From the perspective of a woman dealing with a sore neck, back, and every single joint (especially my ankles)...
It was actually great, though mostly because of the crew that squeezed into that tiny old sedan for the few hours of driving to the river, rather than just the show itself. At one point, we were all out drinking behind the local community center (not bragging, the point will come later), because according to old traditions—mostly among the guys—you have to drink, drink, and drink some more for a concert to truly count. Ha-ha-ha.
We stormed into the venue full throttle and dragged ourselves as close to the stage as possible. I honestly have no clue who played or in what order. I didn't care; as long as it was loud and I could headbang away... It was interesting, though, because I spent most of the set stuck in those "mosh pits," simply too drunk to realize people were shoving me around, forgetting my whole "non-violent concert listening" technique. Luckily, there was always a friendly hand nearby to grab me and pull me up off the floor during the intense moments. The highlight, naturally, was Laufer. He was the main reason we even showed up to this festival. Hearing those old songs live was genius; watching Urban scream his heart out... man, it brought it all back. Those years when we used to sneak around corners and talk using nothing but song lyrics—back when everyone was in a band and you were a total legend if you played the worst instrument in the worst garage band... well, Urban, son, may you live long and stay creative. At one point, a head swung right through my legs and suddenly I found myself a meter and a half off the ground... I used to look at those "pit riders" like they were complete idiots (I mean, why bother crashing into people?), but in that moment, I finally understood the thrill. Yeah, yeah, it’s pretty great...
Anyway, we left just as chaotic as we arrived, completely soaked and smelling like a mix of sweat and beer, and (surprise, surprise) we kept the party going. Interestingly, at one point, those little girls from the local daycare almost ran us over while they were pulling out of the parking lot—honestly, who gave them a driver's license?
Then, somewhere between 3 and 5 in the morning, Alen (or maybe Alan?) approaches us. He went from looking like a perfectly nice punk to... well, just a frustrated, racist veteran of the punk scene. He offers us beers, yet wouldn't give us a single cigarette to roll a joint. Terrible. I actually felt bad for him by the end; the guy has been playing for twenty years and claims he didn't even get free beer from the organizers. Such a shame, but at least the man got to vent all that frustration he's been carrying... oh well...
As for us? Nothing much, we watched the sunrise from that same cramped car before hitting the road. I counted 14 bruises on my body, a stiff neck, and the occasional seeing stars... but you can survive anything if you have enough alcohol, right? 😁