For the majority of college students, dropping $1,000 on Coachella tickets isn’t really in the budget.
It definitely wasn’t in my budget, still isn’t.
But how can we battle the lurking terrors of not seeing Justin Bieber returning to his prime in real time?
Unfortunately, Bieber fever has no known cure. And I am oh so sick.
Held on the first weekend of May, Shabang was supposedly the perfect opportunity to blow off steam after midterms. A few weeks before, some friends from my hometown were buzzing about their normal blabber in our group chat and I made the mistake of not paying attention. Two days later, I had a weekend pass, a Venmo request for $150 and a week to buy a train ticket and plan outfits. What would the world become without spontaneity?
In my normal cynical manner, I didn’t have high hopes for another festival. Especially after I had spent the weeks before rewatching Coachella performances and wallowing in my fomo. I expected some indie rock and, hopefully, a few drinks to keep me pleasant amid the overstimulating bombardment of people. Funny how wrong we can be sometimes.
On May 1, I spent four hours in a window seat on the Pacific Surfliner northbound. Arriving about 12 p.m. in San Luis Obispo, I was immediately swept up in the festivities. A carload of my friends waiting for me at the station led me back to my own home for gossiping and an impromptu party under the guise of outfit planning. By Saturday morning, I had an outfit, an invite to a pregame and a small hangover.
As someone who considers themselves more of an international partygoer, I have never been overwhelmingly impressed by festivals or parties in the States. It’s all too reminiscent of dating for me. The varying remix of cheap alcohol, dark rooms, boring sex and meaningless conversations falls short in comparison to the vibrant celebrations of life the Europeans seem to excel in.
From my underwhelming experience, I walked through the gates with a scrutinous eye. To my pleasant surprise, everyone seemed to have gotten the right idea. Before me was a spread of stages with brightly colored flags flowing from the steel frames, lights dancing across the grassy lawn and herds of attendees flirting about in various fabulous attire. A cowboy with gold tasseled chaps passed by with his friend in a rich maroon shawl and a hunk of ruby dangling around her neck, forcing the reconsideration of my own outfit.
Local food trucks, photo ops and pop-up bars dotted the spaces in between the stages. Several large white tents provided shade from the dazzling sun with various art pieces dangling from the ceilings and mirrors stacked along the sides. Up on the top of the hill, a ways away from the stages, I could see hammocks and industrial fans. The sheen forming a rainbow over the scene indicated mist machines nearby, and I made a mental note of their placement.
With my friend Jessica tugging at my arm, I sauntered through the crowd, smiling back at strangers and feeling my excitement start to build up. Our little group of your average college deviants pushed into the crowd and immediately got swept up in the music. It’s amazing what a little chemical aid and your closest friends can do when you’re looking for a good time. The energy of the crowd was certainly reminiscent of Coachella before the influencer epidemic. Those who were having an especially good time, including yours truly, were on the shoulders of strangers they had befriended minutes before, looking over a sea of people with a gratifyingly low amount of phones in sight. After several hours of rock and EDM at the Funk Safari, it was time for the headliner of the night, The Backseat Lovers.
If you’ve ever heard a song but never bothered to do any research, then you have an understanding of what it was like to listen to “Kilby Girl” live. Songs I had heard a million times and had no idea who actually made them were now being played live in front of me. Funny how the brain separates recognition and recall. After The Backseat Lovers destroyed my belief in my active recall, I made my way back to the ever-famous Funk Safari Stage for the closing set of the night, Polo & Pan.
An hour and about 10 bad decisions later, it was time to pay the price of wearing heeled boots to a music festival. The pure agony of walking 14,000 steps in heels on grass and dirt is not discussed enough. Between the concoction of despair I had ingested and the excruciating pain in the soles of my feet, I was ready to crash. And a crash thus occurred.
At 2 p.m. the next day, the group managed to collectively awaken, only to then immediately regret it. But what is the number one rule of festivals, benders and weekends of financially committed fun? You must rally.
And we did.
By 4 p.m. I was showered, fed, dressed and ready for the day. Now Shabang has a specific schedule. Day one is reserved for PG-13 energy, indie and rock bands take over and you will likely experience an awkward encounter with now high schoolers you used to babysit. Day two is fully rated R, even X if you’re nosy and take a peek behind the porta-potties or one of the secluded hammocks. Leading the day’s sounds were INJI, DJ Mandy, Fcukers and headliner Chris Lake. You will likely have a slight blur in your vision and minimal proactive thought in your head at this time. My advice is that you embrace it.
Another five hours of headbanging, DFMOs and creating inside jokes left me beat. Clearly, I was not well-versed in learning from my mistakes because I wore the same shoes again. At about 10 p.m., it was time for the star of the show, Chris Lake. As a music enjoyer but not someone who considers themselves a music enthusiast, I had zero clue who this guy was. Hopes were raised upon more research, mainly due to Mr. Lake’s personal connections to Calvin Harris, the man who set the standard for half of the 2000s bangers that play at every club and party across the world. Squeezing myself to the front of the barricade was no small feat, and yet I persisted, claiming one of the best spots in the house and appeasing my exhausted friends.
The comparison I can best make of this set is to a kaleidoscope. Colorful, mesmerizing and makes you a little nauseous. Mr. Lake exceeded all my expectations and transported me to my European fantasy with his eclectic taste. Post-set meant another agonizing walk back to the car; unfortunately, Shabang does not organize their parking situation nearly as well as their set lists.
And thus the weekend had concluded!
Several decisions I would regret in the weeks to come, feet that felt like I’d walk across an ocean of glass, a bedroom that seemed to have experienced a hurricane of fashion and yet it was worth it all. I realized I had such a good time, I hadn’t even thought about my Coachella regrets. Had this magical place healed my Bieber fever? Unfortunately, no, but it definitely cured my desire for a getaway and some great tunes. Who knows, maybe next year I’ll be able to squirrel away for Coachella and Shabang.
