I’ve never been a Festival guy. When the weather is decent enough to listen to music outdoors, I’m more of the “Sit on the back deck with bourbon and a cigar and listen to Irish Punk Pandora stations on the Bluetooth speaker” type. Not because I have anything against the deep, rhythmic bass of Bleep Bloop or Midnight Tyrannosaurus; I appreciate them as much as the next guy. But because I pretty much hate humanity. The innermost circle of Hell for me would be to get stuck in the middle of Wobbleland, with tens of thousands of Patchouli-soaked posers tripping balls on Molly standing between me and the nearest bartender. See, it’s not you. It’s me.
But that was before I saw this chick. I’ve seen bands everywhere from Foxboro to Fenway, from the diviest bars to the classiest venues. And no musical experience has even remotely come close to this. I don’t know if this is a good reaction she’s having or the kind that puts you in court-ordered in-patient rehab. I just know I’ll have what she’s having. Wobbleland 2018, I’m there.