Just when my winter depression and longing for girls in cut-offs and crop tops was at an all-time high in mid-February, I remembered Ultra is less than 30 days away and here marks the official start of the season I love so much. Then I remembered what Jimmy Buffet once said, “It’s always festival season somewhere,” so I turned off syndicated episodes of “King of Queen”s (Kerry was in her fat days so that made the decision easy), and started behaving like the Bro that I am.
Festivals bring people together like nothing else: You’re all on the wave together, might as well ride it out in style. Is there a better feeling than while at a mid-summer night’s must festival and it’s time for the set you’ve been waiting for, the one you made sure not to blackout for, the one you were praying to the festival gods would finally happen. You look around through your mirrored sunglasses and see all your favorite people standing around you, everyone you love (…except for Mom and Dad, that’d be weird and too much colliding of the worlds) and then, as defined by Lex Houser and Andi Cross, founders of Bad Kids Clothing: “The mother fucking beat drops. There is no better way to define it than this: The thing that brings us all together – the common bond that makes the science of EDM work – is when the beat drops. You could be into some smoke show from across the room and lock eyes just in time to count down to the drop together. And when it hits, it's time to go fucking crazy.”
Festivals kick off in the warmer districts, Miami, Florida (Ultra) and Palm Springs/Indio, CA (Coachella), causing retirees aging 65+ to don their sun blockers and prepare for the mass amounts of neon that will meet their eyes. From coast to coast, the Medicare crew will wonder who the ever popular “Molly” is all the young kids are talking about. The world works in mysterious ways and this my friends is one of them, retired Bros can scan young trim from the comfort of their walkers and their lawn chairs ….and thank the universe, sit back and enjoy retirement. The destination festivals get us through the last months of winter…. Then comes summer, and too many festivals to name – the only I’m most stoked on being Gov Ball in NYC, as if you need another excuse to come to New York – the universe has given it to you and you’re welcome.
Like birds heading south for the winter we flock for a weekend we remember thanks only to our n to our iPhones, it the charge lasts and screens don't get shattered mid beat drop. We buy our tickets months in advance and have anxiety when they are first posted “omg will I get one…I can’t do another year of FOMO,” we plan our get ups, we order our Rave Aid (thanks BKC!)….then the day comes to board that beautiful ship to festival promiseland. On the way there visions of girls in butterfly wings and bras dance in your head. You get off the plane and it’s like when MJ gets off the space ship in Space Jam….you have arrived. You feel emancipated….all winter long it’s been roofed in venues with coat checks and now, it is time for you to stretches those festivals arms – and throw your hands up to the sky, you’re so happy to be alive (and yes, I’m also a motherfucking poet now, that is how beautiful and magical this season is).
So bros, while the weather may be harsh and the girls in turtlenecks even harsher…. just remember this….Life is the festival, the festival never stops – because it’s so much more than fancy lights, epic beats and and excuse for chicks to dress like sluts; it’s a mindset, an attitude, a way of life. I’d like to close this lover letter with some lyrics that speak the festival language: Rhythm is a dancer, it’s a source companion, people feel it everywhere, lift your hands and voices, free your mind and join us, you can feel it in the air…..and if you can’t feel it, fucking find Molly – I hear the retirees know her pretty, prettttttyyyyy well.
Rollin on the River.
[Pic via AudibleTherapy]
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