Zen and the Art of Concert Lines
Art: Bryan Haynes
Attending summer outdoor concerts on grass with coolers, blankets, picnic baskets, and clouds that mosey toward sunsets of transcendent beauty has caught on in a big way here in northern Utah. With multiple venues in Park City and Salt Lake, music buffs are in a continuous state of “jonesin’.”
It matters not whether country, folk, rock, classical, blues or jazz is on display. Oftentimes it’s the ambiance, people watching and the hooking up with special friends for an afternoon or evening of “diggin’ the beat” that drives this boat. Of course, raising a glass in “salud” has also been known to play a major role in concert festivities.
For the truly driven, it’s all about organization and preparation—identifying and collecting that which will comfort, getting it all in a pile, and tossing it in the back of your conveyance before heading off in the early morning to stake out a spot in the waiting line. (Getting there before the next guy would be a good thing.)
Being near the very front of the line, however, becomes increasingly more difficult each year. There was a time when showing up a few hours prior to the gates opening would suffice. Not anymore! That “few hours prior” soon became arriving by noon, and then that didn’t work anymore, so now, except for “special” shows that require having someone in your party in line the night before, 6:00 a.m. is a fairly normal get-in-line time.
Blankets and low-rider “beach” chairs are part and parcel to the outdoor concert lifestyle. The blanket has a large role, in that following the opening of the gate, as one scurries toward that perfect concert-viewing site, one must, as a raptor trimming its wings for landing, unfurl the flag on the fly. In one motion, it is required that you spread out the rectangular fabric in a manner that takes up maximum territory. Depending upon the size of your concert entourage, one might even make the dash with two blankets or have a sidekick to assist in the land grab. The only thing that separates this land rush from the one that took place back in the day on the Oklahoma panhandle is the amount of horse manure. (That’s not to say there isn’t a lot of “bull” in concert lines.)
There are a couple of different communities at play during the concert season. One is your light-hearted group of friends who come to hang out, shuck-and-jive, wine, dine, and dance. The other community is made up of those who understand the ethic behind spending the entire day in line for a show that doesn’t kick off until early evening. It’s not a large community, but rather a loose association of aficionados who share a sensibility toward both the aesthetic and the contemplative. Why, there’s one now.
She got here last night about 11 p.m., she says. She set up in line and then curled up in the bed of someone’s pick-up truck with a wind-up alarm clock and a sleeping bag. She groans that next time, no doubt about it, she’s going to borrow one of those camping mattress affairs and a pillow. Her body won’t limber up. According to her, it’s slightly askew. She attempts various maneuvers. She touches the flat of her palms to the ground and leaves them there a spell with knees locked. A yogi should be so limber.
“Did you happen to catch Scorpio last night?” she says. “Antares was so bright and red, you’d have thought it was Mars. And Sagittarius was bonkers! The Muses must have stopped by for a sleep-over.” Obviously this line-waiter gets it. You see, in line the material and immaterial unite. Spirit and flesh, heaven and earth, forever and now—all are reconciled. It’s a continuum where one is allowed to bathe in the bohemian waters of the present. It’s about solitude, which can be a very beautiful and healing space. Many find “line-sitting” to be quite therapeutic, a respite from the normal bustle of their weekday lives. It is a place to get rid of excess baggage and become truly alone; to the point where the fullness and richness of life become evident. (You can also arrive at this point through sleep deprivation.)
This is a placid state in which one is never “lonely.” The simplicity of it all adds significance to the seemingly insignificant. A blade of grass assumes its proper place in the universe when we are at one with ourselves. Close interaction with the beverages in the cooler has proven invaluable to this process as well.
It was once said that “solitude is for wild beasts or gods.” Such quantum concepts make perfect sense after only a few hours in line. Properly attuned, it’s all one. The self gets swallowed up in the ocean of being. (It should be mentioned here that one’s relationship with the cooler can be overdone.)
The concert line, especially that which forms early, is quite often a loose, fluid aggregation of individuals who elect to be alone and detached in order to be at one with the “whole.” Nearly everyone seems to be a specialist in some field, be it art, symbolism, folklore, or—and this would constitute the majority—“advanced leisure pursuits.”
Well, time to get moving, we’re burning daylight. Where’s that checklist? Let’s see, chair, blanket, backpack, umbrella, sunscreen, shades, ballcap, cooler, plenty of water, books, magazines, crossword puzzle from Saturday’s Park Record, pencil, cell phone, slicker, fleece, assorted beverages, and munchies for throughout the day. That ought to do it.
So we’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Muse. Before us is spread out a beautiful day and evening at Deer Valley or Red Butte Garden down in the valley or wherever you might be line-waiting to see a great show. Remember, it’s about pleasure, baby! Kill the Buddha!
Jay Meehan is a bookish sort who is drawn to the “group therapy” of the concert line as a trailhead to enlightenment. Having achieved “cooler consciousness,” his meditations now focus more upon the sensual aspects of the “muses” themselves.
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