Revenge of the Glo-Stick Hats
The Festival of Music Midtowniness takes place this weekend, and there are a lot of bands I rilly, rilly like who are playing. But while each new beloved act I find out about provokes in me a quite spirited reaction, the response is actually the complete converse of what you might expect. For Music Midtown is a collection of bands playing music, yes…in Hell.

I hear that before I moved here about five years ago, MM actually took place in a sunny, grassy glen somewhere. But now it happens every year in a giant parking lot. So it’s your favorite bands, yes? Right? Playing music, yes. La, la, la. In Juuuune. In Atlanta, Georgia. In a concrete bunker with glaring humid heat bouncing off every corner and populated, wall-to-wall, with drunken, sweaty/and/or/muddy teenagers! And I know this because I’ve been! I’ve tried! A few years ago, I lived on a street right behind the festival and volunteered for the event and milled around, taking care to step over the vomit, of course, and steer clear of those youths who looked like they were about to create some and send it my way.

And I had, actually not a bad time, which I think was because there weren’t really any bands I cared about. My friend and I stood in the front row and danced as Al Green flicked his holy sweat onto us until it started to skeej us out so we moved back, some. And off in one corner of the giant lot, Victoria Williams turned out to be playing; and there were only about 12 of us there to care, so that was sorta kinda neat.

But it’s different when it’s a band you actually really care about. If there’s a giant hairy shirtless man directly behind you (or as is usually the case, right in Front of you) yelling, “WoooooOOOOOoooooOOO!” during oh, Kool and the Gang, that’s one thing. But not the White Stripes! And not (yes, they make my goofy little heart go pitter-pat) Devo! And I wasn’t gonna mention the Pixies, but god damn it; the Pixies.

I’m not a total stick in the mud. I go to shows that play the rock and the roll. I love the shows that play the rock and the roll. (Why, I’ve even enjoyed a rumble seat or two in my day.) But there’s a difference between an event where people pay money to see a specific band, and an outdoor music festival in a muggy concrete pen with three exits. And to find that difference, ask any given concertgoer: “Why are you here?”

Which doesn’t mean that I won’t be grabbing the lapels of the next person I meet who turns out to have gone to MM, demanding, “The Pixies! How were they?! Tell me now!!!!”