A (nearly) sober account of the Disco Biscuits’ drug-addled electro music festival.
“No way,” he answers. “ I’ve already named it.”
Shortly afterwards, I arrive at the bar and immediately make nice with the bartenders, Bill and Dick.
Dick’s parents own the liquor license at Indian Lookout, and because of the constant rain, business isn’t so great for their four remote beer taps scattered around camp. Even the covered bar is all but empty. Of course, the Disco Biscuits are playing improvised electro to thousands of spinning fans at the moment. Not even the torrential downpour can stymie tonight’s jam. The main concert field is an absolute pile of sloppy shit, but still they dance.
Each of the Biscuits’ six sets is packed to the gills.
It’s been that way all weekend: The rain threatens to drive devoted fans back into their tents, but succeeds only half the time. The pelting water surely didn’t keep the crowd away from the eagerly anticipated Nas and Damian Marley set.
The pair is set to release a collaboration later this year, and they traded verses on stage, working in some classics from the Queensbridge rapper and Damian’s father, Bob, to the delight of the fans that sang and rapped every word they knew.
Other acts didn’t fare so well. Dr. Dog played to 300 or so onlookers early Friday. Asher Roth played to fewer during a Thursday evening set. Still others played to maybe dozens of people, getting on stage before the campers were able to shake the night before off.
Back at the bar, a musclebound young man with a Boston accent and a forehead larger than most makes his way up the hill. His name is Brian. He’s with his wife of two weeks, a Croatian with gigantic fake boobs and a Bettie Page haircut.
Brian is visibly distraught. “Our tent was stolen, bro,” he repeats over and over to no one in particular.
He’s definitely tripping balls.
Someone suggests that maybe he’s lost his way. Maybe he just can’t find his tent, and it hasn’t been stolen. Brian is annoyed by the very idea. The tattoo encircling the cage fighter’s neck—“Start Living Or Die Trying”—and myriad others on his body suggest you wouldn’t like him when he’s annoyed.
“My wife. She’s got terminal cancer,” says Brian. “I wanted to take her to Bisco, show her the time of her life, and this shit happens,” he finishes—blinking, teetering, and fighting to stand.
“We’ll be okay, baby,” says his wive in an accent so heavy and speech so slurred it was hard to make out the words. They kiss deeply.
Earlier that day a young woman, impressed by the wife’s dance moves, invited her back to her tent to do lines of powdered ecstasy. She obliged.
“What have I told you about takin’ drugs from strangers!” teases Brian, as his bride recounts the story.
“Look who’s talking!” she retorts. More deep kisses ensue—hands on asses. Brian grabs a healthy handful of fake boob, and they stare longingly into each other’s dilated pupils.
More people trickle in. There’s Paul from Pottstown. He’s been to Bisco IV, V, VI, but skipped VII. He’s back now for VIII, and wishes he wasn’t. He ate some Molly—the name for pure MDMA, which is found in ecstasy—earlier in the day, and lost the keys to the Volkswagen GTI he borrowed from his younger brother. Wet and freezing, coming down and dejected, he hugs a heated glass pretzel box in an attempt to warm himself.
Like moths to a flame, a few others join him.
Last week, as you may recall, I angered the rabid fans of Disco Biscuits by painting an extremely accurate portrait of them in a cover story I wrote. As someone who’s usually hailed as a genius with very succinct insight, the torrent of angry emails from Biscuit fans has been a bit of an adjustment for me.