In a week my bony ass will be situated in a tent at Desert Trip; communing with the stars, grooving to the music, and making friends with a bajillion baby-boomers. I read somewhere that the average age of the performers at Desert Trip is 70. My time to shine is now.
Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, The Who, Roger Waters, and Neil Young…I grew up on all of them. I’ve seen all of them except The Who, but this is really a once-in-a-lifetime experience. With all of the celebrity deaths this year, I was terrified that one of them was going to drop dead before it all happened. Looks like everyone stayed alive (myself included), and I couldn’t be more excited.
Diving headfirst into a weekend of music I love is treat enough, but heading to my family’s neck of the woods is even better. I’m the only east coast weirdo, and that was a complete accident that sadly stuck. Everyone else called Colorado to California home, and I’ve just lived vicariously through stories. As it is, I’ve never felt right in Atlanta. There’s a slowness and clarity to everything out there that sings to me (Hollywood social climbing aside). Not like the syrupy slowness of the deep south, it unnerves me and puts a pit in my stomach. It’s weird to explain, but when you know you don’t belong…you know it.
Being so close to Joshua Tree means that I’ll be headed there for a night of spiritual cleansing and star photography. Not to mention an interesting photo story of me being a dusty weirdo. Be excited. All of that reminds me of the trip (all puns intended) Keith Richards, Anita Pallenberg, Gram Parsons, and photographer, Michael Cooper took to Joshua Tree in 1969. It looks like one of the most amazing times had by anyone ever. Sadly, four years later, Gram Parsons would return for the last time. Nothing so macabre is in store for me, but I am excited to tap into the famous energy that has bewitched so many people I admire.
In the week leading up to my departure I’ll be churning out some goodies for eyeballs. A lot has been going on, and even more is about to happen. Fashion Month is over. I have some thoughts. Also, let’s digest this whole festival in autumn thing! Yeah, it’s in the desert, but at night that temperature drops. Normal festival garb need not apply. Flower crowns, nouveau-hippie fringe, and metallic fake tattoos aren’t exactly my thing anyway. This sort of festival calls for real vintage, Pendleton blankets, and cheesy Western shirts.
I hope you’re as excited as I am, because this little dinosaur is back, baby.