Langaroo

I heard so many performers call Langarado the wrong name last weekend that it became a running joke between my friends and me.

I think Langaroo was a drug-induced mix-up between Langerado and Bonnaroo? And I can't even remember who said it.

I'll blog about it after my story runs.

And no, the Chick In The Pic isn't me.

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I usually don't like posting complete stories without some link love, but I was too lazy to do that with this one. Besides, Ctrl+C and Ctrl+V is so sexy.


Newbie not sure camping is her thing
KARI COBHAM - STAFF WRITER
March 20, 2008; Page 01E

FLORIDA EVERGLADES - "I'm, like, $40 away from Les Claypool, maaan," he said, leaning desperately into the car and looking for a handout.

"Me and my girl," he said, gesturing vaguely down the dirt road and creeping traffic, "we came all the way from Michigan."

We gave him a beer instead of money. He ambled off gratefully with his scruffy beard and a cap turned just so, to court another donor. I still wonder if he ever made it into the Langerado Music Festival. But we had.

Our two-car caravan braved a few hundred miles, thunderstorms and Alligator Alley to this muddy Seminole Indian reservation we'd share for the next four days with more than 20,000 people.

We quickly set up our tents Thursday night between fossilized lumps of cow dung and fire ant nests before heading toward the five brightly lit stages for the music.

Because it wasn't about comfort, it wasn't about relaxing. It was all about the bands I had come to see - The Wailers, Thievery Corporation, Matisyahu, R.E.M., Spam All-Stars and the Beastie Boys among others - and even the music I hadn't come for.

I wasn't mentally and physically prepared, though, to deal with the camping experience. While most everyone existed in a perpetual state of happy and showerless hippydom, I found myself cringing at the portable toilets, scampering back to camp every so often to freshen up and treating hand sanitizer like a demigod.

Despite the discomfort I hid well, I was carried away by the energy and the vibe that can only be created by thousands of people gathering for the love of the craft - and a cross-section of more than 80 live bands spanning reggae-rap-hip-hop-jazz-rock hybrids, electronica and funk.

There are no strangers here, I realized, only friends; people who comfortably strike up random conversations, who share their sunblock and food, who dance like nobody's watching - an undulating sea of dreadlocks, long skirts and whimsy.

I was jealous, almost, because it was so not a part of who I am. I love adventure and free spiritedness, but outside my comfort zone I am adrift, cynical, cautious of strangers and taking chances. I need to be in control of my space. I both loved it and hated it.

And Mother Nature seemed as fickle as I was. She gave us warm, windy days, chilly nights with torrential rain and tornado warnings, but ask anyone if they noticed. I could hear rain before I could feel it, rising over sweat-slick bodies chanting for more.

"There's no such thing as personal space," said Sara Kiesler, fellow writer and veteran festival-goer, as a woman ricocheted off me and drifted away in her own drug-induced world, still dancing to funky electric bassist Les Claypool.

I found myself stageside for the Wailers, jamming to "No Woman, No Cry" and lead singer Elan's "Nothing is Worth Losing You." I stuffed my hands in my pockets to keep them warm while Thievery Corporation rocked my cold world.

I stood amazed that the ageless Beastie Boys could still sound like they did in the '80s. I nodded my head to Arrested Development from the media area couches. I lay staring at the stars while Matisyahu chanted onstage. I lost and found myself all at once.

If anyone were to ask me if I'd do it again, I'd hesitate. I'd probably say I don't know.
But the time will come again, the music might call and I might be gone, searching for a part of myself left somewhere in the middle of the windy Florida Everglades.

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