Wakarusa in Words: Sunday (Dr. Dog! Fourth of July! Drum circles! Acid freakouts! Cars on fire!)
By GREG FRANKLIN
Fourth of July
Ah, day four of the festival. A sense of relief starts to creep into me, that the mud walking will finally be over, that I will no longer have to deal with the most dreadlocks that I’ve ever seen, that no longer will perfect strangers walk by me, looking me dead in the eye and telling me that they can sense my soul and it’s got a bad vibe to it. Also, while seeing live music is amazing and something that I seem to have an insatiable appetite for, the physical endurance of doing it four days in a row is a bit much. I make a commitment for the day to not enjoying any more New Belgium (cha-ching!) products, even though I’ve found that a delightfully crisp Sunshine Wheat (cha-ching!) or a darker, more robust Fat Tire (cha-ching!) are a delicious choice when it comes to beer.
I actually roust myself out of bed to make it to the main stage in time to see another Dr. Dog performance. I make it late and miss out on seeing an hour-long drum circle on the main stage, which I can only imagine would be the worst possible thing to wake up to after a blowout night on Saturday. Actually, it might be one of the worst possible things to wake up to, period.
Dr. Dog translates better to the larger main stage than the mud tent than I predicted. The crowd is a bit sparse for a main stage event (probably 800), but the weather is just a little overcast and cool, and the band is absolutely perfect, yet again. They play a similar set of newer songs and some great older songs, the highlight being the bopping “The World May Never Know.” They focus more on new songs for this set, but the new songs are every bit as catchy and interesting as their back catalog, so I am completely satisfied.
I take a friend who had done acid for the first time ever Saturday night back to his homestead. He ended up breaking his glasses falling from a golf cart and using his boxer shorts as toilet paper since the port-o-johns were out of TP. I secretly envy his debauchery and hangover.
Emmylou Harris is sick, and I make the executive decision to see one more band and then call it a festival. I go back to the mud-pit that is the Sundown Stage and watch Lawrence’s Fourth of July play a great set of jangly, folky indie pop that takes some of the classic melody and understated wit of ‘90s indie faves like Pavement and Neutral Milk Hotel through a more modern and folky filter, as cocky and confident singer Brendan Hangauer writes songs about the struggles of a sometimes drunken, sometimes angry heart.
Competing with jam-band faves Leftover Salmon on the schedule, Fourth of July’s set draws a great crowd for a local band on the bill; in return, the band gives a sweaty, sloppy (in all the right ways) marathon of sugary, hyperactive blasts and syrupy, drawn-out numbers, with Kelly Hangauer taking off his shirt for part of the set, and with his trumpet and Steve Swyers’ Television-esque guitar leads providing the perfect soundtrack for a hot and breezy June day in Kansas.
I wander around for a bit more, casually taking in the sounds from various tents, never really getting sucked in yet feeling completely satisfied with my experience. I want to find some sort of extra surprise before I call it a day, some sort of jaw-dropping, amazing thing, but decide that the menacing clouds and lack of Emmylou Harris are sending me packing on my merry way. I am Wak’d out.
On the way out of the park, I notice that the normal exit route has been diverted. I look up ahead and see a group of fire trucks surrounding something. Upon closer inspection, I notice that a Volkswagen Van has burned right at the entrance to the grounds. I wonder if this is a sign of protest, or just a cosmic irony. I shrug my shoulders and look forward to getting home to take a hot shower and get back to normal, non-festing life.
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