• by Kelly Samardak , October 18, 2010

Virgin Mobile Freefest, Merriweather Post Pavilion, Maryland
September 25, 2010

As always, if you've got a party cooking, send those invitations to kelly@mediapost.com. Or just say hi.

I love lists. I love buckets of things.  That's why my life is one huge clump of categorized things to do, things to think about, things to remember, things to forget, things to think about later, things to put away, things to throw out.  Things.  Lists.  Buckets.  Assume that things get forgotten or misplaced or, let's just say, intentionally paused and then rediscovered sporadically.   Like this little write-up of Virgin Mobile Freefest.

I've been to Virgin Freefest twice when it was just good ole Virgin Mobile Festival (or Vfest for those of us in a hurry).  Almost everything was bigger.  They had bigger acts like Modest Mouse, Wu-Tang Clan, a less messed up Amy Winehouse (though she seemed a little sauced, could have been because I almost fainted from the heat), Spoon, The Black Keys, and the perpetually late and annoying Li'l Wayne.  Once they went to a free ticket system I lost interest.   I'll keep my opinions of free = extra drunks and drugsters out of it, but you can see where I would go with that.   Last year I bowed out, but this year the draw of T.I., Sleigh Bells, and weirdos Die Antwoord pulled me back in.

But, course, T.I. fought the law and law won and Die Antwoord pulled out for reasons unexplained.   That left for my aural enjoyment Sleigh Bells, Ludacris, and maybe M.I.A.

The venue was Merriweather Post Pavilion in Columbia, Md., not Pimlico, which is  where I last hopped around like a dusty toad.   Merriweather was like camp.  Dirt paths weaved through the rocky woods, which were spattered with flame-throwing weirdos, juggling acts, kids petitioning for skateparks, teepee rest stations, hammocks, beer booths, crab cake dealers, and BBQ squealers.  There was a dance forest where dust from the early ravers poofed up in dirty streams, clouding my lens instantly.  Kids were already zooted out of their minds.  High on life, I'm sure.

I had a photo pass, so my entire day from noon until 11 p.m. was running up and down hills and through the woods to snap the first two songs of each set.  Performances were stacked so tightly that I have no idea how the average concert-goer was able to see more than two full acts the whole day and peep the quirky circus acts another camp-like activities in the woods like the Converse design-your-own contest.

I'm spoiled by press access (and the fact that my dude is in music, so access is always at least one tier up) so much so that no matter where my career leads me, I will never attend an outdoor music festival at general admission.  Why?  Because VIPs have better toilets.  Seriously, for that reason only.  Out in the woods, I was dodging oozing quagmires of unidentifiable wetness, jumping over rivers streaming from the regular bathrooms.  In fact, when I had a moment of desperation, I used the regular access toilets and it was straight out of that scene from "Star Wars" where Han Solo, Princess Leia, Luke Skywalker, and Fozzy Bear, I mean Chewbacca, are stuck in the raw sewage compactor.  I had to schedule extra therapy session because of it. 

Another little note about VIP: the alcohol sponsor was Jeremiah Weed.  Water was not a sponsor, so you can imagine there were a lot of Virgin Mobile reps, artist posses, writers, photogs, and other VIP types wandering around in a full blackout after baking in the sun and guzzling nothing but sweet tea vodka. 

No amount of sweet tea vodka could have made M.I.A any less annoying.  I saw her years ago in the Vfest dance tent and she was hypnotic: great sparkling light, dancing weirdo entertainment.  This time, she was like a warbling seagull stuck in the mouth of a sick sea lion. 

Ludacris delivered, of course.  He is a consistent, clear, respectful performer.  I know, let me show you my AARP card.  But really, he was on time, wasn't wasted out of his mind and screwing up his lyrics, his energy was unmatchable, and he acted like he was there for the fans, not the other way around.  Whether you're a fan of hip-hop or not, Ludacris should be on your list of high-quality acts to see.  He's fantastic.

Sleigh Bells was an asthmatic's nightmare.  That smoke machine pumped into the dance forest and through my lungs before the band took the stage and continued throughout the set.  The smoke was so thick I couldn't tell the difference between my feet or my hands.  

Maybe I had a contact high.  

Either way, sparkly-spandex-clad Alexis Krauss whooped, snarled, and dance-whined, kicking the stage and thrashing her mop of poker-straight hair around the smoke cloud.  Sleigh Bells is one of those bands whose albums isn't meant to get you through that term paper or even a listen-through in one sitting - you'll become agitated, guaranteed.  But spits and spats here and there?  A little get ready to go outtie prep song or two? Yes.

Also notable was the petite stack of muscles and black leather, Joan Jett.  All ages were on their feet as the OG of snot rock plowed through her set.   And how could I forget Trombone Shorty!?  Horns! Horns! Horns!  At the end of their set, the band did a "Second Line " and piled out into the crowd, trombones, trumpets, the sax, drums, the whole shebang.  That alone was worth the trip to Baltimore (or as M.I.A would say, D.C.  And she said it more than once).  I'm not a huge fan of jam bands or any band where someone's sweaty dreads will dip into my plastic beer cup while they sway and boop around, but Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros were hug-the-sun fun.  Or as my pal says, "I love those dirty hippies." 

Next year I'd love to see a less-dusty (Grapes of Wrath anyone?) experience with the big acts I remember that put that special shot of star-struck electricity in the veins.  We'll see.  Either that, or I'll take my money and spend it on a crab feast instead.

Lots of dusty photos are up on Flickr!