The fact that it takes place in southern Florida is one of Langerado's most telling features: It is a music festival for old people. I mean that in two good ways: 1) old people are sick (what up Grandpa Richie? Holla!) and 2) as much fun as they can be and often are, the Saharan heat, interminable crowds and generally hellish environs can make big outdoor music festivals frightfully uncomfortable, even for a young, virile lad like myself.
Maybe it's because it isn't organized by a giant production company; or maybe it's because the promoters were looking for a niche in the crowded outdoor music festival market. Whatever the reason, Langerado is a small town of American music extravaganzas. As soon as you get past the "security" at the front gate, the festival's vibe is immediately striking as less intense, less intimidating and certainly more laidback than that of bigger, more recognizable competitors like Coachella, Bonnaroo, Lollapalooza and Wakarusa.
Milling around Markham Park in idyllic Sunrise, Fla. this weekend, I repeatedly ran into people that I met at or recognized from shows at the festival. At the Big Dogs, this is as likely as winning the lottery, but at Langerado, these comforting, communing run-ins are regular occurrences.
The guy I saw the most was Bill, a 50-something Tallahassean professional with a head full of gray hair. For me, Bill quickly became the personification of the whole Langerado aesthetic. He was, of course, both old and ubiquitous, two characteristics about the Langerado audience that distinguish it from Bonnaroo, et. al.
More than that though, Bill didn't take ecstasy or acid, or eat any heady pastries baked with illicit ingredients; he drank beer. Aside from some relatively harmless recreational weed smoking, Langerado patrons have cleaner fun than those at almost every other music festival I've been to. This echoes the geriatric nature of the event.
Unlike festivals like Bonnaroo, Wakarusa and the All Good Music Festival in West Virginia, Langerado has a limited amount of on-site camping, and you have to pay for it, which means that instead of cramming a horde of exhausted, party-hungry people in a huge, unsupervised shanty town, Langerado's promoters disperse them throughout the hotels of Fort Lauderdale, which is over 20 miles away.
Although this forces a lot of people to drive who definitely shouldn't be and makes I-95 a pretty dangerous place to be after dark, it keeps Langerado less shady than some of its competitors. I'm not saying it was a Mormon clambake - the speed freak that almost chewed his finger off at the STS9 show pretty much nullified that notion. It is rare and nice, though, to be at a music festival where no one's naked and trying to ward off invisible eight-headed monsters with a stick.
Not only was Bill not rolling all weekend, but like nearly everyone else I made eye contact with, he seemed to be having an awesome time, even though it wasn't quite his scene. Judging by the unending labyrinth of dreadlocks, tie-dye and patchwork clothing, much of the audience came to see Langerado's offering of standard jam-band fare. Widespread Panic and moe. were the festival's biggest draws, and almost every conversation I eavesdropped on (don't judge me) was abuzz with excited chatter about Friday's headlining set from Phish's Trey Anastasio.
Imagine the surprise when The Hold Steady drunkenly stumbled into the Swamp Tent and blew the beads out of everyone's dreadlocks with "Stuck Between Stations." This was the first show where I saw Bill, who was stomping and jumping around like he knew every word, even though he didn't. While Franz Nicolay's twinkling keys lapsed during "Stevie Nix," I looked over at my elderly friend, who had the second-biggest, most incredulous grin I've ever seen an old man have.
The single biggest grin I've ever seen an old man have belonged to the infamous jazz drummer Steve Reid, whose collaboration with Kieran Hebden (Four Tet) on Saturday afternoon drew even more confusedly delighted looks from the heady Langerado crowd than did The Hold Steady. Again, Bill was inexplicably there, getting down to the duo's partly improvised, heavily rhythmic compositions.
The amount of fun Bill was having makes the question irrelevant, but I can't help but wonder how this 50-year-old square from Tallahassee decided to see an avant-garde electronic musician and an avant-garde drummer playing together.
I more expected to see him at My Morning Jacket's Saturday night headlining set. Their testosterone-heavy, Southern rock spectacle seemed like something my new friend would be into, which, of course he was. Of the eight shows where I saw Bill this weekend, I was most excited to see him at this simply transcendent show so that I could share it with someone I thought was cool.
Radiohead is widely accepted as the greatest active live rock band. I've seen Radiohead, and after two straight hours of MMJ ferociously tearing through songs from their entire career amidst a backdrop of a silhouetted trees and a well-orchestrated light show, I humbly submit that MMJ pose a legitimate threat to their British counterpart's dominion. I don't think I have the vocabulary to adequately convey the ear-splitting elegance of the show, but suffice it to say it was one of the five best I have ever seen.
The weekend was by no means all cool old people and good music. I repeatedly ran into this one kid, who rudely weaseled his way to the front of every show right before it started to stand around, wearing a CamelBak that his parents probably bought him for the weekend and the ugliest multicolored hat I have ever seen. He sucked, as did the army of too-drunk Lindsay Brohan frat boys on spring break.
But overall, my Langerado weekend was solid. Leaving the big festivals, I usually have some ridiculous stories to go with my dirt-covered legs, sunspots and shaken psyche. After Langerado, I don't have any of those things - the music was good, the people were pleasant, and I left with a smile on my face. And if you can say all that after you see a show, you got your money's worth.
