Mountain Music Festival 21: Please Don’t Eat the Cicadas

Lyme disease is no excuse for bad behavior.

Every once in a while a festival wrap-up can come off a little generic. It’s true. Due to lackadaisical efforts that include poor notes or long publishing times comes the article that can come off vague in its recollections of dirty feet, fun hippies and good music. Like memories of countless other camping and music adventures, they begin to coalesce and merge into one endless and virtually identical festival story.

But occasionally when the wind is still and the pond frogs are completely silent, the planets will align perfectly and the pulp writes itself. Brood X has emerged and after 17 years underground they are ready to fornicate and get high. There’s no time to even even eat. But these are just cicadas, what do you expect? That’s right dear reader, the wranglers have found their way back into the cradle of the Appalachians to celebrate the summer festival season and what better place to unfurl the Kamp Happiness banner than New River George, West Virginia and Mountain Music Festival. Please Don’t Eat the Cicadas.

Lucy and Bfly knew the minute they got there that things were going to get weird and fun. The omens were everywhere from the crow that flew into Lucy’s tent, a portence of disaster to the upside down rainbow. But what did it all mean? Bfly had recently learned how to commune with the spirits using Palo Santo holy wood and nitrous oxide. She felt she was ready for anything that would come her way.

Located within the dazzlingly lush confines of ACE Adventure Resort, adjacent to the New River George National River this three-day music and art festival blossomed from deep within the private and protected 1,500 acre wilderness wonderland complete with two fishing lakes, hiking and biking trails, zip-lines, white water rafting and dozens of other outdoor adventures. Lucy was interested in none of it. She was hauling a mountain bike around the country and had absolutely no intention of getting on it anytime in the future. She only became curious once she heard about the spring-fed mountain lake and water park. In lieu of a real shower that was something she might be able to get into.

But really they’d come for the 30 bands and three stages with music blasting from morning until 4:30 am the next day. With plenty of people in attendance at the stage field Lucy, who could get weird around large groups never once felt crowded or cramped and she found she could ease up to the rail, dance in the bubbles or enjoy the hill with a sit down blanket dance party as needed. This is the Kamp Happiness Haberdashery and Farmacia. Dead phones, warm tequila and dabs were Bfly’s contribution while Lucy procured the balloons and experimental moonshine. Once again it appeared they had found themselves in the pocket.

Encroachment Issues?

One of the more unique and unpredictably fun aspects of the camping festival is the fact that rarely does one get to choose neighbors. When voluntarily dropped in the middle of thousands of other music enthusiasts from varying walks of life it’s best to shelve any expectations. Flocks of campers come crashing into each other as they jam their vehicles and tents in all manner of catawampus directions, searching for that perfect spot.

In this case they pulled their van right into the middle of the Hobo Kamp dance floor. As they came to a stop smoke billowed from their windows and a stream of obvious boobs fell out of the side door. One by one they crashed into each other and dropped their bedrolls on the grass, where they would all sleep for the entire weekend. No tents for these festival samurai. They’d already gotten into some kind of altercation with the folks next door so when one of them approached Lucy’s table she was coiled and ready.

The lady introduced herself as Cathy but said she used to be called Susan in Florida. And before that Francis. She appeared flush after the incident with the older couple and explained how she had introduced herself through a short parable.

She’d looked in their eyes and explained that in a effort to increase revenue in her Kentucky county local sheriffs began serving warrants for people with overdue library books. That’s right, jail for library books. She recalled how she allegedly killed an inmate in what the courts would rule as self defense and that she did in fact have a VIP ticket to boot. After circling the campground for long enough she went above and beyond making it clear that she and her family had no other choice but to park and camp right on top of Kamp Happiness. They stared at each other in silence before she offered Lucy a watermelon spritzy vodka drink and an cautious alliance was formed.

The entire clan slept on the ground like Bedouin traders. Some used cots but even fewer used blankets and they all became invisible in the dark area around the sorry fire of wet twigs. Bfly was entirely blind when we stumbled through the field of human land mines, kicking one of them in the side of the head and stepping in a puddle of some viscus thing that squeezed up through her toes like used humus.

They even brought their own Forester which every camp can surely use. Lucy was already throwing up what was left of her blue pill when he came over to share a joint and explain how the fungus Massospora produces cathinone, an amphetamine in cicadas giving them increased stamina and making them want to mate more. “Crazy right?” he barked. Other species of the fungus produced psilocybin and his plan was to move first and fast and corner the cicada market. “Uppers and mushrooms? It just makes sense to eat them,” he mused and as he slyly winked it was frighteningly obvious this person believed in the sloppy dribble that was pouring out of his mouth.

Thursday:

Hippies, hipsters and cowboys dolled up in all manner of outlandish design strolled by the camp at E-7, VIP and only two streets from the entrance to the music, vending and food. They’d already missed Dr. Bacon on Wookie Wednesday, which they considered poor form so Lucy and Bfly opted to hit the streets and see what lurked beneath the surface of what appeared to be some kind of traveling carnival of curious oddities. The kind where three bits will get you into the striped tent long enough to witness in awe the lizard lady or the boy with two heads. On this mountain the attractions were in full view for everyone to see and the immanent spectacle waiting behind stealie tapestries would come at little extra cost. As they strolled the ladies hoped to discover some human groundscores. That was Lucy’s favorite thing to find, along with firewood.

Neither of them had ever been to this festival and they wanted to get the lay of the land while they were still relatively sane. Pulling in moderately clean they were free of serious contraband and if they were going to survive what appeared to be a continuous freak show for five days they would need to hook up with the right people.

That evening found them at Lost Paddle Bar and Grill and a blasting funk punch to the stomach by Empire Strikes Brass. They drank margaritas, filled their head holes with substances usually reserved for Saturday night and swayed and bumped into each other in what could hardly be called dancing. Bfly’s pockets were already filled with cigarette butts, balloons and crumpled dollar bills as they loaded onto the school bus to return to the campground.

Friday:

When asked if she’d like more mushrooms, Bfly proudly identified herself as a drug slut. She added that she was also a hat slut and a lake slut. The Forester acknowledged that she was definitely not a boring slut but reasoned that sluts by definition were rarely boring. The last thing Bfly could really remember were the dancing girls with hoola hoops during Tauk and hitting the rail with a fire eater for Pigeons Playing Ping Pong. There were also scant recollections of someone slinging her boody Mary which she’d been drinking from a sour cream container into the crowd during the Lettuce set. Security hadn’t seen her bring it in because she had, in her words “created a light bubble around herself that cloaked her in invisibility.”

As she left the Pigeons show she entered a type of worm hole, a tear in the fabric of time and space. She disappeared into the deep recesses of the campground into a labyrinth of fires and camps from which she wouldn’t emerge until being led back around 8 am the next morning. When she stumbled back into camp she still grasped the handful of dreadlocks in one hand and a dull steak knife in the other. Someone would be looking for her, but she couldn’t remember who.

Lucy had collapsed around the miserable twig fire cradling a plastic whiskey bottle filled with Gummy bear moonshine. She hadn’t thought it was very good but it was the chef’s first batch and it did ignite when spat in the fire. It was really the only time all weekend the fire had burned bright. She slept in a lawn chair with her head cocked hard to the side and while someone had covered her up with an Indian blanket she still made burbling sounds like she needed a cpap machine.

Saturday Lake Day:

They hadn’t eaten for 48 hours so Lucy couldn’t imagine what she could be throwing up. Bfly was still getting over her blown o ring the night before and suggested they go to the water park so she could “wash off that stink”. They loaded up in the back of the Forester’s truck and headed to the lake where they ran into Emmitt and Davy at the Lost Paddle for draft beers. Soon after, Emmitt submerged himself in the cool waters of the spring fed lake only have several miniatures of moonshine spill out of his overalls and bloop to the surface. “Water score,” screamed Bfly as she tried to stick a rhinestone on his forehead which he abruptly snatched up in his gaping mouth, gulping it down before she could explain further.  “For shit’s sakes, don’t eat the third eye!” she bellowed, “You don’t need that kind of karma.”

Saturday night:

It had been a full day of hard fun and Lucy was already falling down on her way into the show. Some draft beers and a little dancing would be all that was needed to get her head straight. The night was filled with scattered, unconnected visions. She remembered that it had been a fantastic Saturday night lineup. She and Bfly were there for the Infamous Stringdusters who kept it peppy while dropping the bluegrass H-bomb on the dancing throngs. There was the glitter-faced girl they danced next to all night who had a camel back of white wine and a fire whip she’d crack across the back of Lucy’s legs. They tried to take fuzzy photographs in the pit during The Wood Brothers and both ended up falling off a giant dance cube during Big Something.

At some point Bfly traded her hippy pants to some woman for her husband’s Papadosio baseball cap and ended up taking them off right on the spot and dancing in her underwear until someone supplied her with a scort to cover her nakedness. By the end of Big Something the girls were lost backstage stumbling around in diagonal patterns asking for the location of the VIP bar. Bfly had gotten turned around again, leading everyone away from the bar in an effort to use her tits to find drugs. Things continued to deteriorate in similar fashion and it would take all they could muster to find their way to the late-night stage for The Kind Thieves.

From the dark, the Forester screamed that he couldn’t build a fire with wet twigs. In jerky erratic motions he emerged from the shadows sweating through his American flag shirt and wielding a giant chainsaw. He laughed as he cranked it to life and starred crazily at the tree for some time. After a few minutes and reconsidered the need for shade over his dirt bed before sparing the tree in lieu of a nearby picnic table.

He claimed it was the cicadas finally kicking in, along with the grab bag of other chemicals he’d ingested that afternoon. His eyes began flicking with that irregular throb that indicates the presence of both moderate schizophrenia and brute, dumb strength.

“Don’t you get it?” he raved, “And out of the smoke locusts came down upon the earth…Cicadas are locusts! This is it!” Foam had collect on the edge of his mouth and became obviously uneven as the right side of his face began ever so slightly sliding down his skull. “What’s happening to me? I can’t close my eye!”  Trepidation and alarm began setting in as he grabbed a pack of cigarettes and bolted into the darkness screaming something about the end of days.

Sunday:

The music finally ended two hours before sunrise. They were haggard and worn as they lounged around all day watching folks pack up and leave, smoking hog legs and drinking warm shots of white tequila. Never miss a Sunday show. It had been revealed that the Forester had contracted lyme’s disease through a tick bite to his nether regions and the melting face was attributed to Bell’s paulsy rather than an acute reaction to cicada toxins.

By late Sunday most everyone was gone save for the fire spinners and the trash crew. Everyone cleaned up their site like professional fesivarians and groundscores were scant. Watered down bleach, rancid meat and dead car batteries were the specials of the day.

Conclusion:

Lucy felt she may have picked up scurvy in the mud pit port-o-john. The Forester explained that in addition to the the “cicada high” he’d also ingested 5-MeO-DMT extracted from the glands of a bufo toad. “You did what?” Lucy begged. His wife explained that after a similar incident at another festival he had to be air lifted out by a Black Hawk helicopter. Everything had kicked in again exactly the same as before, short panicked breaths, vivid hallucinations, loose stools…”the toad” had once again done its job. Lucy noted that these were exactly the kind of lunatics Kamp Happiness always wanted to camp near. All in all the success of the festival couldn’t even be measured by traditional methods and it would take some time to make sense of it all.

Thanks to Chris and Mountain Music Festival for letting the wranglers be part of the show. Follow their social sites on Facebook and Instagram. Check out the art from Brian Zickafoose at his website. Yaya, you put up with a great deal. Follow the wook wranglers on Facebook and Instagram and check out our recent article Orange Blossom Jamboree: Puddle of Fun 21.

Keep the wranglers near and dear to your heart as we continue along the Blue Ridge Parkway in search of fortune and glory. Red Wing,  Floydfest and Summer Camp lay ahead on the way to October and Rooster Walk Reunion. After that it’s time to head back to Live Oak for an extended stay in the Suwannee woods for Roots Revival and Hulaween. That’s what happening. Keep up.

Festival season has returned.