Rothbury part 2: the perfect festival

Mon, Jul 7, 2008    to del.icio.us

I can breathe again.

Oxygen.

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While some may not even remember this weekend at all as the result of total brain cell abuse, I will remember this weekend as the unquestionably most amazing culture shock of my life.

Cats and dogs were living together, rain came from the ground — and music was heard using everything, not just ears. It was that chaotic.

I've told various people throughout the Tribune office that what I've experienced in my four days at Rothbury are totally beyond words. Then they see pictures I took and they understand. It was as if an entire population of people traveled back to 1969 to explore a forest with purple trees, wear funny hats (or nothing at all) and listen to music with family you didn't even know you had.

During walks through Sherwood Forest, to and from my campsite and on my way to see artists, all I could think about — and hear from other campers — is how well the organizers at Rothbury planned this event.

Earlier last week, another newspaper questioned whether or not the minuscule town was ready for such a big festival. After all, the population of Rothbury is posted at 416, according to the Census. Preparations were made for 100 Rothburys worth of people to invade the area.

Yet everything went off without difficulty.

Security, while lax, was friendly and fitting. Bands went on stage on time, which is a miracle in any concert setting. From my experience, campers had no skirmishes, fights or even loud words for each other. The buzz surrounding the festival's Sherwood Forest was electric. People loved Rothbury.

One camper informed me that at Bonnaroo, the premier festival in the eastern United States, dirt roads were washed with power hoses — this sprayed dirt, mud and trash all over festival goers.

Rothbury was so clean, road spraying wasn't even considered.

Another raved about the quality of sound production in comparison to the Muskegon Summer Celebration. I can't help but agree.

In fact, everything was better than West Michigan's other music festival. Beer was $4 — meaning I had to give the lady four $1 bills, not some insane amount of tokens. I could wander from place to place without feeling like a mouse finding my way through a maze. I didn't have to worry about whether or not someone would move my blanket at a venue or when the band was actually going to come on. I didn't have to watch 11 nights of bad music; only four days of good music.

Festival organizers from across the country should study Rothbury's efforts. The Rothbury festival did more for music events in one year than Bonaroo, Lollapalooza or Summer Celebration have been able to do in any of their years — and did I mention this was the first year it has been held?

Yet even more impressive than the festival itself was the people who attended it. Tens of thousands of people were stacked in a fashion that bore no personal space and told to sleep there.

We slept in tents on top of cut-down hay fields. The hay was starting to grow again and that caused thick, stubborn stalks of plants rising from the ground and poking campers wherever they tried to sleep.

Sound aggravating?

It wasn't. I don't know if it was the drugs or something else, but something kept people in an acceptable mood all weekend. Not even brief visits from the state police rattled anyone.

Use of free hammocks in Sherwood Forest didn't result in someone saying, "But he's been there for an hour!" Friendliness and love conquered these 35,000 people, and that's possibly the greatest triumph of them all.

On Saturday, I reported that music was an escape. I said that we should all learn from Rothbury. And as I left the town, the concept finally solidified itself in my mind. I was leaving a civilization for a different one. I was leaving behind thousands of new friends. I was leaving people with a common interest and a common state of mind — and sobriety.

I was leaving all that for a different civilization; one with buildings, alarm clocks, $4 gas, and families who didn't know whether to buy a gallon of gas or a gallon of milk for their children.

Rolling through North Muskegon was the last thing I wanted to do, as it felt like I had been out of touch with society for years, not days. Nothing had changed: There were still buildings, there was still $4 gas.

I had changed, though. And that's what makes Rothbury so great.

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