Hand in hand, my best friend Katya and I hastily crossed the RFK Bridge walkway in the sticky August heat. We maneuvered around the half-dressed Caucasians in neon spandex shorts and glittery faces, who sipped on their Poland Spring bottles filled with fruit punch colored liquid. I took a sip of a water bottle as we passed a concert-goer already collapsed on the path. It was eleven in the morning. Katya and I scoffed.
“Rookie mistake” I remarked.
You see, this wasn’t our first rodeo. We had run down this catwalk before, had already endured three days of heat strokes and emotional trauma from last year’s Governors Ball. New York City hosts three day-long music festivals, featuring varied musicians, throughout the year: Governors Ball in late spring, Panorama in mid-summer, and the Meadows in early fall. You may wonder why I would ever spend a ridiculous amount of money on these tickets, to just be herded into a fenced-in space over populated by underage drinkers and overpriced food stands. My answer remains simple, and is always the same: the music.
*
Frank Ocean was Panorama’s jaw dropping headliner for the summer of 2017– a loyal fan knows, an opportunity to watch him perform comes once in a lifetime. Even after dropping some of the most genius records and getting global recognition for his music, Frank Ocean still keeps a low profile. Five years had gone by since the last time he played in NYC, and Katya and I were determined to be in the front row.
Prepared to a T, we carried survival packs on our backs, stuffed with snacks, water, cameras, sunglasses, and sunscreen. We printed out our maps, decided on sushi burritos for food, circled the water stations and portapotties, and identified the fastest route to the main stage. We wore comfortable skirts in the case of an emergency pee scenario, and tight comfortable cotton tops that allowed us to move freely. Waiting in line to be checked by security, Katya and I shared headphones, and played “Bad Religion” from Frank’s debut albumChannel Orange.
Four years back, my sister blasted that song for the first time in our living room. His melodic and soulful voice rang within the four walls around us. I sat high up on one of our bar stools and spun to the melody. Though my twelve year old self couldn’t relate to the lyrics, the powerful music spoke to me in a new musical language. “Bad Religion” made me swell up with pain, then spill out a cathartic release. His voice activated deep emotions.
Channel Orangedidn’t sound like most of the albums I had listened to before. All my life I had gotten my music from the stacks of vinyl at my dad’s house, the indie girl Pandora stations, and the top 100 radio hits I would listen to on my way to school.
A year later, my sister invested in a Spotify premium subscription, which she generously allowed me to share with her. I grabbed my newly purchased iPhone and Apple headset and jumped onto my bed. That year his song “Thinking Bout You” blew up in my middle school. I searched for his name so I could blast the tune. Naturally I stumbled upon his albumChannel Orange, later finding out I had actually struck a gold mine.
Before Frank, I lacked the interest or patience to listen through an entire album, but each of his songs put me in a trance– each song was a sensory experience. Frank’s charming voice told stories of love, class, and dreams; his playful rhythms and simple beats, matched with rich vocals, stirred something inside me.
I listened to that album five times that night, falling asleep to the poetic verses of his track “Sweet Life.” From that day on,Channel Orangehad a special part of my heart, like he puts so well in “Thinking Bout You,” “It won’t ever get old, not in my soul—not in my spirit, keep it alive.”
Each track onChannel Orangetook me on a trip, through warm and uplifting tunes to melancholy ballads. The album radiated the warmth of its orange album cover, and I fell in love.Frank Ocean was my music affair that I kept quiet from the world.Channel Orange was all mine, and it gave me the sweet taste of independence. I savored every minute of the album all to myself.
After discoveringChannel Orange, my personal music collection began to grow. Frank gave me my introduction to R&B, and warmed my ears to hip hop and other genres and artists alike. After exploring that realm of music on my own, I finally started to feel some autonomy over my music taste. I started on a lifelong journey of music investigation and accumulation.
It took him five years to release another album. He had teased and taunted his fans, but finally, and miraculously, he releasedBlonde, in the summer of 2016. We all anxiously waited for his next performance.
If I didn’t start listening to him at that time in my life, I wouldn’t have ended up dropping all of my hard-earned babysitting money on a $300 ticket to Governors Ball, to shrivel up with dehydration and exhaustion in the blazing sun all day.
*
Our plan in motion, Katya and I navigated through the dense crowds of people to reach the front of the stage. We pushed past the Long Islanders, the drunk Chads and Brads, edgy highschoolers, the clout chasers, rich millennials and the rest of the Instagram generation with their high rose towers ready to collapse—all of them ready to black out before the sky did. Hand in hand carrying our survival kits, we stayed focused on a different mission, and it wouldn’t end with us passing out on the grass. We were going to stay at the main stage the entire day to ensure our spot in the front. So from 11:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m., there we were, sandwiched between a crowd of sweaty strangers, awaiting Frank’s miraculous performance on Randalls Island.
As the hours passed, death felt near. It was a war zone: cloudy with blunt smoke, and we soon had no choice but to go into survival mode. Katya peed in a bottle, I lost half of my body weight from sweating, and all of our food and water was gone. The closer it got to Frank Ocean’s set, the closer I was pushed up against everyone around me, and the closer I got to losing my mind. We had forged our way eight rows from the front, but at this point had been through too much to feel defeated by this. We had wandered to the center of the crowd, a body away from the middle barricade. I had a Camel bottle of urine in my backpack, a throbbing headache, and was ready to pass out.
It struck our eleventh hour waiting, and right before my soul left me, we heard an eruption of people screaming his name. Immediately the runway stage that separated the crowd was revealed, and there we stood, right by the middle barricade– perfectly placed. He walked onto the stage modestly, and I began to squirm between strangers for a better view, while tears streamed down my face.
He began with “Solo” fromBlonde, walking past my section. Unfortunately, I can’t say the lack of water put me in a dreamy state. Instead I remained hyper-aware of everything around me for the duration of his set, trying desperately to cancel everything out and just listen to his magical voice. I reached my hands up to cheer Frank on, but couldn’t put them back down because of the density of the crowd. I couldn’t help but get distracted by some dude right next to me, who could not put his phone down for one second. At one point, I turned to him and said, “Why don’t you just try to enjoy it?”
“I am,” he growled, and continued to watch the performance through his screen.
I was wet, tired, irritated, and pretty sure my tears were not just for Frank. I still sang to every song, waiting for him to play more from my favorite album,Channel Orange. He sang “Thinking Bout You,” the required hit, but nothing else—no “Sweet Life,” no “Monks in the mosh-pit,” no “Crack Rock,” no “Bad Religion.”
The concert ended and the crowds sluggishly dispersed. I desperately needed to go home. My entire body was sore and I’m pretty sure I peed. It took us another hour to exit the festival because of the crowd. There was a point where the pathways got so congested that we moved a centimeter a minute. If you think I’m kidding, Katya jumped at one point, and levitated forward for several moments. By the time we exited the RFK Bridge, I’d had enough.
“I am never going to a music festival again.” Katya said as she linked my arm. I shook my head,
“Never.” I replied.
Did it all feel worth it?
I mean, we watched history unfold in front of our eyes, even if we had been in the mainstage’s pit of hell. Even so, the moments of horror were more memorable than Frank’s performance, and I was becoming okay with that.
However bruised and agitated we were, Katya and I gave each other a wide smile. We put in one headphone each in the backseat of a cab, and I took the phone to cue some tunes. We listened toChannel Orange. I closed my eyes, and flew back into a familiar dream.
