I was an adamant, anti-music festival gal. It was a place for lewd behavior, drugs, booze, and girls who were far prettier than me and way skinnier. I couldn’t fathom spending that type of time invested in music, wandering from stage to stage, under the blaring sun. All that hard earned money seemingly floating away with the breeze.
Then, this past spring, I had the opportunity to go to the Governor’s Ball in NYC. I went in hopes of stealing the heart of a man. He had purchased us the passes and insisted my gypsy soul would love it. At the end of those three days, I was hooked.
There is an ineffable love and peace among festival goers. The images of Woodstock, its timelessness of flowers and hearts, are incredibly accurate.
Your soul ebbs and flows, rising and crashing to songs and shouts in the crowd. Beauty in diversity envelopes you. Strength in the commonality of man and brother. And in the darkness of night, we are each more ourselves than before and more connected than we could have hoped.
We are a family of the festival. For that reason, and for so many more, I pray for you Las Vegas. Don’t let him make you turn your music down. Play on. Play on. Play on.