Confession: I’m a bit of a music festival neophyte. Despite living in Palm Springs for 5 years during the blossoming of Coachella and Stagecoach, I never went. I was living there in 2008 when Prince played his now infamous cover of Creep by Radiohead, and no, I have never forgiven myself for not going that year.
Fast forward to 2018. Prince is no longer in human form, and I’ve already seen the Revolution once, but the second I hear they are headed to ACL in Austin, I buy a 3 day pass. I’m also excited to see Janelle Monae, Shakey Graves, Elle King, and Metallica, but for me, the coup de gras is the Revolution.
Saturday: I’ve spent the whole day working. Suddenly is it 5:30. I’m tired and dehydrated, but I make myself change clothes, put on some sensible shoes, and hop on Lyft, because no way am I dealing with parking and traffic.
Dropped off a short walk from the entrance, I can already hear the music. A sweaty, swirling mess of people are scurrying in and out. It takes about 10 seconds to wonder if this was a good idea. But then the piercing rays of a descending sun slap me in the face with beautiful pinks and oranges. I press on.
Airports and any kind of festivals or sporting events are some of my favorite places to people watch. The glitter-covered bosoms and long, braided hair are amusing, though it’s comforting to be of the age where I dress for comfort (a second-hand summer jumpsuit and knock off Converse from Target).
Upon entering, a fuzzy nausea and annoyance start to bubble up. I’m not a big crowd person, and I’m really not a crowd-that-has-been-drinking-for-hours person. But fate had decided to put a Wine bar right inside the entrance, so I quickly down a glass of overpriced Tempranillo and start to feel better. After a huge slice of local pizza, I am actually starting to have fun.
I had timed my arrival to try to catch most, if not all, of Elle King’s set. With the pizza scarfed and a second glass of wine in hand, I amble my way toward the crowd, opting to hang at the back. I bless the two ginormous monitors set up on either side of the stage so I could see her and the band ‘up close’ without actually having to be ‘up close.’
Since my friends aren’t expected to arrive for another hour, I settle into my go to solo activity for airports and large crowds: people watching. And ACL proved to be top-notch. I don’t people watch to judge, but simply out of wonderment and love of seeing people expressing themselves, or not, through clothing. I have always viewed fashion as mean of soul expression, and ACL does not disappoint. Body, face, and hair glitter: check. Faux-leather platform sandals/boots: check. Wings, flower-crowns, and even Prince leggings: check, check, check. I suddenly envision my nieces about a decade from now getting ready with equal parts giddiness (because I will obviously encourage them to have fun with fashion) and a bit of horror that they will indeed be teen girls doing teen girl things.
My friends arrive just as my second glass of wine runs out and the band St. Vincent is taking to another of the 5 stages. We don’t really know the songs, but the band is high-energy with some songs made to make you want to shake and yell it all out, in a good way. Near us is a small group of girls doing just that. With space enough to run around and jump and skip and scream along with the band, they, in that moment, embody the purest form of what I believe we are all here to find and claim as our birthright: absolute fucking joy manifest. They make the whole space around them vibrate with a wonderful peace.
Metallica is the closing act. We stay near the back of the crowd, but the monitors and speakers again helped to make the experience better for those of us in our post-mosh pit age. Again, the fun is less about the actual concert and more about what is happening around us. Noise levels are such that we can converse without too much trouble. We catch up, we take pictures. We just enjoy being in this moment on this night.
A short while later, I hop into the passenger side of a shared Lyft. A conversation quickly reveals that the the couple in the backseat is here from out of town specifically for the festival for the first time. As we’re all chatting about the festival in general, I at one point say how stoked I am to see the Revolution (Prince’s old band) the next day.
The driver immediately gets excited. “I kind of met Prince once” he exclaims. He then tells a fantastic anecdote about briefly encountering Prince in Vegas one time and accidentally stepping on his foot, not yet knowing it was Prince. I squeal in delight at this story and my fortuitous encounter with this driver.
Sometimes, the event, such as a festival, itself, is not the point. Sometimes the point is in the smaller details and moments. The sunset picture I snap at just the right time as I entered. The glass of wine mixed with pizza mixed with the slight waft of weed. Bodies becoming joy. The shared story from a stranger about a personal hero that made my night. The simply being.