Summer Camp '21: photo by Jason Nail
The honk of the Canadian geese could be heard as the chevron passed overhead, always east to west and back again. Sweat bees and grasshoppers flittered everywhere and purple lightning flashed silently in the distance. The cool evening breeze blew from the west over the endless fields of corn and soybeans and everything was beautiful. Chavez and Tia had finally found their way to Chillicothe, Illinois for the twentieth anniversary of Summer Camp Music Festival. Well regarded in their hippy circles as a beast of a festival. Here on the banks of the Illinois River they could almost feel the latent energy, the ghosts in the forest and the potential for blissfully gruesome insanity on the horizon. This was their first Scamp and they were still still simple and ignorant, like Chillbillies in the woods. Greenhorns for the slaughter. The train whistle in the distance seemed to convey a message that said although you might only be a flipped ice cream truck away from a broken ankle, still hit it hard and leave nothing on the table when you walk away. You may only have one shot. Build it up and tear it down. The funnel is not for everyone. Do you have the proper lanyard? Welcome to Summer Camp ’21: Restricted Access.
They showed up at Three Sisters Park on the ninth of August to join the site-ops team already in progress. The festival wouldn’t start until the nineteenth and they were rocking on ready for the prehustle. Comfortable in Bob’s Bunkhouse with it’s private showers and cold dark beds, it was a healthy improvement over what they had expected as the summer weather in Illinois would be unpredictable and colorful. Big Betty lived under the monstrous Green Team tent next door which also served as the party patio when the evening storms blew in. The bunk house was filled with boys and men from around the country and some as close as Chilli and Peoria. Somewhere along the line Chavez convinced the suits that he was an operator so his next two weeks would be filled with driving skid loaders and lifts. The lie had become the truth. He even managed to obtain a black key to turn off the governor in his taco truck. Just the pro tip. Get to the festival early enough or stay late and you get to drive all the fun toys.
Site-Ops and Angry Frogheads Indeed: Their team consisted of some of the greasiest and slickest thugs to ever hook a breathalyzer to a car ignition. Ricardo Montalbán (indeed), Shane (a few steps lost), Justin, Ricky (Whitey), Daryn, Man Bear, Creepy, Detroit and the Angry Froghead would toil in the dust and summer sun for twelve hour days while grinders like Cozy would continue all night cutting down trees and clearing the forest with Jake. The late nights were filled with monster fires, Tito’s and cheap beer and each morning they would amass again at eight am for more sun, mulch and temporary fences. Tia had requisitioned herself a Carryall 500, the dark horse of the golf cart armada and she piloted it with furious impunity. She would never get a golf cart legally in a Virginia festival but here in Illinois, she had somehow moved up the totem pole.
Soulshine and Tactical Dodgeball: The Soulshine crew showed up about the same time as site-ops. Nick, Compost, Jason, Jake and the rest of the team challenged the site-ops crew to a game of “tactical dodge ball”. Little did they know Daryn had gone to Oklahoma on a full dodge ball scholarship. Books and tuition. Full ride yo. (Ed. note- Due to a gag order in ongoing criminal court details remain unavailable.) Compost cut through the gibberish and painted the simple picture. “We build it up so we can tear it all down.” At that point it was still just site-ops and Soulshine. Eventually production guys, security hospitality and the rest of the hydra would slowly arrive.
Part of the site-ops mandate was to erect endless miles of temporary fencing throughout the property. While unrolling wire fence Tia found a laminated piece of paper with the Summer Camp logo dated 2017. It read “Restricted Access” and she cut off the zip ties in hopes of using it as a camp decoration to go with the “quiet” sign from Red Wing and the “Danger: Swamp” sign from Front Porch Fest.
“I love Scamp the most because it’s the dirtiest and wookiest.” Cheyenne
As soon as the medical team showed up all employees had to get a Covid test. “Is the Delta strain an indica or a sativa?” “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s a hybrid.” Chavez realized he was experiencing a complete “summer camp” in a very real sense. Thrown together in the bunk house with folks he didn’t know the days were filled with team building, hard work, new friends, occasional bitchboy tantrums and safety meetings down by the old bridge. These guys were the real grinders and Chavez would have so much fun with them setting up the festival that by the time the gates opened he felt as if he’d already gotten his money’s worth.
Chavez and Tia set up Scamp Happiness Wednesday night before the gates opened. Chavez considered putting the Hobo Kamp backerds from the trail a little so to have a little adult privacy. Tia shook her head in disgust and began dragging tents and equipment directly next to the dirt trail that ran from the Soulshine Tent. “This is where it goes down or it doesn’t go at all.” She knew the only place to be was right on the dirt path known as Shakedown Street. Later that night local authorities announced that they would be tossing all campsites set up before the gates opened Thursday. Chavez dropped the pop up halfway down and hung the “Restricted Access” sign out front. Later Brandon the neighbor would recall the story of the two Deputies in the golf cart discussing whether or not to toss the camp. “Should we tear down this camp? No sir. They’ve got a Restricted Access sign so they’re supposed to be here.” Boomsickles.
“Where’d you get that golf cart? I took it from the lot. Where’d you get a key? I used a pocket knife.
Quit asking so many questions.”
Indoor tires on an outdoor lift: They followed the Angry Froghead to the warehouse in Peoria. He was back huffing starter fluid when Man Bear got the forklift stuck in the mud. Welcome to the palletization station. This is the behind the scenes stuff where the real magic happens. Driving over the neighbor’s grass is apparently how Frogheads have there faceholes cracked. Their days were filled with ratchet straps and bike racks and their nights were filled with light beer and dabs. Sometime during prefest Tia became aware of an existing sinus condition that had taken root behind her nose. As a result of the long days and nights, the dust and almost constant screaming her voice was devolving into the guttural festival hiss. With little time to heal, both the rotten voice and the nagging cough would linger until the latter part of September.
Showtime: Once the thundering herds of hippies got in the gate a fine bank of sifted dust lifted off the ground and hung like a giant brown bubble for the entire festival. Lines and rings of black Illinois dirt streaked everyone’s necks and arms and as she set up the Mi Kulture tent Tia’s face was painted so thick with the black grime that she looked more Mulatto than the day she was hatched. Cheyenne and Sergio found their way to the Mi Kulture tent and the squad was back together. The mountain had come to Mohammed. Cheyenne was drinking a bloody Mary out of an empty sour cream container and Sergio was reminding everyone in a loud voice that he had a forked uvula and was from Spain, not Colombia. Curiouser and curiouser.
Chavez sold his “All Access” wristband for $200 to one of Whitey’s friends. Later he would come to understand that he wouldn’t receive site-ops pay until a week after the festival, rendering him broke, as he had been for literally months. And by that time he would already be at Backwoods. Of his newfound wealth, he spent $80 on a pair of Spunglasses that while pimpishly sexy, were uncomfortable and functionally useless. He also spent $100 on a String Cheese hoodie that was a couple sizes too small and and once the lights came on, drastically underwhelming.
On his way to work with Mi Kulture Chavez had a sneeze “incident” that left his mustache caked with some kind of white plastic blend. While struggling to find a vacant port-o-john he looked as if he’d run over a can of spray paint with his nose. On the way to work the next day he would smear sour cream across his whiskers to reproduce the timeless look. Eerily, he’d seen the same thing earlier in the week when a brand new GMC truck ran over a bright orange marking spray can in the front parking field spewing up the quarter panel like a LeRoy Neiman print.
How do you like me now?
Kurtis ignored the literal warning sign that read “Kurtis, stay out of the bird house.” and opted to sleep on the raised platform twelve feet above the ground. Sleeping above the constant din of the groundling rabble, at the time it really did seem like a good idea and the math checked out. It was the air horn alarm that ripped him from his blissful slumber and caused him to roll off the platform. He woke up in midair with the hard Earth rushing up to meet him. All of Issac Newton’s laws of motion wrapped into one ball cracking ball of pain. Skip to the broken ankle and the frantic search for crutches. Not all birds are meant to fly you beautiful bastard.
“You love it because it’s so dirty.”
Somewhere along the way Creepy fell in the VIP tent and got crushed under a cattle mat. The rest of the team wrapped him in burlap and buried him under the port-o-johns, which he had worked so hard to place in line. As they planned the celebration of life, Chives knew of a place in Indiana were it was legal to posses less than a gram of meth. Get on it. The flag with the extended middle finger would be flown at half mast for the remainder of the festival.
His Indian name was Vtka Este which meant “little spoon”. He’d gotten as close as the green room to the Turtle Stage with Enrique and Jean Luc but that was as far as he would go. The Dead tunes were solid but he just wasn’t ready for prime time. and a hustlers gotta hustle. “A cry for help” was what they said in the Illumination Woods when he woke up in a hammock wearing nothing but a scrim toga and a broken tiara. Arrogance and stupidity make terrible bedfellows.
This is the Mi Kulture experience. Welcome to the pocket. We’ve got fans for days. Dima woke up in a bucket of crumpled velvet tapestries labeled “gently used”. His condition was “septic” and one of his eyes was glued shut with some kind of yellow crust. “That sass was a little dopey,” he slurred as he brushed his teeth with water from the food cooler. Chavez stood out front of the booth breathing in the dust stirred loose by the thundering herd of a thousand dirty feet. He was sporting the Dreamsicle velvet laced up to reveal extra freckles. Dirty sex sells.
Billy into Umphrey’s into Billy into Umphrey’s. Neato. Now this is Summer Camp. Josh said, “This is the most drunk I get every year.” It sounded like he was already speaking to a Peoria County judge. What few cops in attendance were moderately well behaved and dressed like cops. The Dragon Lady reminds us that one can’t change the world handcuffed to a golf cart. The Illinois festival weather, which typically gets a bad rap was divine and the nights were perfect. One great aspect of Summer Camp is that once you’re in, you’re in. There are no lines or security to slow down the fierce roll. You are all the way in.
Daryn was seen masturbating in the middle of the Moonshine field. It was always to Umphrey’s so it was kinda his thing and no one seemed to mind. At some point he realized it wasn’t Umphrey’s and almost fell over. Who is this? Wait, what day is this? He realized he was one ambien crusted snapper away from self date rape. Matt and Chavez had requisitioned some dinner tickets from site-ops and were getting well fed once a day. They would stuff down cheeseburgers and fill their pockets with turkey sandwiches for later. Between that and leftover Masala lentils from FloydFest they might actually survive. After a few days of VIP treatment, Turtle had ceased bringing them ice and the cooler was turning into a cesspool of soggy bread and warm bloody Mary mix. Fortunately Bitchell’s two boxes of wine hadn’t even been cracked and would get them further down the road.
“We got jokes for days!”
Brittney was a little rough around the edges but she had a heart of gold. She proudly exposed tufts of her pubic and armpit hair as part of her new “Talladega cut”. After one day of working together for Josh and Jess there was no denying the animal connection she shared with Chavez. Things were moving pretty fast and it looked as if it was getting serious. If things kept going the way they were someone was getting finger banged in the Eno hammock display. They left work together and went home to Scamp Happiness for a night of fusion bluegrass, fresh tattoos and bedazzled track lines between the toes. At some point during the fray her head went missing and the wrangler rangers were forced to improvise using an old pineapple and modeling clay. A late night call from her father was answered with a fierce, “Mind ya business. She’s out on the town. We’ll have her at work by 9:30.”
Mary Moses lives here. Her favorite type of gum was fuckum. She was the kind of woman who could sit in the dirt and do breakfast alligator rails off the guitar. She wore a painted stealie on her back that ran down into her shorts and she was missing a shoe. Unteathered and perfectly unhinged her exposed toe dipped into the milk of human kindness. She and Chavez left to watch the Wood Brothers but ended up at the Moonshine Stage with Moe?. They found the right show at the Sunshine Stage but lost each other as she commenced to dance with everyone in attendance. They later discovered a note at camp that read, “Mary Moses was here. Be back later for Jedi Flip.” Matt Bitchell screamed, “She’s inside of me!” He was correct. She was inside of everyone. Never miss a Saturday show. She took off in the middle of the night for some undiscovered corner of Illinois. Showered. Fed the cats and went to bed. Only to wake up a few hours later realizing that there was still a little ass left to show off in Chillicothe. This Illinois turnaround is brought to you by the twisted zest for life.
Chavez looked around as he sat by himself early Saturday morning. It was sunrise and Scamp Happiness looked as if a Mardi Gras float had been dropped on it from high altitude. Everything was covered in paint, wax and dirt and much of the camp remained scattered in the middle of the Shakedown path. Brittney was filthy and her limbs lay in a pile next to her torso. She had seen better days. Chavez grabbed some fresh clothes and headed over to the bunk house for a hot shower. Several of the site-ops guys were getting ready to go to work as he walked up, covered in paint, blood and thick layers of black dirt. “Buenos dias beetches” he croaked through a throat coated with dirt and fresh sin. He emerged from the bunkhouse, a butterfly free of its cocoon. It’s the ego death. Good morning Chillicothe.
Tightening the screws? Definitely not. In a summer of tight bluegrass circles, Summer Camp was not the cleanest pickin’ party out there. Mr. Beautiful would not have been pleased with the cross between cracker trash and acid rock. There was an element of loosening of the screws to be sure. Chavez woke up to find some strange thug sleeping in his hammock. At several times during the weekend Kevin would be playing Big Betty while laughing and talking to himself like an twisted gremlin. He was an idiot savant without the savant but there was definitely some high science happening behind those crazy eyes. Fusion musicians and jazz aficionados took turns pounding on Betty as she was one to never mind being slapped by a complete stranger. For most of the weekend she lay in the filth and ground glitter, covered in a sheen of dust and ready for a good time anytime.
Tia, Cheyenne and Sergio found their way to the Floozies on the Sunshine Stage. Chavez went full boy fan and scrambled to the rail where he made allies of funk and jive. Ain’t no shame in the get down. The three of them later squeezed through an opening behind the VIP stage and loitered around looking for a loose bottle of Puerto Rican rum. They split up somewhere near the Turtle Stage and the last time anyone saw Sergio he was at the Soul Patch fire shaking violently and singing Shania Twain to himself.
Guitar lines and other crimes: Joe entered the scene asking, “Who wants to commit some crimes? Do you guys like pranks?” He had the big eyes. The night before he’d won someone’s soul throwing dice and now was ready for the vertical trade for some cocaine. He managed to procure the narcotics without giving up the soul. Suave. He secured it in sealed cigarette plastic and ending up giving to some passing poobah who likely discharged it in the nearest receptacle. To be sure, an underwhelming finale for a life of memories and emotion. At some point Joe’s car was towed and Chavez ended up letting him ride on the trunk of the Oldsmowagon to the front gate. He was carrying a blanket and a warm beer when they parted ways.
Moe into Umphrey’s into Moe into Umphrey’s into Doom Flamingo.
The GRIZ show Sunday night literally vibrated the sand on the ground. Chavez laid down at the Sunshine Stage and let the thundering base crawl right up his butt hole, where it belonged. Summer Camp is most definitely a festival that knows how to use a Sunday. Never miss a Sunday show.
Monday night they grabbed a flashlight and poured themselves into the CarryAll 500 for a late night groundscore run. Many campsites were left in such a state of higgly-piggly it appeared as if the participants had abruptly left the scene of a crime. They would load up with enough tapestries and swim meet flags for the foreseeable future. They were living back in the bunkhouse but Skamp Happiness was still in place mostly because they were in no great hurry to break it down. At some point Tuesday someone harvested the tent (thank you Dr. Thermometer), hammock (scored at Rising) and bullwhip. The first would be easy to replace but the latter would be a real challenge. Who even takes a bullwhip? That’s a good way to get hurt and you can’t groundscore the world. Who wrangles the wranglers? Groundscored girlfriends proved to be a thing as well. Dirty and soaking wet? Just leave them by the limes and warm beer. Wash em a couple of times. Just like new.
Visit the Summer Camp website and like their social media channels on Facebook, Instagram and YouTube. Summer Camp will be back May 27-29, 2022 and you can know that Kamp Happiness will be there, through every silly piece of it. Absolutely one delicious hell of a party.
Compost’s Rules for the New Age
- drink more water
- meet new people
- go to more shows
Thanks to Jannell and Jim for letting us play in the litter box. Mind blowing stupid fun with a healthy amount of respect and swagger. Thanks to Turtle for that musky musty odor rising from the bunk below and for letting Chavez use your towel to “tidy up” his netheregions. It was a perfect blend of respectful, responsible adult fun and potentially irreversible bad adult decisions. Thatcher Owen Mullins would call it “the mostmilk”.
Keep up with the wranglers and Kamp Happiness as we head back up to Virginia for Rooster Reunion and the last show of the Summer Mountain Festival Lyme Disease Tour. It has been a full warm can of whoop ass. THE very next week it’s back to the Alpha and the Omega for three weeks at Spirit of Suwannee Music Park with Suwannee Roots Revival and Hulaween. Let that just wash over you. Kamp Happiness will be on the lake for Roots and come Hula time find us back at the old Poncho Tree near Luke’s Lake and the Hobo Kamp where it all began. Get ready to slide. Hashtag Roanoke Mafioso.
Remember the wise words. “Build it up. Make it beautiful and sparkly. Then tear it all down. Just to clean it up and go do it all over again.” What other choice to we have?
RIP Tamiami Sammy. You are loved always.
Not this one boys..they have a sign…Beautiful!