The Relative Importance of Sleep at a Festival

“Are you there God? It’s me, Thatcher?”

His typing was worse than usual. It was always slow and sloppy but now the keys were sticking and glued with white Russian spilled earlier that morning. The old gypsy woman had been right when she’d cackled that he’d be dragged through the cheese grater. In the great scheme of things it really didn’t matter. There was more Kahlua on top of the fridge and the news from Old Dominion was unexpectedly promising. Somewhere between bad choices, good luck and Covid-19 many counties, including Nelson County were letting convicted felons go scot-free. Reckon they had bigger fish to fry and why not? Times were weird and there is no such thing as social justice in the land of the Watusi. Maybe next time tough guy. Like most thugs occasionally dancing on the dark side of the law, Thatcher knew there would always be a chance for a next time. Wise to make allies of common sense and adult caution from here on out. Nobody wants to throw out bail. That’s been proven.

There is a wind blowing out of the south and on it rides the promise of music festivals. Thatcher Owen Mullins was  frothing and ready to strap on his festicles. It might almost be time to turn the day job into the side hustle and get back into the minutiae of the thing. He longed for the full days of rabid fun and long nights without sleep. Welcome dear hearts to The Relative Importance of Sleep at a Festival.

Live Oak, FL-Thatcher and Moonshine Gary were the last men standing. It had been a brutal day of festival revelry packed dense with the hardest brand of loose fun but now everyone else was finally asleep and the fire was slowly going out. Campfire music could be heard coming from Slopprygrass, not too far down the road. Grabbing the guitar, the water jug filled with moonshine and two Natural Lights they stumbled toward the noise. The sun would be coming up soon.

The Relative Importance of Sleep at a Festival

It happens to every festivarian eventually. Morning arrives early, right in the middle of last night’s party. Where did the time go? Camp mates begin rolling out of their tents and sunrise fresheners return all bubbly, having enjoyed the last of the hot water. Folks start brewing coffee and coughing up morning music along with last night’s dirt and ashes. Did that meltdown really happen last night? Where to go from here? The choices are many and the road is rocky. Maybe a breakfast burrito and and a fat slab of Moose’s Washington mushroom caramel. Perchance a nip of Knob Creek and Yonder Mountain on the Field Stage at one. There really is no rest for the weary.

Thatcher knew in his heart of hearts there was no good time to sleep. There was no easy answer to the question. He simply had too much to see and do. Too much music. Too many people. Just the walking would constitute great amounts of time and miles. It’s one of the things that drives the festival. Twenty-four hours of straight up action-packed goodness. When his camp got quiet he knew someone, somewhere was still awake and getting all the way down. He wondered if it was better to have control over his sleep and utilize a rest strategy or just sit back and see where and when the bomb drops? Who could tell where the fall would happen? Maybe some kid’s hammock, a stranger’s tent or an Indian blanket during Oteil and Friends. It’s shameful but in the face of poor planning, weird things sometimes happen to good people. Even Oteil.

Music?

In terms of perspective and priorities, all of the other factors were never more than ancillary to the actual music on stage. This is a music festival dagnabbit. Depending on the festival, there can be shows running all night and day. Woo hoo! Thatcher was not about to miss the four am My Morning Jacket show. No sir. Saturday night with Cheese and Panic? Go on. Govt. Mule in the field, The Floozies at the back field stage, the Tipper 4:20 show and Greensky anywhere. It might be time for forget about cooking and go find an gyro. Some things are just non-negotiables.

Working/Volunteering?

In most normal cases the ability to manage real work responsibilities requires a modicum of rest. Campsite hijinks often fall flat in the potentially hectic work environment. By the time the supervisor asks, “Are you alright?” it may already be too late. You’ve already ran the golf cart into the saw palmettos and the toothpaste can’t go back in the tube. Those in and around your campsite might not understand the fact you will be parking cars in the sun for twelve hours the next day. When faced with these kinds of shenanigans, simply move your camp next door to the Sherrif’s annex trailer. No one will likely follow.

 

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Music Sessions

• Morning music: Sunrise bluegrass gospel with coffee, Tia Maria and a cup of salvation. Don’t worry, you didn’t die last night. It’s like walking into a Guatemalan bar, just start small and grow. Louvin Brothers and Taj Majal are a fine way to kick things off. Soapy is when it only takes a drink or two to catch you back up with last night’s party. That’s what you are. Soapy.
• Post-breakfast/midday: Maybe a little of whatever passes for sleep and the early morning moonshine hasn’t sunk in yet. This might be as good as it gets. John Prine, cajones and song books are allowed.
• Late night session: The picks have been lost. The tuners have been passed around. Musicians ease in and slide out. The circle stays fluid and the music never stops. How good is your memory? One verse and one chorus doth make a song. This is the part of the night when fiddle players start standing on one leg. Be wary. Both the harmony and the circle have gotten tighter. Welcome to the Experimentation Station. Sometimes that which the brain forgets, the fingers remember.

Baitbucket was getting older and increasingly held together by opiods and titanium. Like his sister he could sleep anywhere and anytime and there was usually a gravity storm looming somewhere on the distant horizon. He could crash in the middle of drum circle occasionally waking up in the wrong golf cart. The tent next to the fire must be able to sleep through the storm. –Sans Souci

Lucienda tried to sneak off around three in the morning but couldn’t rest amidst the constant jabbering. How she wished she’d taken those earplugs when they were offered. She knew he should have camped further away, back in the woods with the old people. Who knows? There was always a calamitous chance that some madman was going to pull up with an accordion, squat directly next to your tent, and eventually urinate on everything. The festival is not always the best place to catch up on rest. Wait a few days until everyone is gone then enjoy the solace that comes with the post-party and beyond.

Assistance

Coming back from the stage Thatcher found a small bag of something white and crystalline on the ground. Although universally considered an unsafe practice, he’d always thought of himself as a human test kit and this groundscore would be no different. Unsure of what it was he was entirely confident it would help keep him awake. Naturally he hoped it was cocaine. He was looking to hook up with a hippy girl later and a little blow never hurt. The plan would be to save it until late night when it could be helpful at Frick Frack Blackjack but it would always be gone by lunch.

Science?

It is a fact. The human body can go a few days without sleep but each day comes with a cost and It’s not long before things begin to go slightly sideways. The boatman says if you want to cross you must pay. The eyes once sparkling and clear finally darken and sink into a hazy murk.

At some point after days of abuse and little rest Thatcher literally turned into a zombie. His once healthy skin color had darkened to a mute grey and his red eyes stared out from behind black rings. No worries though. This was a good kind of zombie. He moved pretty slow and was only hunting for lighters. When his camp went dark he would hit the road and look for signs of lurking parties.

Where’s the Party?

He assumed that everyone attending the festival wanted to be his friend. His pit bull was excellent at sniffing out parties. They knew that tapestries were just for keeping out cops dressed like hippies. Normal people would always be welcome. To prove he wasn’t a cop dressed like a hippy, he would do some of their drugs. That should set their minds at rest. Or better yet, he would share some of his. A tested sure-fire way to make new friends.

When visiting a new camp, if he hadn’t been acknowledged after a few minutes he would start considering his exit strategy. Sometimes it’s just time to get. Conversely, if he was invited in and offered a shot of Jaegermiester that was a solid indication he’d turned to the right page. There are many signs when one is willing to read the landscape. (ed note. Boatright-Herring)

Thatcher knew that in the end it wouldn’t matter. All he could do was try his best. If he wasn’t taking care of himself he wouldn’t be able to take care of anyone else. Sound words from the criminally insane. No one can catch every show and find find every friend. But that’s the game and we are the players. “If you’re going to buy a ticket you might as well see the show.”  -C.W.

Keep up with the wranglers as we steer toward a new festival season, heading south to pick up the music trail. Might as well, might as well. The weather’s crappy everywhere else. As always, Florida’s spring nights are perfect for festivals and coming this way is Maddox Ranch Medicine Show, Fools Engagement and Suwannee is still working toward Spring Reunion. Check out the Florida State Bluegrass Festival April 9-10 in Perry and always keep looking forward to the summer and Floydfest. Visit their landing page for tickets, lineup and information. Thanks again for making the wook wranglers your festival signpost and be sure to check out some of our other articles including an adventure from the archives, High Country Journal: Trampled By Pickles.

Remember, throw Frisbees, not grenades.