Austin City Limits In My 30s
I'm in my 30s, the temperature is supposed to be in the 90s. Will I be a Chair Person?
“Do you think TomorrowWorld has good food?”
The question caught me off guard. I simply blinked at the woman in front of me as we waited to board our flight. I can’t remember where we were going; I was in my early 20s at the time. I traveled across South America and Southeast Asia and New Zealand, and all the flights blend together in a soup of cramped legs and dirty backpacks in the overhead bin. But I do remember stifling a laugh. I asked myself, who goes to TomorrowWorld—an epic EDM festival in Miami/spin-off of another epic EDM festival in Berlin—for the food?
Today, I do not ask myself that question. Austin City Limits begins this Friday, and when I saw a comment from Mighty Cone saying they’d be at ACL this year, I audibly said, “Yippee!” I expressed my joy, out loud, at the idea of buying a $15 cone consisting of a tortilla, coleslaw, and an avocado. (To be fair, the sauce they use is really good.)
This is going to a festival in my 30s.
Festivals In My 20s Versus Festivals In My 30s
The woman on the plane didn’t choose to go to TomorrowWorld. She was an assistant to a guy who made a lot of money and spent a lot of money on big festivals. She was just tagging along.
I remember, at the time, being a little jealous. I should have been in her place, running around Miami for free and sneaking in the occasional EDM show. In my 20s, I could only afford to going to festivals like Open’er in Poland, Auckland City Limits in New Zealand, or Boston Calling in Boston because I volunteered there, hitched a ride with online strangers to travel there, or both. I had no money and a lot of energy. But I wasn’t going to a festival for the food. I was going to mosh with the Dune Rats, see The Disco Biscuits play five times in a row, or see The Libertines followed by D’Angelo followed by Major Lazer.
Somewhere along the way, I ended up here. I can pay for a ticket without batting an eye, but at what cost? I know more food vendors on the ACL lineup than artists. I weigh the cost of upgrading my ticket with the benefit of using cleaner bathrooms. I am wearing boots on a Tuesday morning in the hopes that I can wear them comfortably on Sunday. (But let’s be honest. I’ll have flats in my bag.)
What is the age when one stops picking up muddy sunglasses and accessories off the ground and claiming them as their own?
What is the age when a person leaves before the headliners begin to avoid traffic on the way home?
What is the age when one becomes…a chair person?
Is it 30? Or am I being premature?
Are We Chair People?
My first ACL was in 2015, three days after I moved to Austin. I hadn’t even met my roommate yet when I let a fellow volunteer crash on our couch because he was too drunk to drive home on Friday. The festival is near and dear to my heart, increasingly so because it does not require me to forgo showering for four days like I did when I went to Firefly Festival during college.
Most of ACL’s seven stages have a section for chairs. From the moment the gates open (and the Star Wars theme plays, as is tradition), people park themselves in front of one or more of these stages with chairs, blankets, fans, you name it. As someone who typically sprinted from stage to stage, catching as many acts as I can (curse those conflicting set times!), I’ve always found the chairs to be a logistical nightmare and, frankly, a heavy shackle. How could I carry a chair if I wanted to be in the front of the row for Paramore? Was I supposed to just leave my blanket to chance the goodwill of festivalgoers and their dusty shoes as I waited 15 minutes to use a portable toilet or waited 20 minutes to find my friends at the flags, only to discover they were at the other set of flags?
No. I would never be a Chair Person, I told myself.
But last year, things changed. Before my sixth ACL, I asked the question. “Should we bring chairs?”
ACL takes place in late September/early October every year, and it is hot. It is really hot. This year, we’re expecting temperatures in the mid-90s every day.
Last year, the temperatures dropped to the 70s for Weekend 2, and my friends and I could actually breathe and enjoy the weather as we ran from stage to stage. The absolute euphoria of not risking heatstroke encouraged us to push off our Chair Person identity for one more year, savoring our youth and freedom of movement.
This year?
We may be Chair People.
My partner even bought camping chairs that we tested out in Maine. (Another sign I have departed my 20s—I choose to rendez-vous in Bar Harbor. No Ibiza for us!)
We haven’t made the decision yet. Admittedly, I am still desperately clinging onto my youth. I will probably still sneak in airplane bottles of vodka to save money. (Or is complaining about the prices of “the good old days” a sign that my youth has slipped away?) Our group has a flag this year so we will always know where we are. (The flag does reference #MomTok…are the kids watching The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives these days?) We’ll be running back and forth to catch Fletcher and Blink-182, Still Woozy and Khraungbin, Chappell Roan and Kehlani. (If Chappell Roan cancels, I will accept her declining mental health as a valid excuse for backing out. At least that’s very “young person” of me.)
But if we do decide to be Chair People, I feel as though a chapter will be completed. A new one will begin. I may bring a chair. I may forgo the cute boots that I haven’t quite broken in. Either way, I definitely will be very excited to have a Mighty Cone, Chi’lantro, and all of my favorite food vendors at the festival.
Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that ACL has great food.
