A Disasterous Day in Devore (or "How KROQ Invaded My Inland" or "I Got Fried to a Crisp in the Hot Desert Sun and All I Got Was This Lousy Blog Post)

PROLOGUE:

As faithful readers will recall, I didn't post anything to the blog today because I spent the entire day in Devore, California, at the Hyundai Glen Helen Pavillion watching KROQ's 5th Annual Inland Invasion concert.

The line-up was almost exclusively popular 90's rock acts (with the exceptions of 80's two-tone mainstays Madness and contemporary up-and-coming scenesters Arcade Fire, The Bravery and Bloc Party). To my mind, it was going to be a fun afternoon of revisiting bands whom I rarely hear any more, peppered with some new music I like, and closed out with Beck (one of my favorite contemporary recording artists) and Weezer (whom I greatly enjoy and have never seen live).

It didn't quite turn out that way.


But before I go any further, the following story will deal with the fact that I occasionally enjoy smoking marijuana, particularly but by no means exclusively at rock concerts. If this sort of information is likely to offend you or make you uncomfortable, please feel free to skip immediately to Chapter II.

CHAPTER I:

My roommate Nathan and I arrive in Devore at around 11:30. Britain's Bloc Party, the first scheduled band we want to see, goes on at 12:50, but it takes us a while just to walk through an entire parking lot and a large field even to get to the front gate.

Okay, here's where the weed comes in. I'm trying to sneak in (1) my glass pipe, which I have owned for several years and smuggled into countless music venues and even a jet airliner, twice; (2) a plastic sandwich bag containing about 3 pipe bowls worth of marijuana; and (3) a Bic lighter, which wouldn't really need to be "smuggled" in, but it just goes along with the other two things.

I don't smoke cigarettes, but the old stand-by for getting your stash into rock shows is to place it in a pack of cigarettes. Now, I know this isn't the most reliable method. I could have gone for a crotch placement of the pipe, or put it in my sock, or devised some even more elaborate scheme. Stefan informed me that he used to sew a plastic pocket to the inside of his socks, so that he could walk around with weed in his shoe without it actually having to touch his stinky foot.

But I've never really been to a show where they were serious about keeping pot out. Never. Since the age of 18 or so, I think I've probably snuck weed into every outdoor concert I've attended (and a few indoor ones as well). Not once have I been stopped. I just assumed that the "pat downs" and security at the front gate was designed to find weapons or objects that could easily substitute for weapons (like glass bottles).

So, today, I stuck the weed and the lighter in the cigarette pack (it was Stefan's leftover pack of Winston's), and the cigarette pack in my pocket, and I stuck the pipe in my shoe. Only once I got to the front gate, though...not the whole walk over there. I could have split my foot wide open!

I go through Security, I'm patted down, I show the guy the pack of smokes (without opening it of course) and my cell phone, and he waves me through. Then, a few steps away from the gate, another security guard taps me on the shoulder.

"Can I see your cigarettes?" he asks.

Immediately, without any delay, I'm thinking about who I'm going to call from jail. Only later does it occur to me that there is no practical way for Staff Pro security guards to write up police reports about every person they take pot off of in line. Later, I realize they must just pocket what they confiscate and enjoy it later themselves.

But, at the time, I'm already planning out the details of my plea bargain.

"Okay, you got me," I say. For real. I give him the cigarette pack, he opens it, and lo and behold, illicit narcotics are stashed inside.

"You have anything else?" he asks.

"No," I respond.

"Take off your shoes," he rudely demands.

Now, it occurs to me that, by "anything else," he probably meant anything he might want to confiscate, that might be against the rules. I had assumed he meant "more drugs," as if I had some acid tablets taped inside the crack of my ass for after the pot wore off.

But when I take off my shoe, of course, there's a pipe in there.

"See, now you lied to me," the guy says.

I correct him. "You asked if I had more drugs. I didn't. That's a pipe."

He grabs the pipe and the drugs and pockets them, then spins around and calls over a female security officer. She pulls the same security guy who had originally frisked me. So now there are three security guards looming over me, while Nathan waits by the gate trying to figure out what's going on. (Poor guy...he doesn't even smoke weed...More on his sad day of woe later...)

"You know, I could deny you entrance for breaking the rules," he asks.

"Yeah, I know," I say.

After having me patted down again by the other security officer, he lets me go. Not really even with a warning. He just kind of turns away from me and tells me to have fun at the concert. Of course, after taking probably $10 worth of marijuana and my old pipe. Fortunately, I'm not one who gets sentimentally attached to my drug paraphanelia, like some people I could mention, but it's still a shame to lose something that belongs to you for such a stupid reason.

CHAPTER II:

Nathan and I arrive inside the festival gates to discover that it is very hot, that there is no shade, and that the "mist and shade tent" promised in the event program is apparently some kind of delightful hoax, possibly being pulled by Ashton Kutcher. Probably not, as Nathan and I are not actually young celebrities, but I can't be sure.

A few moments later, we make a second and equally upsetting realization; we have not brought any sunblock along. Which is just as well, as it might be confiscated by Security, for fear we're bringing in liquid, cream-colored heroin.

Nathan asks a helpful-looking employee of the venue if there is any place we can obtain sunblock, in exchange for money. She looks at us like we have just asked where we can buy pickled rat sandwiches.

"You can't buy that here," we're told.

You can, however, buy water for $3.50. Nathan requests two, as it's a very hot day and we'll be sitting in the sun. The vendor informs Nathan that he can have two waters, but plastic water bottles are not allowed inside the Hyundai Pavillion, so they'll both be in paper cups. In essence, he'll be walking around for hours holding two plastic cups of water, one in each hand.

"Why can't we have plastic bottles," Nathan, quite reasonably, inquires...

"You could put something in the bottle and throw it at the stage and hurt someone," the vendor answers, as if this was a most reasonable conclusion, one that any rational person would draw.

CHAPTER III:

Bloc Party played a great set at the second stage. We got to the Main lawn area in enough time to catch the end of a set by The Bravery, including their hit singles "An Honest Mistake" (a pretty cool song) and "Fearless" (a highly forgettable song). It is excessively hot, and we discover that the lawn is a far greater distance from the stage than we had imagined.

In fact, the stage is barely visible from our post on the lawn. Two large TV sets have been placed on either side of the stage, to project the action to us in the back, but there's a 10 second or so delay when they first go on, so the images kind of clash with the music you're hearing.

Worse yet, the speakers sound terribly muffled. Usually, at a big concert, you can at least count on hearing the band from any seat, even if you can't see them clearly. We're getting a muddy, indistinct sound from the stage that occasionally seems like rock music, but most often just sounds like when you stick your little finger in your ear and jiggle it around a bit.

By the time The Arcade Fire, one of my favorite bands of the moment, takes the stage, I am annoyed. Singer Win Butler's vocals are discernable maybe half of the time. The full, big sound of the 8-person ensemble is reduced to so much amorphous noise. I know their album, "Funeral," backwards and forwards, and it still took me a bit of time to recognize some of the songs. I'm sure the band was great, as always, but this was no way to see a live musical performance.

CHAPTER IV:

After The Arcade Fire's "set," Nathan and I have had just about our fill of the uncomfortable heat. Plus, we've each drank two waters, and I had a $5 cup of lemonade.

We find a shady spot to the side of the lawn. You can hear the music okay, but you can't actually see the stage. It's no big loss, though, as the next few bands are ones I've either seen before or who don't terribly interest me. And the view of our fellow concert-goers hiding out from the sun amidst the shady trees is probably more entertaining anyway.

From the shade, we hear Live perform, mainly songs from their huge mid-90's smash "Throwing Copper." It's been years since I've even heard the song "Lightning Crashes," and I have to say, despite being overblown and ridiculous, it still sounds pretty good.

Nathan and I discuss the odd lifecycle of a band like Live. You struggle for years in obscurity, suddenly you're rich and hugely popular, then you record a follow-up and people quickly lose interest. Soon enough, you're right back to struggling, but now it's more like a rejection because everyone has heard of you. You're unpopular because people have chosen not to listen to you, not because they don't know who you are or what you do.

This relaxing shade time listening to music in the distance will be, along with the Bloc Party performance and one set to be mentioned later, the highlight of the day.

CHAPTER V:

Nathan and I leave the comfort of the shade to watch some bands.

First up, Garbage, celebrating their 10th anniversary as a band. I don't recognize any songs from after their first album, released 10 years ago. That's not a good track record, really. I might not think to celebrate. They play "I'm Only Happy When It Rains," which is one of the songs I remember, but not "Stupid Girl," which is the other one, and which always reminds me of a very funny anecdote about my friend Jake's uncle and an obese stripper, which I'll save for another occasion.

Next were Australian lamers Jet, who played a set of the most generic rock imaginable. Their first single, "Are You Gonna Be My Girl," has the most ridiculously basic lyrics of the decade and a riff that's ripped directly from Iggy Pop's "Lust for Life" (and about 100,000 other songs). Their big popular ballad, "Look What You've Done," is a line-by-line cop of The Beatles' "Sexy Sadie." (I should note that Nathan's father made this initial observation, and that it is 1090% accurate).

And all their other songs sound like the kind of pleasant-enough mush you'd hear out of any drunken and semi-talented Culver City bar band. Seriously, these guys don't play a single unexpected note in a whole set of music. Who needs them?

After Jet, Madness. They were the best out of all these middling afternoon bands. Not really my style; though I had a ska-punk phase in high school, I was never really two-tone. They did play all the Madness songs I know: "One Step Beyond," "House of Fun" and "Our House," and it was nice to hear some horns to break up the constant, grindingly repetitive guitar rock.

At one point during their set, I got up to use the bathroom (read: the filth-encrusted port-a-potty). Upon my return, Nathan told me a girl came over to him while he was laying down in teh grass with his eyes closed and wiggled her butt over his head. When he failed to respond (despite apparently knowing what was going on), she flashed him her breasts. I returned to find a barely-even-fazed Nathan, continuing to nap quietly amidst the chaos of a rock concert.

Then, 311. Ugh. Tied with Jet for worst performance of the night. It was only an hour but 311 seemed to play for-ever. They said that 2005 marks their 15th anniversary as a band, and I think I saw them recreate that entire 15 years live on stage.

It occured to me while trying not to pay attention to 311 that they were probably the first shitty whiteboy hard rock band to incorporate shitty whiteboy rapping, thus making them something of a massive influence in modern rock music, inspiring Linkin Park, Limp Bizkit and other shitty whiteboy bands who refuse to spell things properly.

It also occured to me during 311 that I was starting to not feel very well, and that I was going to be ludicrously sunburned tomorrow.

CHAPTER VI:

The sun had almost completely gone down, and that's when it hit me...It was no longer hot, but cold. Very cold.

I had considered bringing a sweatshirt with me for the evening hours, but I hate being saddled with extra clothing all day, and the nights have been extremely pleasant in Los Angeles for the past several weeks. Balmy, almost.

So, I figured it wouldn't be THAT much worse one hour to the East, in Devore, so I probably would be fine in just a T-shirt for a few hours. I was getting cold while 311 was still playing. Significantly cold. Teeth-chatteringly cold. Every time a strong breeze would pass, I would clutch my chest, Fred Sanford-style.

So, I figured I would run down to the merchandise area. If they were selling an Inland Invasion commematorive long-sleeved shirt or sweatshirt or something, I'd just plunk down the $30 and stop feeling so goddamn cold. Hell, even if it had a Jet or 311 insignia on it, I'd buy it and just not wear it around anyone I wanted to impress.

But, of course, there was no single item of clothing on sale at the merchandising counter featuring long sleeves. None. I even asked. They said there was one Oasis shirt, for girls, that had long sleeves, but they only had a small size left. I thanked them for their time, because it was easier than informing them about just how unhelpful they had been.

CHAPTER VII:

After what seemed like HOURS of 311 jumping around the stage like babboons on PCP, it was finally time for Beck. Sweet! Nathan and I, unused to spending more than 8 minutes per day outside, are both exhausted and weary, so we decide to chill on the back portion of the lawn, away from the crowds. We can't see Beck on stage, but we can see the TV monitors fine, and thankfully the sound system was repaired during the godawful acts.

Despite the fact that it was colder than Ice Station Zebra on that goddamn lawn, Beck was the highlight of the whole show for me. He did a nice mix of songs from Odelay ("Devil's Haircut," "The New Pollution," "Where It's At"), Guero ("Black Tambourine," "Girl," "Hell Yes," "E-Pro"), Mutations ("Nobody's Fault But My Own"), Mellow Gold ("Loser") and Sea Change ("The Golden Age"). He faked that he was going to play his R&B classic "Debra" off the Midnite Vultures album, before goofing on R. Kelly's "Trapped in the Closet" and going into a cover of the Flaming Lips' "Do You Realize." As well, his solo acoustic version of "Lost Cause" off of Sea Change was haunting and beautiful.

Nathan noted that Beck can really belt out a song when he wants to, and I added that his strong, full vocals have that much more power because he holds back most of the time.

CHAPTER VIII:

During Beck's performance, I was really into the music, but I was also aware of my steadily increasing twin sensations of illness and fatigue. I don't know whether it was the excruciatingly hot afternoon followed by the desperately cold evening, the fact that I hadn't eaten in about 10 hours, the stress of navigating crowds and lines all day or just sitting in the sun outside for 8 hours...but there came a point where I could barely stand upright.

Unfortunately, this point came about 1/2 of the way through Weezer's set. And it was a good set, too, in which Rivers & Co. played just about every big Weezer song you'd want to hear - "Buddy Holly," "Undone (The Sweater Song)", "My Name is Jonas," "In the Garage," "El Scorcho," (particularly exciting to hear a song from Weezer's magnificent second album Pinkerton), "Island in the Sun" and others. Also, they covered the Foo Fighter's "Big Me," an interesting choice.

Before I get to my complete and total physical collapse, let's talk a bit about an odd event in the lawn during Weezer's set. The two guys next to me were smoking pot from a small pipe. I thought it was just the universe's way of mocking me - "See, you weren't clever enough to sneak anything in, but these two goobers somehow figured it out...Haw haw..."

But fate had more in store for these two. Out of nowhere, a Security Guard (with a skull-and-crossbones bandanna stretched across his face) jumped out at them with a flashlight, yelling "where's the drugs?"

The guys denied having drugs, but the guard frisked them and found the pot. He threw it on the ground, and as he did, one of the two guys just bolted. Took off. Through the lawn area, crowded with concertgoers. While Weezer was playing new single "Perfect Situation."

The guards seemed to catch up with him after a bit. But I have honestly not seen strenuous enforcement of anti-marijuana laws in a concert venue ever in my life.

The last time I went to the Glen Helen Pavillion, it was called Blockbuster Pavillion, and I was there to see the 1996 HORDE Festival. These two girls in front of me did drugs from the start of Rusted Root's set to the end of Lenny Kravitz's set, and no one came over and said a thing. Of course, I never touched the stuff back then, when I could have gotten away with it apparently. How fitting.

Anyway, back to our sad saga. I was feeling sick as a dog.

Weezer was playing (appropriately) "We Are All on Drugs," from their latest and mostest mediocre album, and I just suddenly felt the need to sit down. So I did, in god knows what kind of lawn concert litter. I'm sure there was some beer in there, and judging from the crowd, probably some Hepatitis C.

Here was the problem. Weezer was not the last band. Cake was going on next, followed by Oasis. Bigger problem: Nathan is a fan of both Cake and Oasis, so if I want to go home, I'd be asking him not just to leave the show early, but to miss two of the acts he came there to see.

I had no choice. I had to ask. Nathan sat down next to me in the grass and asked the situation.

I was pretty far gone by this point, and the thought of sitting in the cold for two more bands, and then waiting in the car for an hour in the parking lot to get out, and then driving an hour West on the 10 to get to LA before I could get home...not appealing in the least...

CHAPTER IX:

So, we left. Nathan was amazingly good about the whole thing. I offered to refund him some of the money he paid me for the ticket, as he missed two of the main acts, but he said it was okay. What a swell guy.

I still felt kind of bad, though. Not bad enough to sit out there on that lawn ready to keel over for another several hours. But, you know, kind of bad. On the car ride home, it occured to me that, at Coachella last year, I had wanted to see MF Doom after Radiohead had finished their set, but Nathan and everyone else in our group wanted to go back to the hotel. So this incident might almost make us even. But I ended up not mentioning anything. What would be the point? I'd still feel bad for making him miss Cake (and for not getting to see them play "Going the Distance") and Oasis (and for not getting to see them make fun of us for living in Los Angeles).

Hopefully, he won't read this post and even see that I was considering bringing it up.

EPILOGUE:

To sum up, I think life is pretty clearly indicating to me that my time for going to all-day rock station-sponsored festival-style concerts has officially come to an end. Maybe they'll webcast the Inland Invasion next year, and I can check it out without leaving my bedroom. Not that it doesn't get impossibly hot in here, too.

But at least no one confiscates my drugs.