The afternoon was hot and humid and horribly bright with the sun’s rays bleaching the backs of all the ant-like people crawling on the dry ground. A grassy area was sprinkled with pop-up shops anticipating a crowd before the shows began. Their tables gleamed with crystals and maps and beaded bracelets—woven tapestries and zodiac charts and paintings and photos and little wooden pan flutes. It was as though someone had left a storybook open and all the little details had come pouring out like a flood. Old women sat in rocking chairs, eyeing passersby, while their jeweled hands flashed in the sun. Their assistants chatted with those who strolled past, luring them in with sales and prophecies for their futures. Money was passed from pairs of hands, sly fingers snatching the bounty from another sold trinket or mapped-out future. Beer was sold in cups and cans and bottles, swaying the masses of people into a mellowed stupor, allowing a calm before the storm. Swaths of somewhat bored young adults lay on blankets in the border of shade surrounding the valley, their tanned skin and greasy hair hidden from the illumination of the sun. Laughs and stories were traded as the clouds lazily flew by above. There would be an evening of performances to be enjoyed once the sky gleamed an orange hue. It was summer at a campground south of Omaha, Nebraska

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There was a large building stood in the center of the clearing. A small garden of succulents

and pebbles led visitors to a small door that slammed behind once you let go of it, as though

it was trying to grab you like a venus fly-trap. The performances were held here, in this

one-room building with a stage and bar. The most popular band would play last, to end

the night with a flourish. The shops sold their inventory all afternoon, pouring their stones

and books into the pockets of customers, and filling bags with business cards and links to

online stores. As the hour grew later, their tents began to drop, until one-by-one they left

the field vacant of nothing but a few stray bracelets and smells of their burned incense.

By now, the music had grown to a substantial sound, and a crowd began to gather in greater numbers inside the large performance center. The building shook with greater ferocity as the bass grew louder and the vocalists more insistent. They were screaming and jumping and filming and being filmed. Outside around a corner near some trees, a semi-circle of people stood smoking with their arms resting on their hips, oblong glances daring any criticisms from their viewers. Their clothes were whimsical and flowy, as though their outfits were inspired by old hippie grandparents. Their hair sparkled with glitter and their hands with rings. They were young and alive and happy, for the moment. It did not matter that storm clouds were creeping along the horizon or that the tents that most people planned to sleep in that night would be soaked in less than two hours. For now, all that needed to be aligned had been met, and the moments were ripe for the taking. The stars were gleaming and the moon’s edges specked behind clouds. The city was glowing faintly in the distance. The flicking of lighter sparks became more infrequent with every passing song until all that was left of them were their forgotten stubs and a few faint wisps of smoke drifting on the wind. The windows of the big house were opened as the room filled with a buzzing crowd. It reeked of beer and sweat and sweet-smelling perfume. The final band began to set up, calling toward the back to make the bass louder—as if it could be any more importunate. The room was crackling with an energy that could only be created by gathering rock music fans and allowing most of them to get drunk.

 

Once the sounds began, the crowd jumped and danced and screamed as a singular organism, a giant mass that shook like a speaker at full volume. It was the most outrageous concert to be found in somewhat rural Nebraska. People slammed into one another as they danced and jumped, their hair sweaty and tangled in the flashing stage lights. Bony hands reached through the crowd, grabbing at the feet on stage, begging for a glance from the god-like performers being worshipped that night. The lead guitarist looked down on the crowd and smiled with a sort of pity, then shook bottled water at them as though it were a holy blessing, splashing their faces and washing their eyes anew. The two drummers played in unison, their arms falling together as they continuously beat the shit out of the snares. The band played as one musician much like how the crowd lived as one being. One of the drummers jumped around the stage, bringing the snare and placing it onto the head of a girl in the front row. She had bracelets running up her arms and purple eye shadow on her face, which shined in blues and greens from the stage lights. The two nodded at one another before the drummer began playing while the girl held the drum on her head. She screamed as the beats fell and the crowd head-banged behind her. With each hit of the beat, the lights flashed a different color, painting the walls with furious flare, even reaching through the windows and onto the trees outside, where the wind was picking up. When the song ended, the drummer blew her a kiss and tossed her the sticks as a thank you. The lights flew and flashed around the room as the next set started, encouraging new excitement from the pit beneath as they jeered and screamed. The dusty rafters of the room echoed back at them, holding a birds-eye view of the chaos below, tangled masses of happy campers having the time of their lives in this cult-like performance. The drummer grabbed a tambourine from the back, smacking their leg so hard it must have left bruises along their thigh. They fell to the ground in front of the guitarist, smacking the tambourine on the ground so hard it shattered on the stage. The guitarist and drummer looked at one another as the drummer leaned forward and voluptuously licked the edge of the guitar as she played her solo. The lights dropped to a red as the drummer stood and ran back to their place. Outside, lightning flashed, illuminating the faded faces of the fans as they stood, waiting, festering, for the final song. Rain padded the roof as people began to shout and chatter, itching to enjoy each moment of the night before the lights were finally turned off.

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The aftermath of the shows was a muddy mess of stormy rain that the crowd had to muster through to get home. One group of young women on a road trip found their tent soaked through and packed up everything into the Subaru that very night, while others attempted to sleep in their cars or the soggy ground. The Subaru left the campground around 2:30 in the morning, shuddering down the gravel road toward the city, which lay miles ahead. The car was stuffed full of sleeping bags and pillows and wine coolers shoved in the back of the trunk. The radio played a soft rock station that no one could really hear because their ears were ringing so loudly. Makeup was smeared and cakey around their dry eyes, which were shocked quite awake, despite the late hour. The concert was louder than any of them had expected. The final performance had felt almost biblical, something worth confessing over. It was rowdy and angry and broke all the rules of social etiquette. It wrapped everyone up into the same ball and tossed them around like a cat batting a mouse. The band that played knew how to entice a drunken crowd, to play them like their stringed instruments, as though they were the puppeteers of their audience. They left an impression on all those who experienced their art.

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The stars were once again emerging in the cloudy sky. Ursa Major ran above them

as they drove through the ominous fields. Slowly, the city lights became more apparent,

swallowing the stars and leading the car toward sanctuary: a Perkins parking lot at three in

the morning. The group clamored out of the car and into the restaurant, squeezing into a booth

before a waitress began taking orders for water and coffee and waffles. Across the room, a couple sat at a table. They were dressed in elegant clothing. The woman wore a cocktail dress and fur coat and the man a tuxedo. They must be getting food after a night out, the booth of girls thought. They felt their youth bleed through, at that moment, because they were clad in jeans and polyester, and the couple was wearing more than any of them had ever made on a single paycheck. They had just come from a concert that cost them $20 a ticket and had planned to sleep crammed in a tent if it weren’t for the weather. The drive ahead was nearly five hours, but their wallets wouldn’t open for a room with a bed, only a meal to provide energy for the journey home. Soon, plates of sugared cakes and cups of coffee were dropped on their table, and the conversation took a hiatus as they ate the food. Their Forks were eventually ignored as the group emerged from their sleepy stupor, seeking a conversation to debrief the evening they had collectively experienced. One claimed that the guitarist had smiled at her, while another described how she had shoved a drunk man away who wouldn’t stop running into her in the crowd. A third said it was the most erotic performance she had ever witnessed, and the fourth announced she would be seeing them perform again if it was the last thing she ever did. The booth became their clubhouse for girlhood banter, a timeless practice of relating and comforting over conversations that tended to have overlapping voices and ideas. It was a brief conversation, as the journey home was still creeping upon the group, but it was necessary, after such an experience.