Saturday, March 8th, 4:06AM
I can't sleep. Outside, in the hushed wilderness of the Seminole National Park, all is quiet. By 4 A.M, even the critters in the Everglades have gone to bed. But not our next door neighbor. Noooosir. In the northwest quadrant of the designated RV parking lot for Langerado, the RV next to ours seems to be housing a domestic dispute of sorts. As it appears, this dispute involves the hapless girlfriend, who is accusing her boyfriend of being a "heartless a$$hole who locked her out (of the RV) for 4 hours." The latter is slinging back with, "I was doing you a favor, you drunk ***!"
Ah, the quiet gentility of RV living.
As with all journeys, the trek from Miami to the Langerado Music Festival in the Everglades came with it's Special Kind of Crazy. To tell the story about how we got there would fill up a whole other blog, one involving our friend, the Sneaker Pimp, taking an accidental gasoline bath at the gas station, and then getting embroiled in an hour long pissing match with a surly work associate on her cell phone, while the rest of us weighed in unhelpfully. Then, there was the weather. Langerado nightswere C-O-L-D, with nightly averages dipping into the low 50s. All around me, skinny alfafa-fed hippies are huddling together, trying to stay warm despite the frost.
But, challenges be damned. We came for the music. And the music, my friends, is what made this adventure so worthwhile.
Day 1 of Langerado. We pulled up just in time to catch Matt Pond P.A. At the Chickee Hut in the far back section of Langerado, lead singer Matt Pond was in rare form, doling out his mantra of self-awareness in his trademark witticisms, "You should not sound like they do/You should want to sound like you." His trademark plaintive wailing was in full effect, as scores of music revelers nodded their heads in silent agreement. In between sets, I took stock of the Langerado crowd. Overdone piercings and tattoos, check. Dreadlocked hippies smelling of patchouli and bong water, check. Glam nerds, sweating bullets in tweed and corduroy, check. All the usual suspects were present, except....something was different about this Langerado. I saw more couples. I saw families with little kids in tow, sitting high up on their parent's shoulders, enjoying the music through ear plugs. I saw scores of frat boys with plastic bottles of Bud, one with a shirt that said, "Delta Upsilon - Better Fathers, Better Husband, Better Men." I saw beer guts, FUPAs, and too-tight suburban mommy jeans everywhere. It was official. Middle America had arrived.
At the 311 stage, Middle America was out in full force. 311, itself a Midwest band (bright eyed and corn fed in Omaha, natch) attracted scores of college coeds and 30-something yuppies. They were surprisingly good. Nick Hexum's voice, over-produced and under-emotive on their albums, had a steely, raw edge to it that had the entire crowd on their feet, cheering. During their cover of The Cure's "Love Song," I realized that two days ago, power chords in a Cure song would have been deemed blasphemy. But 311 made it work. "Beautiful Disaster's" stuttering guitar riffs had me dancing while in line at the Port-A-Potty, while "Amber's" homage to surf rock sent me back to nights around beach bonfires in So. Cal. Would I call myself a 311 fan? No. But they definitely don't suck live.
I spent the rest of the day wandering around the sprawling grounds. It took me on average of 10 minutes to get from one stage to another. With a total of 5 operational stages, hundreds of on-site staff, and 30,000 attendees, the sheer expanse of Langerado was downright intimidating. We knew that the Beastie Boys set was going to be slammed, so we didn't even bother with staking out a primo spot. More to the point, some of us were wondering if the Beastie Boys could still cut it. You know, being middle-aged, and all. How could they still be relevant, when License to Ill dropped more than 20 years ago? As it happens, not even the passage of time could stifle their frenzied Brooklyn energy. Mike D, Ad Rock, and MCA hopped around on stage like they were still 16 year old boys performing at their buddy's bar mitzvah. "Can't Won't Don't Stop" had the crowd chanting in unison, while "Intergalactic" had the Marmot and me doing synchronized kung fu kicks. Their set culminated with "Sabotage," the sheer brilliance of which had us screaming like it was the Second Coming of the Lord. At that point, it didn't matter that we were wet, exhausted, and stoned out of our minds. Our walk back to the RV went something like this:
The Marmot: DUUUDE!!!
Me: That was AWESOME!!!
Sneaker Pimp: So. Fucking. Awesome.
Fiery Redhead: Did you see Mike D's salt and pepper hair?
The Marmot: DUUUDE!!!
Such as it is when one fights for her right to party.