September 3, 2024

Solitary Flight (Campout '24)

Solitary Flight

This is the track — and track title — I keep coming back to in the days, now weeks, following Honcho Campout 2024. Bobby ‘nohup’, Seattle-based DJ and developer of the Bandcamp Tempo Adjust plugin (Chrome/Firefox), played it at around 5am on Saturday morning, a moment so unexpected, so subtle and so perfect that it almost made me cry. “It can’t be, right?” I said out loud as a friend grabbed my shoulders and I raised my arms to match those Blade Runner strings crescendoing sweetly into the misty forest air. Up to this point ‘nohup’ had been playing the kind of slo-mo-trips-punctuated-by-singalong-bangers vibe now indelibly associated with Hemlock Nights, with slow-jammed Gladstone Deluxe and Nelly’s ‘Hot In Herre’ both getting us screaming. In my opinion, their set actually matched the range and audacity, if not the relentless club energy, of the one immediately before them, laconically delivered by the other Bobby on the lineup, Bobby Beethoven fka Total Freedom, who in the back half of his set had matter-of-factly torn the Hemlock dancefloor in two with what felt like 45 minutes of straight-up jungle. And if the shift in vibe between Bobby #1 and Bobby #2 was sudden, it was nevertheless fully in keeping with the earlier shift between James K and Bobby #1, when Jamie finished an immaculate set of her own in the same patient, spacious, drippy style with which she’d started it two and a half hours earlier and Bobby #1 took over with ten minutes or so of creeping ambience, frantically (it seemed to me) searching through his CDJ playlists before playing a quick vocal clip about (if I recall correctly) jumping off a cliff, and dropping in the first of many, many explosive beats. This was now an entirely different Hemlock Nights to the usual, the energy in fact so relentless during the set that my official role of Artist Care transitioned abruptly into unofficial Crowd Control, as one queen after another attempted to scale the verticals either side of the stage, all the better to shake their asses from. “The girls have got the Spirit!” explained the queen I recruited to help talk her friends down from the rigging. Luckily I had plenty of time for these safety negotiations, since Bobby #1’s only Artist Care requirements were cartons of still water and occasional updates on how much time was left for his set. (Just before he went on he had asked me how long he was scheduled to play and pulled a shocked face when I told him. I found this amusing and revealing: on the one hand, the 2.5 hour set time seemed genuinely to take him by surprise, hence, I guess, the frantic USB scrolling; on the other, I figured he must rarely play for longer than 90 minutes, it being so exhausting to keep up that intensity of DJing for longer than that, so full props for seeing it through.) I’d never heard of Bobby Beethoven or Total Freedom so I had no idea what to expect from him, but when I debriefed with others who know him better, it turned out this Hemlock set — relatively accessible and un-deconstructed — was far from what anyone expected. Yet if it ruffled any feathers among the Hemlock Nights purists, this was more than compensated for by the sight of the predominantly BIPOC crowd progressively losing their shit to the aforementioned sequence of hardcore jungle deep in the Pennsylvanian woods. When else does that happen? It felt like a moment that those who were there will be talking about for years to come. I know I will be.

Naturally there was some crowd attrition when Bobby #1 finished, took his bow and (sadly for all concerned) put his top back on, leaving a calm yet expectant dancefloor as Bobby #2 took over at a sensible 95bpm. And since this was in fact ‘nohup’’s first ever gig outside Seattle, it was only an even smaller sub-section of those who stayed who actually knew what was coming, and I certainly wasn’t one of them. Let’s take a step back though. This 1-2-3 punch of James K -> Bobby Beethoven -> ‘nohup’ came as the chaser to an already rather long day. I’d been working up at The Grove stage until 4am the previous night, providing light-touch Artist Care to the Philly artist Furtive, whose most complicated hospitality request was an amaro club soda (I still managed to get this wrong) and whose set, to my mind, perfectly dialled us all in for the rest of the festival. Their selections were deep, more attentive to pressure than pizzazz, but not without moments of the latter, conjuring tangible anticipation to match the curling smoke and moodily low lighting. (The Grove lighting team gradually ramp up the intensity and firepower of the stage’s rigs across the duration of the festival such that on Thursday, the first night, several cards remain firmly up sleeves. That being said, the hot-off-the-press centrepiece of the Grove lighting show — a triple-length centipedal array, the technology for which was released mere months ago – divided opinion right from the start: most of the time it undulated sexily from its position directly over the DJ booth, casting a sinuous spell over the front rows of dancers; but at some rather shocking moments it flashed so bright it felt like time-to-go-home lights. Thankfully this was ironed out over the course of the weekend.) Dubstep, techno, flashes of pop, all subsumed into a drifting-with-intent atmosphere that soothed my brain and body. After a long day’s work — manning the front gate, driving out to Cumberland station to pick up a friend, helping a series of late arriving artists to set up their tents — this was exactly what I needed, and I slept like a rock as soon as I hit my tent around 5am.

Friday was always going to be my longest day, but little did I know what was in store when I was roused from my sleep, soon after 10am, by the soundsystem at Hemlock Hole kicking softly into gear about 20 metres from my tent. “Why camp so close to the stage?” you may ask. Well, the main reason is convenience: this position is about as central as you can get, with quick access to everything but the Grove, and I was only needed at the Grove on Thursday night and Sunday evening, so that wasn’t a problem. I was also working late every night, so wouldn’t be kept up by the music from Hemlock, and being able to pop back to my tent before/after my shifts, or go for a quick dip in the creek upstream from the masses (where the water is deeper and not being used for douching), or beast it up the hill to the food court and showers, was a convenience I wasn’t willing to give up. And the morning music at Hemlock is uniformly excellent: on this Friday morning it was a DJ called Savannah G opening and I can tell you there are much worse things in this world than waking up to the strains of ‘Inside Out’ by Odyssey. I jumped out of my tent and headed to the stage to soak in the system: elastically funky bass, snares that slapped…at that hour and at that volume it sounded gorgeous. A few dancers were already vibing around, but it was only after I’d gone to have a swim and eat some brunch and headed back down to the Hole that I found it truly in full swing. A DJ called Deezy from San Francisco was playing a whole load of favourite Chicago/New York tunes, like Shirley Lewis’s ‘You Can’t Hide’, and all the other records I didn’t recognise were right up my street too. Here was another DJ I’d never heard of before playing exactly my kind of music, and I thought about the depth of US talent and how little of it we see over the pond and how, for me, after only two editions, Campout already feels like an essential once-a-year opportunity for getting well and truly schooled.

The more familiar figure of Dan Beaumont came on next, but I couldn’t stick around for long: my first shift of the day was starting soon up at the Circle Of Whispers stage, where I’d be providing artist care for Ben Miller and Nikita Shepard during their talk on ‘Utopia, Primitivism and Gays in the Woods’. It had started to rain: Mike Ojeda’s floral arrangements either side of the stage took a battering from the downpour but remained beautiful, while water pooled pendulously in the white awning stretched over the audience. Despite the conditions, a large crowd had turned out to hear Nikita and Ben speak, though I spent much of the talk distracted by scoffing down my dinner and periodically walking up to the Stone Circle to get phone service. I was trying to coordinate for one of my team members to meet James K when she arrived, because I would be busy at the time ferrying, naturally, Sarah Schulman back to her hotel. Sarah was co-hosting a discussion on the relationship between queer aesthetics, solidarity, and liberation with Palestinian writer Dorgham Abusalim on Saturday, but had come to the site a day early to see Nikita and Ben’s talk and check out the festival, and I had agreed to be her chauffeur back to her hotel in Cumberland. I had 2.5 hours in which to execute this journey and get back on site to help drag artist Colin Self get ready for their performance kicking off Hemlock Nights. Unbeknownst to me, innocently shovelling noodles into my mouth under an umbrella while Nikita and Ben discussed queer back-to-the-land movements, those 2.5 hours would be as much of a rollercoaster ride as a Bobby Beethoven DJ set. With hindsight, in fact, they seem to me emblematic of my Campout ’24 experience as a whole. En route to Cumberland, me and Sarah Schulman would have a moving heart-to-heart about looking for love as the sun set through clouds descending over rolling Pennsylvanian hills. Driving alone back to the festival, I’d sing along with Morgan County’s Greatest Hits on full blast, belting out ‘Hold On’ with full conviction as I almost ran out of gas. I’d then struggle to find a spot to leave the vehicle — a Chevrolet suburban the size of a large milk float — eventually parking it so poorly in the dark that neither the Chevy nor the other car I boxed in could be moved without causing further damage to both or the surrounding trees. I’d then absent myself from this humiliating situation with the excuse of being late for my dressing room appointment with Colin, who, with no more than 15 minutes to go before their show, was in need of safety pins, hot glue and Red Bull, not to mention extra hands to assist them in assembling and getting into their 10-foot wings. (A big thanks must go to Artist Liaison Director Cara, for always being in the right place at the right time, and Ben, who, also present and heavily tripping in the dressing room, miraculously furnished the crucial safety pin.) The three of us would walk then run with Colin and the 10-foot wings from the dressing room towards Hemlock Hole, where a crowd of hundreds was amassed under the perilously low-hanging stage decorations waiting for the performance, and as we scurried we could hear Charlene, curator of the drag programme this year, vamping to buy time, but for not quite long enough so the DJ started the Bartók backing track a good 30 seconds too early so, panicking slightly, with Cara I’d help Colin into their wings and mask and, after setting them off into the crowd from the back of Hemlock Hole, I’d catch a glimpse of this otherworldly being unfurling majestically, their mask, unnervingly designed to look like their own face, soon to be cast aside, their elbow-length leather gloves flashing in the spotlights. But it would only be a glimpse, as I’d immediately run off again to the Production tent to pick up the walkie talkie and drinks tag for the start of my full shift back stage-side.

I don’t know if I’m managing it, but I’m trying to evoke some of the bursting kaleidoscopic reality of Campout in full throttle mode, from the perspective of someone working there. Sure, I worked last year too, but although my role was the same I was a different kind of worker the first year, treating my role as a temporary add-on of responsibility to my main task of discovering the festival and having fun. This year I felt fully in it as a worker, the work and the fun became less and less distinguishable as the weekend drew on, and I experienced for the first time the genuine thrill, satisfaction and — weirdly, given the chaotic cliff-edgeness of it all — the zen of facilitating, of creating and maintaining the space for others, of the peace you get from giving time and attention willingly with no expectation for something in return. When I talked about this with a schoolteacher friend last week he said he feels the same sometimes in the classroom: a kind of flow, unencumbered by process or regulations or judgement, when your ego steps back and you can enjoy the pure sensation of simply doing a good enough job. I’ve always thought the people who run festivals are nutcases and I’m still pretty sure they are, but I now think I understand a bit better what drives them, and how satisfying a team operating on the knife edge between order and chaos can be when no one is judging anyone else.

All that being said, despite feeling held and supported and needed and productive, there was still a profound sense of solitude running through my experience. Over the 24 hours leading up to ‘Solitary Flight’ I had been surrounded by friends and strangers, thrown into constant contact with them, and shared some surprisingly intimate moments. Driving through a magenta sunset with Sarah? Helping Colin transform into an angel of liberation? Sharing wonderstruck glances with the front-row queens as Bobby Beethoven pulled off his latest audacious pirouette? I was in the thick of it, yet also somehow outside of it. Partly this was due to feeling that my role obliged me to hold back, which is something I’m curious about working on in future years: how to overlap the work and fun even more, until both feel part of the same package. Partly it was my natural diffidence, which has always led me to feel somewhat external to group experiences like this, especially ones that are so sexually charged. And partly I think it was sensing that, although I feel unmistakably part of the Campout community while it is happening, as soon as it’s over that community suddenly feels quite far away, and its equivalent doesn’t really exist at home, at least not for me. This could be cause for some preoccupation as I go back to Lisbon after many months on the road; but, like last year, I also return home with a better idea of what I want out of my life. That’s why, I think, ‘Solitary Flight’ hit me so hard when ‘nohup’ teased it into the mix around 5am that night. I don’t see the word solitary here as all negative: it’s also an affirmation of self-possession and integrity, and I see a kind of courage in solitude that stands me in good stead for future connection. An event like Campout provides an optimal space for forging those connections, but it turns out that a solitary flight through it can also be a truly illuminating thing.

Of course I can’t help also read all this into the piece of music itself: any fan of Theo’s tune will recall clearly the moment, almost exactly five minutes into the track, when, in true Theo fashion, he cuts the clap haphazardly so it misses a beat, moving unexpectedly from the 2 and 4 onto the 1 and 3. This only lasts 13 seconds before the clap rights itself, but it’s just long enough for your brain to start reconfiguring the phrasing of that iconic cinematic motif. As you feel the tectonic plates of the track’s various layers shift under your shuffling feet, you find your constituent parts unsettled for a moment, ready to be put back together into something new. As soon as we got into the Chevrolet to drive to Cumberland, Sarah Schulman had asked me the question: “What do you expect to get out of Campout this year?” I guess that, as a metaphor, this precise moment when ‘nohup’ played ‘Solitary Flight’, at 5am down at Hemlock Nights, is as good an answer as I can come up with.