomenal. Operatic. And all I can think is that I wish there was a way to make Joel Zimmerman understand—feel—what his music does to us. I wish there was a machine I could hook him up to, so that as he performed, all the emotion, all the elation his music generates in fans could be routed straight back into him. Electrify him with a heart attack of appreciation. He is like no other, to me. An innovator with the success and talent to back up his occasional attitude. One of my biggest creative idols, and whom I was most excited to see this weekend. From the opening notes of "You There" (which is exactly what I'd hoped he'd start with), I spent his entire set in an ecstasy of movement, only stopping to drink water. Heaven.
13. Billy Joel. Creeping around in the dark field as his set is starting, trying to agree on the optimum spot. We end up on the VIP hill, where to my right I see a crowd of ninety thousand, illuminated by the towering lights of the What Stage. A mass of waving glow sticks, launched in huge bundles towards the sky at key points during songs. LED hula hoops, jump ropes, and all manner of blinking totems. And the lanterns. Those delicate paper balloons carefully lit and set aloft by the crowd, to the triumphant cheers of everyone nearby. They drift by overhead, tiny glowing festival clouds that complete the magic scene that is Bonnaroo's last night. And the music. Terence belting it out, totally absorbed, totally transplanted (probably someplace close to where I've gone; we're only two years apart, after all). I get weepy during "Piano Man" and giddy during "Only The Good Die Young" and everything in between is just all kinds of wonderful.
14. Sometime this spring, "Sedona" by Houndmouth got under my skin in a really big way. The story in that song...I don't know, I just love it. And when they played it, well. Terence standing behind for me to alternately jump on and lean into, breaking my face on the biggest smile ever. Realizing it was only Thursday night and we had another three days' worth ahead of us.
15. Do you know STS9? I did not. I don't know how I'd missed them, studying up. Right up my instrumental alley. We caught them on accident, grabbing a bite next to where they played. Sometimes, being completely removed from a stage offers the best vantage point. This was one of those times. We could see the entire light show, lasers and strobes blasted in every which way to the pulsing beat. From a distance, the whole thing look contained, like a sci-fi movie set standing alone on an otherwise dark island.
16. A small thing, but heartwarming to see: the various Robin Williams totems.
17. I say this with love in my heart for AWOLNATION: AWOLNATION is a big dork. I'd dragged Terence up close to the stage in the blazing heat, half an hour early. We and everyone around us utterly defeated by the sun, hardly anyone talking. Shading ourselves with our hands, sending emissaries out for cold drinks. But then the music starts and we all gamely jump up. Faithful, sun-fried fans, going on pure anticipation. He's animated, undeniably spirited and pumped to be at Bonnaroo. But also...awkward somehow? When he tries to rally the crowd between songs he sounds more like a morning radio DJ than a rockstar. It's a surprise, a bit of a let down at first, but then fun in its own way. We giggle at how goofy he comes across, and give in to what now feel like cheesy anthems.
18. Cooling off in the VIP tent, girding ourselves for another several-hour stint in the sun. Terence uses the bathroom, and when he returns he finds me in conversation with a middle-aged man holding a silver mylar balloon. He's round and pink, pleasantly toasted by sunshine and alcohol. He's telling me about the vibrations in his balloon. How it's picking up levels of sound beyond what the speakers are producing. People are freaking out, he says, when they hear it. Goes on a bit about frequencies and secret, mystical music. Clearly having some kind of spiritual experience, with the balloon, sharing it with everyone he can. Terence gives it a try, and the surprised look on his face delights the man. See? Totally different waveforms, right? The balloon is passed to me. Yep. Totally different waveforms. Pretty damn cool.
Outside lands 2012
8/23/12
I've put off writing my recap of Outside Lands music festival not only because I've been a depressed and uninspired sop, but because I have conflicted feelings about it. It was, aside from the music aspect, nothing whatsoever like Bonnaroo. And I loved Bonnaroo. Which is not to say that OL didn't have its charms. It did, and I had a blast. But it was a completely different experience. And I can't say I wasn't warned that it would be, by the comparisons I'd read online beforehand. But my hopes and expectations for the fest were still, inevitably, Bonnaroo-shaped and Bonnaroo-stamped.
Golden Gate Park is beautiful, no argument. But it was effing cold. The fog rolled in on Friday and Saturday afternoon and my ass was freezing (Sunday was much milder). On Friday, I was even wearing a skirt (albeit with thick wool thigh high socks), because my iPhone lied to me about the weather, like a jerk. And it's really hard to get into the mood of dancing, drinking, drugging—whatever your thing is—when you're shivering. So there was that.
Then there was the matter of how congested and crazy it got later in the weekend. Again—beautiful venue. Truly lovely setting, and I enjoyed walking through the woods. But 60,000 people in Golden Gate Park is absolute chaos. There is no flow. Something about the layout of Bonnaroo gave it flow, and there were another 20,000 people there. But navigating Outside Lands, particularly on Saturday and Sunday when the most people attended, was like swimming upstream: an exercise in futility and frustration. The fields where the stages are get completely choked with multiple lanes of foot traffic, and it becomes a twenty minute ordeal just to get in to the area, much less near the music. I missed Alabama Shakes for this reason. My claustrophobia kicked in as I was worming my way into the meadow and I had to bolt.
Also, the sound on one of the stages (the Panhandle) was just awful. Unless you were extremely close and towards the center, the music was a poor simulacrum of what it should have been. For this reason, Washed Out was a huge disappointment for me. Another stage, Twin Peaks, had some sounds problems, too, which is not what you want when you're jamming out to Justice and Skrillex. Finally, the biggest bummer—the festival vibe itself. Whereas Bonnaroo had such an intimate sense of community, stuffed as it was with dirty, sweaty, sunburned, but really joyful people, Outside Lands felt more like a scene. A place to be seen. The fact that there was no overnight camping at OL contributes to this largely, I know. But the crowd itself was very different. A lot more monied, a lot more self-conscious. People in meticulously constructed boho chic outfits who seemed more interested in who was checking them out than enjoying the music itself. I saw a fraction of the amount of unadulterated joy—dancing, singing, laughing, cavorting—as I did at Bonnaroo. And it seemed like people at OL were pushier, shovier, more impatient, less tolerant.
But, like I say, I still had an amazing time just doing my thing out there in the woods. Cue the highlight reel!
Music Highlights
This time around, I made it a point to be well versed in the music I was going to hear. I mean, I studied. I made playlists of all the bands on my schedule, and listened to them exclusively for the two weeks before the festival. This got me really, really excited about it. For this reason, in terms of the music, I got more out of Outside Lands than Bonnaroo.
Where to start.
Of Monsters and Men. Can't even convey how powerful this show was, for me. I started out pressed up close to the stage, because this was my number one most anticipated show and I wanted a fully immersive experience. But holy hell was it packed in tight. And there was a baby hipster couple next to me, a gorgeous young girl and her neck-bearded boyfriend, whose nonstop kissing and cuddling were too much for my newly-single self to handle. After the first track, I retreated to a corner off the side where I could sit by myself and soak up the songs that, truly, have gotten me through some of the hardest moments of my life. And they sounded exactly like the album.
Explosions In The Sky. Have the chills just remembering this one. God, so good. I was in the front of the VIP section, had plenty of room to just shut my eyes and dance. Hypnotizing, amazing set. I was so charged up afterward that I plowed back through the crowd yelling "Yeessss!!! SO AWESOME!" and high fiving any stranger who seemed remotely amused by my enthusiasm (a total of two).
Geographer. This was suuuuuch a kick-ass show. The crowd was totally engaged and dancing, really into it, and he was an awesome performer. Every song sounded just like the album, and the energy was perfect for the late afternoon. I was off to the side alone for a while on this one, drinking wine and kinda half dancing half watching, but got sucked in to the crowd pretty quickly.
Animal Kingdom. Totally rocked. This group should be loads more popular than they are. His voice is so edgy and different, I love it. I actually laid on the ground for most of this show. Flat on my back, just drumming my belly to the beat.
Jukebox the Ghost. If there's one show I'm glad I got to be right up front for, it's this one. They were so, so fun and into it. Really animated performers, and they sounded awesome. They did a cover of I Wanna Dance With Somebody that was a blast.
City and Colour. Watched this with Greg on Sunday, and it was a really nice moment. We sat off to the side, me in between his legs and leaning against his chest. It was extremely mellow and relaxing, and the music was fantastic.
Trampled By Turtles. Intense. Also watched this with Greg. People loooooove them some Trampled By Turtles. You haven't seen festival dancing until you've seen TBT fans stomping and whooping and flailing. I felt closer to Greg than I had in ages which was a double-edged sword, obviously. Enjoyed the intimacy, but knew it was the exception, not the rule. Knew it didn't change where we were at (broken up and at the festival as friends). So, yeah. Intense.
fun. One of the best performances of the festival. That kid is a powerhouse, and he was ALL over the stage belting it out. I've been a fan since The Format, so it was a real treat to see him. He saved Some Nights for the finale, and I was a hollerin' those lyrics, oh boy.
The Walkmen. I liked the Walkmen before seeing them live—now I really have a true appreciation for them. Talk about a voice. Probably the best performance I saw all weekend, just from the perspective of pure talent—and I'm saying that about a group I barely knew at the time. If you like them at all and ever have the chance to see them live, don't miss it!
Wolfgang Gartner and Skrillex. They were right after one another and I was high as a kite. Danced. My. Face. Off. And met some fun people to party with during, too. Perfect ending to the festival on Sunday night (I was alone—Greg had gone to meet a friend for drinks downtown).
Sigur Ros. I'm not a Sigur Ros fan, really, but wowww. The show they put on was jaw-dropping, what with the lights and effects. I can only imagine how it was for actual fans.
Other Festival Highlights
I met some very cool, fun people on Friday night that I spent a few hours running around with. Two guys and a girl. That girl had MAD wingman skills, I tell you what. She procured me for her friends in under thirty seconds, after seeing me near them at Washed Out. We drank together, lamented the horrible sound and our disappointment about that performance, and then ended up dancing and goofing around at Justice and Neil Young afterward.
- Dancing in the dark, steamy, packed Heineken dome. Getting so lost in the music and warmth and crowd and other things, that I blew off a show to stay and dance.
- Dancing at the Digital Music Lounge, in broad daylight, a full, sober crowd watching the rest of make fools of ourselves in an attempt to win free stuff. Didn't win anything, but didn't stay long. Didn't like all the cameras.
- Greg and I had one really lovely moment, on Sunday, right smack in the middle of Sutro field. Pople were swarming all around us, hurrying and pushing and streaming past on their ways to and fro. But he and I sort of just stopped and reclaimed a small space to be what we wanted: calm, happy, joyful—to be, honestly, like Bonnaroo, where people would suddenly start dancing or hula-hooping or kissing or whatever right in the middle of things, and it was not just accepted, it was approved of, mightily. And that's what we did. We just randomly stopped to slow dance for a minute, and to share a kiss. It was nice.
- Dancing late Sunday night in the woods of McLaren Pass to a folk band I'd never heard of (and didn't bother to learn the name of), but who were the perfect night-cap to my lingering, post-Skrillex jumpies.
Non-Festival Highlights
- My very dear friend Chris let me stay with him in San Francisco, which was perfect for multiple reasons. One—it was just so goddamn good to see him. I adore him to smithereens and seeing him is sustenance for my soul. Heart bigger than the state of California and always chock full of the best advice. Two—this was post/kinda during my breakup with Greg and there is no one you want more in your corner, propping you back up with encouragement, humor, and food/liquor, than Chris. Three—his gorgeous apartment is right smack downtown, just a block from the Civic Center where the festival shuttle picked me up every day. It could not have been more convenient.
- On Monday, Greg and I had shrooms (this was the first time for me) and wandered around the city all day and into the evening, before our late flight home. Holy shit. Holy shit. It was a) the best day I've ever had with Greg (which, haha, let's just fuck with Ellie's mind, drugs! thanks!), b) the most enjoyable drug experience I've ever had by a factor of a hundred (suuuuuch a nice, mellow, upbeat and giggly high that lasts and lasts), and c) the first time I'd really spent any time in SF anywhere other than the wharf.
We had such an incredibly fun day, just lolling about the wharf, the piers, the gardens. Getting hypnotized by a statue and trying to climb it. Waxing philosophical about life while we looked at cars on the bridge. Staring, mesmerized, at a toddler playing with a puppy in the park. Bumbling around Chinatown, me feeling the sensation of shrooms for the first time, letting the positive vibes wash over me as we examine weird things in apothecary jars. Laughing so much our cheeks hurt.
Later, we ate at RN 74. I was hesitant to go there at first, feeling sloppy in my filthy festival jeans. But I'm glad Greg convinced me to go in, because it was great. We lounged in the bar on a couch and feasted and drank and talked. It was the perfect ending to the day and the long weekend.
Coachella 2013
5/9/13
I'm already beside myself by the time I get to Palm Springs, from which I still have another thirty minutes of driving. The ride out has been nearly four hours of stop and go festival traffic: cars and vans and small RVs loaded with kids in shorts, telltale wristbands, and not much else. Legs on dashboards, tanned arms tapping window frames, sunglassed smiles sizing one other up across lane dividers. For my part, I've switched from an electronic stream on SoundCloud to blasting Of Monsters and Men.
I am so, so ready.
Greg texts me as I'm about to pull off the freeway. I take it all back. I don't know how much of that to take. I took some a little while ago and it's mixed. Maybe try taking 1/3 of what I gave you, waiting an hour, and then going from there.
He's talking about the handful of dried mushrooms that are sitting in a small baggy on the hotel room desk, atop a laminated room service menu. I picked the shrooms up from him at his apartment the Friday prior, where he carefully portioned them out into what he imagined would be three solid trips.
My hotel is way beyond what I expect, because I haven't really paid much attention to where I'm staying. By the time I booked it, my choices were very few, and I don't care what it looks like as long as I have a roof over my head at night and a place to shower in the morning. Well, it has that and then some. In fact, it's pretty impressive, which makes me feel substantially better about the arm and leg I've forfeited to pay for it. I have a room over the pool—a really nice room, in fact. And the staff is incredibly friendly.
I unpack while I text with Cameron, who's late night channel surfing.
- I wish you were here. Palatial hotel, massive two bed room over a waterfall pool with tiki torches, and enough drugs to make Pablo Escobar blush.
- Where are you? Coachella? Thought that was all tents and such. ...You had me at drugs.
- I'm not camping. You don't have to camp. There's tons of hotels.
He sends me a picture he's taken of the cable guide channel: a title and a description. The American Bible Challenge. 11-12 am. A game show in which teams answer questions about the Bible. (Game Show, 60 mins.)
- What do they win? A cruise on an ark?
- A single box of Rice-A-Roni, but Jesus will make it last a whole year. ...It's so sad. The nuns are playing to support some nuns without any retirement.
- Doesn't exactly recommend God as an employer.
- Actually, since they're brides of Christ, I think it's less about the lousy boss and more a matter of marrying badly. Next game: guess the biblical tweeter.
As curious as I am about biblical tweetage, I tell Cam I need to finish getting ready for tomorrow and crash. I skit nervously about the room, arranging and rearranging what I've brought. Clothing, toiletries, snacks, my own blanket, sheet, and pillow. Scissors, tape, rubber bands, and baggies.
I text Greg again.
- Hey, what was the verdict on the mushrooms?
He replies by way of a painting. It's...intense.
- Whoa. That's amazing. It's so different for you.
- I'm very stoned.
- I see that. ...Can you give me a lil guidance on the shrooms? I don't want to overdo it or underdo it.
He replies with two more photographs of two different paintings. Vivid color, abstract human form, oversized and aggressive.
- Greg? Focus. Did you do anything other than the shrooms?
- Stick with what I said last time. Take two caps and two stems to start.
He calls me and we chat for a few minutes. He's high, but lucid. He's leaving for New York the next day, for his niece’s naming ceremony. He wishes he could come to Coachella instead. He's going to get off the phone now, because he misses me and he's going to get sappy.
After we hang up, he sends one more text.
- I hope you have the best weekend ever. :)
It takes me hours to fall asleep, exhausted as I am. The anticipation is a stronger drug than anything I've brought from LA.
---
Friday morning I do a thing that can't really be called "waking up", because the transition isn't that defined. I just sort of drift from a state of wakeful dreaming to one of dreamy wakefulness. I haven't gotten nearly enough sleep to healthily sustain myself for what the day has in store, but whatever, it's Coachella. I've been banking “healthy" for weeks, for just this scenario: eating well, exercising, barely drinking, and sleeping on as regular a schedule as I can.
I've been hoarding vice points, and I'm going to cash every one of those suckers in this weekend.
But it's only eight a.m., and vice is still fast asleep even if I'm not, so I order a small pot of coffee from room service and slide the heavy balcony door open. The desert morning is everything I remember: that certain quality of light, the redness of the dirt, the subdued chirping, and the unmistakably dry smell in the air. When I retreat back into the still-dark hotel room, I notice how prettily the daylight spills in, and I take a couple pictures of the view—and myself inserted into it. I post a risque shot to Instagram, feeling giddy and hedonistic. And we're off...
After coffee and some emails, it's still only a quarter after nine, and much as I'd love to sneak in a nap, I know my excitement will make it impossible. So I slip on my shoes and head downstairs to explore. It's hot, really hot, but before I know what I'm doing, I've broken into a light jog around the grounds. I quickly realize this is a waste of my energy, and head back to the cool of my room.
Showering, hair and makeup, dressing and packing my backpack are a snap, since I've already got everything neatly laid out for the day. The only thing that remains to be done before I leave is portioning out and hiding whatever drugs I want to take to the festival today.
Despite having meticulously planned out every other detail of my weekend, I'm still not sure how I want to go about this. I'm assuming that security at Coachella will be similar to what it's been at Bonnaroo and Outside Lands: a quick once-over of my bag and belongings, and the most cursory of pat downs. I've never had a problem smuggling contraband into a festival, whether I hide it in my bra or leave it more or less in plain view in my bag; say, inside my sunglasses case, or zipped into the coin pouch I use as a wallet. It's just never been an issue.
On this trip, I've brought a couple of small lidded mixing cups from an art supply store to stash my, uh, stash in. I wanted something that would keep the MDMA tablets and the mushroom pieces from getting crushed, when they were transferred, post-security, into my backpack. The cups are about the diameter of quarters, and maybe half an inch thick. They cost three dollars, I think, for a set of twelve.
Never in my wildest dreams would I have anticipated the near heart attack that these stupid little pieces of plastic would give me, in about two hours' time.
---
On the shuttle ride in, I'm antsy and anxious. I switch my phone back and forth from airplane mode about a half dozen times, trying to gauge how much battery power I lose after sending a handful of texts and replying to a few comments on Instagram. I've brought a mobile charging pack for my phone, but I hate the feeling of being incommunicado, and don't want to go dark until the last possible minute.
I glance down the front of my camisole about every thirty seconds, where I can see two lidded cups plainly. I've carefully divided out today's serving of Happy between them, as well as extra, Just In Case. Each container has a few pieces of shroom and two purple tabs of ecstasy—way more than I'll need or should take, but You Never Know. The tiny cups are resting in the space between the corset wiring of my top and the bottoms of my breasts. I plan on buttoning up the second shirt I've brought over my camisole, as soon as I get off the bus. The containers will be completely out of view, and can only be felt if someone very deliberately feels me up. The security persons who patted me down at the previous two festivals I attended barely touched my rib cage and sides, much less the area around my breasts.
I'm convinced I'm going to breeze through without a problem.
Well.
Well, get out your popcorn, bitches, because shit is about to get entertaining.
There are two security checkpoints to get into Coachella, when you enter the festival on a shuttle. I did not know this.
Both security checkpoints are incredibly thorough. I did not know this.
Pat downs at these security checkpoints are extremely thorough. I did not know this.
I'm gonna paint you a picture of the next twenty minutes, which were some of the most nerve-wracking, if hilarious, of my entire life. First, know that it is some ninety degrees out. Blazingly hot. It's noon. The sun is beating down on me and a few ten thousand twenty-somethings. Fuck them. This is my story right now. But they were there. In clusters and pairs, loud, drunk, excited, singing, sweaty, and also loud.
I approach the first checkpoint, which is a series of metal scanning machines (for wristbands), manned by security teams of one man and one woman—men to pat down the men, and women to pat down the women. Since I'm one of a small handful of people disembarking the early shuttles, there are essentially no lines yet. So everything happens really, really fast.
Before I know it, I'm standing in line behind two girls, both of whom are handing over their purses to be checked. I notice that security is looking through these purses pretty closely. Ok, no problem. Nothing in my bag, anyway.
Then I witness the first pat down. And I realize I'm fucked. Eight ways from Sunday fucked. I watch as the female security officer runs her hands over every inch of the girl's body. This is only a slight exaggeration. Forget rib cages. The security staff person not only firmly, slowly, and thoroughly slides her hands up and around the girl's sternum and bra line, she lifts the bottom of the girl's bra.
LOL
Now, imagine being me, with my load of organics/inorganics tucked oh-so-conspicuously into a bra top that, in about twenty seconds, is going to be completely felt up and pulled out. There is no way this woman is not going to feel these containers in my shirt. No way in hell. The jig is up. And if by some miracle she doesn't feel them with her hands, they're going to fall out when she slides her finger underneath the top with the express purpose of dislodging exactly this sort of shit.
But there are already people in line behind me at this point, and there is nowhere to go. If I were to step out of line, a) it would look majorly suspicious, and b) I'd have nowhere to go, anyway! There are no bathrooms at this checkpoint. The shuttles are leaving. The only traffic flow is through security and into the festival. Not to mention, it's broad daylight and I'm amongst maybe ten, fifteen people tops, most of whom are either looking directly at me or facing my general direction. If I reach into my shirt right now, it's going to be clear as day what I'm doing.
So as far as I can tell, I'm totally fucked. And there's nothing I can do but just go with it, and when I get busted, say something like, Oh well, you caught me, haha, you can just keep that stuff, thanks...I can haz entrance into Coachella Music Festival now, plz??
Well, this is what happens: I'm next. I step up to the female security officer. I'm asked to take off my outer button down. I do so, and hand it over. She shakes it out. She looks through my bag. She asks me to open my sunglasses case, to unroll my socks.
All of this takes maybe fifteen seconds. It feels like hours.
She asks me to turn away, and then she pats me down, just as thoroughly as she did the previous two girls. My hips, my sides, my thighs—even the area around my crotch. Aaaaaand she gets to my top. Aaaaaaand sure enough, she feels the plastic containers in my bra. She's standing directly behind me as it happens. She's about twenty eight, maybe thirty years old. She's somewhat shorter than me. My face is turned back toward hers, so I see the look come into her eyes. A slight crease in her brow. Wait a second, what the heck is--
"It's the boning of my corset top," I blurt out, in the snottiest, smuggest, most condescending Valley girl tone I can muster. I look directly down at her, over my shoulder, as I say it. My voice brooks no dissent. It's the voice of a girl who is NOT going to deal with this shit, thank you so very much, because ohmygawd, it's hot okaaaayyy? And this is my rully awesome Free People top with CORSET BONING, okaayyyyy?? And could you be any stupider for not realizing that that's what you feel?? I mean, HELLO??
And people? It works. It unbelievably fucking works. The girl has her hands ON these plastic cups, she can feel them plain as day in her fingers, but whether it's my ohnoyoudon't tone, or the fact that it was all happening so fast, or the fact that she knew but just didn't want to deal with it...it works.
And she says "Okay," and waves me through, and down the dirt path towards the festival field.
Which is great. Except that it's only the FIRST. FUCKING. CHECKPOINT.
---
So now I'm shaking like a leaf, obviously, and I know this isn't going to fly a second time. And people are starting to pour in by the thousand from the camping section, into the grassy area that constitutes this next, main security checkpoint. Lines of several hundred people are forming quickly. Clusters of kids singing, cavorting, downing the beers they can't bring in. Hot. So, so hot and sweaty.
By now I've transferred the containers to my backpack, for the short term, while I figure out what I'm going to do next. My "plan" (LOL) is to hang back and watch this security, to see what if any loopholes there are to getting through. There are so many people streaming in and pressing up that I'm convinced this has to be a more lax checkpoint—otherwise it would take an hour of waiting in line to just get into the festival.
Well, yeah. That's exactly what's going on. It is about an hour wait. And security is just as tight as it was at the first point. I see that almost immediately. In fact, it's even stricter—there is the added measure of requiring attendees to spread their legs as they receive their pat downs (#foreshadowing). I also see mounted security officers on horses, scanning the crowd for precisely idiots like me—people panicked and scrambling at the last second to hide their drugs.
At some point, I have a truly cringeworthy inner dialogue with myself, where I act as both my parents, every guidance counselor I've ever had, and a handful of my favorite professors (including my high school French teacher)—all shaming and scolding me for this ridiculousness, while I cower in a corner and just nod balefully. What the ever loving FUCK, Ellie? How old are you again? Are you really a nearly forty year old woman, trying to sneak drugs into a music festival?? Mon dieu!!
Oui. Oui I am.
Welllllll, if you're a woman—or at least a man vaguely familiar with the female anatomy—you know where this story is going. It's going the only place it can go. It's going to the only place it can be kept a secret, and out of sight. The only place it will safely fit.
Yep. That's right. In broad daylight, in plain view of about a thousand (mostly sober) festival goers and at least one pair of mounted security officers (that I saw), your blogmistress crept off to as "private" a patch of grass against the fence as she could find, knelt down to pretend she was adjusting something in her backpack, and shoved two quarter sized plastic containers full of drugs up into her underwear. Thank GOD I was wearing a skirt, right?! Not to mention tight, non-thong underwear!
And let's get specific here. These pat downs? They included a nice little pat-pat-pat of the girls' bikini areas. This shit was no joke, yo. So I couldn't just slip those little guys down the front of my underwear. Oh no. They had to ride up in the undercarriage, if you know whumsaying. Without the help of any, you know, fastening agent? Like tape? Or pins? Or anything at all? That's how secure the cups were. In other words: NOT AT ALL. That's what I had to concentrate on not dropping, as I waddled walked back into line.
FUN TIMES.
Your blogmistress then maneuvered her way—with as natural a gait as she could muster—through a densely packed line of singing, cursing, yelling, laughing, drinking, and sweaty revelers, only occasionally reaching down to make, um, adjustments to her wardrobe and ensure the success of her mission. Basically, I looked like some kind of physically impaired person with a raging STD that I needed to scratch every other minute.
SUPER FUN TIMES.
But bitches, success was had. I was patted, petted, felt up, looked over, and finally, nodded on through, at which point I shuffled my way into The Promised Land, with as cool a game face as I could fake, even though the whole time my thoughts were something like Ohholyshitohholyshitdontdropthemwalkslowohmygodaretheyfallingoutohholyshit, and proceeded with all due haste (if not much grace) to the nearest Port-a-Potty, where I triumphantly relocated my party favors into my backpack, where they goddamn well belonged, because while yes, I admit to enjoying the occasional hallucinogen or empathogen with my live music, I'm still a lady, goddamn it, and I don't appreciate the inconvenience of The Law getting in the way of my Recreational Drug Use, and forcing me to such drastic and truly unladylike measures, okaaayyyyy?
At any rate, I was in.
- - -
So now I'm in. I'm frazzled and sweaty, I'm furious at myself for not having been better prepared for security, but at least I'm in. And I'm glad I've come as early as I have, because in spite of lines that are choking the entrance, the grounds are still pretty sparse. The relatively clear expanse of the main field is relieving to see, and I feel like I can relax, catch my breath, and get the lay of the land.
And it doesn't take long to do so. When I walk the perimeter of the festival, mentally ticking off each of the stages, I'm shocked at how much smaller it seems than Bonnaroo and Outside Lands. I see immediately that this layout has a vastly better flow for foot traffic; stages are closer together and arranged in a way that makes sense and will be easy to navigate in the dark.
While it normally takes me some time to get my "festival legs", at Coachella I feel comfortable almost right away. Bonnaroo and Outside Lands are massive, sprawling festivals which felt intensely crowded, all the time. Coachella instantly feels different to me. Roomy, chill, not overly packed. There's plenty to see—art installations and sculptures and various structures for viewing and climbing—but it doesn't feel nearly as chaotic and jumbled as Bonnaroo, or as epically huge as Outside Lands.
Despite having taken the first shuttle, what with the first day security lines being so ridiculous, I've missed Lord Huron. But I'm okay with it; they're based out of LA, and I'm pretty sure I can catch them back at home sometime. Next up on my schedule, my first show of the festival: Youth Lagoon, in about forty five minutes. This is perfect, because it gives me time to sit down for a bit, take in the sights/sounds, and eat.
On my lunch menu: grilled chicken pita with rice, and a small handful of magic mushrooms. And lots and lots of water to wash it all down.
I find a shaded spot under a tent next to a string of food vendors, near the tented outdoor stage where Youth Lagoon will soon play, lay out my vinyl-backed sheet, and sit to have my meal. Music floods in from every corner of the festival, weighing heavily in the bright afternoon glare. There are small groups of people sitting all around me, and festival staff tending to the tables beside us. I'm completely alone, but surrounded. I'm anonymous.
The food is decent, but nothing remarkable, and I make to myself the only negative comparison that I'll log the whole weekend, between Coachella and the other fests: the food is nowhere near as good or as varied as the gourmet food trucks of Bonnaroo and Outside Lands.
This is the first time I've eaten loose mushrooms; I've only ever had them mixed into small bars of chocolate before. Greg has warned me that they'll taste bitter and awful, and advised me to to tear them into tiny pieces to sprinkle on my food. They don't smell bad at all, I'd said, when he'd handed me the baggie and I'd held it under my nose. They'd smelled to me like tea, or herbs. Trust me, you won't want to eat them plain, he'd replied.
I glance around before casually reaching with both hands into my backpack, which sits open beside me. I carefully pop the lid of one small plastic cup and pick out what looks like a tiny, twisted twig. It's shriveled in a way that reminds me of something my mother kept all of her life, much to my horror and fascination, in the sewing box that now sits on my sideboard: a small section of my umbilical cord.
The stem is easy to crumble into smaller pieces, and I carefully wedge one into a lump of chicken before chewing the combination down to bits and swallowing.
I taste nothing but chicken.
I repeat my efforts with a slightly larger piece of the stem, but again I taste nothing unusual. I have a few more small bites of regular food, sans toadstool, again chewing fastidiously, and follow up with several large swigs from my water bottle. I'm aiming to eat enough to give the high legs, but not so much that it will be eclipsed by my body's digestive efforts.
When I figure I've had enough chicken and rice, I pluck the rest of the allotted shrooms from the container and cup them in my palm. I pinch a centime-sized cap between my fingertips and examine it. It looks like an acorn top, and smells earthy. Gingerly, I take the littlest of bites, careful not to let any flake off and be wasted.
It tastes bland and inoffensive, dry but slightly chewy; like a tiny leaf giving up the ghost in autumn.
I slowly eat the rest of the shrooms in this way, unbothered by the texture or flavor, which actually strikes me as strangely pleasant. This having been done, I pause for a moment—a deep breath, a conscious effort to take inventory of my senses, my surroundings. I've just eaten enough mushrooms that, if I've estimated the dosage correctly, will take me on a harder, deeper trip than I've ever gone before. I've done this on purpose. Today I don't want to experience just a happy, lighthearted and lightheaded tingling of my senses.
Today, I want to hallucinate.
Today I want to feel the full range of effects that this organic drug has to offer, for better or for worse. I've primed myself by reading and listening to the stories of other users. I have some idea what to expect, and I'm both excited and nervous. A tiny voice in the back of my mind has started chirping what ifs at me, posed less like questions than vague threats. What if something goes wrong. What if you react badly. What if you freak out. What if you have some kind of seizure.
But I'm not scared. I've done enough drugs by now to understand how important the mind-body connection is, despite being someone who once scoffed at such a new age concept. It's true though; I've learned that, as with much of life, attitude has a big role in the experience of a drug. Sure: there's only so much conscious effort we can direct into it, and at a certain point chemistry and biology are going to do what they're going to do. But fear makes for a terrible guide, because he just slaps a blindfold on you behind which you cringe and cower until the ride is over.
And I want to see everything today.
I gather my things, shake off my sheet, and slowly drift over to the Mojave tent, stopping to snap pics of some art along the way.
There's a bit of a crowd at Mojave, but nothing overwhelming. I check them out as I pick my way through groups and pairs, curious to see the sorts of people who are just as into the dreamy, trippy, shoe gaze sounds of Youth Lagoon as I am—to see who cared enough to get here early, and get a good spot.
For myself, I choose the back left section, where I'll have some room to myself but still be in direct line of a massive, angled speaker. It's important to me to find my concert "sweet spot" (that place where I have some breathing room, though not so far back as to feel left out of the scene ), but that's all for naught if I can't hear the music good and loud. Nothing I'm going to think or feel, nothing I'm coaxing my mind and body into experiencing will matter, if the moment isn't scored correctly. Because I'm here for the music, first and foremost. I put down my sheet, though folded up to only allow enough room to sit cross-legged with my bag in my lap. I know there's a good chance I'll want (need) to sit when the shrooms kick in, no matter who's standing around me, and I don't want to be a space hog. Once situated, I look around at the crowd. Young. Really young. Eager. Happy. Gearing up. I check the time. Five minutes until the show starts; twenty minutes since I've finished eating...
It starts fast.
Shockingly fast, in fact.
In my previous experiences with mushrooms, the effect settled on me slowly, almost imperceptibly. There would come a moment when the glint of sunlight would be especially golden and warm, or the tinkling sounds of a fountain would linger suspiciously long in my ears, and I'd know: something was happening. But that was a gentle intensifying of my senses—a teasing them into a state of extra wakefulness, and heightened capacity.
This is something different. This is what I'd seen mentioned on one forum online, in doing my dosage research. The phrase had jumped out at me from the screen, intriguing but a little bit scary, too: The only thing I don't like about shrooms, this poster had written, is the rocket ride up.
The rocket ride up. Rocket ride up. Rocket ride.
When I'd read that, I'd dismissed it, based on my other experiences. Nah, I'd thought. That's not how they are for me.
Well. Amendment time. That's not how they were for me. Until today.
All of a sudden, it feels as if the air has thickened. That's the first thing I notice: the change in the atmosphere. In my atmosphere. The breeze that was playing across my bare arms is still there, but someone somewhere is squeezing a handbrake, and it h a s s l o o o o o o w e d d o w n. And it feels less like air than...water. The smoothness of water; the way the miniature tides of a heated swimming pool will caresses your skin, in subtle jets and waves—that's what it feels like.
And now it's above me. This water. This weight. I feel as if I'm being pressed to the ground, but not in an oppressive, uncomfortable way. Just a matter-of-fact way. Like, Hm. Well. There's absolutely no way I could stand up right now, even if I wanted to. But whatever, that's cool. I'm sitting. And it feels almost as if there's intent behind it. As if, while I'm obviously not in control, someone or something else is.
I'd shortly know who that someone was.
But for right now, I'm here. I'm sitting. In water. I look around. Whoa. The sun. Very bright. Okay. It's starting. And now color. Color makes itself known. Presents itself. Again—intention. The colors of things shrug off a dull outer layer, like when you run a fingertip down a foggy window. What was there on the other side is suddenly really there. Flushed cheeks are pinker, more alive. I can't see anyone's pores from here, that would be ridiculous!—or the movements of their tongues behind their teeth...but that's what it feels like. Life, magnified. Life, coming to life.
And then I get the giggles. In a really, really bad way. Like, sitting-in-the-back-row-of-homeroom-with-your-best-friend-making-faces-at-you type giggles. Like, absolutely-cannot-make-a-sound-because-if-you-do-you're-getting-detention type giggles. And I'm fascinated by how it happened, because though I may be reaching, I think I understand the genesis of it.
From the moment I'd gotten to the festival, I'd been more than a little bit ... spooked, by how young the crowd was. It seemed much younger to me than Bonnaroo or Outside Lands. And it had challenged me somewhat, and made me more self-conscious than I usually am. And I'd realized when I'd been waiting in line, pressed up hot and sweaty with all of these kids, that I was going to have to work a little bit, to get past those feelings. And the strategy I adopted for the short term? Ignore them. Just blot them out of my sight. Look through and past them. Focus on the fest, on the sights and sounds, and on myself.
And that had worked great up until the mushrooms found out about it. But when they caught wind of what I was doing, they were all, Nuh uh, Ellie. Not so fast. Let's have a closer look at that, shall we? I found myself gazing around at everyone who, wait just a minute--what's going on with time??
And that's when things, heretofore a little bit weird, get really fucking weird. Because I realize, with what remaining shreds of lucidity are fast fleeing my brain, that I have no idea how much time has passed since I've been sitting down. I can't tell if I've been there for hours or seconds. I mean, I know the music hasn't even started yet, I'm aware enough to realize that. But it's as if I've blacked out during the minutes that all of this has been happening. Lost time, as they say.
At any rate, I barely have time to register this psychological development because I'm gazing around at everyone, at all these legs, bare and young, all these faces, bright and smooth. I can hear their voices, emerging into a cacophony of sound that just ... sounds ... so ... young. Like, like...like b a b i e s.
Yes. God. T h e y s o u n d l i k e b a b i e s.
You know the dream where you're naked in front of a class, or a lecture hall? And it's the worst, most mortifying and embarrassing thing ever? Now invert that, in every way possible. You're not naked—everyone else is. You're not humiliated—everyone else is. Well, that's what happens. I am suddenly about to watch Youth Lagoon with a crowd of crying, naked, crawling babies.
My brain has seized upon this idea that everyone is so much younger than me, has thrown a jet pack on it, splashed in some nitro, and strapped it to a rocket ride to the fucking moon. And there is absolutely nothing I can do about it but hold on tight. I'm not in the throes of hallucination—not yet. I don't actually think I'm seeing a crowd of diapered infants. But my brain is so complicit with the drugs in wanting to see this, in wanting to burst through this barrier I've subconsciously set up for myself, that I don't think I would have reacted much differently if I'd been fully hallucinating. The absurdity of my thoughts pins me down and tickles me until I can't breathe. I look around at these people—adults, all of them—and all I see are helpless, wailing babies.
Already sitting with my knees pulled up tight against my body, I stuff my face into the crook of my elbow, horrified. Oh my god. I'm giggling. I can't giggle. I'm at Youth Lagoon. I look around me, desperate for a partner in crime. Someone must surely see the state I'm in, and even if they don't see what I see, they'll sympathize with the poor girl who's clearly tripping, and smile at me, and wordlessly tell me that it's ok?
Yeah, no. No such comfort to be found. No nasty looks or anything like that. Just, no one's looking at me because, because, wait, what? Because...
...because the music has started. How long has it been going?? I don't know. I don't k n o w. I d o n o t - - - w h o a . . .
Down, look down. Dizzy. Heavy. Washing down. Don't look up. Nausea. Too much. Water. Water? On me. Around me? In me? Water? I slowly, slowly, slowly tilt my head down and see a water bottle poking out of my backpack. I take a sip, and in doing so, throw my head back. No. Noooooo. Not up. Don't look up. No.
Grass. The grass. Focus on the grass. Yes. Just the grass. That little bit, right there, right in front of your legs. Yes. Ok. Ooooooookaaaaay. Grassssss. Green and yellow and you can breathe and yes. Grass.
Sound.
Sound.
Sound.
Music.
Oh. My. God. The music.
Stop reading this post for a minute. Stop and pull yourself out of it, leave the scene I'm describing and think of a time when you felt immense, jaw-dropping wonder. At some sight maybe, a breathtaking landscape or a beautiful woman—or your first taste of fois gras. Whatever. Some moment when life put out its hand, flat and hard against your sternum, and stopped you in your tracks.
That's what it feels like, when one part of my brain catches up with another part, like kids skipping together on a playground, who've dropped hands when one stopped short, and the other goes on ahead but then her friend runs to catch up—and I realize what I'm hearing, and it isn't just music, it isn't just the same collection of sounds I've been looping on Spotify for months. It's dimensional. It's layered, but not layered in the abstract way music is always described. It has actual, physical layers that I can feel, as if someone is throwing blankets on top of me while I sit there, then yanking them off again seconds later, and then throwing another back on, this one silky and cold, and now here's a quilt, lofty and light, settling s l o w l y and airily on me but wait now it's gone, oh here comes something thick and heavy, wool, on top of me, but now that's gone and here's just the whisper of a sheet and and and
This is what it feels like, but translated into sound.
And I'm staring at the grass, which has started to pulse, the tiny blades are moving, like a moving sidewalk, pulsing and swaying and and and now they're starting to breathe, oh my god, it's breathing, it's alive, the grass is alive and everyone is standing on it!! They don't know! THEY'RE GOING TO KILL IT THEY'RE GOING TO KILL THE GRASS I HAVE TO ---
Shhhhh.
I hear him before I see him.
Shhhhh, he says softly. It's okay. Shhhhh.
And I believe it is okay, because the voice is so sure and true and I trust it. I trust it completely, even if I don't know where it's coming from, even if --
Oh. There. There you are. I stare down at my patch of grass, my safe place to direct my thoughts, my energy. I can see him there. He's in the grass. Was that you?
Yes. It was me. Shhhh.
The tiny blades of grass pulse and sway, some move this way, some move that way. And just in the same way you see shapes emerge from the clouds, I see the monkey in the grass. The shading of colors in the ground is just right; the bits of dryer, yellow grass form his two eyes, his nose, his lips. The slightly shaggier green edges of the patch form the fur around his face. His jaw is lean and angular. His features are sharp. His eyes gaze up and bore into me.
He's actually rather terrifying, but I don't have time to react because because because time is speeding up and slowing down, all in the same split second and and and
this is all too fast, and who's driving? are we moving? is this safe? please slow down (music music music), this water is wet, and the grass monkey said it's ok, because he's obviously not a baby, and is made of tiny yellow pasta noodles, like penne or or or what's that other tube? Macaroni?
And he's (music music music) directing all of this, conducting it. He's rising floating should I close my or just keep them rising floating directing he's a puppet? No. No. He's a .... ringmaster conductor monkey. Just for me. He's just for he said it's ok I'm scared by I thought I was here for the music but Youth Lagoon he's at an organ in the back of the circus tent I'm at a circus for me just my circus the ringmaster monkey is above and floating, large just a face, it's ok, he's in charge, I watch soundtrack by Youth Lagoon and I h a v e t o c losemyeyes now. Now. Now.
But closing my eyes is exactly what he wants me to do. Because that's where the the the
the circus tent what's the circus who's in it animals? no. people? no who who what is this circus, I can see a big open tent
music music music
Oh. Oh. Of course. I suddenly get some traction to my thoughts, to this whirlwind of nothingness and everythingness that's spinning me around in my own mind. It becomes clear and simple: just colors and shapes. That's the circus. That's all. I'm going to watch a circus in my mind, with my eyes closed, but instead of animals or people, it will be performed by shapes and colors. Easy peasy. I can do that.
And so, with my ringmaster monkey friend floating up in the corner, overseeing and directing, and Trevor Powers off to the side, working away at his keyboard and his computer, I watch a circus, my eyes shut tight for an hour, while I sit wrapped up in my own limbs. And what sucks is how predictable it is that I'll say something like And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and heard, but I have to, I have to say it. Because it is. It is geometry and light, for an hour straight, behind the drawn curtain of my mind. It is planes and patterns, shrinking and growing, zipping and cutting, flexing and bowing. It is sound that oozes and drips all over everything, coating it and stretching it, teasing it or smashing against it. The mushrooms take the music and enrich it in a way that defies metaphor, and you guys know I love me some metaphor, but I can't even try with this. Just: rich, richer, richest. Enriched.
And there are other things that sneak in there, too. Faces, some scary, all foreign, all with intent that I don't understand. They're there when I open my eyes, hovering in the glow of the afternoon, flattened against the backs of people who don't know they're there. But I like it better in the dark, with my eyes closed, where they recede quicker into the black, and I can contain them. Sort of. All the while, though, I know I'm safe. The monkey figure is a guide and a guru. It feels like he knows me, like he's always known me. I don't know what part of my subconscious has projected him out of me, or what he represents, but I know he won't hurt me, even when his face contorts with the music, ugly and elastic.
It is probably impossible to convey these feelings and thoughts from my brain into yours, even if I spend hours describing them. Or maybe it's not. Maybe you get it. Or you get it enough, anyway. I don't want to sound mega hyperbolic or crazy dramatic or any more obnoxious than I know I already do with this hard-to-read stream of eyeball-stabbing consciousness. You could be sitting there like Lady, enough already, you tripped on mushrooms, we get it.
If so, I'm sorry, because holy shit was it incredible to me, and exactly what I'd wanted and hoped for, so I can't help but be effusive. It was intense, but not overwhelmingly so. I felt like I went right up to the edge of whatever it was I wanted to edge up to, but I didn't fall off. I just leaned out over the abyss, anchored by some invisible thread, and surveyed the things I knew existed but had never seen.
tldr; Youth Lagoon on shrooms was amazing, and I loved it.
(Even though it didn't even remotely compare to the way I would feel two days later, when everything I thought I knew about the way my mind and body could make me feel would be turned inside out and upside down, taken from me and given back, a promise and a lie that I will tell you and tell myself and nothing will change except for the fact that it happened once, if never again.)
Two caps and two stems. That, I now know, is the going price of admission to the color sound circus in my mind, orchestrated by a macaroni monkey and scored by a genius with black curls and a heartbreakingly haunted look.
I just wish I could have bought him a ticket, too.
—-
Opening my eyes slowly, taking a breath, taking in where I am and what I'm feeling. My senses and motor function are on a few seconds' delay, so standing and gathering my things, dusting the dried grass off my skirt and putting my backpack on again all represent fair-sized challenges.
And when I start to walk, picking my way through the dispersing crowd and those who are still on the ground nearby, I realize that I am exceptionally high. The sunlight hits me as I emerge from the shade of the tent, and everything just sort of goes haywire in my brain. All I can think about is the light, which is blinding and hot. So bright. It's really bright. Whoa. Bright.
I have no idea what I'm doing, or where I'm going. My schedule, so painstakingly put together, flies right out of my head. I'm aware of being at Coachella. I'm aware that there's music to be watched. But I couldn't tell you where on the festival grounds I am, what time it is, how long I've been there, or what on earth I should do next.
I'm vaguely aware that I should be self-conscious about this, that I'm really on the edge of being in kind of a bad spot—I mean, if I'm so high that I've lost the ability to even navigate, then hell. That's a pretty expensive overdose. But I'm unbothered by this possibility. I only feel a massive sense of bemused detachment. Despite not knowing what the hell is going on, I'm having a blast.
The good news is, the stage I've just left is right beside the one I'm supposed to head to next—literally, a few dozen steps away. And the music emanating from it drifts to me, creeps into my brain, wraps a tendril or two around the right neural pathways, and I realize: Dillon.
I can't run. That's not a possibility. But I'm okay with that. The sun and sound float me in the right direction, to a tent that is spilling over with a crowd that can't keep still. Everyone is dancing. It's like nothing I've seen yet, at a festival—this daylight-soaked chaos of joy and energy and heat. There are no half-measures. No standing back and watching, no casual swaying and foot-tapping. All these thousands of people are lit up with the music. Skin and sweat and smiles and this is some serious shit, right here.
The closest I can get is a good ten feet past where the tent ends, in the far back. But it doesn't matter. Others in the same boat as me are just as happy as me just to be there, flooded over with the songs we've been rocking out to in our various ways for months and months. The crowd is one giant animal with a few thousand hearts, all throbbing outside its body. The feedback loop of energy from dj to crowd and back again is incredible, and almost overwhelming. I close my eyes and dance, scorching hot in the afternoon sun. I'm here.
I picture my arms and legs extending out, my fingers reaching to pull into me all these split-second moments and impressions I don't want to forget. I'm sponging it all up frantically. I'm not in any state to think of taking pictures, but here's one from Dillon Francis's Instagram, taken from the stage, that gives you a great sense of the scene:
When it ends, I'm in a bit of a state. Overheated, dehydrated, disoriented. Even a little bit emotional. I buy a bottle of water and try not to bump into anyone as I wander in the direction of the main stages, gulping down water and searching my mind. Next. What's next.
Stars. Stars is next.
I've been listening to Stars since college—when I listened to them on CD. I remember the very first time I heard them. Borders Books and Music used to have these listening stations where they'd put up new and popular music. You could pop on a pair of headphones and preview entire CDs. I used to go to the one in Tucson, at Park Mall, and spend inordinate amounts of time at those listening stations. And Stars was one of my finds there.
Things I associate with their music include, but are not limited to:
relationships in my twenties
existential angst in my twenties
Okay well that list was going to be much longer, but I realize that pretty much covers it. Suffice to say, Stars were the soundtrack to my twenties. If you're not familiar with their music, it's pretty heavy on romantic narrative, which was the perfect backdrop for the OMGdramaz I (thought I) went through. I really believed I was living a romantic comedy at the time. Zero self-awareness for this one back then.
Anyway, I've never seen them perform. They're from Montreal, and they tour (and release new albums) with relative frequency, but I've just not seen them yet. And again, totally obnoxious to drop one of those OTT And omgooddddd it was even more perfect than I could have imagined, I know, but it is. It really is.
I sit off towards the front right. It isn't overly crowded when I sit down, but I do have to move a few times when I keep getting boxed in by standers, because I really, really want to sit. Eventually I give up and have to go pretty far into the foul ball zone, and initially I am frustrated by this, but the sound is still incredible, and when I close my eyes, it doesn't matter where I am. Only once do I have the urge to tweet over the weekend, and it's during the beginning of this show. Because I'm doing this thing I've learned to do at festivals, which is where I shut my eyes and just slowly, slowly let everything and everyone but the music fall away. Then I reconstruct the scene in my mind, bit by bit. First the field, then the stage—then myself. I imagine sitting exactly where I'd want to be sitting. And then in my mind, all with my eyes closed still, I let the field fill back up. But because this is all in my imagination, I'm in complete control of the crowd—how close they are to me, whether they're sitting or standing, and so on.
In other words, the mental space I'm inhabiting at this show looks nothing whatsoever like reality. And that's an awesomely empowering thing to be able to do. So the tweet I briefly had in mind to send was something like Did you know that when you close your eyes, you can be anywhere? But then I realized how random and dumb that would sound, and that I wouldn't be in any kind of state to answer anyone who might reply to it.
So I sat and listened in my wholly fabricated imaginary environment, and I just let the music have its way with me. And the mushrooms stopped being about heightened sensory awareness, and started being about the Bigger Picture of Life, as they'd been in San Francisco last year. And this really magical and beautiful (I know, I know) thing happened where I had long overdue funeral for my twenties (I know). But really, that's the best way I can put it. I just put to bed some of the demons that have been lurking in my head, that I didn't even know still kept a room up there. A really damaging relationship. An abortion. A mixed bag of regrets related to my family. It just all sort of spilled out onto the table in my head, and bit by bit, I picked it up, looked it over, and then set it down again, finally done with it. Finally at peace.
Oh and the whole time, tears were streaming down my face.
I was sitting crosslegged by myself, on my little sheet, with my sunglasses on, and my face tilted up to the sun, listening to songs that had moved me so deeply, for so many years, and now were moving me again, across time and emotion to places that I didn't even know needed a return visit. And like I say, I know how ugh annoying it is when someone gushes over some experience, but jesus. It was so beautiful. And it meant the world to me.
After a while I gave up wiping the tears away, because I figured if anything that would draw more attention to the fact that I was crying, if anyone was even looking, and I just let them come.
And now I'm going to get a little bit elliptical because if I don't I'm never going to get through writing about this weekend.
Of Monsters and Men is similarly emotional. Again, I lay my blanket down far to the side—all the way to the side, in this case, because the stage is packed. And that's actually a bit of a bummer, because I'm so far over that I'm actually up against a fence that borders a service road. Hence, there's the noise of golf carts motoring by a few feet away. But I've seen Of Monsters and Men before at Outside Lands, and it was a really great experience for me then, so I don't feel overly anxious about having the perfect show today.
Instead I just lay down completely, listen, and just reconnect to thoughts of my dad, which is something I don't "indulge" in all that often these days. And there were tears, but they weren't grieving tears. They were just pure neutral emotion, neither good nor bad. The sun was setting and I rolled over onto my stomach and looked out to see my first Coachella dusk. I saw the crowd silhouetted against the sun, and the ferris wheel and the balloons in the background. And it was breathtaking, and I was overcome with gratitude to have been born when and where I was, to be able to experience it.
Coachella 2014
4/17/14
Last year Coachella was like a spiritual retreat for me. And I write that as someone who really hates the word "spiritual." But that's what it was. I was alone. I was super introspective and emotional, and I had no one to talk to but myself. So that's what I did. I went deep inside and connected to parts of me I hadn't realized a) existed or b) needed connecting to. And I know how silly and navel-gazing that sounds, believe me. But that's how it was. And it was amazing. This year I was with Terence, and save for the few times we separated for short periods, we experienced everything together. So while it was, again, intensely emotional at times, those emotions weren't of the sort one feels alone. And that's what made it both completely different and totally awesome.
There were some changes this year that I had mixed emotions about. For one thing, they moved the Do Lab off to a far back corner of the festival, probably in response to complaints about noise contamination, since last year it sat squarely in the middle of the grounds. And while I agree that it was a good idea to move it, I kind of missed seeing/hearing that big, hedonistic mosh pit of wet, throbbing bodies every so often. They scaled it way down in size and, inexplicably, redesigned the shade structures in an inverted fashion, rendering them sort of useless.
I wasn't particularly into any of the DJs playing the Do Lab, so it was just as well that it'd been relocated to Siberia. We didn't spend any time back there (we didn't really have a lot of downtime, period), but it definitely made for some pretty photos. The art installations change every year, and this year's showpiece was a massive, mobile astronaut who crept slowly around the grounds and whose mask lit up at night with looped video. Last year's boat, great for climbing on and getting high-up vantage points for photos, was replaced by a huge, stationary, flower-wielding robot.
The shade structures of the Do Lab that had been so central, and so convenient for both recovery and people watching were replaced by a flower-covered, upside down arc off near the Gobi and Mojave Tents. One of my favorite moments of the weekend ended up being in here. Sunday night, a rare break, waiting for Arcade Fire. We were a little cold, a little tired, and a lot high, and we curled up against an inner wall of the arc and just held one another, soaking up the last hours of the festival. It was lovely.
Scheduling conflicts prevented us from seeing any of MGMT (though we heard Electric Eel loud and clear from across the grounds—a huge advantage Coachella has over other fests is that acts on the main stage can be heard no matter where in the fest you're at) and Pet Shop Boys, but we both agree that we have absolutely no regrets. Other than those two misses, I saw virtually every show I'd hoped to—and virtually every show was awesome. No sound problems, no complaints about the set list, no issues whatsoever. I felt spoiled rotten by this year's music. Top overall performances: Muse, CHVRCHES, Bastille, Washed Out, Broken Bells, Beck, Dillon Francis, and Frank Turner.
And speaking of Frank Turner, he was just delightful. I was hoping his show would be something of a singalong, and oh man. He did not disappoint. You want a rock star you can feel good about supporting? It doesn't get more humble, more down-to-earth, and more classy than this guy. Not to mention hilarious, engaging, and extremely talented. I predict (and hope for) great things for him. His fans were out in full force, as I expected, and they even started a little mosh pit, if you can really call running around in a circle, jumping, laughing and high-fiving one another a mosh pit.
Terence hadn't been to Coachella in ten years, and even then, he'd been hanging out backstage. So this was really his first time attending as a fan, and his first time seeing all of the new developments—including the awe-inspiring EDM cathedral that is the Sahara Tent. Walking up to the Sahara Tent for the first time—the hugeness, the lights, the unbelievable acoustics—is pretty exciting. It was so fun to see it hit him and to experience that thrill all over again, vicariously. I didn't get stuck in Sahara this year, thank god (it was the reason I missed many of last year's headliners); I feel like we saw just enough EDM to satisfy me: Dillon Francis, Martin Garrix, Gareth Emery, Zedd, some of Duck Sauce—and while Terence stayed at Outkast, I snuck over to a nearly-empty Michael Brun show and got my fill of dancing alone.
I never mind being far back in Sahara. Not only is there room to actually move, the breeze comes in and totally invigorates everyone, and the whole last section turns into a massive dance party, and people actually interact with one another rather than just stare forward. We worked out the perfect meeting place, which is directly in the middle and under the very back edge of the tent. No need to text or worries about miscommunications. Also? Makes for great pics.
During the day, Sahara can get pretty unbearably hot, which is all the more reason to stay back where the air circulates. But if you're going to go in, a good spot to get is immediately next to the tech platform. You've got a slightly raised platform that's only wide enough for you (so no one will be standing on top of you), plus a railing to your side for extra room. We snagged this real estate for Gareth Emery (Long Way Home). Perfect for me since I also had the convenience of Terence the Shade Tree blocking my sun. Dancing with Terence was so fun. He totally gets that I like space and room to breathe. He stood behind me, or next to me, or in front of me, happy (and tall enough) to just watch over my head, while I closed my eyes and floated away, my hand resting lightly on his chest to steady myself. Heaven.
There's nothing like the sunset shows at the main stage. The energy and joy is palpable and infectious. Everyone running around, cavorting like kids, jumping and skipping and laughing and playing. It's like a life recess.
Other random notes…
They doubled the size of the Yuma tent. And while I understand the decision (it was tiny and way overcrowded), this made it, I don't know, less cool? In fact, now it sort of looks like a big gymnasium at the end of prom, with kids scattered and recovering in all corners. But that's okay, because it has a massive disco shark hanging from the ceiling:
Lana Del Rey was absolutely enchanting. She descended on the chaos that is Coachella like some kind of heavenly songbird and soothed us for an hour. I was way gone for her set and just sort of clung to Terence, and we swayed while she serenaded us. It was so gorgeous.
Beck played Loser and Que Onda Guero, and that made me very, very happy.
Empire of the Sun was just as good as they were the other two times I saw them. And Washed Out's set was way, waaaaay better than their Outside Lands 2012 set. Made me cry, in fact.
As far as surprise guests, we saw Diplo join Dillon Francis and Blondie join Arcade Fire, but we missed everyone else (and it's a good thing we did, because Nas's superstar blowout kept everyone's attention and was what allowed us to get so close to the stage at Muse).
Muse covered Lithium as a tribute to the anniversary of Cobain's death, and it was pretty unreal.
Even though I love The Shins, I didn't go to Coachella as a huge Broken Bells fan. But wow did they sound brilliant. I may need to revisit them.
I didn't take much in the way of video, but I did throw a few things up on my Viddy.
Coachella totally satisfied my festival needs this year. I feel more than content skipping OL and Bonnaroo and EDC, partly because holy hell am I exhausted. But I really just couldn't have asked for a better, more rounded-out festival experience.
Coachella 2015
4/24/15
I get to the festival as early as I can, which isn't early at all. Late afternoon, pulling into a nearly full parking lot with a steady stream of locals. One by one we're directed into rows before stepping hesitantly out into the sweltering sun. Car doors hang open, roofs too hot to touch. Last minute sunblock applications, swigs of water, stashing of contraband. Rallying, summoning the final day's worth of energy. Let's do this.
We troop, heads drooping in the heat, in clusters, crews, or by ourselves along a dirt path that goes on and on, not ending when you think it should. Another turn, another five minute stretch. Pedicabs manned by red-faced cyclists wheel by, carting the hot and tired, the lazy, the impatient. 'Scuse me guys. 'Scuse me. On your left. Each equipped with an mp3 player, trailing competing snippets of rap or metal or hiphop, which in turn compete with the massive, booming bass floating from the festival grounds.
More walking. Something wet hits my face. A girl, skipping a few feet ahead of her friends, is blowing bubbles from an oversized wand. They shimmer and hang in the air, fat as tennis balls, before bursting at the touch of outstretched hands. I distractedly note the prevalence of English accents in the bits of conversation that reach me. Always so many British visitors to Coachella. I wonder with envy how many of them will be at Glastonbury.
A perfunctory security check: my torso is loosely patted and my bag glanced in, but my zipped wallet is ignored. And then I'm in. The sights, sounds, smells are all familiar by this point. There's less buzzing in my gut, less anxiousness to consume everything than there used to be. I feel like I can relax, wander and dip into things at will. Only a few of today's acts are favorites of mine, and they're staggered widely across tonight's schedule. No pressure. Easy.
I buy two bottles of water, wiping them dry before dropping them into my backpack, and a peach smoothie, which I suck down in the five minutes it takes me to walk the long way around to the Sahara tent. I'd peeked at the app the night before, so I already knew a couple of the art installations, but I wanted to see them up close anyway. Stupid of me to have looked. Coachella doesn't hold that many surprises and whatever form the main structure takes every year is one of them. This season it's a caterpillar, reared up so its segmented belly and legs are exposed. Four stories high, yellow and black stripes, spindly antennae askew on its head. Creepy and wonderful.
Sahara is relatively empty. This time of the day, sunlight beams straight inside, pressing brutally on shoulders and cheeks that have already seen too much of it over the weekend. But as always, the sound is irresistible, and under the huge, hangar-shaped dome whose framework is covered in speakers and lights, the die-hards dance. I've come here first on purpose, to soak up some of their vibe. My favorite tent, Sahara is where you go to be shamelessly joyous, to jump and laugh and dance alongside strangers who don't give a shit how well you do it. Some engage communally: millennials who giddily sing to one another familiar refrains of chart-topping EDM songs. Some are lost in themselves, watching their own frantic feet try to catch the beat.
This is the music they've been listening to all year, or longer: on the radio, at the beach, in the car on the way to the club where they'll hear it again. The anthems of their generation. These songs are in their blood and under their skin, and the thrill of hearing them live rips from somewhere deep inside and shudders through their bodies. Multiply that bliss by several thousand, and you understand Sahara's magnetic pull—the feeling of being a part of something epic.
Full of smoothie, still getting my festival legs, I move a little bit but mostly just watch and listen. The tent starts to fill up, kids in scraps of clothing are bounding in by the dozen, high-fiving and hugging when they recognize one another. A girl with blonde hair twisted into corn rows bounces around playfully with her friends; they all bear the beat-up, sunburned, happily exhausted look of campers. The girl's glassy expression and slight stumble give her away: she's wasted. A tap on her shoulder; she turns to greet a shirtless coed with wavy, jaw-length hair that looks expensively cut. He's doesn't say anything, just gives her a sheepish look that she returns with a wordless hug. The way they hang on one another, swaying for several second with her arms tight around his neck and his hands lightly on her back, suggests longtime friendship. I imagine endless late night talks in dorm rooms. Gossip and secrets. Deep platonic affection. He starts to speak but she puts a finger to his lips, shushing, shaking her head. Her lips are easy to read: It's okay. I love you. The drunken drama of the scene would be comical at a bar but for some reason, here the moment is unspeakably sweet. The pair has obviously had a big fight, maybe one that lasted all weekend, maybe something that embroiled their friends (who are watching and smiling approvingly) and cast a pall over the whole party. But now, on the last day, buoyed by friendship and a soundtrack that will squeeze their hearts every time they hear it—they are making up. This is Coachella.
---
A little while later I'm waiting to watch Ryan Adams. His appearance here—his first ever at Coachella—is one of the reasons I was willing to trade four hours of driving for eight hours of music. I've never seen him perform but I've been a fan for fifteen years, and his music is fraught with emotional significance for me. I score the last wedge of elbow room along the VIP railing, where I can watch those with wristbands twice as expensive as mine dribble in and leisurely plant themselves feet from the stage. They all seem to know another; their hairstyles, outfits, and general looks speak of The Industry. I keep my eyes peeled for celebrities and the few musician's faces I'd recognize, but then everyone starts to look famous, so I turn my attention those nearer to me. Trying to guess who's a true fan and who just likes being up close.
It doesn't take more than a minute to start chatting up another fan, and another festival lover; she hasn't missed a single Coachella. I high-five her, marveling, but she explains that living in Indio makes it easy. "What was the best year?" I ask.
She answers without hesitating: "Two thousand four. Radiohead. And the Pixies reunited." Her date looks bored. I ask him if he's a big Ryan Adams fan. "Oh no, I had to drag him out here," she laughs. I confess I've never seen Ryan Adams live and she seems excited for me. We compare notes on what we're hoping to hear and suddenly another woman is joining the conversation. Between us we cover three different generations.
And then he's on. His voice is effortless perfection, twang and honey that coasts smoothly across ballads he jokingly describes as "self-antagonizing." I don't know all of the tracks he plays—he's been producing for a long time—but it doesn't matter. Fifteen years fold away and I'm instantly back in Tucson, circa 2000, back to who and what I was. And I'm not alone; ghosts whose company I don't mind are with me, too. Listening and remembering, I could cry. Instead I breathe deeply until the constriction in my chest loosens. It's the best singer-songwriter set I've ever seen at a festival.
---
Sunset. Kaskade, on the main stage. How many tens of thousands coming to watch, I don't know. But they're running, it seems like they are all running. Even those already here are swept up in the excitement: the opening blasts of bass, of bouncing lights it's finally dim enough to appreciate. Jockeying to get closer, to get in the mix, in the thick of it. Twirling and jumping on one another's shoulders, you've never seen so many people so intoxicated by music, by their own existence. Two girls in flower headbands cross arms and spin like children, throwing their heads back and laughing with abandon. The grounds and everything on them are saturated in the last bits of sunlight, all that is brightly colored turned pastel in the haze. It's the in-betweenland of dusk, where flashes of neon start to emerge, to blaze and catch your eye. I dodge through the chaos to find my own sweet spot. Close enough but not too close. And then, for a little bit, I become part of the chaos.
---
Alice has taken her pill. It hits her stomach with a big swallow of water and a promise to herself: I will be smart. She is mindful, taking in her surroundings, appreciating every curve and beam of the massive statues she walks under. Metal? Fiberglass? She doesn't know how they're made, only that soon they'll recede into a sort of wallpaper, the pattern of which will cease to be as interesting as what's inside her own mind. And she wants to remember, before she forgets.
The pill's gelatin capsule has already dissolved; it won't be long now. Alice needs to decide where she wants to be when the wave hits. She never knows how big the wave will be, but she always plans for big waves. A glance at her watch; timing is everything. But the music isn't right where she's at, where she thought it would be best. No, it's jumpy and shallow and just...wrong. So she ducks into a different place, cooler and darker and covered, separate and more secret.
It's a big wave. Alice feels her heart pound and takes deep, gulping breaths. As much as she wants to dance, to let the music carry some of the pill off, she can't. The water is up to her neck. She retreats to the wall, carefully lowering her pulsing body to the floor. She hates having to give up these precious moments, she desperately wants to flow with the music, which is incredible, but she has no choice. Breathe. Breathe. For the fifth time she makes sure she has everything she needs.
Alice watches the others. She'll live through them, for a few minutes, until she can wade back in and join. A couple, two young men, directly in front of her. Light strobes across the face of one, then the other. They look almost painful in their bliss, lifting their heads to the sound, eyes closed, moving both as one and as two. The rightness of the scene, the wholeness of it, is a thing for Alice to hang on to. From the outside, she looks blank. Numb, even. But inside her body is a welling of ecstasy so powerful that blankness is all she can spare. Every cell overflowing with elation. So huge, this wave. She could get carried away.
Alice has taken her pill, and now the pill is taking her.
---
Jamie XX. A sexy, mellow heaven. A hammock for my overstimulated brain. Exactly what I needed, when I needed it.
---
Gesaffelstein. Hol-y shit. Never have I. I mean, I knew a little bit. Couple tracks on my running playlist. But I had no idea how unbelievable he is. Later Terence, when I showed him some of his Weekend 1 set, would describe it like Depeche Mode, if Depeche Mode did EDM. Yes.
What kills me is that I walked away from him twice. I was drifting around between a few different stages, undecided and uncommitted, and each time I walked by I heard how great he sounded. But it wasn't until my third pass that I planted myself at the back of the tent and didn't move until it was over. If you like glitchy or hard electronic at all, please do yourself a favor and listen to the entire video I linked to above. Or at least from 8:10 on. It is ridiculous. It's also his last performance, ever. Which makes me incredibly grateful to have seen it.
Danced my damn face off. At one point some guy doing the same thing right in front of me turned around, as if looking desperately for someone, anyone who was feeling the music the same way. He saw me, gestured towards the stage, and sort of just shook his head in wonder. "Right??" I said, laughing incredulously, glad I wasn't the only one who'd had no idea. I mean, I hate to diminish what I felt at Ryan Adams, but this was definitely my favorite set of the day. Wicked, wicked fun.
---
It's 1:15 am. I left the festival over an hour ago. But I'm still in the parking lot. I'm still in the parking lot because I Can't. Find. My. Car. I've been looking for it for over an hour. Things I'm feeling: shame, stupidity, frustration, exhaustion, fear, and resignation. I am fully prepared to be here until dawn, until there's enough light to finally see it. As best I can tell that is exactly what I'm headed for.
Did I make a note of where I parked? Yep. I wrote down the section and even took a few pictures of landmarks nearby. Did I put a pin in my GPS? Nope. That I did not do. So now I am walking up and down every last aisle of the section I parked in, systematically, in the dark and in the dust, trying not to cry.
And I succeed, up until the moment I ask some guys leaning against their trunk if they have an iPhone charger I can borrow. I'm on 3%. Not that calling anyone would help. Terence is fast asleep and has work early; I'd die before I woke him up with the news that I lost his car. I strongly consider calling Mason, who I've been texting with during the night, just for the moral support, knowing he'll laugh at my predicament until I do, until I'm calm. But really, what I need more than a charger is to just find the goddamn car. They don't have a charger, anyway. Back to searching.
Up and down, up and down. Row by row. Exiting drivers glance at me sympathetically as they merge into long lines to leave. Over and over I hit the fob, hoping to see tell-tale brake lights pop up nearby. Nothing. It has vanished. I've already had to stop once, return to the festival in a pedicab to use the bathroom, and make the trek back out to the parking lot. The attendants feel bad but there's not much they can do. I'm not the only one, after all. In the hazy moonlight I see others staggering about—though in groups of two or more. I seem to be the only solo car-loser. Fucked. I am so fucked.
"Did you find your car?" A figure is walking toward me, silhouetted against the gritty night. "I found mine, finally. Did you find yours?"
I glance around. "Are you talking to me?"
"Yeah." Close enough to make out now. Thirty-something. Dark hair, eyes, skin. T-shirt and shorts. His face is open and friendly, but sort of spaced out. He's not exactly looking at me.
"No." I lean over, defeated, resting my hands on thighs. "I've been out here for an hour."
He shakes his head. "No, no. That's a long time. I'm going to help you." Seeing my tears start, the desperation melting into gratitude that someone, anyone, gives a fuck, he shushes me soothingly. I half expect him to try to hug me but he doesn't. Instead he jerks his head towards an Audi a few feet away, headlamps glowing. "We're going to do this mathematically, okay?"
I nod. "You're the nicest person," I start. "I don't know--"
"No, it's alright. This happened to me Friday. It's the worst. We'll find your car, okay? This is my car. We're going to use my car as home base and work from it."
"I took pictures," I tell him. "I took pictures when I got out of my car. Of where I was."
He lights up, like a teacher happily surprised by a student he'd written off. "Perfect! That's great! See, now you're thinking. Let's see them." I don't tell him that my phone's about to die, afraid that if he grasps how bad the situation is he'll flee. Two percent now. If it dies, maybe he'll have a charger. I open my photos and pass the phone over.
"Oh see this is great! Look, this line of trees in the picture, where is this line of trees? Can we see a line of trees anywhere?" This guy has definitely got to be a teacher. Elementary school, even. He pivots where we stand, trying to match up reality with my snapshot.
But I'm useless. The line of palm trees I thought I was looking for don't make sense relative to where I know I parked. I'm turned around and disoriented and oh wow, he's pulling a joint out of his pocket now. Lighting it.
"Cannabis," he announces, as if he just likes saying the word. He examines the joint thoughtfully and then takes a drag. I brace myself for the offer, which I'll feel rude rejecting at this point—but it doesn't come. My savior is not sharing his weed. "Do you know it's 4/20 tomorrow? I mean if you're gonna be lost that's as good a day as any, right?"
The spaced-out look makes sense now. I laugh, trying not to think about him driving high, on the freeway home. Myself, I've been sober for almost three hours; the last hour, brutally so. He asks me where I'm from and we make small talk while he looks at my phone, then squints around the dark parking lot, then looks back at my phone. "I don't think you're in this lot."
And so I'm not. I'm in the next lot over, which we get to though an opening in the fences dividing them. Terence's car sits maybe a hundred feet from where I'd been pacing. Just right there, waiting for me. My knees go weak at the sight of it, and I realize I don't know my companion's name.
"Kumar. It's Kumar."
The next minute with Kumar is kind of a bummer. Thanking him profusely isn't enough. Neither is my offer of $20, which I quickly explain that I don't mean as an insult. "Please, just get a lunch on me tomorrow or something. I'm so grateful." But whether it was the hit of pot or whether Kumar is actually, after all, a bit of a creep, I don't know. But suddenly I'm being pressured into a hug from which I'm not immediately released.
"Come onnnnn, it's Coachella," he whines, when explain I have to go. Big drive, boyfriend's waiting, etc. I disentangle myself from Kumar's arms, though not before he grabs my ass.
I'm annoyed and anxious to leave but as he walks off I call after him. "Are you okay to find your car now?" Without turning around he waves a hand over his shoulder, dismissing me. Having refused the knight's advance, the damsel in distress no longer interests him.
"Happy Coachella!" I say anyway. "And thank you!"
I sit in the car for a full minute, reveling in my relief, before texting Terence. His phone is off; he won't hear it. But just in case he wakes up, I want him to know I'm coming home.
Nocturnal Wonderland 2015
9/10/2015
I took very few photos at Nocturnal, but that wasn't because it isn't an exceptionally photogenic festival. It is. In fact it is much prettier than I thought it would be, since when I heard "San Manuel Amphitheater" I pictured dull, paved fairgrounds. Nope. We're talking full-on The Sound of Music style hills, gorgeous mountain sunsets, and grasssss:
Other than local nightclub shows, this was the first Insomniac event I'd ever been to. I knew to expect big, bold, and beautiful, and truly, they delivered. Spectacular lights and decorative displays, and the most jaw dropping stages - and captivating onstage visuals - imaginable.
I went a little crazy with the outfit, but it was worth it. Got lots of compliments, the fur kept me warm on the first two very chilly nights, and the leg wraps were just a blast to wear.
I actually had a second outfit which I didn't get photos of, since I wanted one day to be completely, 100% picture-free. But it was another fur situation, a head-to-toe husky outfit that Terence wore the hood and tail of so we'd match.
Seriously high production value, exceptionally cool stage design, and always something interesting to look at. And which you can see, even if you're at the waaaaaay back of the crowd.
Could not even deal with his giraffe ears and purple lens sunglasses.
Those pink leopard wraps I layered on top of the black wraps were UV-reactive, which was fun. You can see the full, frontal ridiculousness of my ensemble in the video at the bottom.
By far my favorite thing about Nocturnal, and the reason I will definitely return, is how spacious the grounds are. Look at all that land to spread out on! HardSummer events, in my experience, tend to be oversold and uncomfortably jam-packed. So this was heaven as far I'm concerned. Even the most crowded tents weren't that bad, and still had plenty of breathing room. In fact you can see in the video that I'm dancing with lots of space around me, even at the busiest time of the night.
The sound was phenomenal, even this far back. Well done, Insomniac.
THOSE EARS THO.
There are costumed performers walking around all evening, interacting with the crowd and creating vignettes. Burlesque dancers, stilt walkers, clowns, etc. Insomniac does a great job of bringing the masquerade theme to life, which makes attendees feel welcome to dress ridiculously themselves. We saw so much spirit, I loved it. Really, I was massively impressed with the crowd in general. This was the first festival ever where I experienced no pushing, no shoving, no rudeness whatsoever.
Kandi bar!
We opted for VIP because the older I get, the more of a baby I am about PortaPotties (and waiting in long lines for them). VIP festival restrooms tend to be the larger, cleaner trailer restrooms. (Which these were.) Other perks of VIP: no waiting to get in every day, you just breeze right through security, plus Nocturnal had a smallish, cordoned off VIP section to the left of the Labyrinth stage which was kinda nice. Yet another perk of VIP? That's where all the other olds hang out.
The crowd was wonderfully chill and friendly. Similar to Bonnaroo, but even better, more social energy. And really respectful of one another. Several people approached me to ask about where I'd gotten my hood and gloves, to dance, or to just trade kandi. I loved this whole back section behind the Labyrinth stage where people spread out under the electric trees to watch and talk and dance. You can see how much room there was to move around.
Best sets: Lane 8, Sasha, Booka Shade, Kaskade, Sander Van Doorn, Armin Van Buren, Slander, Sylence, Orjan Nilsen, Ummet Ozcan, Bingo Players, Nicole Moudaber, Tensnake, Audien. My only disappointments were Donald Glaude (who kept obnoxiously killing the sound to rally the crowd like a bat mitvah DJ) and Pretty Lights, who did a much, much more mellow set than I've ever seen him do before.
Between us we got a decent amount of video, but I only threw together a little bit of it. There's a few clips of me dancing, because fun/ridiculous, there's the glove/light show kid I referenced in my previous post, and finally there's some Lane 8, who I shared recently in a Fri-Ni Jamz post and who absolutely, without question, was our favorite set of the weekend. What a talent, and what a cool, humble guy. I hope he keeps rocketing to stardom, I really do.
Nocturnal Wonderland 2021 & BEYOND WONDERLAND 2021
9/29/21
Hi! Did you think I died of the R1 N1 NE1 Delta Plus Plus XL California Special variant of COVID? I did not. And in fact on Monday I'm getting the booster, because I work in an industry with High Occupational Exposure, which is to say I am frequently in close contact with West Hollywood woo woo anti-vax nut jobs who scoff out of their smug, entitled, unmasked faces when I politely inquire as to whether they've been vaccinated because, you know, they're endangering my entire team with their smug, entitled, unmasked mouths and noses.
I tried to get the booster yesterday, but I was turned away because I'm still a week shy of the six month mark and Cedars Sinai was not having my rule breaking (and I respect that). But Monday I have a legit appointment and will be all boosted up for another several years months of this shit. LFG.
I have an assortment of adventures and updates to report on, precisely none of which are probably very interesting to anyone but myself, but let's pretend otherwise and plow ahead, shall we? Right.
I went to two festivals. One was an absolute delight and one of my favorites ever, and one was a slightly disastrous comedy of errors I still managed to wrangle a couple of good hours from. Beyond Wonderland was beyond wonderful and had some of the best overall music, production, design, and guest experience of any Insomniac fest I've been to. Just top notch. Then a few weeks later I skipped back up to San Bern for one day of Nocturnal Wonderland and oh boy was that a time. Laugh at me for a few paragraphs, will you?
The venue for Nocturnal is substantially further from the train station than the venue for Beyond. And I knew this. I've known this. I've been half a dozen times; always just grab an Uber off the train and no problem. What I forgot is that Uber and Lyft are no longer affordable, haven't been for months. I very, very rarely use them anymore in LA for this reason. But I had no other option once I landed in SB, and boom. $50 just to get to the festival - and that's on top of my $20 train ticket up, which is on top of my $30 shuttle ride back to the city afterward.
Trying not to think about this, I hop in with Doris, a sixty-something bottle blonde with a voice like sandpaper and predilection for AC/DC (and for keeping the windows open while barreling down the freeway at 75mph). Doris patiently waits in the drop-off queue to get me nice and close to the festival, making small talk I can't really hear over Back in Black. I just smile and nod at her rearview mirror, concentrating on getting festival ready (which means shimmying out of my pants, swiping on some lip gloss, and finger combing my windblown hair).
It isn't until I've launched myself out of her backseat into the streaming masses that I realize two things simultaneously: 1. for some reason, this crowd is dressed a lot less...festively, and in fact, most people are wearing street clothes (which I absolutely am fucking not), and 2. it's a lot colder than the forecast led me to expect.
No problem, I think. Maybe I'm just feeling a little paranoid and chilly because the shrooms are kicking in. Oh did I forget to mention the shrooms I'd taken on the train? Let me now then mention the shrooms. Or shroom, rather, singular, because the thing I grabbed as an afterthought as I was leaving my apartment was the size of a cigarette butt, hardly anything big enough to seem problematical. (Narrator: it would indeed be problematical.)
Anyway, I know once inside I'll be surrounded by thousands of people similarly outfitted, so I'm not much bothered by that. But I am cold, and decide once I'm past security I'm definitely going to throw my pants back on. The fence net tights and dumb little white bikini bottoms I've got on are not gonna cut it once the sun sets.
Well, that was probably the last clearly constructed thought I had for the next four hours, because the tiny little nub of a psychedelic I had snacked on half an hour before was about to reprogram my entire itinerary, plans bedamned.
I pride myself on being someone who can handle her drugs. I can sense immediately when I've overdone it, and I know what to do in those instances: get somewhere safe and comfortable, get some water, sit down, and ride it out. But holy shit. This thing grabbed me by the wrist just as I was walking downhill into the chaos of lights and sound and yanked me through its watery wavelength into a state of melting, staggering disorientation. That's a little intense when you've got 40,000 scampering, screaming ravers bumping into you from every direction.
Dealing with a locker (which I'd paid for) was out of the question. I knew fumbling with a combination lock and trying to keep straight what I was putting in vs. what I was taking out would do me in. Chances were I'd leave my phone and bag on the ground right in front of it. So I resigned to shouldering my backpack until I found my sea legs, getting the lay of the land so I could find my sets, and taking it slow.
But first: pants!
I set my bag (a super lightweight cinch sack made of parachute fabric) down and reached in to pull out my cozy, soft, favorite Monrow sweats. Won't these feel lovely and be so comforting right now, I thought.
Oh fuck. Oh no. My pants. I left my pants in the Uber. Doris has my fucking pants in her backseat.
NO PROBLEM, I think. I got this. I am hardcore. I decide to just rock my hoodie, which totally covers the bikini bottoms, and which combined with the barely-there fence net tights makes it questionable whether I'm even dressed from the waist down at all. I am now essentially Porky Pigging it around the fucking festival, but at least it is dark, and at least, let's be real, I am tripping way too hard to care much anyway.
I find my way to the stage I know I'll be spending most of the night at only to find it faces a small hill. The entire viewing area is raked on a not terribly small slope, meaning there is really no level place to stand unless I want to be sandwiched in close up front - which I definitely do not. It's about this time a couple of negative mental loops kick in, making it impossible for me to get physically or psychologically comfortable:
a) I realized that since I didn't dare mess with a locker, I wouldn't be able to charge my phone (the lockers have hookups for cell phones). And if I couldn't charge my phone, it would be dead by the time I got back to LA and needed an Uber from USC to my apartment. I might very well be stranded and have to hoof it home. Not impossible, but a solid 45 minute walk. With. No. Pants.
b) The hill I was standing on was completely throwing me off. I had no spatial stability and I kept catching myself facing slightly away from the stage, like an insane person. Eventually the shrooms eased up enough that I found this hysterical, but for the first little while I felt trapped in a fun house with 0% fun.
All this being said, the lights and sounds were amplified in a way that was just stunning. I was almost in tears at one point, my senses were so enraptured. But it was hairy, ngl. I briefly considered bailing and eating a $200 Uber just to get back home and crawl into bed. But #adventure. I only have so many of these festivals left in me, and I'll be goddamned if a little forest fungi is gonna ruin one of them.
It leveled out. But I was still cold and overly high, and desperately needed to dance it off. Only that was impossible because of the stupid hill we were situated on. I found a little spot off to the side where I could set my bag down under a big tree-sized glowing mushroom (so meta!), and that worked okay except for the fact that people kept coming up and asking if I'd take their photo under the mushroom. I was like Yo I can barely see this dimension much less your tiny phone screen but let's do this.
After Spencer Brown's set (which was just straight glorious), I explored a little bit, but there wasn't much other music that really did it for me and I couldn't find a groove. I met a few people, but I was underwater and they were on dry land, so I couldn't really connect with them. Eventually I trusted my cognitive abilities enough to go take advantage of my prepaid locker and charge my phone. But I was terrified of missing my ride home, so I left the grounds a full hour before the city shuttle was meant to depart. The nice clipboard lady who checked me in was all "Where were you this morning?" and I had to explain that noon was much too early for me trek up, and sorry if you waited, but I had no way of letting you know I'd be taking the train up instead.
(I'm skipping over the fact that the actual walk from the venue to the shuttles was an insane 30 minute hell hike alongside a freeway and over train tracks in the cold desert night wind. If I hadn't been shuffling along in a caravan of other exhausted revelers I definitely would have gotten lost and died of exposure. Don't forget to picture my sad, huddling walk WITHOUT PANTS.)
ANYWAY, I survived. I miraculously got an Uber at USC, didn't lose any other clothes, and finally made it to a bed I'd never in my life been so happy to curl up in. And I realize now it was probably lucky to start winding down my EDM festival career on a low note, so I'll have less FOMO when I finally do hang it up.
All things happen for a reason, even for unreasonably ridiculous people like me.
photos from Beyond Wonderland 2021:
photos from Nocturnal Wonderland 2021:
