Onlookers turning away from the stage to snap selfies
Viewpoint one: It has been long understood that humanity is neither at the core nor the focal point of the cosmos, but actually resides on an isolate helix arm of a solitary galaxy in an endless universe. If we juxtapose this with our world, it’s similar to living in Norfolk.
Contrasting viewpoint: I am the axis around which the universe revolves, and Kylie Minogue merely plays a complementary role in my life journey.
The performing artists
Jingle-Bingle with the Plums, Duke Jiveula Greeves, Groove Kid and the Ripe Scent, Wobble, The Dreamy Capybara, !?@$#!, Pope Alexander VI, Ikea Bookshelf 200 x 272cm, Lump, Tasty Armadillo, Free Bird and the Chicks, Barry Gosling, Tiny Tim*. Who on earth are these individuals? How has it occurred that a perplexed man in his prime years can’t identify the performers at a music festival primarily fashioned for the younger generation? It seems out of place. Every festival should feature headline performances by The Beatles, the Duke Ellington Orchestra and Pinocchio and Gepetto. (*Names are fictitious yet they might accidentally be real bands)
Infants wearing sound protectors, engaged in silent critique
Infants consider themselves superior with their flexible brains and undeveloped grasp of the notion of permanence. Nowadays, they attend festivals where they are carried around in festive wagons by adult attendants, broodingly watching and critically assessing their seniors. You are not in a position to critique me, infants! I attended the Saw Doctors’ New Year’s Eve gig in 1992!
Grumbling veteran musicians
“Discovering music is too convenient these days. The young generation are spoiled with their Spotify, TikTok and headline festival acts. In our times, if you had a genuine passion for uncovering new music, you’d hitchhike to a quaint record store in Bristol where a man with an extra digit on his left hand would lead you to a makeshift shed out back and induce a near-death experience. In this limbo state between existence and oblivion, you’d have a vision of a divine being handing you a fifth-generation mixtape of rare Prefab Sprout bonus tracks. Despite being mostly tape noise, those were the golden times.”
Who is Prefab Sprout? (An old fan slumps to the floor in sentimental anguish.)
Avoid the bad stuff
Back at Woodstock in 1969, the guidance given was never to ingest the brown LSD. This counsel still holds true today. As for the LSD of differing colours? There’s no data presently available regarding those. Presumably, they are alright. Feel free.
There’s nothing but sky
Look above. No ceiling! Oh no! Only a gaping expanse of clouds and the daunting wonders of the universe surround us. There is nothing preventing any of us from soaring off this rapidly rotating globe – nothing, save for the eccentricities of gravitational attraction and the reality that I’ve firmly attached myself to this tree.
The grub
In earlier times, the single avenue for sustenance at festivals was a semi-frozen burger and drenched chips, thrown at you by a bloke with a cigarette dangling off his lower lip. The food trucks were sarcastically christened with titles like “Swallow This, You Swine” and “We Detest You”. However, things took a turn for the better, and a variety of scrumptious global culinary delights became the norm at every festival, with the food trucks now adopting names like “Pure Bliss” and “Your Dad Did Actually Love You.” For a while, it was sublime, but eventually, we became blase. Even though we have dined on the best noodles, pies, and biryanis, we still hunger for more. Food enthusiasts whisper about one more dish, a taboo one, allegedly the finest of all: “You can’t possibly mean…you’re not implying…” “Indeed, I am talking about…Human! (There’s a truck cooking it up in the artists’ section.)” “Alright, but only a small serving. I’ve already had my chips.”
Annoyingly picturesque nature
Don’t misconstrue me. It’s delightful to be in the country, drinking in the world’s bounty – the trees, grass, airborne birds and terrestrial bovines – but it’s also crucial to blast it all with massive speakers, strobe lights, and an abundance of plastic and aluminium, reminding it of its ranking in the food chain (in our stomachs). Bam! Take that, Nature. The highlight of every festival for me is when everyone rises in unity, proclaiming, “I am God’s foremost creation and exercise control over Earth.” And then comes the nocturnal throng.
As dusk descends, a swarm of merrymakers make their entrance, having fuelled themselves on canned beverages throughout the day at their makeshift camp. The festival now becomes their playground for unleashing raucous high-jinks they cheekily call “amusing”. You protest their immature antics, warning them to get their act together and hit the books lest artificial intelligence like ChatGPT snatch away their future livelihoods. Their response to your concerns? An unintelligible uproar.
‘Steve’
“Excuse me, Steve, could you please vacate my tent? No, it’s not a CIA thing – your mates scribbled your name across your forehead, a dead giveaway. I understand your fatigue, but still – we are strangers, and this is my space. Look, Steve, your ramblings about Vietnam are intriguing, but chronologically impossible, given your age. And on another note, are those my outfits you’re adorning? You’re fast asleep though, aren’t you? Answer me, Steve! Oh, do rise and shine, Steve!”
The middle-aged demographic
Situated at the heart of most festivals, one can always stumble upon an oasis of culture and intellect. Herein, a gathering of middle-agers are engaged in reciting poetry and are privy to sophisticated discussions through live podcasts on contemporary matters. No one can account for its origins, but popular theory suggests that the contours of the festival emerged around this cerebral epicentre. The artists, podcasters, and broadcasters here are in a tranquil bubble, untouched by the chaotic revelry of the festival at large – a scene reminiscent of the Eternals from John Boorman’s cult classic, Zardoz. Yet occasionally, one adventurous soul ventures through the booze-soaked chaos outside and pins a dramatic commentary on today’s youth in a newspaper, leading to a collective cringe that lasts a bit too long.