Riot Fest 2021

Reminding myself that music binds us

I have a confession to make.

I went to a punk rock festival. In the midst of a global pandemic. And I had no idea how badly I, and everyone there, needed it.

clockwise from top left: Eugene Hütz of Gogol Bordello, Devo, Ice-T, Anthrax, Rise Against, Body Count, logo (author personal photos)

I saw Living Colour, complete with Body Glove shirt and neon outfit. Though it’s a suit now, we have at least learned that spandex is no one’s friend.

I saw Sublime with Rome, and, somewhere between wondering if we learned anything from the Rodney King riots and how long Rome has to be the afterthought, accidentally outlined a movie (The Lost Art of Stagediving coming “soon” to a computer file near you).

I saw Dirty Heads perform in a rainstorm, with so much joy that the rain felt like a gift. “I’m on vacation, every day, ‘cause I love my occupation.” Isn’t that the ultimate goal? And they were so openly, beautifully, thrilled by it that you couldn’t even be jealous.

I saw fucking Body Count. And wondered if, given their draw of crowd, they ever got scheduled to play festival shows after dark. Because I don’t think we actually have learned very much. “We’re all on the same side. No lives matter.” Which should be depressing, but it felt like a rallying cry. We all lose, fuck it, rise up, let’s dance.

I watched Devo be exactly who they’ve always been, and wondered about fighting to stay current and relevant versus knowing exactly who and what you are and never straying. Everything old is new again.

I watched Rise Against play a last minute, fill-in, set like it was theirs all along, while paying genuine tribute to those who couldn’t make it. It seems odd for 40+ year old men to be writing anthems for a generation two steps behind them, but maybe we’re not so different after all. Music is how we teach each other, how we learn, and what we leave behind. All it takes is a porch swing and a tape recorder.

I watched mosh pits swirl like hurricanes, and was rescued from the surge by strangers. I saw fans introduce their childhood heroes. Heard people apologize for bumping into each other. I guess being kind and polite does seem pretty “punk” right about now. I had a bathroom chat with a 20-something girl about festival bathroom etiquette and preparedness; “always carry extra, if you don’t need it, someone else will.” She learned it from her Granny.

I saw beauty, and love, and courtesy.

I’m not even really an Anthrax fan but halfway through their set I was head banging away, metal fingers in the air. Because we all finally got out. Because we got to hear our voices, screaming in unison, in the open air. Because Scott Ian’s beard is white. Because we were all alive, right then and there, and how could you not feel the fucking joy of that?

And maybe I had too many of those nasty, canned, ready-to-drink things but right then I loved everyone. Even the guy filming himself and streaming to the screens while he crowd surfed.

Did I want to die?

No.

Hell no.

Fuck no!

Was that, is that, worth dying for?

I’m not sure I want to live without it.