Sheets of rain splinter-splash over plastic-sheet wrapped patrons, packed tight together under hydrophobic polyester. Grey. Utterly. Contrasted sharply by tie-dye sparkle glimmers and golden pashminas—frays wet and hanging. I am suddenly aware that the coat I imagined to be water proof is merely water resistant, and like all things there's only so much you can resist. I can feel it creeping in through the seams now.
The festival opening is delayed. I resolve to abandon my soppy post in line and flee to find some form of relief: a twenty dollar trash-bag poncho and a cigarette from a dubious, yet surprisingly wholesome, roadside merchant. I'm soaked, and can't find the head hole or arm hole or any hole besides a brand new one I've been suddenly made aware of in my shoe: mud floods in.
But then, after a little while, the sky quits its crying and the festivities spring to life. It takes me a minute to get my bearings—this is the first ACL I've ever attended—but once I do, I'm flying towards the tail end of Hunx and His Punx set. What high energy! What high fashion! Assless chaps and mesh shirts merge with electric rhythms to form a beautiful synthesis of glam pop power. Seth Bogart—aka Hunx—rallied the gently-drying ACL patrons with bubblegum punk lyrics and greatly enlivened my own spirit.
The set finished up with a surge of power, and I bid the Punx goodbye over my shoulder as my best friend led me, mud-bespattered, towards our next adventure. Festivals are a completely alternative reality. The dress, the spirit, the motivations of fellow wanders all feel so entirely different from "real life." While we navigate the new landscape, I try to remember what Zilker Park looks like normally; I'm completely disoriented with the highflying flags, which I've seen so often on Instagram feeds but only now for the first time am seeing wave with my own eyes.
We swerve towards New Constellations; a dreamy synthpop duo of earnest Portland people. Their eyes are lit bright against the white concrete slate ceiling overhead, which only served as another solid surface to reverberate off of. Harlee Case's voice sailed over the crowd in a wide, wispy arch and drew onlookers closer and closer to the stage. I wonder for a while, swaying, why music is so physically compelling; I'm close enough to the stage now that I can feel the vibrations of the synthesized bass rolling through my chest.
Shot by Anna Downs
But I find no answers. New Constellations wraps up, with big smiles and great joy, then off we fly back through the thickening slop field towards the American Express stage. Irish born CMAT, aka Ciara Mary-Alice Thompson, has taken the stage by the time we trudge the length of the park—and she's sensational! She's so free with her voice; a smooth, rich river. The rest of her band matches the intensity of her sound beautifully, and I was particularly impressed with how dynamic the keyboardist was! With one leg propped up on the piano, shakin' and playin' and suddenly he's cartwheeling—No! It's a back handspring! And he sticks the landing! Thompson's voice carries such power; the whole group is incredible at building suspense and anticipation that is continually shattered by roaring, beautifully and tragically written vocals.
Before I know it, I'm being pulled in a new direction and told about another wonderful artist I had never heard of—Marlon Funaki. CMAT's droning outros set the atmosphere beautifully as we turn to navigate through the awestruck crowd. Stumbling over a curb, I realize suddenly exactly where I am, and for a moment it's like I can see through the entire festival like an x-ray; the whole map of Zilker park boots up in my brain as I cross Barton Springs Road on our new pilgrimage to the Beatbox stage.
We get there midway through the set, and the first thing I notice is the beauty of the layered guitars. Frontman, Marlon Funaki, and guitarist & vocalist, Jared Costa, interlace their electric progressions with such playfulness and grace. They remind me of pairs of birds, sailing up, down, around, and about each other so freely, but always with such attention to detail and precision; the wind is always under their wings at the right angle. But the whole band's sound is incredibly interesting—a neopsychedelic blend-up with notable jazz inflections.
Muddy treks to and from blend together and I lose my exact next steps; eventually, after the beach daze bliss from Funaki’s performance lifts, I break off from my friends and head to the media lounge for cocktail hour. Chit-chatting with media folks whose whole lives are based on travelling to and documenting the unreality of music festivals proves particularly entertaining. This must be a weird life. Believe it or not, dear reader, I'm a bit of a novice to the music journalism business—but by God, what a business it is! I feel extremely lucky to be privy to the sights and sounds of such wonderful places.
Emerging back into the carnival, now fully in swing, I’m rooted in place as soon as I venture up near the T-Mobile stage—not only on account of the mud—but by the power and poignancy of Jesse Welles’ poetry. “It’s good to live in the walled garden.” He speaks it so casually, a line so beautiful and it isn’t even sung. He goes on, declaring how good it feels to be in, “Talarico country”, which received a thunderous reply from the audience. Powerlines and tall grass shine digitized behind him, a simulacra of his signature singing sites on social media. I’ve always been amazed at what a beautiful moral center Jesse Welles is to rally around. I first discovered him on TikTok, after he wrote “Whistle Boeing”, a surprisingly upbeat tune that explores the mysterious circumstances of several whistle blowers on the alleged unsafe conditions of Boeing airplanes. I appreciate how directly he challenges existing power structures, and promotes a sense of unity in the American identity, in our common interest in the fate of our country and its people, all the while wailing on that harmonica with enough passion to echo back into the Ozarks.
Shot by Pooneh Ghana
Welle’s rendition of Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” set a perfect pace to walk to, sinking ankle deep now in the mire of the ACL battlefield as I make my way to the BMI stage. Taking perch in the wings backstage, armed with an Aperol Spritz and anticipatory jitters, I await Austin’s very own Grocery Bag. I had the chance to talk with them earlier in the afternoon—I left that part out on purpose, check out our interview! Suddenly, they burst to life and quickly rally a swelling crowd with the title track of their EP, “Stop Calling Me Out.” It’s one of their more laid back tunes, featuring a bit more space between segments, but nevertheless equipped with shredding guitar work from both Isabella Martinez and Dillon Aitala. The crowd really started moving with one of the tracks of their latest—still unreleased—record, "Godspeed". I’ve heard Grocery Bag play several times now, and it seems their sound has only expanded in complexity and rockability with each show. They closed out the set with their latest and—in my opinion—catchiest single, Deadvolt, much to the delight of the swirling pit at the center of the crowd.
Shot by Nathan Zucker
Afterwards, I made a rendezvous with my dear friends for dinner and enjoyed a much needed protein-filled Cabo Bob’s burrito to fuel our final adventures for the evening. We got caught in the throes of The Chainsmokers crowd, and I thought for a while as I was bouncing off strangers in an attempt to find some kind of exit how strange and scary it is to be in this big human-mud soup. I lost my dear friends in the crowd and started genuinely freaking out at the density of people swarming the Snapchat stage, combined with the difficulty of movement. Meanwhile, “Roses” blared and my mind drifted back to the backseat of my mom’s Toyota 4runner, listening to the radio in 2015 as she drove me to karate practice. Comforted slightly, but still disturbed by the difficulty of extricating myself from my predicament, the pyrotechnic flares—I’m sure a beauty to someone in the right headspace—served only to further the chaos. Eventually, I was spit out of the crowd and enjoyed the rest of the set from a healthy distance.
Shot by Henry Redcliffe
Closing out the night, Charli XCX revived laser-lit lime-green memories from the Brat Summer of yesteryear with incredible passion and riveting dance moves. Her set opened with “Rock Music”, then rolled right into “Yeah”, off of her latest album release Music, Fashion, Film. But what really got the crowd’s attention was “Apple”, which caused a collective uproar of delight just as soon as it left the speakers. I sat a good ways back from the crowd, on account of my all-to-recent mud-beset crowd-crush battle, and thus did not get a good look at the Cambridge-born sensation in the flesh. But her image, projected high upon the American Express temple, was splendid to behold. After a couple more songs, my friends found me and, exhausted from the whole day of festivities, we made our way home. Farewell, ACL Day One!
Cover photo shot by Vinnie Fallico.