WARPED TOUR
I turned my phone over to find a text from a friend who was currently lost somewhere deep inside Merriweather Post Pavilion.
“journeys stage air dubai,” the text read.
I turned to another friend sitting next to me in the shadiest patch of dirt we could find and showed her the message.
“What is Air Dubai? Do you think it’s a band? Or a sponsor?”
“I have no idea. Where is the Journeys Stage?”
“I didn’t even know Journeys had a stage. What is this stage? The main stage?”
We had been at it for less than an hour and already the bleak realization was settling in: I don’t think I get Vans Warped Tour anymore.
—
For most of my life, I would have said that skate punk and pop-punk were my favorite genres of music. I wasn’t a skater, but they were how I defined myself. Hooky and anarchic and loud and rebellious — they were the sonic equivalent of the confused, implacable rage that only a sixth- through ninth-grader truly understands.
The first album I remember really loving was my brother’s worn-in copy of Dookie. The first albums I remember seeking out and buying (OK, maybe making my parents buy) were blink-182’s first few albums (Dude Ranch, Enema of the State) and anything I could find by Sum 41 (All Killer, No Filler was the Discman-aided soundtrack to many afternoons spent wandering aimlessly through my neighborhood, seething pointlessly against suburbia). I loved Good Charlotte passionately; I still have at least three Yellowcard albums (One for the Kids, Ocean Avenue and Lights and Sounds) prominently lodged into my CD shelf.
And then I grew up. Green Day gave way to Fugazi and The Dismemberment Plan; the clear-as-day dorky-guy earnesty of blink gave way to the posturing cool of The Strokes and Arctic Monkeys. Then I really listened to classic rock. And I got into synthpop and R.E.M. and folk and even musical theater. Then I stopped buying CDs.
—
As much as I’ve changed, though, Warped Tour, for better or for worse, remains exactly the same.
There are still a bunch of stages. All the acts you came to see still play at the same time. You’ll still never be able to find the Acoustic Basement, even if you really want to catch at least some of Allison Weiss’ set. The dudes will still have tattoos and the girls will still wear flower headbands and there are still a ton of people who, thankfully, queer up that gender binary.
The crowd still kicks up dust, and it’s still hard to breathe through the dense intermingling of 20 different cigarette brands all being smoked in a 10-foot radius.
Weird corporate sponsorships (Warheads! Journeys! Monster Energy drinks! Kia, for some reason!) still mingle with bands trying to position themselves as anti-authority; goths in Native American headdresses and Kabuki face paint (how many kinds of cultural appropriation are there in that clause?) still pose for pictures with 12-year-old girls in Sperrys and temporary tattoos.
The setlist still isn’t posted until the day of the show, and it’s still two dollars to buy a program and a map.
A few things have changed, though. The “no pants” look that my friends and I remembered from our first Warpeds has given way to a sea of high-waisted shorts (because even the punks now take their fashion cues from Taylor Swift). Everybody vapes now, which really feels makes you feel like you’re in the future, even if you’re currently listening to music straight out of 2006.
And there are more parents. Last year, Warped introduced a policy that parents or guardians get in free with their youths. So while the kids not yet old enough to drive went and skanked and moshed and fought their way through the crowds over by the stages and the band tents, the parents mostly fought for shade and blanket space on Merriweather’s enormous (yet eerily vacant) lawn.
Not coincidentally, this was where I ended up spending most of my time.
—
While my friend and I recover from a set by Motionless In White (a Scranton, Pennsylvania-based metalcore band whose members all look like Marilyn Manson if he were the main character from Assassin’s Creed — let all of those words sink in for a second), we’re approached by an older man in a floppy sun hat and a faded orange tank top. He’s holding two copies of the Bhagavad Gita.
When he comes over, he asks for a fist pound. I hesitate for a second, taken aback, then softly put my knuckles against his knuckles. My friend does the same.
“All right,” says the man. “I’m a monk. You know what a monk is?”
“Yes,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “I’m aware of monks.”
“All right,” he says again. He then goes on to explain something about yoga and that he travels with the tour and asks if we would like to make a donation? (He doesn’t say what we’d be donating to … maybe just the idea of Hinduism?)
“Sorry, I legitimately don’t have any cash,” I say, legitimately.
“Oh, no worries, bro!” he says, grinning. He’s got us right where he wants us. “This is the 21st century, we take plastic!”
He pulls out a card reader. After a few more moments of noncommittal back and forth, he eventually gives up, fist-bumps us again, and waltzes off.
Monks should never be allowed to say “bro.” Or take plastic.
—
During at least three sets, we were exhorted by the bands to go out and find something new. So that’s what we did.
And, to my surprise, the new ended up repeatedly trumping the old. While I found myself disappointed with the nostalgia acts (can you call pining for 2005 nostalgia?) I was once so excited to see — Cute Is What We Aim For is still too man-pretty for me to take seriously, while the screaminess of A Skylit Drive is now more enervating than exhilarating — I was pleasantly thrilled with the random sets we stumbled into.
On the Ernie Ball stage, we wandered into a half-finished set by Stacked Like Pancakes, a Towson-based ska band. Lead singer Kellen McKay looks disarmingly like Demetri Martin, and all of the band members — including a fantastic horn section — wore band T-shirts and clearly grew up liking Streetlight Manifesto as much as I did. Bursting with charm and energy, SLP won me over just when I was starting to fade.
And later, over at the aforementioned Journeys stage (or was it the Warheads stage? It definitely wasn’t Beatport stage. All of these stage names get confusing after three hours in the sun), Florida treasure Beebs and Her Money Makers brought a sense of unabashed fun to the sometimes overly dramatic Warped proceedings (let me say it again: “Scranton-based metalcore band”). Beebs and her backing band — including another killer horn section — refused to take themselves seriously, wearing matching pants, dipping in and out of covers (“Waterfalls,” “Careless Whisper” and “Wrecking Ball”), directing conga lines and ejaculating confetti over the small but appreciative crowd.
—
Just before we took off for the day, we stopped in on Yellowcard’s set on the Kia-sponsored main stage. Mainstays in pop-punk and on Warped Tour, Yellowcard, which adds a violin to the standard emo-pop proceedings, was arguably one of my favorite bands as a kid, the perfect culmination of dramatic angst and radio-friendly melodies.
Seeing them at 11 would have been a dream come true.
Seeing them at 21 was … good. “Way Away” and “Ocean Avenue” are still untouchable slices of emo, and singer Ryan Key hasn’t aged a day. But there was something missing — not with the band, but with me. Technically great and so eager to be loved, Yellowcard put on a great show. I still liked Yellowcard.
But all I wanted to do was go home and listen to Jenny Lewis’ new album on NPR.
—
Over the course of the day, my friend and I had an ongoing conversation about whether we would let our kids go to Warped Tour (and also what we would rather do than see Limp Bizkit live, but that’s probably irrelevant).
We both said yes; she wouldn’t want to personally stay there with her hypothetical offspring, though. I disagreed. I want to come back to Warped Tour as a 40-year-old. I want to know what the kids are doing, even when it starts to become weird and scary to me.
I may not be the target audience any longer, but I’m still glad Warped Tour is here as an institution; I’m glad there’s still an enormous crowd to cheer on Yellowcard and that there’s still a festival that can find room for MC Chris and Watsky and The Protomen.
It’s an institution for a reason, and I’m glad it’s there — its anti-establishment, pro-skateboarding message becoming an icon in its own right.
I might be in the process of trading out Vans for dress shoes, but I’m glad Warped Tour will be there for my angry, Monster-addled kids.
I might not be forever warped, but I’m glad Warped is still forever.
