4:00 a.m. is what I call dead time. It’s not quite the morning and not quite the night. It’s pitch black, always. And it is the time that the first Boston Calling guest got in line on Sunday morning (or is it Saturday night?) for Day 3 of the festival.
Several hours later, on a morning coffee walk. I notice the Dick’s blimp already floating above the Complex. “It’s going to be a hot one,” I muttered. Overnight, Boston received deep, powerful, rain showers, the kind that wake you up from slumber. And not for a second did I think Chappell Roans fans, the barricade hustlers and rope runners, were already camping outside Boston Calling, waiting for the gates to open at 1:00 p.m.
[An Author’s note as we begin: As press, we have access to a media tent and were therefore relatively insulated from the overcrowding for bathroom lines and wait for water that some patrons experienced during the festival. And, as someone who deliberately placed themselves in the back of the area for some acts in order to take photos at other separate stages, I had stepped out of the masses for certain shows. But I was bewildered at the amount of people, which I will note below, and I did hear stories about the overcrowding afterwards.]
At 1:00 p.m. exactly, the first ones in line did as promised: proceed into a fast foot race out of the security gates, sprinting over the turf lawn, running through the grass, and landing at the front of the stage. This is the day everyone was talking about: the day that lined up big artist after big artist on the Green and Red stages. The day that everyone was rumbling about.
Being in a big crowd for an artist is pure magic. I relished in the delight of its return. You nod your head back, or you sway, or you clap or you film for your own self preservation and you lose yourself with strangers. It is without a doubt the only way you can forget about the heat. There’s nothing like the sound of a guitar as it rips through a speaker, notes and energy in the air that enters your psyche. And when the bass hits, it rattles through everything. The heartbeat altering kind, the atomic bomb of sound that shakes you into being free and into musical ecstasy. The kind that echoed through your ears and soul when Megan Thee Stallion entered, with flames, and thunderous roars.
There is another certain kind of freedom when everyone around you, all ages, is allowed to, nay encouraged to, scream together the lyrics to Chappell Roan. And it is both revelatory and odd when the 14 year olds around are singing “Casual” together. I pass a six year old with their own pink Chappell Roan bandana. I am one of thousands performing the HOTOGO dance together. I am in a sea of pink hats.
As a primarily indie rock reporter, and indeed we will get to Alvvays in a moment, these moments were the paramount experience. The moments when bands and performers are better live. The moments where an artist commands the stage, that knows exactly who they are, and we are better for it.
Those moments happened. And they also were punctuated with moments of reality. Every 15 minutes or so, my shoulders would remind me about my heavy camera bag, my brain would remind me of the heat, and my throat would remind me about how much more LiquidIV I needed to consume.
While walking in between the stages, I marveled at the sheer number of people. Sheer masses of people waiting for the Porta Potty. I said a prayer of thanks that I had somewhere to be at that moment, and still found a surprising number of people everywhere but the front of the Blue Stage. The home of a few indescribable moments that can only be described as matching the hue and the warmth of the sunset, and beauty of a festival coming to life. Pure magic.
Alvvays. Every song, every moment has a vision in terms of their sound and that is a wonder to behold along under the lights of the ferris wheel. Every song we know is somehow both elevated and familiar at the same time. The crisp and distinct guitar tones that ring true and layer their tracks manifested live in front of us with the same melodic richness. A sophisticated math where the sum is pure magic, one experienced by a small crowd of fans donning “Marry Me Archie” shirts and appreciating each other. Treated to a vibrant mastery of pedals and sounds and reverb and echoes. And everyone around me? Experiencing the same ecstasy. It was perfect. And it was an honor. “We don’t have any confetti cannons, or beach balls. We’re just going to play a bunch of guitar songs,” vocalist Molly Rankin semi-sheepishly shared with us. That was an understatement. We got so much more.
At the conclusion of Alvvays, as I walked away, an overeager fan eagerly asked if I could take a picture of her and her group of friends in front of the ferris wheel. And, suddenly, I had a new group of friend to dance to the Killers with. We make a circle around my camera bag. We move in unexpected ways to expected songs. And we rock out at night.
A monstrous day? Yes. A monster? No. Scary? Perhaps what’s scariest is that I’m still finding black turf pieces in my shoes.
After, as I walked through the streets of Allston, an acoustic cover band jammed in front of Trader Joe’s. I laugh deeply, and then begin to sing along, slightly stunned no one else knows the words, and revel in the night: “Hey, Hey. Marry Me, Archie.”
Another thing that rocked out in the night.
Just not at 4:00a.m.
