Performances alternated between two stages—Marigold and Dandelion—without overlap, in theory giving all forty-five thousand attendees a shot at laying eyes and/or ears on every set. In practice, this worked for a time. Walking at a motivated but not harried pace, I could reach earshot of the opposite stage within six minutes or so—a number that climbed with the hours and arrival of more bodies, each with their own idea of traffic flow. For that is another way festival people spend their time, milling about in the manicured space between stages, seeing what else, aside from music, might be worth consuming. Brooks, the running-shoe company and a festival sponsor, gave away blankets to anyone who signed up for its Run Club, while Taco Bell served free Baja Blasts in the flavor “You Seem Pretty Pink for a Baja Blast,” punning on the title of Rodrigo’s recent studio album.
Per the ad-speak that seems to have leapt into everyone’s lexicon over the years, these are “activations” and a staple of the modern music festival. These moments of commerce at the festival were contiguous with its art installations, such as “Fata Morgana (Lost & Found),” by the Angeleno artist Kelly Wall, a functional penny press that rewards participants with the customary flattened souvenir, and Yoko Ono’s “Wish Tree,” another interactive piece that asks audiences to write their wishes on pieces of paper and tie them to tree branches—“one of the many thoughtful activations,” as a review of the festival published by The Cut put it.
Lines for products or experiences or the synergy of both stretched and wound through the grounds, commingling with other lines: lines for merch, lines for photo ops, lines for food, lines for a custom hot-pink Nalgene—with a twenty-dollar donation to REVERB, a nonprofit greening concerts and festivals—and lines to fill it for free. It was not always evident what anyone awaited. I was reminded of one of my favorite jokes from “South Park,” in which the boys queue for what feels like forever in an experience that turns out to be “the Line Ride, a real-life simulator of a long line.” The weather in Irvine—shy of a hundred degrees before noon, and humid—was punishing. As I left Quiet Light’s set, I walked past someone receiving medical assistance at the Lego Editions activation.
A festival is a joyful endurance test, as are marathons. People make do. By midafternoon, no shadowy patch was left vacant; shade became a valuable resource, even if it meant swaying to Mitski from afar. One of the bill’s two millennials, Mitski supplemented officially posted cooling tips with friendly reminders of her own. “If you feel faint, no shame, just sit down where you are. It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s better than falling,” she told the audience. “And, if you have sunscreen, please apply sunscreen. . . . If you don’t have sunscreen, forget about it. It’s fine, never mind, it’s too late.” It was around 4 P.M.
Staff distributed cold, wet towels for necks—another souvenir—and tossed boxed water into outstretched hands. When someone dropped, people parted for medics. Prone to a midday jog during a heat wave, I am aware of what augurs heatstroke, and became my own bellwether. Two women introduced me to a cooling technique they called “nipple ice.” They’ve had “something” every month this year—Zara and Florence and Qveen Herby and Thot Squad, Warped Tour—with more shows on the docket.
One of the women told me that her husband works “in production” and she imparted her brass-tacks read on the scene: “Something like this has a lot of grab because of the charity aspect and everything.” Her friend, holding the ice, added, “Not to mention the headliners.” Aside from a fallen vape, seized at security, they applauded the smoothness of the operation, a credit, said the first, to the festival’s producer, C3 Presents (also a subsidiary of Live Nation, which owns Bonnaroo). I spoke with someone else, in from L.A. with his daughter, who also sang the company’s praises. “C3 does a really good job.” I cannot lend nipple ice the same endorsement.
The people would not be deprived of their festival drag, thank God. Flower child was not the only theme, though there were crowns aplenty. I saw kaffiyehs and cowboy boots—tan and shiny pink—dolphin shorts with “CUNT” on the butt, mesh shirts, jerseys, Sambas, Chucks, a “Protect the Dolls” tee, a “Girls Invented Punk Rock” crop top, a shirt airbrushed with “MAGGOTS FOR BRAINS” (track No. 4 on Rodrigo’s latest album). There were baseball caps representing My Chemical Romance; the Avett Brothers; “FUCK ICE”; the Oilers; HBO’s “I Love LA”; Shellback Tavern, located in Manhattan Beach, California; and many, many, many camo Midwest Princesses. The crowd leaned young and femme, though unaccompanied grown folks put up a good showing. (If there was an implicit rhyme to the distribution of the lineup, Marigold—with the Breeders and Garbage on deck—entreated an older, or at least punkier crowd; no performer between three and 7 P.M. was younger than fifty-five.) Various parent-child pairings intrigued me, how they were held fast, it seemed, by something radder than supervision.
