How the other half lives: More thoughts on ACL

Photos by Rachael Maddux

Such were the Paste team’s environs for much of ACL. We were set up in the press area, situated rather unceremoniously between the artist hospitality area and a mysterious place called “VIP Grove” where, I imagine, well-dressed folks wearing all-access wristbands reclined on chaises under high-power mist fans and were hand-fed BBQ sandwiches by Jeff Tweedy and Win Butler themselves. But no bitterness here: we were actually treated quite nicely, with a steady, ample supply of bottled water, granola, cinnamon buns and Larabars at our disposal throughout the weekend. They even brought in dinner: Friday and Sunday was pizza and sandwiches, which was great, though Saturday featured an odd spread of chips & salsa and vodka martinis served in neon colored Solo cups. (Come on, guys. Was that really necessary? The Porta-Potties are gross enough as it is.)

I knew we’d be working hard all through the festival, but I was honestly not prepared for how hard. It wasn’t literally nonstop, but it was close. Even just sitting around in the tent was exhausting because it was so incredibly hot that we were never not sweating. But mostly we were not just sitting, we were running around and carrying equipment back and forth and coordinating interviews and handing out sunglasses (we had a great partnership with Ray Ban where we hooked up artists playing the festival with the Wayfarers, Aviators, etc. of their choice) and running errands for our after parties, always thinking of something else we needed to do.

Until Sunday night when we finally packed up our tent (we were out of sunglasses, having sent the last few pairs away with The Decemberists, Ben Kweller, and Midlake), I had made exactly one trip into the festival grounds, and it was on a food run. I felt like I was on another planet.

Fortunately, the Dell stage was right next door and the line-up was great: Peter Bjorn & John and M.I.A. provided the soundtrack to most of our interviews Friday afternoon, podcast intern Marvin got especially excited about Steve Earle on Saturday (he even wore his Steve Earle Tour ‘89 shirt to prove it), and Common and Amos Lee kept us going strong Sunday afternoon. We were in awkward proximity to the stage so it was a bit like having a bunch of rowdy neighbors hosting an endless house party all weekend, but it was a welcome reminder of where we were and why we were there.

Even though we couldn’t see the performers or even the crowd from where we were, it was hard not to feel the energy of everyone gathered, screaming and jumping and doubtlessly rubbing their sweaty, dirty, exhausted bodies uncomfortably against total strangers, having abdicated personal comfort and proper hydration and more to come see one of their favorite artists. It was so drastically different from the environment of the press tent, where even encounters between the most enthusiastic fan and their favorite artists consisted of little more than a bigger-than-usual grin, a lingering handshake, a quickly-snapped photo, a professional thank you and goodbye.

When I was finally out and about on the festival grounds, dashing between tents and buying drinks without having to lug them back to base camp, it was very, very surreal. It was as bizarre as it would have been, I’m sure, for any normal festival goer to be plopped down in the press enclave, abruptly finding themselves doling out sunglasses to the Arctic Monkeys, eyeing Steve Earle as he strolls by, wondering if this group of young men in skinny jeans is a band and what their name is and if you’re going to have to interview them in five minutes and if they’ll notice that you have no freaking idea who they are. It was refreshing, like, “Normal people: Just like us! They pump gas! They jog! They have cellulite! And they like Wilco!”

Out in the world, I caught most of My Morning Jacket with Andrew Bird, saw The Decemberists (for a second time in twenty four hours; did I mention that earlier? is that still really weird?), then satisfied my desire to see Bob Dylan before he croaks (which he might have actually done at some point before his performance, come to think of it).

The the fest was over. And then I crashed.

Turns out, being a normal person is pretty exhausting, too.