(Because the weather's always better anywhere that isn't Vancouver. All photos © 2008 Sterling Wiseman.)
The drive is long. The road, filled with so many curves and orange cones, seems like a racetrack. But you make it.
You maneuver your way through hordes of cars and people waiting to park by the airport. Choosing the fastest moving lane, it still takes you over an hour to find a place for your dusty Honda Civic. In the shade of a line of shuttle buses, you swelter in the heat until a festival worker in an orange shirt approaches and tells you the buses have been delayed. Fuck.
At last, you truly make it. The festival grounds of the Pemberton valley opens its arms to you and though you are so tired from the journey you feel you should collapse into your tent, the land weaves a spell over you. Sleep becomes a distant memory, and sunrise and sunset replace any modern method of classifying time. From here on in, the linear escapes you. Everything now is measured in moments and songs.
(Emily Haines of Metric being all succexy.)
You maneuver your way through hordes of cars and people waiting to park by the airport. Choosing the fastest moving lane, it still takes you over an hour to find a place for your dusty Honda Civic. In the shade of a line of shuttle buses, you swelter in the heat until a festival worker in an orange shirt approaches and tells you the buses have been delayed. Fuck.
At last, you truly make it. The festival grounds of the Pemberton valley opens its arms to you and though you are so tired from the journey you feel you should collapse into your tent, the land weaves a spell over you. Sleep becomes a distant memory, and sunrise and sunset replace any modern method of classifying time. From here on in, the linear escapes you. Everything now is measured in moments and songs.
(Emily Haines of Metric being all succexy.)
Emily Haines supplies one such moment. Looking every bit an indie rock goddess while thrashing around the stage in her shiny blue dress, she thanks the crowd and the organizers for letting Metric open the Main Stage for the weekend. They close with a downtempo version of “Live It Out”, reworking it into an acoustic ballad complete with handclaps and tambourine, and as they leave the stage you find yourself still singing “I wanna live it out” with half the crowd.
Andrew Stockdale of Wolfmother is another frontman capable of inspiring such devotion, and he looks the part, holding his hand aloft above a double guitar waiting for the right moment to unleash “White Unicorn” onto the adoring masses. But you could tell something was off. He seems bored or tired. You’re certain that the crowd is getting much more from the extended workout he gives “Woman” than either he or his band is.
The weekend also teaches you new games. You learn how to play Porta-Potty Roulette, gambling away your health and safety on the chance you won’t get one of the many Porta-Potties caked with shit and/or vomit. Frisbee dominates Thursday night as nearly all of your friends pull a muscle or trip and fall trying to catch the damn thing before some douchebag you don’t know makes off with it. (He does.)
Andrew Stockdale of Wolfmother is another frontman capable of inspiring such devotion, and he looks the part, holding his hand aloft above a double guitar waiting for the right moment to unleash “White Unicorn” onto the adoring masses. But you could tell something was off. He seems bored or tired. You’re certain that the crowd is getting much more from the extended workout he gives “Woman” than either he or his band is.
The weekend also teaches you new games. You learn how to play Porta-Potty Roulette, gambling away your health and safety on the chance you won’t get one of the many Porta-Potties caked with shit and/or vomit. Frisbee dominates Thursday night as nearly all of your friends pull a muscle or trip and fall trying to catch the damn thing before some douchebag you don’t know makes off with it. (He does.)
(Interpol get especially pissed when you pirate their music.)
The Pemberton festival grounds soon become littered with all manner of refuse and strangers start becoming even stranger. A man yells at your girlfriend, “Want to have sex? I have drugs!” and you fall into your friends laughing hysterically. You curse yourself again for not bringing any booze past the practically non-existent bag check and head to a beer garden to plop down yet another $7.00 for a can of Canadian, that crisp golden lager we all know and tolerate. But a few deep-fried Oreos later, all is right with the world again. Hm, so that’s what was on the toilet seats.
And your mind is filled with visions and sounds:
(The only reason Serj Tankian doesn't look completely Amish is because he's not currently raising a barn.)
And your mind is filled with visions and sounds:
- Sam Roberts invokes the rain gods, channeling a light summer shower as his Saturday afternoon show closes with an epic “Mind Flood”. “Come and wash us away now”, he sings as the raindrops fall.
- Gordon Downie of the Tragically Hip, riding his mic stand like a motorbike, breaks it (accidentally-on-purpose), and distributes its inanimate plastic remains amongst the fans in the front row.
- Chris Martin, momentarily forgetting that his band is arguably the biggest in the world, postulates allowing Shakira to join Coldplay in order to make them “unstoppable”. He lets the crowd sing the first half of “Yellow” and you have to admit as you sing along, that for all they’re lambasted, Coldplay have written some damn fine songs.
(The only reason Serj Tankian doesn't look completely Amish is because he's not currently raising a barn.)
But as their set ends, and the weekend draws to a close, you sadly realize that this too shall pass. A girl named Tiffany says to you, “We’ll never be able to explain this when we get home. People will ask ‘What was it like?’, and no matter what you say to them, you’ll be missing something”.
And in your weary bones and sunburned skin and unwashed hair, you know she’s right. The only thing they’ll ever understand about the inaugural Pemberton Festival is what they see in you as you walk back into civilization, wearing the T-shirt, a somewhat dumbfounded grin, and the sweat stains of strangers on your jeans.
And in your weary bones and sunburned skin and unwashed hair, you know she’s right. The only thing they’ll ever understand about the inaugural Pemberton Festival is what they see in you as you walk back into civilization, wearing the T-shirt, a somewhat dumbfounded grin, and the sweat stains of strangers on your jeans.
* * * * *
Since Ben couldn't be there to photograph all the madness and mayhem, please check out the following Pemberton photo galleries from fellow photogs and friends of ThatRockBlog.com, Alex Ramon and Jennifer Perutka. Maybe next time, the poor fool will be able to prioritize better. "Have to shoot a wedding", my ass.
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