I Was At The Pemberton Music Festival

Young adults, scantily clad, the men in board shorts and bare chests, the women in anything from self-constructed, denim, crotchless chaps, to underwear and, well, bare chests, scampered about, waiting in ridiculously long lines to buy $7-dollar beers or to gain a coveted spot in the Bacardi B-live tent where dance music and rum abounded.

Male cheers of “YEAHHHHH F*CK YEAAHHHH” invaded the spicy air at random and were immediately met with enthusiastic squeals of feminine response. One man standing next to me during the Coldplay performance chugged a smuggled Budweiser and loudly declared to the world his association with what he called the UPF, the Ultimate Party Force.

I suppose that this kind of behavior can be expected when 40, 000 people gather in the mountains for a midsummer weekend of music and camping, but when this behavior is adopted by 80 per cent of the attendees, the atmosphere, that is so crucial at a festival, becomes somewhat altered for the remaining 20 per cent who may have a different idea of festival enjoyment, like children, for example.

Though the festival was free for children under seven, there did not appear to be an abundance of families in attendance. Perhaps this was due to parental foresight, or perhaps children think Jay-Z is a has-been. In any case, if I had children I would certainly be wary about bringing them to Pemberton, unless I needed a reason to instigate the birds and the bees discussion.

I’m not trying to be a hater. For the inaugural festival, the organizers did a rather comprehensive job of taking care of details.