Wherein I have my nightmares from the three-day festival analyzed by a psychologist.
This news isn’t satisfying. In fact, it’s disappointing. Because, really ? It was a concert, not Fallujah. Am I that huge a pussy? (Over/under on people in the comments answering that question in the affirmative: six.)
Not so fast, Dr. Doug says. The type of negative stimulus in my Camp Bisco nightmare is nothing to sneeze at. Police blare horrible music at high volumes continuously for hours at suspects they hope to get to come out, Branch Davidian style. They shine lights, too. I’m sleeping in freezing water and urine. I’m sucking on second-hand DMT fumes. So war-torn Iraq it’s not, but it’s no goddamn picnic either.
Still, oddly, I think of going back this year—like Jeremy Renner’s character in The Hurt Locker , I take comfort in the chaos. Or something.
This time, though, I go native, go wookie. This time I travel with a group of friends, one of whom hopefully has an RV. This time I buy the “$5 roll” that’s in abundance. This time I play hacky sac. This time I bring rain boots. And this time I don’t do jello shots after a six-hour beer bender just because they’re free.
The lineup at Bisco 9 is much better than the year prior, maybe its best ever. Ghostface Killah, Method Man and Raekwon—known together as Wu Massacre—are playing. LCD Soundsystem, Girl Talk, Diplo, Ween, Holy Fuck, Major Lazer, the Album Leaf, Earl Greyhound—this year the actual bands you might want to see versus scrubs ratio is dramatically improved.
So let’s go. Wanna come with? I’ll supply the DMT. Osman has graciously offered his services gratis for up to a month after.
Camp Bisco 9
Thurs., July 15–Sat., July 17
With Disco Biscuits + many more
Indian Lookout Country Club
1142 Batter St.
Floetry’s Philadelphia story