Warped Tour

A bardic enchantment

Warped Tour: a lozenge coated in a thick syrup tasting of nostalgia promising to heal whatever wounds still leak idly from adolescence. You know, the ones that have been wholly ignored in adulthood. A surge of electricity trickles down the throats of the old and young alike. The new to the scene, fresh and wide eyed wondering,

Am I doing it right? or This world is mine. or How can I possibly get to every single stage?

The veterans are there, jumping with knees they pray will still work in the morning(me, and yes they do still function, begrudgingly). Some have toddlers on their shoulders with tiny ears secured with headphones. Small, but soaking up the magic like the rest of us.

Everyone is quick to check in to make sure sunblock has been reapplied, and that water has been had. This isn’t new. In fact I remember at my first Warped Tour (2004) an announcer coming on after every set,

“BEER ISN’T WATER! HYDRATION STATIONS ARE LOCATED IN EVERY CORNER! DON’T BE THE LOSER COLLAPSING FROM THE HEAT!”

Or something like that. The loser part could have just been my own thoughts. The charming motivator I’ve been blessed with since puberty.

Don’t be the one that falls into easily avoidable peril.

Warped has always provided essential freebies: water bottles, wallets, sunglasses, hand sanitizer, condoms, etc. As a thirteen year old it felt like a veil being lifted, as an adult it felt practical.

It’s a culture, and many music festivals have tried to replicate it, and I’ve been to them all. Some with bands I prefer over the pop punk melodies and ska trumpets. Nothing compares to Warped Tour though. I would blame it on the nostalgia of it all, rose colored glasses. But I remember being 13, eighth grade was over, and my friend Erika invited me to go with her and a couple of other friends.

I was always the too loud kid, the sing every song kid, the I don’t know what to do with my hands kid, the over sharing gremlin, the too quiet kid, the uninteresting kid, the crying kid, the I don’t know what sex is kid (but I’ll pretend so you guys don’t think I’m a loser), the I don’t how to wear make-up kid, the I don’t know who I am kid.

The turmoil writhing within me was a vortex that everyone else seemed to ignore. Even now my anxiety has been masked so completely, people are shocked when I tell them talking to people makes me sweat. The am I even cool enough to be here? mentality still slices into me.

But back then, before I could spiral too hard about my outfit, and how I didn’t have boobs like Erika. And I had too many muscles in the wrong places, and I wasn’t as punk presenting and—

Bad Religion started playing and all those thoughts disappeared. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know all the words or every song. I just jumped and danced and swung my head in ways that would probably kill me now. I felt the music melt over everyone, and we all succumbed to the musicians on the stage beckoning us to move, to give them more and more of ourselves. But it wasn’t a selfish spell, because we felt them sink into us too. A symbiotic transfer of energy. At 13 it was life changing.

At 34 even without the swirling thoughts of who am I or the insecurity of my outfit, the magic quieted the part of my brain that loves to cling to what could go wrong. The charisma wafted from each stage and was only bolstered by a free t-shirt landing at my feet. Each small stage band is a spark of hope for our future as a society. A decade younger than me and screaming for a new world.

It didn’t die on the main stage either where August Burns Red and New Found Glory demanded the same thing. Bands like Wonder Years were blatant with their demands, jumping and shouting FUCK ICE. And the crowd? We don’t shake or splinter. No one hesitates or walks away. We climb to our toes and say it back, because FUCK ICE and FUCK FASCISM.

This wasn’t even surprising. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that these bands or this crowd would agree. Because this is alternative culture. This is the magic of Warped Tour, even in Florida.

I know some people who love the straw man argument would try to debate that any place proclaiming inclusivity while using such harsh language to make people feel isolated is hypocritical. To them I say, evil will always be banned from my table, and evil isn’t debatable. Not with a religion or its book rewritten. Not in a world where sex trafficking is global business.

You either stand up and fight for the children of the next generation or you remain lazy with sewn lips. Worse yet, you become more than just the complicit bystander, and find your hands stained with the blood you swore the history books lied about.

There is no place like Warped Tour, though many have tried to replicate it.

These pictures and video were taken by me and maybe the feelings of the day will find its way through the screen and into your soul.

Also as much as I love the festival, the prices for food were ridiculous. Okay bye!