Photography by Casey Flanigan

Wednesday

We arrive at Big Cypress Seminole Indian Reservation after a total of 23 hours driving (we did manage four hours of sleep somewhere along the way). I see my first 30 alligators, all much smaller than Steve Irwin’s, which is by far the coolest thing I’ve seen in a long time. I quickly learn the common annoyances of the Everglades include chiggers, fire ants, some sort of native panther, snakes, boars and mosquitoes. Good thing I brought bug spray; I hear it keeps away panthers and boars.

We come to a vacant plot of land in front of the Sunset stage where the Relix booth is to be set up. The silence just before the masses of campers arrive is the strangest thing about being here. I begin to imagine the nonsense and psychedelic mess that will surface once the gates open.

The festival grounds are vast and uneven. Three-dimensional, polygonal objects painted in bright ceruleans, fuchsias, canaries and oranges are juxtaposed around the property. Some have windmills spinning atop them; the blades of one sporadically thuds against its base. Even sober, I can’t help bend my knees to the accidental beat. One of my favorite things about festival art and architecture is that it is big and bright and the cartoon characters are fat and soft.

A Ferris wheel painted yellows, pinks and purples sits stationary. It reigns high over the venue and is like the North Star of Langerado. Rumor has it this is the very Ferris wheel that toured with Phish.

Luminous letters just past the campground spell out “Langerado,” just in case anyone forgets where they are. A random cartoon cow is propped up by the Everglades Stage, the main stage, and has a dopey look in his eye. In front of the Sunset stage, one of the five, massive 3-D structures has two different faces painted on them with varying color themes. One looks at you like you’ve just done something wrong while the other eyes you sleepily and if he could say anything to you it would be, “It’s cool man, just roll with it."

We wander the grounds a bit before heading back to the RV for a beer or two. Just before climbing into bed, Adam hands out earplugs to drown out Mike Jay’s snoring.

Thursday

I stumble out of the RV at 8:30 and am slapped in the face by 80 degrees of Florida hotness. Time to find my friends and my tent. I march over ant farms and bushy patches of prickly grass, keeping an eye out for any of the three poisonous snakes that were spotted the night before. Before I even reach the campgrounds I break out in a sweat and dump the contents of my Nalgene on my head. All I can wish for is a quick rain shower to cool off.

Four downpours hit us in the course of two hours in the afternoon. I’m left with a soaking wet tie-dye dress which puts “be careful what you wish for” into serious perspective.

The Sonic Bids Winner, The Palomino’s, are the first to play. Unfortunately for them, not many of the campers are ready to leave their campsites and so play for a small crowd. Before they played “The Things We Could Do,” they exclaimed, “This song is about fucking chicks!”

Les Claypool comes on next and plays “Ding Dong,” one of my favorites. We begin to see the majority of the campers emerge from their tents and bob their heads to Claypool’s Zappa-like style. They all appear to be dry; us—not so much. But Claypool’s absurdity is refreshing and added some humor that my day had been lacking. We spend the rest of the evening sporting Relix ponchos because our T-shirts are wet and cold.

Kyle and Mike Jay tell me to go rage The New Deal, who I haven’t seen live in over a year. With a renewed energy, and dry clothes, I bounce around as they break down into thumping jams. I bust out my hula hoop and try to perform some of the tricks I saw other girls doing, but I’m not much of a hooping professional. Dark Star Orchestra starts to play before The New Deal finishes and I learn that we missed “Shakedown Street,” which is a big bummer. But they make up for it with killer copies of “Truckin’,” “Scarlet Begonias,” and “Terrapin Station.”

DSO finishes and while some head over to the Swamp Stage to catch the rest of Perpetual Groove, I head back to the campground to discover the interesting characters before slipping into my designated tent around 5AM.

Friday

I wake up at 8:30, again, to the deafening sound of a saxophone being played uncomfortably close to my head. I march up to the wookie and ask him as nice and sweet as I can to stop and he barks back at me. Luckily his friends take pity on me and tell me they’ll make him stop. At least it’s not nearly as hot as it was yesterday.

The giant 3-D windmills I walk past have fat, soft flower-like objects painted on them. I can only think about one thing as I make my way to the booth—Umphrey’s McGee playing late night.

The weather is much more pleasant than yesterday. The sun is hot but the breeze is strong and whips through the tents and booths.

The Beastie Boys come on as the day’s headliner in the evening. I am told to go watch their performance and about halfway through their set I start wondering how they landed a spot in a hippie jamband festival.

I head over to Bassnectar before Umphrey’s started; I’m a big fan. This time, however, it sounds like he blows a speaker within the first two minutes and repeatedly motions to get the damn thing off stage. It being difficult to get into his mixes, I leave him behind and wander off to Umphrey’s.

My excitement for Umphrey’s is lacking. I usually get the first-date feeling before their shows. It could be the five feet of space between the railing and the stage, the tornado watch, or watching my editor-in-chief dance like a fool. They play well, of course, and break down their jams as ingeniously as ever, but I leave before they finish “Utopian Fir.”

I crawl into my tent and the wind delivers me echoes of “All in Time” and “Nothing Too Fancy,” two of my all-time favorite Umph songs, and fall asleep feeling defeated and confused yet confident tomorrow will be better.

It rains incredibly hard late in the night. Luckily there is no tornado, one of my worst fears. Imagine tents and wookies being whirled about by a rogue tornado—not a pretty sight.

Saturday

I wake up alone in my campsite around 6AM, wet and cold. I put on dry clothes and eat some hot food. Not a cloud in the sky and the first band to play is Railroad Earth. My step has a little more bounce to it after jumping and twirling about through their lively songs, a good way to start the day.

I trot off to take a shower, my first and last, as Ben Folds leaves the stage and Matisyahu prepares to enter. The entire team is anxious to see the Disco Biscuits. Having not seen them since Camp Bisco, I’m particularly antsy to take a trance-fusion ride.

 I manage to catch the end of R.E.M. when Michael Stipe looks more or less like a ghost in his white suit and skinhead. Not a huge fan of Stipe’s musicality, although his stage presence and the cliché motions he makes to the sky when he sings “Man on the Moon” are entertaining.

The Biscuits come on and I briefly join the crew backstage through “Banter” and “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” My energy has been slowly draining throughout the day, but by the time they finish up with “Helicopters,” I’m revived. “Helicopters” is a song I’ve been in love with, alongside “I-Man,” for about a year and a half now. As soon as they hit their first note their fans become so alive, it’s impossible to simply stand through one of their concerts.

There is no band left playing once Bisco wraps up. Once again I wander back to an empty campsite for a cold and uncomfortable night’s sleep. I love camping. (P.S. Fire ants are a bitch.)

Sunday

The day starts around 10AM and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. I check out Jonah Smith and rock out to him after setting up. It’s too bad he doesn’t attract a larger crowd; his music has undeniable soul and movement. [Full disclosure: Jonah Smith is a Relix Records recording artist.]

The day goes by unusually fast. Not long after Jonah gets off stage, Keller Williams makes his entrance on the Sunset. He plays typical songs like “Freaker by the Speaker” and compiles his well-known loops. Needless to say, perhaps, he was a good time.

As the sun sets I try to mentally separate a combination of Ani DiFranco, Blind Melon and Of Montreal, which comes at me from all directions. Ani reminds me of a new-generation, badass mix of Joni and Janis who isn’t afraid to share her feelings. Even Josh, the ed-in-chief, comes back to say that he was having “an emotional moment” with her.

 When Phil Lesh and Friends begin to play we break down the Relix booth and load up the van. I’m told I can sleep in the RV for the night and be sheltered from the cold—yippee! (Note to self for next year: a tapestry is not enough to keep you warm in the middle of the night, even if you are in southern Florida. You would think it being close to 90 degrees during the day would mean warm nights. Not the case.)

We hear him play “Sugar Magnolia,” “Uncle John’s Band” and “Cumberland Blues” from our booth. When I reach the crowd he plays “Franklin’s Tower,” a song I have seen him perform countless times, but still one I love. When Phil strikes the last note of “Casey Jones,” Langerado is over.

I drift off to sleep on a bedlike cushion in the warmth of the RV with a sense of nostalgia. Now that the festival season of 2008 has commenced, the anticipation for upcoming events is beginning to grow. Despite the ants, tornados and rain, Langerado was quite the experience. The fact that there was minimal mud alone made it significantly more comfortable than some previous events. Next stop: Bonnaroo.