Diary of a 30-something at Gov Ball
I went to Gov Ball in my 30’s, here’s what happened to me.
Hi friends. Greetings from Lake Tahoe. I’m here with the Kinter.ai leadership team, which is why there’s no Party Talk this week. Instead a very official anthropological study of the music festival, Gov Ball, and how it feels to be in your thirties whilst there.
Each time I mentioned I was going to Gov Ball, the responses ranged from, “How young of you,” to “You can just hang out in the 21+ area — the 21+ area will be empty.” Encouraging!
I have been to Gov Ball before. It was 2013, and it was on Randall’s Island, which was a genuinely difficult place to get to. After schlepping there on Friday, a friend of a friend — who was PAing on some TV show — commandeered the production van to drive us back. It was a run-of-the-mill, maybe even shitty white van, but compared to being packed into the 6 train like a can of sardines and then walking 15 minutes across a bridge, I felt like royalty. Friend of a friend, I can’t remember who you are, but thank you for what turned out to be a core memory.
Gov Ball has since relocated to Flushing Meadows Corona Park in Queens, which is, logistically, the same as going to a Mets game. Much easier. And yet: going to Gov Ball in your 30s is still, I can now confirm, a crazy thing to do. I might even do it again. Here’s how it went.
10:45 AM — We met Mike and Mel for breakfast in the neighborhood. I ordered cheesy grits with a poached egg, even though I don’t normally eat breakfast, and split an iced latte with Ben. Mel got avocado toast that weirdly came with two pieces of toast stacked on top of each other, avocado only on the top one. In the end, it was so loaded she needed the second piece anyway. In what can only be described as a wild choice, Mike ordered shrimp tacos. Shrimp tacos are not breakfast.
11:30 AM — We began our pilgrimage to Flushing Meadows. Into Manhattan, across it, and into Queens. When we finally got off the 7, there was something fun about walking out onto a wooden platform; it felt like going to the beach. I immediately noticed that everyone was wearing tall boots. It was extremely hot out. I regulate my body temperature through my feet. These dogs needed to breathe.
12:30 PM — We clear security, admire the trees they’ve covered in pink fur, and head toward the Snapchat Stage where Rachel Chinouriri is on. On the way, I stop to investigate the Verizon Lounge situation. It turns out you just have to be a Verizon customer. No one else seems to care about this. I file it away.
It’s so hot. We find a sliver of shade. Rachel Chinouriri is cute and has great energy. Then the giant screens cut from her performance to a message: “Thunderstorms in the area.” Mike consults a fancy Doppler radar app. “Some storms are coming,” he says. “I think it’ll rain for like 15 minutes.” Meanwhile, men are climbing poles to do something to the straps holding up the screens. I look around. “The Verizon Lounge?” Everyone: yes.
1:00 PM — We’re in the Verizon Lounge. At first it was at capacity, but by some miracle we all make it in. There are $20 beers and what appears to be a Costco variety pack of chips for sale. None of that matters, because when the skies open up — and oh boy do they — we are sitting comfortably in one of the only structures with a roof.
Mike and I are flying high off our own foresight. I won’t say the day would have been ruined if we’d gotten drenched, but I’m not sure how gracefully I would have handled it. Mel and Ben probably would have been fine either way. They have a chill demeanor I do not possess.
1:45 PM — Slayyyter finally comes on, late due to the rain delay. I knew who she was because Megan Stalter played her recent DJ set I reported on previously, but I’d never actually seen her perform. Her set was maybe the best of the day. Ben and I couldn’t stop describing her to each other. “She’s like Screamo Shakira,” I said. “Except she really loves guns.” “It’s very Florida Woman,” Ben replied. “It’s like she saw Spring Breakers and thought: what if I made that my whole vibe, but was a pop star.” The imagery flashing behind her the entire set was spooky, fast-moving scenes of dollar signs, guns, deer, and a Donnie Darko-esque bunny.
3:30 PM — I’m fading. My need to sit is growing. My desire for shade is beginning to supersede my desire for music. I leave the Blood Orange set to use the bathroom and discover there is no hand sanitizer left. The thought of how many people around me cannot sanitize their hands makes me recoil. I am once again reminded of my age.
4:45 PM — I get food while Ben watches Geese. I know Geese is very hot right now. Food is more important. The lines are insane. In line, a slender blonde girl is joined by her brown-haired friend, who returns breathless with news: “I got scouted again!” “Oh my god,” says the blonde, clearly jealous. “I wish I’d been with you so we could have been twin scouted!” “No, no. She was reluctant because I’m only 15, and you’re 14.” I am out here dressed like a Korean grandma and there are at least two model scouts here, scouting 14-year-olds.
6:15 PM — I end up laying in the grass during Hot Mulligan, and it hits me: everyone was right. I am too old for this. I post about it on Instagram Stories. People seem to enjoy my defeat.
Hot Mulligan, it turns out, is from Michigan. I should have known, as something about them felt familiar and safe. The lead singer unknowingly made fun of the VIP section mid-set and told the GA crowd to boo them. We did.
7:00 PM — We are so far back at Dominic Fike that the video is out of sync with the audio, which Ben tells me is a known phenomenon. Mel keeps going on about Dominic’s evil aura. “Doesn’t anyone else see it?”
His stage banter is very bad. At one point he just says, “Hey New York, a lot of hot people here! Everyone’s so hot in this city!” Then he tells the audience to punch him if they see him in the street. “Take my ears off and throw them away,” our friend Hannah says. Chicken Tenders is a good song, though.
There are also approximately one thousand young girls all wearing the exact same outfit: white tank top or tube top, denim shorts or skirt, knee-high boots. Individually, they all look perfectly normal, but congregated together in a big group, it looks cult-like. At their age, I imagine, I too was dressed exactly like all of my friends at Gov Ball.
7:45 PM — We rush to the Snapchat Stage for Jennie. A man I immediately dislike is standing in front of me. I keep moving. He keeps ending up next to me. He is my enemy.
We’re far back, but Jennie comes out looking cool. She’s a great dancer, with a full team of dancers, a live band, and pyrotechnics. She is also clearly lip-syncing, which, given the choreography, seems like a reasonable call — it looks genuinely exhausting. When she finally addresses the crowd, she says: “You guys are making me so excited, because this is just the start of all the music festivals I have to do.” She sounds like someone who just remembered she has 47 more of these. What a curse, to be that good at something.
She closes with Like Jennie, a predictable move. The crowd loses its mind.
8:45 PM — A$AP Rocky closes things out. Truly, everybody is there. The largest crowd of the day. He comes out wearing a mask, which is a huge cop-out — I can’t even see his lips moving — but also respect. Very Daft Punk. Very “send a body double and no one will know.”
We leave early. We can’t really see anything, and, as established, we can’t see his mouth. The walk to the rideshare pickup is long and, finally, pleasant weather-wise.
My biggest takeaway: I would do it again. Festivals are nice. But I need a blanket, because at this age, being on the ground is non-negotiable.
If you missed last week, a meditation on weddings, line cooks, and Madonna’s leg.
Ok bye! 🍊
Thanks for reading!