After a hectic day with plenty of worrying mental health issues, today feels better. There’s a hopeful breeze in the early morning, the cobalt blue sky is a perfect background for the swaying palm trees. The sandwich from Ralph’s is sadly tasteless, and the strategic placing of a layer of cool ranch doritos improves texture, not flavour.

It’s the task of the rainier cherries to save breakfast from being a write-off. They pull it off nicely. It’s too early for cider, my conscience chastising me as I crack open another from the six pack I bought at Ralph’s. Well, I’m trying to pull the stress-filled neo-journalist here, bozo, and gonzo writing went away once the Good Doctor decided to erase himself from existence back in February of 2005. Bottoms up.

20 years since Hunter S. Thompson‘s suicide. That’s way too much time. 2 decades gone, and nary a mention of his writing besides Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The man was so much more than that book. But that’s a thought to explore another day.

I grab a cup of coffee from the machine at the hotel’s lobby. Dark roasted, no dilution to speak of. I’ve warmed up to the place, but the presence of so many delivery people all the time still lights all red lights in my head. Outside of the hotel, a bum salutes everyone with a warm, honest “good day to you!” and I reply in kind. Beats getting told “that motherfucker ain’t real!” or whatever people yell these days. Three years ago, one seriously fucked up junk threw shit at me when I was changing line at Wilshire/Vermont. I don’t know how many times I had to wash my backpack, but it feels it’ll never wash away entirely.

It’s too warm for 9:30 AM. I’m already sweating like a suckling pig and I’ve got three choices: grab a bus to either Hollywood/Highland or Hollywood/Vine, walk west to Hollywood/Highland or walk east to Hollywood/Vine. First option is the sensible one, gotta save some energy for the festival.

I choose the third option. Hey, it’s just another corner, right? Besides, those 10 km Pokemon eggs ain’t hatchin’ on their own, no siree bob!

As a precautionary measurement, I’ve drank 2 litres of water already. I’m no good in hot weather and I’ve had my fair share of heat stroke in my life to know it ain’t a friggin’ joke. I grab a good seat in the subway, and deftly switch at 7th street/metro center, not forgetting to tap when switching lines. You can clearly see who’s attending Just Like Heaven fest from their ridiculous outfits. Last year, it was Hawaiian shirts and Chevy Chase white shorts for every one, gender notwithstanding.

This year, it’s cheap-looking designer t-shirts worth more than my cell phone and ripped denim. Hats and knock-off ray-bans still seem to be in style. Not a single trucker hat on sight. I guess humanity can change for the better. Last year, my gig sunglasses finally broke after ten years of good service. Their fake-wood replacements, with a Stanford University logo on the side, barely lasted the year. They’ve already snapped, but I’m gonna wear them until they completely fall to pieces. Like me!

Well, well, well, yesterday it was gloom and OCD, today it’s gallows’ humour. Who says holidays can’t improve your mood? I make my way from Memorial Park station to Parsons’ parking lot, where the free shuttles to the Rose Bowl blast their AC to subfreezing temps. Moods are good, and the crowd seems longer in the tooth than last year. Makes sense, since most of the bands had their heyday from 2003 to 2005. Checks out that the majority of us are in the age bracket where a visit to the proctologist is no longer optional.

The spotify playlist curated by the Just like Heaven fest people is a nifty collection, but the only album fitting to this moment in time and space is Vivian Girls‘ self-titled. I’m bobbing my head during the drum crescendo in ‘Tell the world’, and then my cellphone loses its signal. I endure the humming of the bus’ AC and inane chatter around me and once we reach the Rose Bowl parking lot, I get one bar on my phone. Shuffle kicks in, and it’s The Courtneys‘ ‘90210’. Serendipity.

Amelia and her friends are already here and it’s a damned miracle that I run into them amongst the sizable crowd. They took the shuttle, but turns out they can just walk back to their airbnb, as it’s halfway between the Rose Bowl and Parsons. they lucked out with both location and price. Perhaps next time I’ll go for a sensible route instead of a my usual “see all, experience all” OCD-riddled plans. Security is tight this time around, not like last year when we just bum-rushed the gates to catch Warpaint.

The sun wails and screeches for our unprotected skins. Should’ve accepted Amelia’s offer of sunscreen. We saunter towards the line for the alcohol wristband, where a quick flash of an official ID -or passing as official- gets you a sticky band that reads “Modelo”. They should just give us one on the account of our deep crow’s feet and bountiful strands of grey hairs. Amelia rents a locker and I drop my passport and money, all inside a custom made leather wallet that’s been serving me well for the last three years.

On last year’s Just Like Heaven, I started the day with Broken Social Scene at the Stardust stage. I was late, because I had to go to Santa Monica Pier and catch a sea-faring pokemon for a friend. Only caught one, so I transferred it to her. I thought I could make it from Hollywood to Santa Monica pier and then back to Pasadena before the concert started. That’s the type of stupid decisions I’m avoiding this year by actually meeting up with people. We beeline it to Of Montreal and Amelia’s friends dart straight into the crowd, lost in a sea of indie sleazers, never to be seen again.

“I need a drink”, says Amelia after Of Montreal‘s fourth song. I nod in agreement, as heat prostration is creeping its way through my body. The selection this year is Modelo, Pacífico and hard seltzers. A downgrade from last year’s Blue Moon selection, if you ask me.

Funny side story, last year I got stuck behind two dudes from Broken Social Scene. Apparently their card wasn’t being accepted by the ATM. I thought musicians got comped for drinks? They were a hoot and friendly to people who approached them for selfies. No starstruck moment this year, though. Prices are still astronomical and I try to make the nearly thirty bucks beer -what? in this economy?- last at least until Of Montreal sing ‘It’s different for girls’.

We find a gargantuan tree with exposed roots offering a comfort from the massive 38 Celsius heat. Amelia texts her gang and it will a safe haven from the infernal heat. I wondered which type of tree it was. The leaves are similar to the ones from a Maverick Mesquite. Plentiful as an African Sumac. A bushy crown like a Fern Pine. Crazy snake-like exposed roots like a ficus benjamina. The branches as spread as an Australia Tumma. I don’t know any of these trees by heart, I’m just telling you the results that confounded google lens, plantnet, and inaturalist.

Is the name of the tree really important? Amelia notices my dissociation and we engage into some small talk. I feel weird interacting with anyone at a festival, I’m usually just the loner that hoots and hollers but never socializes. We consider moving out of the shade for a couple of songs, but we’re now surrounded by people. It feels like a “Titanic going down and we’re clawing to the deck” situation right now. The warm, dryer-like wind isn’t helping at all.

What happens now is one of the weirdest experiences I’ve had on a festival. No, not the chatting. I spent a four-act run below a tree. The view is great, the sound mix is nifty enough that we enjoy the bands, but the heat is intolerable. When we arrived, it was 28 Celsius, it gradually got hotter and even in the later hours it would be so hot people passed out when there was no sun at all. We eventually reached 40°C, at times going a little above due to thermal sensation.

Peter, Bjorn and John are a must-see act. If you only know them for ‘young folks’, you’ll be pleasantly surprised at how much they avoid the trappings of a one hit wonder while still living that curse. Beach Fossils were good, and I always have time for the sparse dreaminess of ‘Sugar’. The Sounds got shafted by the current political landscape and Carah Faye Charnow from Shiny Toy Guns had to pull a miracle as Maja Ivarsson’s understudy and deftly sang through the set.

We just want to dance to their music. We just want to enjoy our time here. We just want new memories. Instead, the stark reality of how borders are getting fiercer and visas are getting revoked willy-nilly dampened our spirits. We had it easy. It was a concert, not a lifetime in a country some called home and now will never see again.

Grouplove‘s set was infectious, and I tap-tap-tapped my feet on the massive roots of the still-unidentified tree we used as a refuge. A couple of people from nearby houses had a great view of their set and I could see a fat, balding guy crack a few beers to ‘Tongue tied’. No beer for me, just continuous trips to the water fountains and refill my plastic canteen. It’s plastic, octagonal in shape, and holds half a liter of lovely water. I’ve had 8 so far and think I’ve sweated every drop of water. I’m a no-peeing machine, all water processed and evaporated back into the atmosphere. I’m a walking water cycle.

People tend to forget that California is a dry as a motherfucking sandpaper sheet desert. Any gust of wind was like a hairdryer on maximum burn, peeling away your skin like an expensive sandblasting at a day spa. The audience tried anything to cool down, even throwing their unfinished drinks. Chucking 20 plus dollar drinks? In this economy? Jesus wept.

Courtney Barnett‘s set is a blank memory. I have notes on my phone, but they make no sense. Even in the shade, the heat was getting to me and I excused myself once Amelia’s friends joined us at the tree base. I didn’t fancy leaving a friend alone during a festival, so it was a good time to move around and enjoy other places. They eventually moved along too, so that was the last I saw of them. I drench a handkerchief in some clean, fresh water, and try to cool myself down.

I understand you want to sell “an experience” but having a VIP queue for merchandise is just taking the piss. I love this festival, I’m probably going to be here next year, but it’s fucking ridiculous having separate queues for merch. C’mon, you want people to buy your wares, make it easy on them instead of separating trust fund tech-bros from us normal folk living paycheck to paycheck.

I bite the bullet and buy something to eat. Last year’s birria tacos were delicious -and expensive- and this year, prices are similar. I end up falling for a burger and fries from one of the many identikit joints. It looks great, but it has no taste. It had a special sauce, with a name lost to the sands of time, but it didn’t make a difference. The fries were too salty and the black cherry shasta I got evaporated in the residual heat, irradiated from the soil via infrared radiation. It’s early twilight, but we, the public, are walking pieces of beef jerky under the mauve and pink sky. I go for more water and start worrying that I haven’t felt the need to pee. Can a person really just sweat it all out?

Of course no, don’t be silly.

We are at 38 degrees Celsius and the sweltering heat is no match to TV on the radio‘s fierce set. ‘Young liars’ and ‘Golden age’ are a brutal way to start their set and against all sound advice, I go feral with ‘Wolf like me’, just like everybody else. “When the moon is round and full. Gotta teach you tricks that’ll blow your mongrel mind.” Goosebumps all over my body, I can jump as high as the sky, and we all sang it out of the tune but with all our hearts. I find a place with some shade to listen to the rest of their set, but I’m happy as a donut. A freshly baked one.

Bloc Party are next and I mosey near the tree. Amelia is long gone. I think about the time I changed her name by mistake on a zine. “Audrey”. I’m never gonna live it down. Those long gone days of editing, configuring, printing, and stapling zines in a single night are long gone, like youth. It all evanesces away into nothingness.

I already have a contact high from the crowd’s heavy ganja rotation discipline and Kele Okereke is enjoying the attention we give him. “We got a tight schedule, we don’t want to get beaten by Vampire Weekend“, jokes Kele before belting out ‘Hunting for witches’. ‘Banquet’ is introduced in mock humility by a “We call this a banger” remark. I nearly pass out singing ‘like eating glass’ and random strangers hug as “we got crosses on our eyes” repeats as a mantra of a generation that knows the best times are gone. Twenty years gone. Wow. “One last song, but it’s a good one!” self-deprecates Kele Okereke, as Bloc Party finishes with ‘Ratchet’. As much as I gush about Kele‘s dry humour, it’s Louise Bartle‘s moment to shine. Her drumming, perfect like a machine, but with all the feeling of a seasoned-pro at the top of her game.

Slowdive is on the last section of their set when I arrive from the Orion stage. ‘Sugar for the pill’ is as beautiful live as on the album, and the dreamlike set is marred by reality. During ‘Alison’, the band stops as Rachel Goswell spots a person passing out from heat stroke. It’s almost 8 pm and we’re still soldiering through this infernal conflagration. Their magnificent set comes to an end, they gracefully leave the stage and I relish the peaceful atmosphere as night finally hits. The grass is welcoming and I find a good spot for waiting Rilo Kiley‘s return.

It’s been a weird day. I’m usually moving around a lot during festivals, but today’s been relaxed. Yeah, the heat is infernal, but I’ve actually enjoyed the day, even if with age it feels hours fly away like butterflies. It feels like minutes since I’ve arrived, and now it’s time for the creators of Depressocore (TM), Rilo Kiley.

The crowd goes wild. Roaring, wolf whistles, hooting, and maybe a rebel yell in the distance. Collective hearts are broken as ‘Execution of all things’ starts. We’re back to the days of Limewire, Kazaa, eMule, and mininova as gateways to the music we couldn’t afford. To dumb phones with shit cameras and ripoff prices for text messages. Knees and backs no longer hurt. Nostalgia can be exploited economically, but can also serve as a place of solace in a mad world.

Just like that tree saved Amelia, me, and a lot of people from the heat, Rilo Kiley‘s music was a balm that gave relief to life’s burns. Is Execution of all things the reservoir for tonight’s hits? Go on, you joyous melancholy peddlers, it’s the album that inspired me to write a novel that I’ll never finish because it’s my therapy. ‘Paint’s peeling’ brings back all sort of memories, and the intertwining euphoria pierces me through. The one-two emotional knockout of ‘A better son/daughter’ and ‘with arms outstretched’ is followed by the cheekiness of ‘the frug’. ‘Portions for foxes’ was the perfect way to close the set.

People scurried towards the Orion stage for Vampire Weekend. Not me, pal, I’ve got a subway to catch because I’m a long way from my abode. I stumble through the Rose Bowl’s wide alleys, feeling the urge to relieve myself. A whole day of drinking water and it’s now, just after a band I’ve waited twenty (!) years to see live, that I can switch off and relax. Let your body do its thing, it’ll be ok, it’ll be alright. Toilet was cleaner than expected. Selah.

I pick my stuff from the locker Amelia’s rented out. A few people are also leaving early, still euphoric about Rilo Kiley. I wish I had someone to talk with, but this is the life I chose. I make my way to the shuttle, listening to whatever the shuffle offers me, checking whatever hatched on pokemon (carbink again? Niantic you fuckers…) and snooze all the way back to 7th street. I zig and zag betweem drunken revelers and people in snazzy clothes, back to Hollywood/Highland, amongst the smell of three tacos for fifteen dollars, fresh esquites, roasted elotes, fruit cups, and people out of their minds on any fashionable drug they get.

A father is getting confrontational with a cop. The smell of the expensive weed joint in his hand drives me to do the unthinkable: get three taquitos for two dollars at seven eleven. They taste of regret and bad decisions, so I quaff three ciders and wonder where is my life going towards too.

It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t. Whatever happens, happens, and that’s one of today’s three lessons. The second one is: find your tree in the desert, and don’t worry about its name. And third and most important: stay hydrated, kids.

Love y’all. Take care.

-Sam J. Valdés López