Is there a more perfect song than “Vienna” by Billy Joel? Slow down, you’re doin’ fine lives rent-free on a loop in my brain. I’ve never known what specifically Vienna represents and I almost don’t want to know. I’ve crafted my own personal narrative and I’m sticking to it.
Bonnaroo was this weekend—I’ve learned the hard way that festivals are not my scene. It’s too hot, there are too many people, and the whole environment exacerbates my already poor headspace. I’ve honestly been going through it, lads. The past month and a half-ish has been dark and stressful. For the sake of my dad, who reads my blog, things are not dire or urgent. My anxiety has just been at an all-time high, but I’m looking into steps to remedy this.
That being said, Bonnaroo was not really a good idea, but what’s life if not making and learning from mistakes? Costly mistakes, on the one hand—I spent a lot of money on these tickets in April—but on the other, I learned something crucial about myself: I don’t really like live shows.
Or, at least, not in festival settings. An all day music extravaganza sounds fun on paper, but once I got there on Saturday I was immediately assaulted by sounds and heat and dust and droves of people. My anxiety skyrocketed. I felt vulnerable and sensitive and on the verge of a panic attack almost as soon as I stepped foot on the grounds. Here’s the thing about my anxiety: I haven’t had a full-blown panic attack since college. I actually can’t remember what exactly they feel like, it’s been so long. However, I knew if I stuck around Bonnaroo I was going to remember real fast.
I left the festival early, and I didn’t go today, Sunday. I’m missing Chappell Roan, Ashnikko, Megan Thee Stallion, but I’ve made my peace with it. Everyone’s been talking about how important our mental health is, from doctors to YouTubers to celebrities. Even LinkedIn got on the bandwagon, ironically. I need to prioritize mine, and if that means missing out on Bonnaroo, I guess that means missing out on Bonnaroo.
At this point you’re probably thinking, bitch you’re a music journalist, how can you not like live music? Listen, first of all, it’s complicated. I’ve never been one to go to concerts, even when I was younger, which I know is a weird pipeline to music journalism. I used to be better—I saw Muse once, I’ve seen Fall Out Boy and Panic! at the Disco more times than I can count, and I’ve seen Regina Spektor. More recently, though, I’ve been freaked out by concerts, especially shows where standing for an hour is the only option.
My relationship with live shows is a mix of my anxiety and my broken ankle. Four years ago, I broke my ankle in three places within the first five minutes of learning to roller skate. I couldn’t walk for about five months, and even after I started learning to walk again, it was slow going and painful. Anyone who has broken a leg or an ankle knows the struggle of having your independence severely limited. It’s debilitating, and the issue sometimes doesn’t resolve itself until years after the initial break.
I am thankful for being able-bodied now, and I recognize my privilege here. However, I haven’t been able to walk or stand right since I broke my ankle, which makes general admission shows difficult. When walking for any sort of extended distance or standing for any period of time, I get a sharp pain in my middle back. My ankle swells and my feet burn. I have to shift from foot to foot to try and relieve the pain, or discreetly stretch my back in a crowd of people. It’s annoying as hell, and it causes more anxiety and desperation—I just want to leave at that point, fuck the show and the money I paid. I start anticipating the end of the show, begging for them to end it.
When I saw Ashnikko last August with my friend Jocelyn, it was at Jannus Live, which is standing room only. We were surrounded by people on all sides. The waiting and the standing almost killed me, and I had to get out of the crowd at one point. If it wasn’t for Ashnikko’s amazing energy, I probably would have left early.
There are actually three factors that make live shows almost unbearable for me: the crowds, the standing, and the waiting. You will never catch me camping out for a show. I don’t even show up for openers. For the Shannon and The Clams show, I skipped both of the openers, showing up at 9:30 for the band’s 9:50 start time. The 20 minutes of standing around and waiting were absolute hell.
One thing to know about me is I’m impatient. Not in a way that I’ll complain if my food is late at a restaurant (because food service workers are just doing their best), but in a way that I get antsy. I like to think of Charlie Kelly from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia during these times. He has moments where people are trying to tell him things, and if they go on too long he gets restless. There’s a whole subreddit of these scenes, and the whole gang does it, but Charlie in the example scene from season 3 episode 11 is me waiting for the main act at live shows.
Why did I let things get so bad that I can’t even enjoy my favorite bands anymore? I don’t have an answer, or even an answer to when things got like this. I just know that concerts are my own personal hell now, and yes, it’s weird.
Seeing Ethel Cain was religious, though, even if I had to watch her on the big screen because I couldn’t see her from the crowd. People were treating her like the new pope, handing her flowers and bracelets and little trinkets as she droned through her songs backed by a sustained, vibrating bass line. Ethel’s music is not to get you hyped. That’s what Chappell is for. However, Ethel is there for crying over your religious trauma and your hometown.
She’s a fellow Florida girly, so I already love her, but then her music pulses through your body and you feel one with Ethel Cain for a moment. She becomes us and we become her, wrapped up so tightly it’s impossible to say where our spirits start and end.
Then she stops, and we’re sent snapping back into our bodies like rubber bands, feeling luminous and blessed. Ethel Cain knows how to curate a religious experience, and she did it all wearing a straw cowboy hat like the patron saint of farmers’ daughters.
I don’t know how well she fit into the Bonnaroo vibe, because her songs are long and melancholy, but at the same time, she was perfect. Bonnaroo is essentially a grab bag of artists, and Ethel Cain slotted herself into the wildness of the festival with middle-America ethereality and grace.
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