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| Fluorescent lights, mindless people hanging from trees, and mass hysteria in crowded spaces. Nothing out of the ordinary. Made in America 2015, Philadelphia, PA |
Characters play a rather sizable role in my journey, and none is bigger than my brother Dylan. By my side for the entirety of the 2-day festival, Dylan was my partner-in-crime and engine that kept me going. All the other temporary friends my brother and I collected that Sunday were organic byproducts of our unstoppable quest for pure, unadulterated joy.
Immediately upon exiting the subway, my brother and I met up with a group of people also en route to MiA. Comprised of two guys, four girls, and a whole lot of alcohol, this group was a collective mess, so naturally my brother and I stuck with them for a little bit. "A little bit" lasted until they were taking just a touch too long at a Dunkin Donuts along the way; Action Bronson was coming on at 3:00 and our mental clock was ticking. As we did the whole weekend, Dylan and I pursued our own interests and finally got to the entrance.
Briefly split up as a result of a ticket snafu, I was forced to wait just inside as my brother sought another entrance. During this time, fate intervened in my life for the first time that day. Who else do I see but the two guys from Dunkin Donuts, Tony and Micah. I figured I'd reconvene with them since Dylan still hadn't emerged yet, and I seamlessly worked my way into being "one of theirs" anyway. Students at the University of Connecticut, Tony and Micah were in Philly with the four girls, some from Connecticut, some students at La Salle, and were simply down to have a good time with anyone they encountered, just like Dylan and I. Once Dylan met back up with us, we embarked on Day 2, following the booming sounds of a wheezy, enthusiastic Bronson in the distance.
Unfortunately, we arrived at the Rocky Stage (Bronson's stage as well as the main stage of the festival) in time to only hear perhaps the final 2 or 3 songs of Bronson's set. Even in such a limited sample, Bronson was mesmerizing. The sight of a round, white, orange-bearded man prancing around, joint in hand, rapping like his life depended on it was honestly the ideal start to the day. At least for me, MiA was about experiencing all things foreign to me: live hip-hop music, mass crowds of intoxicated college-age kids, and overall anarchy. I embraced all these elements with surprising ease, as the comfort I felt with my newfound friends allowed me to move from place-to-place without any worry, an absolute anomaly for someone as plan-oriented as I am.
Tony and Micah, sporting a crisp, black Penny Hardaway jersey, were apparently most interested in seeing Future, so we headed over to his stage, the Liberty Stage, about an hour before his set was scheduled to begin. Santigold was performing by the time we clawed our way to a favorable spot near the stage, plenty close enough to examine a flawlessly executed orange-ribbon/checkered-blue jumpsuit get-up that I'm sure Prince probably rocked three decades ago. Santigold's mezzo-soprano voice and M.I.A.-reminiscent musical style influenced a growing crowd in size and volume. Her set seemed to fly by, but this was most likely due to the vodka still flowing through my veins and the scarcely-dressed young woman who was tugging at the strings of my Adidas backpack.
As Future's set time neared, the Liberty Stage became a glut of glossy-eyed millennials scrambling around with seemingly no purpose in mind. Dylan and I decided to depart from our dear hour-long friends Tony and Micah as we decided that seeing Big Sean without a squad was better than enduring Future - and that crowd - with one. This is where absolute madness led me to fate once again. Finding our way out of the scrum of the Liberty Stage was one of the most challenging exercises in patience and focus that I've ever experienced, complete with some unfortunately obnoxious people armed with a sense of entitlement that the crowd should part for them like they were Prince Akeem of Zamunda himself.
Out from the endless waves of faceless figures appeared two girls in matching pink hats that read "You Can't Drink With Us." Fighting out of a crowd that would cause even the slightest claustrophobe to pass out tends to create solidarity for any small group of people looking to make their way out. This is exactly what happened with my brother, me, and these two girls as we grabbed ahold of each other and pursued every crack and crevasse in the masses to find any type of open space. The two girls, Megan and Sam, said they were separated from two of their other friends, also wearing the pink hats, so we figured we'd help them look for them as we continued to push through. Finally, as we made it far enough away from Future's domain to get some breathing room, a third pink hat was spotted. Not long after, the fourth girl in their group was reunited with her friends, and just like that, Dylan and I had found another bunch of young, excitable people to explore the increasingly hazy, sweaty realm known as Made in America.
It's well past 5:00 now. Future is lighting his crowd on fire with his signature deep voice and booming beats, but all I'm focused on is making it to Big Sean, who will kick off an epic trilogy at the Rocky Stage that will also see J. Cole and The Weeknd follow. The girls that are traversing the perilous concession stand lines with us are perfect fits for us: outgoing, drunk, attractive, and absolutely not willing to give a fuck. Sam, a petite blonde with a gorgeous smile, especially took a liking to me despite the fact that I was the only non-21-year-old among us. Megan, GoPro in hand and feet always moving, Ria, the most wild and active of the bunch, and Patti, the de facto leader and "mom" as I heard the other girls call her, were also on their way to see Big Sean, so our partnership would at least continue for a while longer.
Big Sean killed it. Let me just say that right off the bat. His energy level was off the charts compared to an admittedly sub-par Meek Mill set the day before, and his setlist was pretty flawlessly constructed. He opened with "Paradise", his manic, 2-versed obliteration of conventional flows and unofficial lead track off his new album Dark Sky Paradise. He continued with a balanced mix of old and new songs, and all of them aside from "One Man Can Change the World" got the crowd erupting into a crazed frenzy. "One Man" did resonate with the crowd on another level, though; Sean's pre-song speech about his late grandmother, the inspiration for the song, wrought a sense of genuine sympathy and raw emotion among the audience that could also be heard in Sean's performance of the song. As a result, the atmosphere during that song and the rest of the set was marked by an overwhelming sense of unity and togetherness. I knew this to be true simply off the connections made by my brother and I during the set. Naturally, we were dancing with our pink-hatted friends the whole time, but everyone surrounding us seemed drawn to anyone expressing a willingness to let themselves be absorbed by the music, which most certainly described us. The set concluded with the post-breakup anthem "I Don't Fuck With You", making for a beautiful contrast with the mood of the rest of the set. In between several songs, Big Sean would preach to the crowd about pursuing your dreams and all that good stuff that I don't mean to yada-yada because I share the same views, but I must to make this point: As Sean sang his lyrics of resentment and disapproval toward his ex to the sea of screaming fans, the message of the song became suddenly clear to me. Don't get hung up on something or someone that had a negative impact in your life. Keep moving forward and only surround yourself with positive influences. In that moment, I gained a newfound respect for a rapper that many used to poke fun at for simplistic views of fame and mostly corny puns.
The sun was beginning to set as my brother, the pink girls and I decided to head toward the bathroom facilities following Big Sean's set. I knew for a fact that the day was only beginning, though, as I eagerly awaited my favorite artist, J. Cole, to come on at 7:30. The central aisle of the festival was lined with concessions on either side of a wide, paved walkway that only continued to get more congested as the night progressed. It was precisely during our descent into the dust-filled depths of this area that Dylan and I were separated from the girls. Unfortunate, sure, but certainly an expected occurrence in such a situation. We quickly gathered ourselves and agreed upon making our way back to the Rocky Stage to nudge our way as close to the front as possible. Despite the short memory I expressed outwardly, something in the back of mind told me to still be on the lookout for a couple of bobbing pink hats buried in the crowd. The logical side of my brain told me there was simply no chance I'd see Sam and the rest of them again, it was just too improbable. Yet, some sort of indescribable pulling from deep within me swayed me to stay vigilant. Well, I'm sure you can guess what happened next. One glance behind me as Dylan and I settled into our spots for J. Cole yielded me a view of the girls and those bright pink hats reappearing to us.
Believe it or not, this encounter sparked a change in my entire being. Maybe I'm overdramatizing the whole thing, but the manifestation of a chance reunion that I would usually have never imagined could happen, yet I somehow knew was going to happen anyway, caused me to at least give credence to those who subscribe to the enigma known as "fate." Made in America, where life-altering cosmic lessons apparently fucking happen.
Now, when I say Big Sean killed his set, I meant it. He was sensational. That being said, J. Cole committed premeditated murder on his hour-long performance at MiA. Emerging from backstage to the eternally hopeful "Intro" off his newest album 2014 Forest Hills Drive, Cole gleefully strolled to the front of the stage and greeted the audience with such brazen joviality that I suddenly found myself with the most childlike grin plastered on my face within seconds. "Intro" along with the final song performed off the album, "Love Yourz", created the perfect bookends to sum up the message of 2014 FHD, which is that each person's singular focus in life is to find happiness, however that may come to you (implied is that it should be a positive outlet). Family, friends, fulfillment, and love are what add up to a life worth living, and all other bullshit just doesn't matter. Few, if any, rappers are currently basing their music on these principles, making J. Cole, combined with his respect for those stuck in "the hustle" that he witnessed growing up in Fayetteville, NC, truly the realest rapper out right now. People may hate on him for his vulnerability and (in my opinion) meritless view that he is "uninteresting", but the guy simply goes out there on that stage and delivers his heart and soul for each and every person in the crowd. It's not all sensitive shit and phone-flashlight-waving songs either; "A Tale of 2 Citiez" absolutely bumps in a live setting, with the noise level reaching its apex during the part of the song where Cole commands everyone to put their "hands in the air now, hands in the air."
By the time the aforementioned "Love Yourz" was introduced by Cole as "not a festival song," I'm sure no one in the crowd could care any less. "No such thing as a life that's better than yours," the song's unifying theme, more than aptly described my thoughts at that exact moment. I've never been to any type of concert or music festival like MiA before, so everything I saw and felt that day was new territory. Seeing my favorite artist live, performing songs that speak to my ideals about love, personal strife, and overall happiness created a feeling inside me that I honestly have trouble putting into words (ironic considering how many words you've read up to this point). Add that to the beautiful girl I got dancing on me, telling me I'm giving her goosebumps, and suddenly she isn't the only one. Being keenly aware of natural euphoria as it hijacks your entire existence is a rare occurrence; I was able to experience that phenomenon at this precise moment. A sincere thank you to J. Cole, and Sam, for helping me achieve this. Hopefully the two of you were able to experience your own unique fulfillment in that moment as well...
But the night is not over, not by a long shot. After J. Cole wrapped his set up, we didn't have any pressing needs to attend to. The Weeknd was scheduled to come on at 9:30, so we had about an hour to kill. It was during this motiveless allotment of time that the mysticism of the event hit me like I was the victim of Kam Chancellor's steadfast protection of the middle of the field. The combination of dust and smoke - from cigarettes, hookah vapes, and weed alike - created a dreamlike environment that, doused in the electric magic emanating from EDM DJ's Axwell and Ingrosso's turntables, stimulated my brain like I've never known before. I allowed myself to let go of any and all inhibitions; all my fears, faults, and past mistakes were nonexistent. Alcohol wasn't even part of the equation anymore. I, along with my brother and the pink girls, positioned myself squarely in the middle of the center aisle and decided to create my own stage. Somehow we were able to recreate the innocence of a grade-school dance mixed with the twisted nature of such a drug-and-alcohol-inspired event with some admittedly insane dance circles. Megan's GoPro served as the ladle that stirred the pot, as anyone bold and free enough to make their way into our circle was captured forever by her camera. And man did we attract some bold and free people! Shoutout to my man Gresdin (probably terribly butchering his name) in the fresh T-Mac Raptors jersey who confirmed my previously unproven thoughts that I am in fact a good dancer. He was tearing it up so I can say with a good deal of confidence that his opinions are valid. Soon enough we were the main attraction of all those who weren't actually at a stage, drawing in all bystanders with our infectious energy and, as I'd like to think, exceptional moves. This lasted for at least 30 minutes, only ceasing when our bodies were almost ready to give out and we wisely decided to save whatever we had left for the night's final act, The Weeknd.
The twilight hours of MiA gave off a much different feel than the earlier hours. Illegal substances took their toll on the less disciplined, dehydration likely claimed its share of the unwise as well. Dylan, our night-long pink capped friends, and I would not be denied, however, of our rightful nightcap. Dreary bodies were strewn across the lawn like I was walking through a military shelter for wounded soldiers, just with dirt instead of blood splattered across the clothes. Only through sheer persistence did we manage to slither our way to a favorable spot in the crowd. Even the wait for The Weeknd to come on was compelling, simply because of the tangible anticipation that draped over the crowd as if it was the world's largest blanket.
I was a way bigger Big Sean, J. Cole, Action Bronson, and even Meek Mill fan coming into MiA than I was with The Weeknd. I enjoyed his features on "Crew Love" by Drake and "Pullin Up" by Meek, and the catchiness of "The Hills" and "Can't Feel My Face" obviously permeated my ears and attracted some interest, but I knew virtually none of his catalogue besides that. I was looking forward to his performance nonetheless, as I was aware of how his music generally resonates with crowds at live events such as this. Well, I had no fucking idea as to how much The Weeknd resonated with me at a live event such as that. Sonically, his voice synced with the synths and other wizardry involved in his beats is likely the best I've ever heard at the concert setting. The successive (or close to successive) performances of the two songs mentioned above along with "Tell Your Friends," set off a gradual chain of reaction in the crowd the likes that I've never seen before at a concert, party, or any social event. The entire concept of people dancing/standing alone ceased to exist. All that remained was the ability to congregate in partners for the most part, groups as well, as The Weeknd preached his hazy, twisted, yet romantic sermon. His falsetto delivery is all-encompassing as it explodes through the assuredly Jay Z-approved speaker system (MiA is Hov's event, sponsored by Budweiser, what's up Budweiser? *winks for some sponsorship attention*). His songs build an Inception-like dreamscape that somehow doesn't seem unnatural, you never receive the kick as long as the music is still playing. And for an insanely lucky guy like me, the partner I had in taking in the exclamation point for the entire day was Sam, yeah, one of those "pink hats" I kept tossing into scattered sentences. She seemed equally engulfed by the whole experience, and positively affected by my involvement in her time there, which is only especially notable to me because Made in America is, at its core, a musical festival. Only The Weeknd and all the other great acts are able to convince you into thinking there is no other place that you could be. And as the ringleader of our collective madness proclaimed that he couldn't feel his face, there's no place I'd rather be (though I was entirely cool with maintaining feeling in my face). I'd never think such a strong connection could be felt with another person entirely accompanied by music. The whole crowd surely sounded like they thought differently.
And then, it was over. It happens just that quick. Next thing I know Sam and her friends are scurrying away, and it's just Dylan and I once again. All of the highs wrapped up in dancing with that one girl, with this one dude pouring his heart out into a microphone in front of all of us, swiftly becomes a thing of the past, and our focus suddenly shifts to finding our way out of the ensuing mass exodus. Those girls, Tony and Micah wherever they were, and even the dude from Houston we became 60-second friends with as all our girls departed from us, are back to their lives, likely to never be seen again (hit me up if you're ever in Philly again though Sam *winking face emoji*).
As Dylan and I eventually worked our way out of Tidal Kingdom, and all these thoughts that I've managed to put into words were just developing as reactions in my head, fate decided to poke its head out one last time. Not fate in a world-changing way, but still meaningful. Recalling the entire day aloud with Dylan and visually in my mind inspired me to compose this very (hopefully) compelling blog post that I've had a blast writing. Made in America taught me many lessons that Sunday, but none greater than this: take advantage of every opportunity to experience any type of (safe) joy and happiness that you can.
Just as MiA begins on the way there, it doesn't end til you're back home. My way home included a nostalgia-filled account of our night to some subway strangers, two of whom were Penn State students, which meant as a Temple student, I had automatic bragging rights over them after Temple's 27-10 win over the Nittany Lions on Saturday night.
When you're having a good day, everything just ends up working out in your favor, you know?
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