Moon River Music Festival

This article was originally published in the Daily Post Athenian in Athens, Tennessee on September 13, 2019.

I skipped Junior Prom for my first musical festival. After three days of music in Midtown Atlanta, I came home with a Henna tattoo I tried to convince my dad was real along with a renewed sense of who I was and how I wanted to spend my life. (I was 16. I wanted to be the first woman president of the United States.)

Since that May awakening I’ve taken advantage of every opportunity to attend music festivals and am incredibly fortunate to have experienced three in the last year. This annum of music ventures has been doubly special as I have introduced three of my dearest friends, my husband, and my daughter to this tradition I cherish so.

I’ve already written articles on Jenny’s first festival and our family trip to Railbird, so my focus today is on this past weekend at Moon River in Chattanooga.

Whitney, Lu, and I arrived at the festival grounds in the sweltering Saturday sun. We cased out Coolidge Park in its festival best and, after filling up our water bottles, spread our blanket under a shade tree where we could hear music coming from both stages.

Over the course of the day friends gathered and dispersed, sharing shade, refreshments, and camaraderie. As the sun sunk toward the river, we found a shady spot closer to the main stage.

We could hear the music, see the Jumbotron; our position, however, was tangential to the stage and crowd.

All day I could sense an air of disengagement in my friend Lu, which I found curious as she’s a performer and music-lover if there ever was one. My intuition was confirmed the next morning.

We sipped coffee awaiting brunch and during a lull I felt Lu sigh from across the table: “I have to say, I’m really glad you have Jenny - and Whit if she’s up for more festivals - but, I have to say...I don’t think I’m a festival person.”

I feigned a heartbroken response, but I know she saw the understanding in my smirk. We chatted a bit about it and I couldn’t resist trying to bring her around.

“Here’s the thing,” I caved in to my “fix it” nature. “There were a lot of obstacles yesterday to our enjoyment of the music. Sure, we were in the shade but that makes the concerts more of an ambient accessory and I think if we got closer to the energy of the crowd - sun and all - you might feel differently.”

Upon entering the festival grounds that afternoon I followed Lu, who, toting an umbrella, walked directly and deliberately into the sun toward the crowd gathered to hear Bird Talker. Within minutes we had shed out shoes and our inhibitions and were dancing with abandon, befriending the dancing Texans to our left.

Toward the end of the set I watched Lu enjoy her Pink Lemonade Popsicle and noticed the lack of tension in her shoulders. Maybe she felt me studying her because that’s when she turned around: “Ok, maybe I am a festival person,” she danced.

That memory is on a long list of magic moments from this festival. There’s a moment, though, that persists when I reflect on the significance of the weekend.

Around 3pm Lu and I braved the beating sun to sit (with a cohort of teenagers) close to the stage to ensure a good spot to watch The Band CAMINO at 4:30. As soon as the music started we forgot our skin was crispy and drenched with sweat. I should add that while seeing The Band CAMINO was Lu’s expressed purpose for attending the festival in the first place, the group is not exactly in my heaving rotation. No matter – if it’s live music, I dance.

And dance I did. Everyone did. A chorus of roughly 5,000 sang the lyrics in unison and waved their arms in time.

Then there was me. It was about three songs before the end that I realized I was the only person moving in a way I’ll characterize as “hippie dancing.” The only person, that is, except the 19 year old dreadlocked stage hand dancing on the other side of the VIP barricade. Perhaps it was the shared rhythm of our bodies – or a connection deeper yet – but at the same instant our heads turned and he stretched his hand across the barricade toward mine.

I squeezed his right hand with my left and felt a bit maternal as I smiled, seeing his face for the first time. After a glance that spoke volumes, we went back to our “hippie dancing.”

Dreadlocks had given me tangible evidence that music has the power to break through our (literal and figurative) divides and embrace our essential connection.

I was dancing in a crowd of thousands with nothing – literally, I had nothing, no phone, no purse, no water – except a group of friends and a few pounds of sweat. Dreadlocks was also free, freer than I perhaps, because it was he who reached across the barrier to give voice to our yet unspoken kinship.

I felt his piercing blue eyes as the band finished their last song. I lowered my sunglasses to meet his smile. “You feel the music. You’re pretty cool.”

I laughed out loud as he ran off to reset the stage. I made a joke of it and bragged to the stranger in front of me about being “the cool mom.” But that brief interchange had a deeper significance than merely validating my level of cool.

What barriers are preventing me from experiencing my life to the fullest?

How often do I have (and miss) the opportunity to reach out and remind someone of our common humanity?