A (nearly) sober account of the Disco Biscuits’ drug-addled electro music festival.
It’s about the music, man.
As the weekend wears on there are more and more drug casualties, several people passed out in chairs or sleeping where they shouldn’t be. These types—partiers who’ve passed out with their shoes on—are called “passed out wookies.”
I run into a guy named David whose one goal in life seems to be to fuck with these passed out wookies, so I follow him for a bit. He extends an inflatable totem pole from his crotch, waves it in the face of one unfortunate wookie. Next, he places a wet bagel on the crotch of another, all the while laughing.
David seems to be an exception to the rule at Bisco, where most treat other campers with kindness and compassion and look out for one another.
The Biscuit fans are a bunch of city kids with a touch of hippy minus the granola. They like hip-hop. They are as excited about seeing Kid Cudi as they are about tripping in the DFA Disco Tent until 4 a.m.
“I heard a term this weekend I think describes our fan base pretty well actually,” says Magner over the phone a couple days after Bisco has drawn to a close. “Tree Thuggers.”
It’s now Saturday morning at Camp Bisco and the sun is out. The heat wakes me. My head is throbbing, and outside my tent smells of sun-baked piss.
That’s partly my own fault, for sure, but it also has nothing to do with me. Throughout the day yesterday, as the rain wore on and the port-a-potties filled, people stopped using them. My tent’s set up on the outskirts of the concert area by a fence line and behind the food vendors. People, one or two every few minutes, pee by the fence. I say “people” because I don’t just mean guys. I’ve seen more girls take a piss in 15 minutes than I have in the last 15 years.
I take a sunlit look at my tent and see that the water inside has a slight yellow/rust tinge. I gag a little.
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.
Floetry’s Philadelphia story