Festivals: My Death & Rebirth
One: Festivals: My Death & Rebirth “We stand in the tumult of a festival. What festival? This loud, disordered mooch? These hospitaliers? These brute-like guests? These musicians dubbing at a tragedy…” - From ‘The Auroras of Autumn’ by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) I stopped attending stadium-size shows and (principally, rock) music festivals many years back. There was no conscious decision involved in doing so, but at some indeterminate point the realization must have dawned that I’d simply had my fill, that there was no longer any motivation to go to them. I cannot recall which of the numerous ghastly experiences that inadvertently proved to be the final straw, as there were twice plenty. This said, even in the spunkier, mosh pit-crashing days of my youth I was never that enamoured with the large-scale live music experience in the first place. More to the point, I guess, is that I’m a notorious curmudgeon with serious patience issues. Therefore, my tolerance for what I personally see as festivals’ consistent irritants and infuriating inconveniences usually snapped around the time I’d join the line-up to enter the venue. Yes, I know: that’s rather early. From that point on at any such event, to the exasperation of my companions, I’d only stop ranting about this beef or that annoyance when the bands were playing, when nobody could hear me anyway. What, then, riled me so intensely about the average festival? Why in the grand scheme have I decided to cut off my nose to spite my face, seemingly depriving myself of so much potential pleasure? Well, there are many things about the set-up of (note) gargantuan (note) commercial festivals that I abhor, but I’ll merely touch on the whats and whys of my key grievances here, as it is these that bear relevance to what follows.
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