The trek to the stages was lined by the foulest residue of human existence. In between the loosely organized lines of vulgar humanity were puddles of stagnant water and mounds of mud and horse dung to step through. Overflowing trash cans and rows of over-abused port-a-potties. Plodding up and down slowly inclining and declining hills one occasionally saw a handkerchief or shirt used to cover a mouth from the dirt and trash swirling in the night time air. By the end we'd all get used to this new atmosphere of unbreathable gasses and foreign molecules, but for the first few hours it wasn't easy to breathe in without coughing. All the while we were pointed in the direction of the blinding light somewhere off in the distance. Like the search light of a prison in the deep south or the so-called god light I read about in a science fiction novel. Every step brought us closer to the source and as we neared the entrance we were increasingly joined by more and more strangers until the little group that started out from our campsite was a swirling mass of unrecognizable eyes and gaping mouths. We passed the first night in a stupor of smoke and sounds rising out from the lights and motions on some distant horizon.
The band broke the murmur with their first few chords and the heat of the day was momentarily forgotten in the cool breeze that carried the sound out to the spot where we stood. Individuals in front couldn't be distinguished from one another as anything more than shapes and movements, but it was easy to imagine the riotous capability of these collected numbers. We witnessed the first songs take shape before we would up in the exact spot for which I'd been aiming since we set out this evening. I got my fill of familiar words and stockpiled them for the long weekend ahead. We left while they were still throwing out sound and I held onto the rhythm as long as I could. The darkness swallowed everything.
Back in the tents there existed only polar opposites. Extremes in either direction. Climate shifts that defied the very laws of nature. As soon as the sun broke over the tree-tops and spilled yellow dusty light into the spaces between cars the temperature rose so fast and so steadily that everyone was awake within the first 20 minutes of morning light. Instinct was your alarm clock. Your body told you clearly when you needed to get up and out of that thinly-lined oven. The bugs that filled our tents knew it was time to wake as well, and in a flurry of activity your leg hairs became alive with the running of spiders and jumping of crickets and flapping of moths.
The camp was a small circle of tents and shelters, with a large covered area in the middle for gathering in numbers and occasionally eating a meal of crackers and cheeze-whiz. It was here that we each made our way towards after the sun had ended so abruptly our evening slumber. It was here that the days events were arranged in a straight line for us to follow and deviate from as we wished. It was here that we learned what others had done during the previous evening, and to clarify what we ourselves were accused of doing.
The mystery upon waking was why in the night you'd wrapped yourself up in the sleeping bag and piled your clean and dirty clothes on top of you like raked leaves in the fall. You'd forget in the blistering heat of the morning that the evening brought bone chilling temperatures and condensation that coated everything in the campground inside and out with a layer of moisture. What you thought was sweat was morning dew and what you wished was morning dew was your own sweat. Nothing was ever dry until the sun baked every ounce of moisture from it, and by then, you'd pray for a single drop of rain to cool you off. It was a weekend of greener grass and second thoughts.
I could hear my brother's voice from inside my darkened tent and something went off in my brain. Some triggered memory or sense of recognition that transformed the camp into a room in my past. It was like being home again, only nothing was like home except for the familiar sound of familial pleasantries and a sense that everything would be OK because my brother was right there, smiling in his half-ironic manner, only steps from my tent. The entire trip would have been worth only a few such moments.
The streets, if that's what they could be called, were rows of dirt surrounded by low-rising walls of discolored vehicles and geometric shapes with fabric and mesh. A junkyard filled with broken cars and empty octagons and triangles. The dirt falling like snow on feet bare and muddy; splashing in the mud and the trash. A river of people flowed through every possible channel, making the place seem alive in a weird reversal of nature and proportion. Beyond every hood a camp, and in turn, a new civilization sprouting up from the exhaust of another useless automobile. Thunderous sounds filled the corners and hollows and the language of a million lost civilizations was being babbled all at once. It felt as though everyone had reverted back to the dark ages or worse. Neanderthals with sandals and dreadlocks roaming in shifts for food and drugs.
For a crowd that didn't look as if they could afford even a shower I saw an inordinate number of digital cameras and cell phones held up to capture in pixellated, grainy video their favorite bands droning on in unintelligible notes the songs that they cherish so. I have, since returning, gone on youtube and watched video clip after video clip of the same exact show on the same stage from almost the same angle and I have come to one undeniable conclusion; people desperately need proof of their mediocre existence. They need trophies or scars or videos that look like a thousand other crappy videos to prove that they were there and saw things. You could record their whole lives and all you'd have is a recording of a recording. A tracing of an etching. Everything original about this crowd was traded long ago for easy explanations and fancy technology allowing them to not have to remember or feel anything.
The measure of music is apparently not in it's sound but instead the allotted space in which a particular group of musicians is to play. Very important music being allowed a greater general area in which to escape. Lesser known bands forced to shuffle from small stage to small camper, shielding the breadth of their sound with the roofs and poles of their confining structures. The smaller stages held the sound closer, and therefore made it difficult to steal away any stray notes that might be escaping into the dry hot air. Obscurity was lurking in the shadows of these places only to be rebuffed by the slyness and skill of the sound guy. Powered sounds from unheard lands pounded at us from afar, and we knew this had been the plan all along.
The first thing I thought when I got back to the city was how would all of these people smell after four days rolling in dirt and sweating in the sun without a bath. I looked from face to face and the stone-sober expressions that were returned to me reflected only an unshared experience. I was glad to be back. The heat of the subway a welcome gesture of acquaintance. The surge of people and the pushing and shoving became a friendly handshake between old buddies. The sum of our experiences shape our perceptions, and I think a hundred thousand people never seemed so civilized and clean to me before. I could roll in the floors of any subway car and not cringe. I can wash my hands in the black track water that washes away trash and dirt then eat a slice of pizza afterwards. I can shower anywhere so long as I got to shower. Cleanliness is relative, and I think I prefer human filth to nature's.