I fucking love music festivals. Which makes sense because I am an absolute music nut. From the beastie boys to the symphony, I love it all. I love it in the morning, I love it while I sleep, and even now, as I write, I'm listening to music. (Rag'n'Bone Man, black keys and billie holiday if you're curious) but I love my music LIVE most of all.
I go to an absurd amount of shows. I go see live music more often then Rupaul puts on a corset. I even have a separate calendar in my phone just for music. MONTHS in advance, I write in all the shows I want to see so I never miss the tastytasty jams of my favorite artists. I could buy a yacht with what I spend annually beholding live tunage.🤘
But music festivals are special. If concerts are bacon... then music festivals are bacon wrapped dates stuffed with manchego and blue cheese, drizzled with truffle oil. Mmmmmm...
It's pure magic to me that thousands of people come together to drink at the alter of rhythm and dance, casting aside, even if only for a moment, all the differences that normally divide us. I love how fests bring out the best and worst in people in magnificent displays of larger-than-life human interaction. To me, Its art.
Music festivals are adult play pens. If you wander off too far in a particular direction, a very official looking person in an orange vest will just spin your drunk ass around, and send you back into the madness. Go on you little idiot, run along and play. I love it!
Fests give a person the total permission and relative safety to get balls-in-the-potato salad wasted, Or 'knackered' as my British bestie would say. It gives a person permission to let their hair down and be themselves, or some brand new version of Self that's been eagerly waiting beneath the surface for the chance to take center stage. I love running around as a brand new me, meeting all the other brand new people.
For the most part, anyway.
Some of these people are assholes. Some people get a little liquor and the devils reefer in their system and all their repressed assholeitude comes gushing out like fat drippings left in a paper cup too long. They are greedy-too-loud-opportunistic scum, and maybe they can't help it. Just human pot holes, in desperate need of repair. I ignore these people. They got issues, like we all do but I don't have any spare fucks to give while I'm busy lovin' anda dancin'. I spend my time on the good ones. The unicorns, the rubber dancers, the tree huggers and the jesters laughing so hard their sides ache. Those are my fuckin people. ✌️🖖✊
It's with these people that I do all my best growing. They remind me to take it slow, take it easy, take it with a light heart, and never stop dancing. Well, not literally. At some point you really should stop dancing. It would be super weird to be in a constant state of gyrating boogie. I can see it now... "Ma'am, I'm gunna hafta ask you to take that outside, this is a children's play and your frightening the parents!"
but think of all the calories I would burn. 🤔
I'm off on a tangent now. I guess I will close with a short(ish) story.
A few years back, I went to Northcoast music festival here in Chicago. Just minutes after arriving I got shiny object syndrome (classic me) and I was drawn to a glistening yellow hula hoop. Well, I just had to get my hands on that bad boy. The hoops owner graciously obliged, I set my bag down and regaled a small audience with a few tricks I picked up here and there. They were loving entities, good people, full of encouragement and praise. I twirled, they clapped; I dipped, they hooted. I managed a very complicated grand finale and the praise crescendoed and tapered to smiles. I return the hoop and received names and hugs in return. The talk was not small, nor was it more than a mouthful. Gratitude exchanged hearts and we were ready to part ways. But something was terribly wrong. My bag was gone.
Cold ran through me which made my face weirdly hot. That stupid bag had everything in it, my plastic and paper money, keys, Identification, phone, fucking glow sticks... everything! I did all the things one might imagine a person would do in this situation. I scanned the ground, sought out witnesses but it was gone. Like I said, Some people are assholes.
So the rest of the festival, new and old friends bought me beer, lent me sunglasses and offered words of comfort. More good people. One great person in particular even texted my phone asking anyone who comes across my phone or bag to call so we could retrieve it. About halfway through the night, with the help of the unicorns, the rubber dancers, tree huggers, and jesters, I was actually at peace with the whole debacle and began to have a really great time.
Fuck the purse, I don't need it! I only THOUGHT I needed it! That asshole actually did me a favor, I am no longer encumbered by the illusion that purses and their contents are important! Life is important! Music is important! Stuff is just stuff, man.
It was all becoming true for me.
I danced until my thighs burned and left it all behind me. By the time the music died out we had collected a gaggle of new companions and in slow circles we moved towards the exit. I was not too sure how I was going to get into my house, but not too worried about it either. I was too busy enjoying my newfound freedom.
We walked out into the warm Chicago night and lingered on a bridge, sharing stories and watching the cars wiz by underneath at light speed. Then the phone rang. It was my purse!Or rather, it was the man who found my purse, and its contents. Hazzah! Another good person! I sauntered back to the festival grounds with childlike enthusiasm and was soon reunited with my purse, and its contents. Still inside where my keys, plastic money, identification and even the motherfucking glow sticks. The only thing not inside was my phone, which was placed in my hand and my paper money, which was not. It was a net loss of about fifty dollars, not too shabby.
What I gained was far more valuable. I learned that it's okay to lean on other people when life kicks you in the face a bit. I learned there are a lot of greedy opportunistic assholes, but there are less of them then you'd think. And when those assholes stab you in the back, or the front, or the purse, theres a whole team of better people waiting nearby with beer and bandaids. I learned that there are people who can be trusted to do the right thing when it counts and that not all glow sticks who wander are lost. In the end I think 50 dollars was a fair toll.
I won't always be like that, I'm not delusional or even an optimist, I know what people are like out there in the real world. But music festivals are special. They defy the rules of the real world. They magnify, inspire and stretch us over ourselves so we can beat like drums and dance like maniacs to the rhythm. I return to them time and time again like a fountain of youth to renew my appreciation for beautiful weirdos and the experiences and music that binds us.
I bring that stupid purse to every festival now. I figured I should name it now that it has such totemistic value to me. I decided Lazarus is fitting on account of how it rose from the motherfuckin dead! Lazz still keeps ahold of the glow sticks but I keep my money in my bra these days, No more rookie mistakes for me! Fool me once ... and all that. There will still be thievin' assholes, but they can't steal my tits!
True wisdom indeed.
