“Rolling Stone exclaimed that, ‘the first annual Pemberton Festival will gladly take the title of next Glastonbury…’”

So goes one of the lines from the post-PemFest press release I found in my mailbox yesterday morning. And sure, that blurb could potentially be more than just dick-stroking hyperbole, but I don’t know. I’ve never been to Glastonbury. Or Coachella or Sasquatch or Lollapolooza for that matter. I even scalped my tickets for the Warped Tour when I was 16 years old and still into that shit.

In fact, even before I was too young to know better, nothing about music mega-festivals has ever struck me as the least bit appealing. The concept of bringing tens of thousands of people together to suffer through third-world levels dirt, delirium, and discomfort under the guise of creating a superlative musical experience has always seemed, to me, antithetical to how one goes about enjoying a band and having a good time. Does not the idea of being caught in the tide of thirty-sum-odd thousand people singing and swaying along to “Yellow” at the end of three straight days of sun/rain exposure and drug/alcohol consumption put the living fear of god into anybody else? And Coldplay’s show took place at night; that is, a time when the rampant, constant, and unapologetic exhibitionist display of pasty stomachs, terrible tattoos, and filthily flip-flopped feet was all but un-seeable. The potential combination of terror-inducing elements that can combine simultaneously at any point of the spectacle known as the music festival is enough to chill the heart.

So by now I’m sure you’ve heard all the horror stories: traffic terrors, endless lineups, hours long waits, inadequate facilities, massive expenses, filth, etc. I was lucky enough to not have to deal with almost any of that, getting in relatively smoothly late Thursday night, having a private yard to tent in with a house to leave my stuff in, and holding on to a media pass that allowed me instant, unobstructed access to every stage, tent, backstage area and one crucial media-only shithouse. If it all became too overwhelming, I had the option of ditching back to our ‘private’ campsite and watching the main stage from a scaffold set up just outside the festival border. Or I could sit in a chair on the deck of the cabin and just listen. From any perspective based within or around the festival grounds I was absolutely pampered.

And yet it still wasn’t enough to stop me from suffering the sort of mental and physical disintegration that led to me waking up yesterday morning completely disoriented, trying to figure how the view from the couch I had been sleeping on in Brooklyn had changed so much overnight (A- I was not in Brooklyn. I was at home). Sure, going straight from NYC to Pemberton was a decidedly inadvisable course of action to pursue, but that’s what I did. While I remember that I was near exhaustion upon arrival from New York, I can tell by the increasing incoherence of my notes from the weekend that it was Pemberton that almost killed me.

And here are those notes, slightly edited and elaborated for clarity. It was a spectacle, overwhelming and twisted. The general public is a strange beast. Trying to reconcile the idea that the unwashed masses surrounding me are also the ones who ultimately steer the fucking boat became the overriding issue, even while the actual musical aspect of the festival – the nexus of the whole goddamn thing – produced impressive, at times breathtaking, results. On Sunday afternoon Death Cab For Cutie’s Ben Gibbard took a second between songs to remark, “I just want to say, because this is probably the only chance I’ll ever get to say this on stage, JAY-Z IS COMING UP NEXT. How cool is that?” You know, in hindsight, it was actually pretty cool. And seeing as how I doubt Pemberton is going to invite us back after reading the nihilistic ramblings of a malcontent on the tail end of a three-week binge, I sort of feel like Gibbard in knowing that I might never again have my name on the byline of a concert review this eclectic.

DAY 1:

1:51pm – Press conference/orientation starts, 51 minutes late. Bus of journalists unable to make it from airport shuttle depot to site due to traffic. Rules, rules, rules…apparently for the NIN show Trent Reznor himself is to look over the list of photographers and decide who is/isn’t allowed to shoot the band. Any and all interviews are to be carried out with a “Media Escort” on hand to oversee things. Apparently interviews were supposed to have been scheduled some weeks ago. Of course, we didn’t do that. Maybe I can just catch and corner a few people and steal some quotes.

METRIC:

3:30pm – Opening the Mt. Currie (main) stage portion of the festival. They play the hits and stuff. I guess Metric has hits…the crowd seems surprisingly familiar with this stuff. Emily Haines’ in a one-piece lame (la-may) thing. Why are there so many people here on crutches? The sing along “Live It Out” to close the set is a nice touch, but they’ve probably done it a hundred times before. I’m a sucker for sentiment.

SHEARWATER:

4:15pm – A relief. Sound great, look good. For whatever reason I’ve been avoiding reading about or listening to these guys (I think it’s got something to do with the Almost Famous-ness of the name) but it’s just good, intelligent indie rock that knows when to say ‘when’. Of course, there’s barely anyone here. Looks like there’s a mass exodus back to the campsite so everyone can start getting really fucked up.

WOLFMOTHER:

4:45pm – Being subjected to Wolfmother’s unimaginative high-pitched squealing after Shearwater is a bit much for the senses. Apparently this is a high point for some people. I need a beer.

5:00-7:45pm - (Drinking, etc.)

INTERPOL:

7:45pm – Killed house. I don’t care how anybody feels about who they are or what they’ve done lately. Dudes look happy and healthy and play with the sort of intensity that seemed forever gone during the whole Antics/cocaine days. “Last show of another long tour” ending with “Roland” pounding to crescendo. Yes.

NIN:

9:30pm – I don’t really hate this. Band seems to be enjoying shit. Fun. TR is a poseur though…this is way too melodic. I could derive all sorts of soft-ass shit from this. Is that the point?

TOMMY SUNSHINE:

11:15pm – Haha!

WHOLE LOTTA LED:

11:45pm-ish – “Whole Lotta Love” is echoing across the field. I have one beer and one smoke left on the night. I think. I’m sitting in a goddamn hammock with my feet up on the table. The 70s throwback. The girl w/some Jimi Hendrix shit painted on her body. WOODSTOCK. Does every festival deteriorate into this?

12:00am – The comfort of a fresh beer and a fresh pack of smokes. Remember that the comedown is not as bad as the morning. Drink it off. Strange dogs. Diamond Dogs. People on the scaffold. I want to go home now. Mindshitting retards as far as the eye can see in this dust. A nightmare triptych. Hieronymus Bosch.