I’ve officially attended my last outdoor festival as a spectator. I wouldn’t mind working the event in the future but there is no way I’d be back as an audience member. Attending as a fan among thousands of screaming, drunken 20-somethings is not my cup of tea anymore.
Sure, I enjoyed it to a degree when I was younger (this is making me out to be an old, crabby lady) and had the patience to deal with the lines, the porta potties, the shoves from drunkards, and the heaps of trash on the ground. These days, I can’t bring myself to enjoy the music without being bothered by the stench wafting from the stale, sweaty air of the venue. The only music act I’d see live at an outdoor festival is OutKast and I reached that feat this summer so… no thanks.
I attended a few concerts in my youth and truly tried hard to enjoy myself, despite the nasty atmosphere. With the help of fistfuls of beer, I achieved some good results. Something tells me I would never cut it at Woodstock or Lollapalooza. There aren’t enough drugs in the world to get me to stand in line to pee in a crummy loo or wait ten minutes for a plate of tacos.
I recently attended Electric Avenue, Christchurch’s summer festival to end all festivals. It was rad. I may have enjoyed it more because I knew this was the last time I was ever going to put myself through that mess again. There were times when I exited the near-front stage area (also know as a mosh pit) to catch my breath, get some water, or to avoid being punched in the boob repeatedly by drunken Christchurch concert-goers (seriously the bruises make me look like something out of 50 Shades of Grey). The musical acts were top-notch. New Zealand’s finest were there and I wouldn’t have missed it for much (unless you offered me double the price of my ticket at the gate—$170 NZD). I knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, so I took it.
That was my swan song. I’ve seen the best. I’ve heard the best. Now I can die peacefully knowing I’ll never have to deal with that crap again.