Mud.

Music.

Bad acid.

The blueprint for every Grateful Dead Phish tour ever?

The dress rehearsal to Alatamont?

A bunch of histrionic nonsense that doesn’t merit our attention?

The birth cry of our post-modern Return of the Primitive?

Or maybe it was just a thing that happened, and meant something to someone, and got pictures taken of it, and despite all the insanity got remembered as a grandness. Compared to Fyre Festival, it at least happened.

And sure, I was pretty unimpressed with the nostalgia for it when it was 20 years old. Sure, I thought the ’94 re-do was lame, and gleefully giggled when the ’99 re-do was so horrible that no one wanted to do it again. I’m glad that they didn’t manage to do another festival this time. I’m sick of hearing about it.

But that’s because it wasn’t for me. It never had anything to do with me. It was for someone else. So go on and give one last nod to Rural Joseph and his Pisceans. And don’t forget the wisest thing that was ever said about it:

If you can remember it, you weren’t there.

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