This post has been provided by contributing journalist Stan Clemons and does not reflect the views or overall opinions of Dublin's World.
My mood and over all outlook on life had all gone sour as I walked up and down the streets of San Francisco, my forehead ablaze with exertion and irritation, not a cab in sight. As I trudged on with sweat streaming between my shoulder blades and down my temples I found other desperate people doing trying to catch a ride as well. They stood on countless corners and thorough fares at 3 o’clock on a Friday afternoon and looked determined and grim.
"How long have you been trying to find a cab?" I would ask.
"An hour."
"45 minutes."
"Two hours."
The reports were not good and we all looked at each other suspiciously, aware that we all wanted the same thing and that we were all close to the point of doing anything to obtain it.
"I've never seen it like this," one girl lamented.
"Outside Lands. Everybody's a passenger going to the park," a portly middle aged man explained.
Outside Lands. 130,000 people were headed out to Golden Gate Park for three sold out days of music art, and booze, and even though I was also one of these people, and even though I had a press pass, I couldn't help but think this was all such a pain in the ass.
Now remember, stalking the streets for an hour and a half in the relatively hot August sun will put anybody in a bad mood. Mine subsided slightly when a compact and cheerful Chinese cabbie rescued me from the corner of Sutter and Mason. He confided that he had already been out to the park once and didn't like the idea of going back but would help me out. He'd help me out by doing his job? Thanks. Appreciated. My mood took a slight swing back to the worst.
I explained that I needed to get to 41st and Lincoln to get in the media entrance and he said: "no problem, no problem. We're here now." He left me at 41st and what he said was Lincoln. I saw no entrance of any kind and it wasn't until I reached the next cross street that I realized I was on Fulton, not Lincoln. I cursed the cabbie a loud and began to hoof it, looking for a means into the festival.
I should mention at this point that I had bought a new pair of shoes the day previous and it was this pair that I was wearing as I stomped up Fulton. They were wingtips and slightly too small and at that point I could already feel the blisters forming along the heel and above the big toe. I felt like my feet were bound tight and every step was torture. I could hear a man crying out for the crowd to make some noise on a far off stage as I approached. The crowd responded with a mild cheer and I hated them all. My feet were turning into little bruised nubs and I felt like I would end the day with hoofs.
I reached the entrance to the festival and got on the phone, letting the bruised hoofs sit and take a break. An hour later a representative met me at the main gate, established my credentials, and I was inside.
Two things I noticed right away: 1) Outside Lands is full of Caucasians and 2) college age girls seem to really love head bands. Everywhere I looked: head bands. It's sort of this Pocahontas meets Flash Dance thing and I had no idea it was so big. I walked by the Sutro Stage first and it was MGMT wailing away up there. I had forgotten how much I enjoy their music.
I went to the Barbary Tent and saw The Shotgun Wedding Quintet do a few short sets in between burlesque and circus acts. Two girls wearing limited clothing would come out and swing swords around, a guy would join them with a whip, they would all stage fight for a while, and it was entertaining as hell. Some Australians took the stage at one point, a man and a woman. They had whips as well and juggled swords on unicycles. The man claimed he had 5 world records including the one for holding the most weight attached to an eye lid.
I watched a pretty little female comedian come out and imitate Asian pop singers, Lady Gaga, Michael Jackson, and a few dozen different versions of douchey men. I enjoyed it but it made me wonder how long the cute little white girls doing borderline racist (or just straight up racist) humor thing is going to last. Sarah Silverman got old for me a while ago, don't know about you.
The Shotgun Wedding Quintet played another set and then left. Having no other place to go and no one else I knew there at the time I decided to follow. They walked passed the food vendors and the rave tents and up to Fun Land, the VIP liquor garden. P-Dub had some drinks as did Adam Theis, as did Jon Monahan, and as did Dublin. Now most of my readers know my feelings about Dublin but if you don't I'll be brief: I can't stand him.
It’s not something I can totally explain. He just rubs me the wrong way. I appreciate him allowing me to present some of my writing on Dublin’s World but other than that; I really don’t care for him. Anyway, he had a couple of drinks and began to make comments I found offensive. After another round I couldn't take it any more and left Fun Land. I wandered out to the main stage and found some middle aged men playing music for the girls with head bands. I recognized the red headed front man and realized the men were the band Phish. Something about that scene was offensive as well. Or maybe I just don't get it. Whatever.
The sun was going down and my feet hurt so I returned to Fun Land and had a few rounds by myself. I was feeling light headed at this point, having not consumed any food in quite a while, but I followed a migration of twenty something’s and head bands to the Butro stage to see Big Boi from Outcast. There was a migration passing opposite my migration who had already waited some hours for Big Boi and had given up. My group pressed on.
Another hour passed as I sat in there in the crowd and I was starting to catch a chill. I remembered my press pass and used it to get back stage where I was told Big Boi’s DJ’s computer had died and there would be no way for them to go ahead with the performance. The manager went out on stage and announced the cancellation and a huge hostile cry went up from the crowd. It was the most reaction I had heard from any of the crowds that day and it made me recall what a performer friend had said about San Francisco once: “too cool for school. Worst audience ever.” I’m not saying I agree but it was interesting how reserved the audiences were that day, or at least until they had something negative to react to.
I found the back stage beer tent and began to swallow one after another. My feet were feeling more and more hoof like but the alcohol was helping. I was drinking my third by one of the trailers when the trailer door opened and woman emerged surrounded by two men. She was decked out in a long coat and wide hat and it took me a moment to recognize that she was Erika Badu. I stumbled after them and drank the beer by the stage as she performed. Once again the audience was mostly reserved but her performance was marvelous. I have been in love with her for many years and the crush continues.
After the show I wandered aimlessly until I was back near the Barbary Tent. The tent was closed for the night but the grove of trees that surrounded it were all lit up by colored lights and it was pleasant and slightly surreal. There were very few people left in the park and those that were still there scampered about doing their tasks and I minded my own business.
I was near the outskirts of the festival when a woman approached from the trees. She was older, hippiesh. She had a cup of something and she held it daintily in her grip and looked at me.
“You look thirsty,” she said.
I tried to reply but no words came and I realized she was right. I was so dehydrated that my mouth was too dry to work. She handed over the cup and I took a mighty swig. It was tea of some kind and my parched lips cried out in for more so I turned the cup outside down until it was completely drained.
“Not the whole thing you fucking asshole!” she cried and snatched the cup back.
She wandered off into the trees and I made my way back through the deserted tents and dark stages until I was back where the trees were lit up by the colored lights. The lights seemed to be glowing more now and I suddenly realized what I needed to do: remove my shoes. I took them off and put them down on the grass next to me and that was the last I saw of them because that, my friends, is the moment that everything changed.
There was light mostly, everywhere. And faces that smiled. The smiles were happy, to the point of being maniacal, and I was surrounded by them. I was walking but I couldn’t feel my body and I tried to hide from the light in the leaves of the forest floor but the light was too strong until I realized the sun was up and I needed to accept it. People were everywhere and the Black Keys were playing and then they weren’t and then I was in the Barbary Tent and Shotgun was playing and then they weren’t. People were eating kabobs and I couldn’t get over how the kabob was invented or who had discovered it and I went around asking people and nobody seemed to care. OK Go was playing and then they weren’t. I fell in love with a girl and she was the only one in the world that understood me until she disappeared and I started to question if she had ever existed in the first place. Then it was night again I was looking for the place where the trees were aglow in light and couldn’t find it anywhere and I was worried that I had no home and the tears were streaming down my face. Someone tried to comfort me but I didn’t want them to and I returned to the forest and the leaves and then all was black.
I woke up and there was a familiar face looking down at me. The face had a mustache and the top of the head was bald with long scraggly hair surrounding the baldness.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell. My skull felt kicked in and my face was on fire and I was hungry but other than that I seemed alright.
“Have The Roots played yet?” I asked.
“That was yesterday,” someone said.
“No it wasn’t. They play on Saturday.”
“Today is Sunday,” the familiar face said and I realized it was Gallagher the comedian.
I stood up and tried to gather myself. We were in the area behind the Barbary Tent where the stage hands stored the props and the equipment. Who knows how long I had been sleeping there. I went to a porta potty and looked into the piece of glass that served as a mirror in the door. My face was sunburned and there were leaves in my hair. I had missed the entire festival. Or had I?
I went back out and Gallagher was still standing there. I asked him how long I had been lying in that spot and he said for as long as he had been there. I asked if he was performing and he replied that he was about to go on.
“To smash fruit?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“How did that all come about anyway? That act?”
I was genuinely curious.
“I added it to the end of a poem that I do. It was supposed to be part of the performance of the poem. But all anybody cares about is the smashing of the fruit.”
“Have you ever heard of Black Gallagher?” I asked and with that Gallagher was gone, either offended by my question or at a loss for words. He disappeared into the tent and soon there were cries of joy coming from inside as pieces of corn chips and hot dogs and watermelon began to spray into the crowd.
I had enough at that point and I wandered, still barefoot, passed the tent and beyond the booths and out passed the fence. I walked along the street that crosses through the park and my feet were gray from the asphalt. I caught a cab back to downtown where I caught a train to Antioch, which is where I live, and I got in my bed trying to remember how to sleep.
I had to wait a few days before jotting this report down because everything remained scrambled and incomprehensible in my mind. Now that I feel mostly normal again I would like to drop a few random notes of things that come to mind after the fact. These are memories that are still a bit foggy and were hidden in the recesses of my mind after I consumed the old woman’s tea:
-the Jazz Mafia and friends performing acoustic in the main field. I remember Danny Grewen playing the trombone. I remember Doug Rowan playing the saxophone. Danny Brown was there and so was Joel Ryan. They were playing their hearts out and I could see the music.
-men on stilts calling out to me. They were always looking down at me. They all resembled my father.
-Latyrx playing on stage. Lyrics Born was rapping and Lateef was rapping and I wanted to raise my arms but I couldn’t because I was worried exposing my armpits would allow the bad energy to enter me. They played the song “Latyrx” and I realized it was the greatest song ever made. The Jazz Mafia Strings were backing them up and Joe Begale and Chris McGee were singing with Joyo Valarde and I was overjoyed.
-Dublin’s mustache. At one point I remember it following me around, just the mustache by itself.
What’s the moral of the story? Does it have a moral? I suppose one lesson would be that one should never drink from an old lady’s tea cup if one does not know what’s inside. Another could be that it is always better to go with comfort then to follow the whims of fashion and end up with uncomfortable shoes and a head band on. All that I know it that Outside Lands was an experience, not good or bad, just an experience, and that I have grown as a person from it.
This is Stan Clemons signing off.
-August 16th 2011
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