I went to Governors Ball last weekend.
I haven’t been to a music festival since 2015, but an old friend, the guerrilla marketing oligarch, had extra passes. Knowing him, they would not be plebeian passes, which is crucial to my attendance since I don’t like being in a crowd. It’s not because I think I’m superior, it’s just that I’m scared of terrorist attacks, tragic accidents, and general mayhem. Can you blame me?
I do love the skeleton key of an all-access pass—a stamp, a wristband, lanyard, whatever form. Some strange anarchist tendency fizzes through my veins whenever I’m at a music venue. In my normal life I’m a rule-follower, I appreciate order and predictability. But at shows I turn impish. My only desire is to be places I shouldn’t. Even when I didn’t have a pass, I’d lie, cheat, and sneak my way past whatever barricade existed. Not in search of boys, or drugs, or proximity to famous people. . . I suppose it’s just to have the best seat for watching the movie that’s happening around me. “For the story,” as they say. Though in practice I’ve been less of a neutral presence and more of a participant-observer. Upon further reflection, here, now, today, the truth is that the destination was never really that important—it’s the thrill of the journey, the moment of crossing of the forbidden threshold, which I so crave.
In high school I went to see the vestiges of a legendary punk band perform at the Granada Theater in Dallas. Towards the end of the set, my boyfriend and I, using the chaos of the mosh pit as cover, climbed onto the side stage and hid in the shadows to watch the finale. Thrilling! I’d lost all inhibitions and did the corniest thing when the singer—a man who had only been an idea to me, an icon of an entire genre—walked toward us to exit stage left: I asked him to sign my shirt. I can’t remember if I’d even vocalized the request before he removed a wad of neon green Doublemint from his mouth and placed it in mine. He then swiped some black paint from around his eye and drew an inverted cross on my forehead like a juicehead Rafiki christening a newborn. Then he signed my shirt. I felt like Dorothy upon meeting the Wizard, only to find out that he was just some lame old guy with a flare for theatrics.