Boston Calling Festival

If you choose to explore it, Colorado Springs is a wonderfully vibrant city. There is an emerging youth culture there that is jumpstarting a craft culture that hopefully will parallel the similar movement occurring throughout the other major cities in Colorado. By no means is Colorado Springs transforming into the next Boulder, but more and more the stereotypical, conservative tendencies of Colorado Springs residents are dissipating into more modern, youthful trends.

 

Still, Colorado Springs culture is miles away from that of more established east coast cities like New York City. Granted, I grew up with New York City practically in my back yard, so I have a bit of a bias towards its abundance of offerings; but still, everyone knows I'm a Colorado girl at heart. I was talking to my mom about the other day, and we both agreed that no matter what emotional affinity we both felt towards Colorado, particularly Steamboat, there is no city in the world like New York. Despite my bias, I wholeheartedly agreed mostly due to the concert culture in which I have inserted myself. My two best friends, Jordan and Erin, and I jump at any chance to bounce around in a can of sardines to Ellie Goulding, Alt-J, M83, FUN, and whoever else decides to embrace the liveliness of the greatest city in the world. It's simply a source of euphoria of which I would be crazy to deny myself. 

 

For the first time, I expanded my concert horizons beyond the famous tri-state area into a new city I knew little about: Boston. I can't tell you how many club soccer tournaments I played in the Boston area, and I have plenty of friends and family who live there. Yet for some reason, I knew nothing about the city except that it houses the Boston Bruins. When Spotify sent me an email in March with the lineup for the Boston Calling Music Festival at City Hall Plaza during Memorial Day weekend, I dropped my instinctive bias towards the firm grasp NYC holds over the international and domestic music scene and clicked in the security code on Ticket Master to buy my three day pass.

Of course, summer is the time for music festival, and since I'll be in Australia for many that I wanted to go to like Governor’s Ball and Bonoroo, I was determined to squeeze at least one into my already crazy summer. Boston Calling was my calling. I didn't care if I had to dance or stay at a hostel alone the entire three days, I was going for the entire weekend. I went on a rampage texting every person I knew in Boston, Connecticut and New York scrambling to find someone to go with so that my mom wouldn't burst a lung at the thought of her 18 year old daughter spending three days in an unfamiliar city by herself (not to say that I couldn't do it, but you know how moms are; it's their job to worry). With no definitive answer from anyone back home, Colorado College once again came to my rescue.

Despite this, I was still couch-hopping the entire weekend between friends and family. But I didn't care; I had made it to Boston after an hour long train ride, a three and a half hour bus ride and short ride on the T Subway on Friday afternoon.

The festival started at 6:30 Friday night with an artist, Cass McCombs, whose I had heard of before, but not any of his music. So, of course, pizza was a priority for my friend from CC, Jenna, three of her friends from NYC and me. With a spinach and roasted tomato calzone resting somewhat heavily in my stomach, I switched my brain into concert mode, a state which my mind had tapped into during the last couple weeks of school because of our two end of the year concerts, Blues and Shoes, and Llamapalooza. It had yet to be fully entranced into it, though, since the prior summer during The Lonely Biscuits in Asbury Park, New Jersey. This festival was the revitalization my body craved before the true start of summer and the 20 hours of flying to Australia.

Just hearing the fibers of the ticket stub rip sharply apart after I handed it to security inaugurated the re-entry into a world once so familiar to me in high school. I led a train of six pairs of hands through the small spaces between other bodies so as to inch up closer to the stage. When our advances were stalemated by a tighter crowd, I rooted my feet into the ground to secure my imaginary bubble in which I could dance as wildly as the music carried me without smacking anyone in the face with my hands or even worse, my hair. I made sure Jenna and her friends were always near by, but my eyes were glued to the stage until Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes walked out, causing the audience to burst into the anxious cheers I know all too well. As they continued through their first song, though, the energy normally transmitted from the band to the audience had vanished. Well, actually, it had never appeared. Although most everyone in the crowd sang along when they played their most popular song, “Home” at the end of their set, an air of disappointment mixed with the clouds of pot smoke lingering above the audience. Never before had I witnessed an artist so unenthusiastic and blasé in regards to a performance particularly outside on a night as beautiful as Friday.

Thankfully, Jack Johnson's Hawaiian vibes and melodic chords eased the tension out of the crowd, and allowed for the night to end with the satisfaction of waking up to banana pancakes on a Sunday morning (but actually, he ended his set with “Banana Pancakes”). While listening to any of his music on an iPod, I inevitably think of summer nights around a bonfire with friends. Listening live, though, I could hear the cracking of fire embers mixed with the popping of beer cans. I could smell the dried oak wood combusting into a thick smoke. And I could start to feel the tickling itch I get on my skin when I sit too close to a fire. Even though Jack Johnson's may all have the same “doopy-doop” melody, the memories of that pattern combined with lyrics of simple pleasures evokes memories of sensations I hope will never escape me.

That night, I stayed at the apartment of the brother of my other CC friend, Christian. Christian, his brother Jay, Jay's girlfriend Eliza, and I stayed up until probably 3 or 4 in the morning with Tequila Sunrises playing betting games like Horse Races and what I'll describe as coin soccer, in which the glasses are the goals, your index and pinky fingers are the goalies, and the coin, which the attack flicks towards a glass while its spinning on its side, is the ball. No part of me thought the entire night to look at the clock, despite my usual tendency to fall asleep before 1 AM. I only briefly regretted this late night when Christian decided to wake up at 8:30 and before I had a smoked salmon eggs benedict from Hops and Scotch in my stomach to soak up and take the place of any leftover Tequila Sunrise.

Both Saturday and Sunday's shows started a 1 PM, but on both days I didn't get there until about 2:30. The main attraction for me on Saturday was the Neighbourhood, who played at 3:50. My best friend from home who goes to NYU and to concerts it seems like once a week had said the Neighbourhood was incredible live. I love their music, so in the back of my mind I spent all day Saturday watching the clock. The band came out all dressed in black. The lead singer had a mop of jet black, straight hair, a leather jacket, and skinny jeans that accentuated his stink-thin, stereotypical rock star legs. The musicians started the intro to the first song, and I began bopping my head in anticipation of the first verse. I was frozen when the lead singer belted it out. His voice was darkly canorous, aggressively crisp, and sexily hypnotic. Each word and each pulse of the robust bass lured me more and more into what I would call melodic cult. I turned to Christian and his family with my eyes wide open and shook my head in disbelief; but because of the power of such hypnosis, I had to turn back to the stage, close my eyes, and submit fully to what felt like a sinful yet irresistible attraction. 

We wanted to be back for The Head & the Head at 7, so we went to a bar called Tips whose manager is a friend of Jay. Because of that, we got the royal treatment, starting with 12 oysters on the half shell with a grenadine gelee. The touch of sweetness from the gelee combined with the brininess of the raw oyster created an entirely new dish I could barely equate to what I associate with raw oysters. For dinner I had a lobster corn chowder that was more brothy than creamy, which allowed for the lobster chunks and the lima beans to not be drowned in dairy. Dessert was interesting, I'll say. We had two dishes: first, a crumble with a macerated apricot, vanilla ice cream, a lychee gelee and a ginger crumble, and second, a cashew mousse with a finely ground dehydrated raspberry topping. The crumble was fabulous, and incorporated layers of intense spice from the ginger, sweetness from the ice cream and apricot, and coolness from the lychee. I couldn't quite figure out the mousse, though. The cashew mousse was a bit one noted, as in it tasted strictly like cashew. The raspberry component was perfect, but I don't think there was enough to balance the aggressiveness of the cashew flavor. Regardless, the meal was one of the best I've every had and offered a peak into the Boston food scene which I knew nothing about beforehand.

I find this diversion extremely important, so bear with me for a short bit. When I asked to stay with Christian Friday night, I only expected a bed, not the wonderful hospitality from his entire family. Besides taking me to two incredible restaurants for brunch and dinner, they treated me like family every day. Because of that, I never felt intrusive or like a nomad out of place. They were undoubtedly one of the reasons my weekend in Boston was so perfect.

We got back to the festival in the middle of the Head & the Heart's set as it had started to rain, so I could never fully engage myself in their music until they played “Rivers and Roads” at the end. Since I was couch-hopping all weekend, I was always carrying what I called my hobo-pack: a 12”x12” canvas bag with everything I could possibly need for the weekend. It looked silly, don't get me wrong, but as soon as the rain started, I whipped out my rain jacket and was the envy of many. We huddled under an overhang by the beer table as the rain pelted the audience dedicated enough to The Decemberists to withstand the downpour. The rain lasted for about a hour, an simmered down just in time for the start of Saturday's headliner, Death Cab for Cutie. I saw Death Cab live two years ago at Williamsburg Waterfront on a cloudless night with a blazing red sunset. Their performance and the vibes of the crowd then were excellent, so I knew the distraction of the rain would disappear as soon as they started. 

That night, I slept at my dad's sister and brother-in-law's house in Brookline. They were nice enough to offer to pick me up, instead of hoping I could figure out the subway at 11 PM by myself. So my aunt told me my uncle would be waiting outside of the car on the corner of Tremont and Beacon. I stumbled around Tremont praying I was going somewhat in right direction, when all of a sudden I saw in the distance a man with brown hair wearing a white Rangers jersey. Especially if any of you follow me on Twitter, you know hockey and the New York Rangers are practically my entire life from October to June, that combined with the fact that no one else in Boston would dare to wear anything but a Bruins jersey led me to immediately smile at this familiar face.

I'll call this night my recovery night since I was in bed asleep by midnight and was functional enough to want to move out of bed before 10:30. After a much-needed shower, the scent of Gruyere from the croissants my aunt had gotten from a near by bakery carried me towards the kitchen. My eyes immediately landed on a platter of Gruyere, chocolate, apricot and raisin croissants nearly flaking from the microscopic draft. Now, I'm not a big pastry fan, but like most anything, I'm too much of a sucker for quality food when it is made meticulously with care to resist. I tried small pieces of the apricot and the raisin, both of which sweet but not so much so that, in combination with the butteriness of the pastry itself, it was too rich. I indulged in the Gruyere, though. The slight pungency of the cheese transformed a normally sweet pastry into a savory, more balanced dish. Although the French would hate for a bakery to sell this type of combination for it is more like a Croque
Monsieur, I would undoubtedly reach for the Gruyere every time. 

After a quick trip to the Brookline farmer's market, my aunt dropped me off at the festival for the final day. Until about 3 PM, I was by myself. I laid on the brick listening to The District basking in the sun until Jenna and her friends arrived. Bastille played at 7 on the blue stage, so we posted ourselves two rows back from the front of the stage to ensure we would be as close as possible for when Bastille came on. Thankfully, from where we were, we could still see the other stage, so we saw Phosphorescent up close and Tegan & Sara from a distance. I had never heard of Phosphorescent before, but when they started playing at 5 on the blue stage, I immediately fell in love. Their music capture me almost as much as the Neighbourhood, but in a less sexually fueled manner. They're the type of band I could see played at Llamapalooza at CC not only in terms of the music style but also their looks. The sound is very bass driven with the type of beat conducive both for swaying by yourself in silence or dancing playfully with friends in a circle. Plus, all the band members have the most burly mountain-man beards that are picturesque of CC students (I'll be honest, I'm a sucker for the mountain-man beard and was crushing hard on the lead singer, Matthew Houck).

After Tegan & Sara (who I had seen in NYC last summer) played on the other stage, the crowd on the blue stage rustled and buzzed until the Bastille stepped on stage. The lead singer catered to the impatience of the audience and immediately began his first song. While voice of Jesse Rutherford of the Neighbourhood was darkly sexual and that of Houck of Phosphorescent was more soothing and drawn-out, that of Dan Smith of Bastille was booming, dominant and strong. Even without a microphone he could have filled every gap and corner of the venue. As he sang, he threw his torso towards and away from his thighs to the aggressive beats of the accompanying drum, and shifted his shoulders back and forth during the calmer beats. During “Things We Lost in the Fire,” Smith jumped off stage, meandered through the crowd and spoke his message face-to-face with individuals. For a brief moment, I thought back to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, and hoped they were there to witness how an artist can convey to the audience the passion they have for their music and emotion behind their lyrics simply through movement. This type awareness of audience elevates a band beyond musicians to artistic performers. Bastille is a prime example of the reason why I love live music so, whether at a concert or even a party at school.

Modest Mouse wrapped up the festival Sunday night so well that much of the audience, including Christian's family and me, thought for a bit that the roar of the crowd would convince them to play a second encore. Some were so convinced that they accidentally cheered when the stage crew walked out on stage to disassemble the sound equipment. I couldn't complain, though. They kept me dancing for the entire hour and a half long set, just as Bastille, Phosphorescent, the Neighbourhood, and many of the other bands at Boston Calling 2014 did.

That night, as I watched Ted with my friend Brianna (who I'm setting next to on the plane to Australia with right now!) at her parent's house in Newton, all I could think was how badly I wanted to buy tickets for the September Boston Calling Festival the weekend to once again be hypnotized not only by the voices of Lorde, the National, Neutral Milk Hotel, The 1975 and more, but also by the charm of the city of Boston. Unfortunately and fortunately, the adventures of my sophomore year at Colorado College will keep me far too busy to want to miss a weekend in Colorado to fly back to Boston. Until next year, Boston!

All photos credited to and owned by Boston Calling