October 2007
Wide-Eyed Dads Take Their Daughters to the Gorge
Not wanting to risk losing our 17-year-old daughters into the wilds of the Gorge without adult supervision, my friend Mark and I chaperoned their long-anticipated Warped Tour 2007 concert adventure on an August weekend.
Understand that this is a punk show. I am not punk. Even in my youth, I wasn’t a rocker. On most days, I wear rumpled khakis and a polo shirt. To get dressed up a little, I switch to creased khakis, a white button-down shirt, and a blue blazer. The only black item in my wardrobe is a tuxedo. The last concert I attended was something at the Seattle Chamber Music Festival.
But, believe it or not, the Warped Tour concert experience wasn’t so bad. (Never mind the following morning’s report of SWAT team activity that had occurred while we snoozed snuggly in our rented RV – but I digress.) Nothing really blew us away, and the biggest shocker of the trip came just after exiting Interstate 90 as we crested a hill at 50 miles per hour and nearly rear-ended a mile-long line of cars creeping toward the entrance to the Gorge’s parking lot. After that, everything was, as they say, pretty tight, dude.
Paying extra for a spot in the “premier” camping lot entitled us to ride an air-conditioned shuttle bus, and thus bypass a long queue of walkers snaking their way to the venue’s entrance. With perfect timing, we arrived a minute or two before the first band started performing on the main stage. Mark and I split off from the girls, who headed toward the merchandise booths, while we staked out our space on the sloped grassy expanse in the upper portion of the main amphitheater. Picture a breathtaking vista of the Columbia River framed by phalanxes of port-a-potties.
The show opened with, “Hey, Seattle! How the f**k are you?” and of course the crowd roared back. But for a few exceptions of thoroughly potty-mouthed language, the bands were remarkably polite and appreciative in their remarks to the crowd. Mark and I were slack-jawed when one of them closed by saying, “Thanks for paying attention to us. Have a nice day. God bless.”
At 40-something, we dads were definitely not the oldest in the audience, and also not the only parents with kids. Our girls seemed to appreciate having a safe haven for their stuff while they were off rocking with the crowd in front of the stage or having Tshirts, tennyrunners, canvas satchels, posters and other paraphernalia signed by members of their favorite bands, still sweaty from their performances. The din was loud enough that sustaining a conversation or reading a book was challenging, but not so loud that Mark and I couldn’t get in two sun-drenched naps during the nine-hour show.
The crowd was remarkably homogeneous, with white skin predominating and girls slightly outnumbering guys. Although all ages were there, 95 percent were between 15 and 25, with the bulk not yet legal to buy beer. Black was definitely the most popular color of clothing, and there was no shortage of pink and turquoise hair, plus a few Mohawks. While the younger set was taking a break from trips to the mosh pit, they alternated between chats with their friends and text-messaging conversations with folks back home.
Except for a couple of instances of over-exuberance in the mosh pit, the crowd was well behaved. Hardly anyone was visibly wasted, and the smell of tobacco cigarettes was more common than the pungent sweetness of burning pakalolo.
Much as up-and-coming golfers move from the Nike Tour to
the PGA circuit, some of the bands were upstarts true to Warp’s
indie punk-rock roots, and others had been around long enough, and sold
enough albums, to have graduated to a real record label. They had names
such as Bad Religion, As I Lay Dying (no other connection to Faulkner,
as far as I could tell), Red Jumpsuit Apparatus and Boys Like Girls (my
daughter’s favorite).
The music styles ranged from calypso punk to heavy metal gospel. To our
ears, the three best bands of the day were Flogging Molly (from Ireland),
Amber Pacific (all the way from Federal Way), and Paramore (led by a high-energy
young woman in racy yellow pants).
Consistently on stage was an energy level that must have been fueled by gallons of sugary caffeine drinks – were these people mainlining Red Bull? Jumping up and down in time with the music was the favored activity of both the crowd and band members. And to really get things going, a lead singer of one of the bands appearing toward the show’s end bellowed out, “I want to see the world’s biggest ‘circle pit’ starting right now!” As you can imagine, he got what he asked for. About half of the bands had perfected the art of snapping their heads back and forth in unison, unshorn locks aflying, a lá synchronized swimmers. Mark and I had to pop a couple of ibuprofen tablets just to avoid sympathetic spine troubles.
Except for the 24-ounce beers selling for $12 (making Safeco Field seem like a bargain), our only real complaint was about the poor sound quality – and some of the bands remarked during their sets about “technical difficulties.” At times, the bass turned into an overpowering drone, without any discernable beat, that drowned out the singers (if you could call them that) as well as the treble and mid-range notes from the other instruments.
From our vantage on high, Mark and I developed an appreciation for the show’s flawless logistics. The main stage was divided in half, and each band was limited to a half-hour set. Seconds after the band on the left finished, the band on the right cranked it up. The crew was constantly busy, but hardly noticeable, breaking down one band’s equipment and setting up for the next. Things are more efficient now, than in the old days, yes?
At the show’s conclusion, we shuttled back to the fenced and sentried “premier camping” area. Judging by the fireworks explosions and other audible ruckus, the scene got a little crazy after dark. Our daughters ventured out for a scouting trip, but (to my relief) never went as far as the regular camping area. To soak in the atmosphere, the girls started the night with plans to sleep under the stars, but moved inside when they spotted marauders, who later banged on our RV’s doors and windshield (apparently while I snored in blissful ignorance). This retreat turned out to be a doubly wise choice, as rained poured down later that night and into the following morning.
We rolled out of the Gorge before 8 a.m., and, after a pit-stop at Vantage, were back outside our house by 11 a.m.
When we had unpacked the RV in preparation for its return to the rental lot, my daughter summed up her experience: “This was the highlight of my summer.” She was safe and happy, and seemed to have an appreciation for what I had put myself through. I hadn’t lost my daughter or my hearing. What more could a dad ask for?
Chuck Nordhoff and his
family live in Bellevue; his daughter, Emily, is a senior at Holy Names
Academy. Mark Wintersole, Kelly Hinderberger, Brittany Wintersole and
Emily Nordhoff contributed to this account.
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