It’s February – and you know what that means? It means that your social media feeds are being flooded with an avalanche of ‘enlightened’ statuses from call centre workers who took drugs in a dusty field over the weekend.
“You tried DMT for the first time and finally got psytrance Marla? Cool. Please log off, your grandma needs to use the phone.”
Yes, festival season is now upon us. Music festivals are a time for people to come together: to drink $15 mid-strength beers, to listen to bands and DJs in the worst acoustic settings possible, and to pretend that they’re enjoying themselves infinitely because they can’t believe they paid $400 for this shit.
If you enjoy these clusterfucks of a human gathering and are over the age of 21, I think it’s fair to assume you are a sociopath.
Now, I know what you’re thinking:
“Oi nah mate fuck off, I had a friggin’ blast back at Falls last year. The White Hearts were lit, this new English band with banjos blew my mind, met the best crew and I even got laid with some girl from Newie!”
Hear me out. Let me explain to you why I’m right; and why you’re an idiot with terrible taste in practically everything.
1. The drugs. The only feasible way to get through an entire festival without committing seppuku is basically to Keith Richards it. Line up enough heavily-cut coke until you’re unable to contemplate your surroundings, converse with the troglodytes around you or able to feel your dick. However, let’s be honest, due to the pricing and quality of narcotics in Australia compared to Europe, to do this you’re going to be dropping at least another $1k (and y’know, you might also die due to our government’s idiotic iron-stance against testing).
2. The music. You know that band? Yeah, that band. That band you really like. They’ve just hit the scene. Their debut album is fire. They’re headlining the Saturday night. It’s going to be wild. Yeah, that band fucking sucks – and in two years you’re not only going to not care about them, you’ll be embarrassed you were ever associated with them. I’m going to assume they’re from Suffolk or some bullshit English town. Oh, and you know the lead singer that was the crowd’s messiah on Saturday night? Give it a year and after the hype drops and a tepid sophomore album is released to no fanfare, 99 percent of the time they’ll be back in Yorkshire pulling pints for the minimum wage again. Remember when fucking Razorlight were the darlings of the festival scene? Spare me. The music industry is vapid and all interest and money bottoms out quicker than a liquidated festival will refuse to pay their artists.
3. The people. If you’re ever looking to an upside to the fact the world is currently on the brink of nuclear war, go and check out a photo gallery from Burning Man. The culturally embedded images from Woodstock featuring open-air orgies, naked women hitch-hiking and communal bong circles have manifested in a truly horrible (and sometimes literal) fashion. Topless steroid alpha-bros pea-cocking about trying to get their dick wet amongst a gaggle of uninterested bindi-wearing faux-hippie girls. You know the kind. The ones who are less worried about the fact that their Indian headdress is cultural appropriation than they are that their manager from Cotton On might fire them if they accidentally upload an Instagram photo that features a nanginator.
4. Festival hook-ups. I mean, I get it. I understand the appeal. You’re out of your mind in the woods and caught up in some kind of euphoria – naturally, getting off would seem like the ultimate pairing. It sounds great, but that’s never the case. Festival sex, at best, is an ungodly cesspit devoid of hygiene, finesse and dignity. Plus, let’s be honest, you’ll probably end up suffering from pill dick. Oh, and y’know, this year it was diagnosed that 1 in 30 attendees at Splendour in the Grass had chlamydia.
You haven’t had any of these experiences? Trust me – you have. The human brain has the ability to masquerade this kind of suffering with rose-tinted memories of cheery nostalgia. It’s basically like when you sleep with an ex and forget how god-awful your relationship was and think about giving it another crack.
But hey, who am I to tell you how to live your life? You want to shell out a few thousand to spend a weekend in third-world conditions? You want to listen to bands that’ll be in the JB Hi-Fi bargain bin in three months? You want to play sexual-Russian roulette and possibly catch the clap? You want to spend the following week coming down at work wondering why you’re almost 30 and your career hasn’t progressed any further than being a sandwich artist?
Be my guest. I’m sure it’ll be worth it for the #memories.