The Pictures Tell The Story

As it turns out, you can listen to whatever the fuck you want.

The festival was, of course, sold out, but I put my name on the waitlist just for fun. It wasn’t like I’d get a ticket anyway, right?

I still wasn’t convinced it was worth the cost and effort since I didn’t know most of the bands that were playing, but the people in my life wouldn’t have that. I am admittedly bad with band and song names, so every time I’d claim I’d never heard of a band, they’d say yes you have, listen to this… and I’d realize I knew half the lyrics already. Better yet, I could smell dirty snow and cigarettes when I heard it because I’d listened to it on repeat in Moscow. Or the sulphuric funk of the shower in Mexico where I listened to an album I’d forgotten about on a vacation with my family. The more I remembered, the more I hoped I’d get to go.

I was pretty sure that I couldn’t survive Louder Than Life. I am old, I have three kids, I’m not enough of a fan to warrant the cost and blowing all my grandparent babysitting credits for several days of tinnitus and liver damage. The more people insisted I would love it, the more I resisted. What the hell do you know? I don’t even know if I liked what I did yesterday, how could you know what I’ll like months from now? Sometimes people know you better than you know yourself. You can’t admit that to their face because it would give them too much satisfaction, but it’s true. Sometimes.

By some metal miracle, I got a ticket off the waitlist. The stars aligned and I found flights, begged to be added to my friends’ Airbnb, and my father agreed to watch my kids while I went off to get screamed at in a field in Kentucky. I was still nervous I didn’t fit in up until we walked through the gates. What if I got bored because I didn’t recognize enough of the music? What if I got a headache because it was loud(er than life)? What if it was very clear I didn’t belong?

At Louder Than Life, everyone belongs. There are people in black, people in Halloween costumes, people in almost no clothing, people in glitter, people in pasties, people in leather, young people, old people, kids, and by day three, people covered from head to toe in mud. When you think of a festival, you probably picture Coachella or even ACL where there are certainly people looking outrageous, but in a very specific, hot-girl way. This is not that. There are definitely hot girls, and what you’d think of as metal outfits, but also rainbow unicorn braids and hand-knit skirts. Fuck everyone else. You’ve got to remember that nobody’s better than anyone else here – we all just came to be ourselves.

When you show up to a concert in strawberry sequin pasties and fishnet, you’re hoping people notice. What I loved most was the collaborative and supportive vibe of the people I met who were absolutely dressed to impress. The women’s bathrooms were a girly sitcom sleepover. A lot of these outfits were complicated, and we’d all help each other rebuckle and tie and readhere. There was no cattiness to be found. Through the waiting and the fussing a woman talked at length about how the festival had evolved over the years while I watched her paint her face on. Her winged eyeliner was immaculate in a public bathroom and high humidity.

The grounds were impressive, and I could wander out where you can’t see the main stages anymore and discover new treasures every time I took a stroll. The people-watching was unmatched, but there were also vendors and art installations and smaller stages with bands even regular metal fans hadn’t heard much about. I still wasn’t sure I could handle all four days of metal, but I didn’t want to leave at the end of the night.

I thought I’d wake up on day two with broken bones and bloodshot eyes, but I just woke up in my clothes from the day before. Old ladies can rage but only for a limited time.

Hurricane Helene was also at Louder Than Life this year, though she was certainly not invited. Day two was completely rained out, which broke my heart. I live in Houston where the weather is regularly extreme and was ready to pump mud through my veins to spend more time in a field with new friends. There were rumors the concert would just start late, but it was eventually cancelled for the entire day. We made the best of a bad situation, but it was devastating.

Ready or not, after a day of bitter disappointment and constant rain, it was day three. More constant rain, but no high winds, so we donned our rain gear and headed to the venue. If I ever attend another big outdoor festival, I will remember to pack waterproof makeup. I had a slicker with a hood, but I couldn’t see a damn thing with the hood up and I’d already missed an entire day of music, so I gave up and got drenched. My hair was limp and soaked and I found a chunk of my own mascara in my nose about 4 bands into the day. I had an absolute blast. The rain washed away any lingering worries about not belonging and I just stopped caring. I’ve been to a disappointing but acceptable number of concerts in my life, but to hear some of my very favorite songs belted out by both the artists and enthusiastic strangers gave me such joy. I didn’t have time to worry that I looked like a drowned rat, I just wanted to hear the people from my prized CD booklets sing the songs that made them famous.

The rain picked up and I was dreading being told to take shelter, or worse, go home. We kept the party going, hoping we could withstand the storms that came our way. In between having my hair blown back by intensely loud speakers, I’d slip away to clear my mind. I wanted to see everything the festival had to offer, and I finally got the confidence to head over to the giant photo op sign and ask a stranger if she would take my picture. I rarely do this, even if I can ask someone I know, and as a result there aren’t many photos of me. A word of advice – go have fun with a person who takes the photos without asking. They aren’t good photos because I am singing and smiling and soaked, but I remember exactly how I felt when it was secretly snapped.

I smile for photos, of course, but I would go wash mud off my hands and look at my own reflection, when suddenly, I realize I’m smiling. At nothing? At everything? I remember several times I felt like I should go up to the artist and apologize for buying the bootleg copy of their album at the street market in Moscow. That’s a normal response to seeing a high school favorite perform for the first time, right?

We stayed until the last note of the last song, but we were exhausted. Perhaps we rocked a little harder knowing we’d missed an entire day, but we were all eager to return home, sweet home at the end of the night.

Day four was a little more metal than the previous days. The crowds were wilder, the drinks were stronger, the music was louder, and everyone was keenly aware this was it – go big and then go home to your regular life where it’s weird to play in the mud and cheer when bodies hit the floor.

Day four was the only day I remembered to sit down when I ate. I was one of the few attendees with rainboots, so my feet were dry and I spent day three jumping in puddles like a giggling kid, but my feet were killing me at the end of the night. Rainboots for for keeping feet dry, not comfortable. Just when I thought I’d stretched myself beyond my means, I took a breather, grabbed some food, and sat. Even if it was just one cheek on a barstool, it counted. I didn’t want to miss a minute of music, so I’d carefully check the schedule and then throw food in my mouth a few times a day so I could make it to the last band.

I would find myself getting emotional during a song that spoke to me, and a stranger would lock eyes with me, nose red and cheeks wet. Did what happened to me happen to you, too? Is that why you’re crying? So much of this music transcends situations, it’s hard to tell.

The impulse is to go full out for every band you love as you feel the night rapidly coming to a close, but save your breath, it’s far from over. The last handful are all heavy hitters, so pop your pre-emptive painkillers ahead of time. I’m sure you can’t feel my pain – oh no that poor woman was tired from partying and listening to a bunch of her favorite songs – but there was physical pain because I am a geriatric partygoer. So. Much. Standing.

It’s definitely the most fun you can have without breaking the law (though I can think of several laws that seemed to be temporarily suspended on concert grounds). If, like me, you truly enjoy seeing people in their element, being their most authentic selves, I highly recommend Louder Than Life or someplace similar if you’re not a metal fan. There were certainly bands I wouldn’t consider heavy, but it would be a lot if your favorite artist is Taylor Swift or James Taylor. I’m so glad I went, and I’d love to try another festival in the future if given the opportunity. Something about being surrounded in strangers singing my favorite song loud and proud rubbed a special spot in my brain that undid years of awkward shyness I developed as an adult. I needed this long weekend to get a tiny glimpse of the carefree teen who never went anywhere without her discman. I need my fix, and you need it, too.

I was worried I’d come home to find my dad strung out and exhausted after his babysitting stint, but apparently the kids were alright. In fact, they were angels. I had to double check he watched the right kids. I’m hopeful this means I haven’t used up all my babysitting credits and will be able to leave the house again someday, but it may take me awhile to recover from Louisville. I heard so much great music I have to keep looking back at the lineup to refresh my memory, and I was only there three of the four days I was meant to see. If the dates work out next year, I would absolutely go back.

Rock music is for everyone, so raise your horns. Raise them high.