There are some things in life you cannot un-see… or un-feel, for that matter. But I think you’ll need a little more background information before I reveal to you the gritty details of my scarring summer experience and the events that led me to reform my views on hygiene, drugs (almost) and society’s capacity to maintain some semblance of human decency.
As one of your two current Arts editors here at this fine publication, I had the good fortune of attending a few summer music festivals for free in the name of discovering the latest and greatest in electro, rock and indie for our avid readers. I spent the first half of my summer traversing the many interstates and roadways of the Midwest on my way to first Manchester, Tenn., for Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival, then Rothbury, Mich., for Electric Forest Festival, and finally Chicago, Ill., for Pitchfork Music Festival. As amazing as all this sounds—and don’t get me wrong, it was truly amazing to see so many talented musicians—it also exposed me to a whole new level of weirdness I had never known existed in the summer festival scene.
After an 11-hour car ride to Manchester I found myself delirious for fresh air. Little did I know the air would only stay fresh for so long.
Manchester is like its own third-world country during the four days and nights of Bonnaroo. People sleep in shoddily pitched tents as their cars sit dormantly gathering dust, and if you do not have the credentials to enter the press or artist area, say goodbye to your phone battery. Then there’s the shower situation. It’s either pay $7 to stand in a boxy, makeshift bathing station for a few chilling minutes or go without. Needless to say, I did not waste my precious monetary resources on said shower box, which leads me to… confession hour: During Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival 2012 I went four days without showering.
In the real world, the one I normally frequent, the lengthiest period of time I usually allow between showers is one day, but in the realm of ‘Roo it became somewhat refreshing to let the filth amass. Needless to say, my first shower back in civilization was a near-religious experience, except for the depressing moment when I realized the tan I thought I had was, in fact, just layers of dirt. As the warm water beat against my back I watched my dreams of a bronze glow on my moony skin literally go down the drain.
But all in all, my first trip to Manchester made for a pleasant experience and gave me a taste of the drug culture currently permeating America’s society of fledgling festivalgoers. However, it wasn’t until Electric Forest that I got to experience the full, mushroom-fused meal.
Electric Forest had some quality acts and a clear focus on music and art, but the underlying tone of this weekend in Rothbury, Mich. was the goal to trip balls as hard as possible.
From my camping neighbor to the left lighting off hundreds of flaming paper lanterns into the night sky and explaining to me that, though he hasn’t done drugs in a few months, he did so much LSD at that time that he was still tripping, to the group of friends I saw one night in the forest dressed in panda costumes frolicking (in its most literal usage of the word) amongst the trees and foliage giggling to no one in particular, I suddenly found myself in the underrepresented sober minority.
At first, it was amusing dodging the hoards of scantily clad hula hooping girls with their glowing rings. But, I’m sorry—I draw the line at public blowjobs. I told you, there are some things you can’t un-see.
Working my way closer to the front for a bass-laden Datsik concert, I spotted an opening in the crowd ahead I thought I could easily squeeze into. When I arrived, I discovered two blissed-out teenagers were causing the random gap as they curled around each other in a fervent lip lock. Ah, young love.
I tried to avert my eyes and focus on the music, but they were causing quite the spectacle and suddenly the next time I found myself glancing in their direction I could not help but notice she was taking off his pants. Yup, this probably 16-year-old girl clothed in a modest sun dress was stripping her boyfriend (I hope) in front of at least 100 people within viewing range and hundreds if not thousands more who remained completely unaware of this impromptu disrobement.
My glances in their direction became more frequent despite my growing repulsion as he went from dropped trow to totally nude below the waste and was now putting up a mild struggle for this girl on a mission as she proceeded to move down south. Yet finally, he stopped caring about the 50 pairs of eyes now staring straight at his manhood and gave himself over to the waves of ecstasy (let’s be real here, probably in both senses of the word).
There came a point where I was right next to them with no means of escape and in his mounting euphoria the bro in question began reaching out to his girl to relay the level of pleasure he was receiving. He grabbed my ankle instead.
I cannot begin to express my discomfort and disgust at finding myself caught in this lovers’ snare. I quickly kicked his hand away while spastically shouting, “Wrong girl!” over the blasting volume that accompanies a dubstep show. My cries fell on deafened ears. I was forced to kick his groping hand away at least three more times before finally barreling through a group of bro-tank clad fist pumpers and away from the oral hoopla I had so distressingly found myself a part of.
About five minutes later, in glancing behind me I spied the couple departing through the crowd—her sporting a completely oblivious look and he completely nude. I’m not sure why his shirt had to come off post bj, but go big or go home, right?
I’m not interested in tripping on drugs at concerts, but I try not to judge people who enjoy it. However, I DO NOT WANT TO SEE YOUR PENIS WHILE I AM GETTING MY WOMP ON. If you’re going to roll, please do your best to keep it in your pants while in the public’s presence, and girls, please do not exacerbate the situation. It’s gross, and it’s a vision that never really leaves you.
Needless to say, due to the interesting circumstances at these two camping festivals, I could not have been happier to return to my friend’s house each night during Pitchfork to sleep in a bed and bathe.
Riding the summer music festival circuit can give you great insight to musical up-and-comers but it also provided a gateway into the animalistic sides of society I didn’t even know existed. I had a lot of fun at these festivals, but I think I’m ready to settle back into my usual regiment of smaller shows at security-controlled venues this semester where the worst thing that usually happens to me is raunchy gas from the people up front.
