My first music festival . . . and panic attack
SalonJust a few rows back from the front of the stage, I watched as patches of brown, well-trodden grass — once largely visible minutes earlier — became steadily occluded by hundreds of feet. Kendrick Lamar wasn’t set to come onstage for another 45 minutes, but the crowd — mostly drunk teenagers in backward caps and shiny basketball jerseys — was already riled up. My parents, certified concert junkies and once moshers extraordinaire, drove to the first iteration of Lollapalooza in 1991 — then a multi-stop touring festival conceived as a farewell tour for one of their favorite rock bands, Jane’s Addiction — in a surf van with some friends from the Jersey Shore. On paper, it was the quintessential family activity, melding fun with familiarity — an updated version of Mom and Dad’s old haunt, surrounded by my best friends, while throwing our heads around to “Can’t Stop” and “Parallel Universe.” I could hardly contain my excitement. Music’s magnetic ability to unite like-minded people is perhaps the most wholesome nugget of festival culture, not to mention a key structural component of my family dynamic.
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