Approximately 70,000 people over the course of two oppressively hot August days descended upon Pimlico for this annual two-day music extravaganza. They came to hear bands like Incubus, Beastie Boys, The Police, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Interpol, and The Smashing Pumpkins. They came to drink beer. They came to be outside. They came to hear bands and drink beer outside. On assignment for Baltimore I was one of those 70,000. This is my story.
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Saturday, August 4
1:00 pm – I'm stuck in traffic on Northern Parkway. Ugh.
The next 25 minutes go like this:
Finding parking.
Finding parking.
Finding parking.
Every cop I see tells me with great assurance where I should be going. Problem is, they're all wrong.
Finally, arrive at Lot 4. I'm here. In true can-do American fashion, many people who live near Pimlico are offering their yards as parking lots—for a fee, of course. A house on the corner of Northern Parkway and Woodcrest has a sign that charges $15 per car. The yard looks pretty full, so they must be making a couple hundred bucks today.
1:30 pm—I make it to the press/media area, which, in true separate but equal fashion, is directly across from, but yet worlds beyond, the artist/VIP area. More on that later, though.
For those of you who are Virgin Festival virgins (Hah! Did ya see what I did there?!), here's the setup: There are two main stages. The North stage is for huge acts. The South Stage is for up and coming and "fringe" acts. For example: The Police will headline the North stage tonight. LCD Soundsystem will play the South Stage. If you just asked "LCD what?" you have understood things exactly.
There are other smaller stages/tents for local or dance/DJ acts. I make a solemn promise to myself to avoid the Dance Tent at all costs. Sorry, but just the thought of all that thumping bass and the sight of college kids dancing with glow sticks and sideways visors gives me a headache. Does this mean I am too old for music festivals? No, it does not.
1:35 pm—Cheap Trick is playing when I arrive. I hear the strains of "I Want You To Want Me" as I park. Then they bust into "Dream Police". Next up is the cheestastic 80s power ballad "The Flame". I'm ashamed to admit, I like it. They follow up the fromage with the theme song from That 70s Show. (That's them? I just thought it was a really good knock off. Learn something new everyday.) Next up is "Surrender"—hands down my favorite Cheap Trick song. Mommy's all right, Daddy's all right. We're all alright! We're all alright! As it turns out, the years have been fairly kind to Cheap Trick — at least musically. They sound tight and are playing their songs in something that at least approximates their original keys. Good on them. The crowd cheers. Everybody's happy . . .
1:46 pm—. . . except someone in the press tent who complains that her thighs are sweating so profusely that they are sticking to the plastic chairs. This is known as TMI. I'm not sure why it's taken so long to mention this, but it bears mentioning that it's about 7,000 degrees out. Actually, when I pulled in, the thermometer in my car read 101 degrees. Welcome to Baltimore in August, kids! Maybe next, Richard Branson can design a festival for the Yukon Territory in February.
1:48 pm—They are changing the stage for the next artist who is supposed to be Amy Winehouse, a British neo-soul/blues mama. I say "supposed to be" because Ms. Winehouse has a reputation for drinking prodigiously and not showing up for gigs. We'll see. I think everyone is taking bets on whether or not she'll show up today. My money is on yes, but only because I am optimistic to the point of delusion right now. I am also overheating to the point of delusion, but I doubt it is affecting my decision-making.
1:49 pm—While I wait, I decide to take a gander around. As one would expect, there is a trailer village erected on site that, were it in Tornado Alley, might as well be a bulls eye. It is mostly for the artists, festival organizers, security, and bands' various and sundry hangers-on (read: enablers and groupies). Speaking of groupies, I'm not sure how to differentiate them from girlfriends or fans. Ultimately, in this backstage context, the distinction is fairly irrelevant.
The press area is located directly across a dusty driveway from the artist village, and is conspicuously less plush. It's just a collection of white tents outfitted with folding chairs and tables with miles of wires and cables snaking through them. MTV News is here, as is Spin magazine, which is a co-sponsor. Oddly absent is Rolling Stone. I check their website and they have a big post up promising full coverage of Lollapalooza (which is happening as well this weekend in Chicago), but not a mention of Virgin festival. Guess they're not going to waste ink promoting a competitor's event. And isn't that what good journalism is about, really? Anyway, it's not champagne and roses here in the press tent, but we do get a free food pass and all the free water we can drink, which, this weekend, will be a lot.
1:51 pm—While I'm waiting for Amy Winehouse to show up (or not), I take a walk around the infield, which is littered with the usual middle-class, college and high school kids that attend music festivals the world over. Of course, there is an errant adult here and there. (I see more than a few un-ironic tie-dye T-shirts.) Mostly, though, everyone here has gained the ability to drink legally in the last 10 years.
What I also notice is how well the festival seems to be running. The organizers appear to have put some actual thought into the logistics of the festival. Consideration seems to have been given to both artists and crowd. The sound is good (an unexpected treat at an outdoor show) and the stage crew seem well rehearsed. There are free water fill-up stations for attendees as well as shade tents and misting tents, which, you guessed it, spray mist all over you.
The festival has a big ecological component to it as well. Rather, it wants to have a big ecological component to it. The goal, apparently, is to have the festival be as close to a zero waste event as possible. This means producing as little waste as possible and using as few resources as possible. I'm not saying that it's not a nice idea, but I just don't quite see how a music festival with five stages can balance out its energy output by, like, recycling plastic bottles and sending food scraps to a local farm for compost.
Maybe I'm being overly cynical. At least they're trying. And you gotta start somewhere, right?
2 pm—I stop at a recycling station to talk to a nascent tree hugger. The festival has these freshly scrubbed lads and lasses stationed at all trashcans to make sure that people throw their waste in the appropriate container. They call them "green angels". I call them masochists. I talk to one green angel named Will Rogers (Do you think he was messing with me?), who tells me that there are over 300 volunteers and 20 staffers overseeing the ecological component of the festival. Will said people have been doing pretty well but that one man proudly proclaimed his aversion to recycling in front of his four teenage kids. I guess the festival is a zero impact festival in more ways than one.
2:11 pm—I notice two planes flying over the infield towing banners behind them. One is advertising Ryland homes. The other is promoting Larry Flint's Hustler Club. That's the story of Baltimore in 2007: housing developments and strip clubs.
2:18 pm—Amy Winehouse arrives—and she starts her set only 18 minutes late. Everyone seems relieved. She's about five foot two and 90 lbs, with about six of those inches and fifteen of those pounds coming from her hair. She's rocking her usual get-up: tank top, tiny jean shorts, ballet flats, Cleopatra eyeliner, and plastic hoop earrings. She sounds good. Her voice is full and rich. She seems oddly reluctant to unleash its full power, though. Instead she sort of coos and moans her way through songs. Whatever, everyone is just happy that she showed up. Way to meet our minimum expectations!
2:22 pm—It should be noted that Amy Winehouse has the BEST backup singers/dancers ever. They are two dudes and they are rocking out with the choreography (hand claps during "Rehab"!). They are, in fact, way more entertaining than she is, as she spends most of her set making eyes at her shirtless, tattooed, dirtbag husband who is videoing her with a handheld camera from the side of the stage.
3 pm—Amy Winehouse finishes and I beat a hasty retreat to the press tent, which is small, crowded, and hot, but waaaaaay better than standing unsheltered in the infield. While watching Amy Winehouse I saw one guy pass out. The poor guy seemed bewildered when he came to. I told my friend about it later and she said she would have pretended to remain unconscious just to avoid the embarrassment. This is known as "The Possum" strategem.
3:30ish pm—Incubus takes the stage. They sound good and play all their big songs "Wish You Here", "Drive" etc. And lead singer Brandon Boyd is shirtless, as expected.
But truth be told, I miss most of their set when I accidentally take a wrong turn into the artist area of backstage. And, wow...so this is how the other half lives. They've got two masseuses offering free back rubs, a fancy catering tent with a huge table of Maryland crab and shrimp, a Guitar Hero video game set up, and a central lounge area replete with lounge chairs, groovy rugs, and palm fronds. There's also a VIP tent where a DJ is spinning tunes and people are mingling and dancing. When I walk by, Phil Collins's "Su Su Sudio" is blaring, which serves to make me instantly less jealous of the people inside.
I wind my way through the labyrinth of trailers, which, I'm sure, are equipped with air conditioning. I see names on the door. There's Incubus's trailer with a few comely lasses throwing some meat on their own personal grill out front. I guess the boys will be barbecuing after their set. I see Amy Winehouse's trailer, which is the only one with its front door light flipped on, as well as digs for Fountains of Wayne, Ben Harper & The Innocent Criminals, and Cat Power, who is actually not on the bill. Weird. I didn't see anyone I recognized, but I definitely walked past lots of dudes sporting stupidly skinny jeans and hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in years, so maybe I was in the presence of rock stars.
4:07 pm—I eventually leave the artist area and wander back over to the press tents. I walk by the MTV tent and notice John Norris (bleached blond hair, Vans sneakers) sitting around. I decide that he's enough of an authority on music festivals to provide us all with a little bit of perspective on Virgin Festival by Virgin Mobile. Here are his words of wisdom:
"Well, it's warm. It's one of the warmest [festivals]. You know, I was at Lollapalooza two years ago and I think they set a heat record, but this is close to what that was. But this is fun though. Last year was the first time I'd ever been to Pimlico and I like the setting. I like the way they've got it set up. It's a nice distance between stages, so sonic competition is not a problem here. They've also got a good line up. I like it that they span everyone from Dan Deacon to The Police."
"The other thing I'll say about Virgin Fest is, whatever they do to ensure that these sets start on time, it's working. I mean, they are on the money, man, I remember that about this festival. Making things happen on time is a challenge, especially when you've got Amy Winehouse on the bill, but whatever they're doing, they seem to be doing just fine."
See? Everyone uses the Amy Winehouse Lowest Common Denominator benchmark!
4:15 pm—I eat my first basket of chicken tenders and fries of the weekend. I will live to regret it, but just barely.
4:47 pm—Incubus is done.
5:00 pm. Ben Harper & the Innocent Criminals start their set. They sound oddly classic rocky. Oh, these crazy kids and their genre bending. Did I mention it's still hot? It is.
5:14 pm. There's, like, a 20 minute bongo solo happening right now. So I accidentally veer into the artists' area again. This time, I find the VIP area of the VIP area. It's all the way at the back of the VIP section, just separated from Northern Parkway by a gravel parking lot full of tour buses and a chain link fence. I got in by pretending to talk on my cell phone and acting annoyed. I can't remember where I learned this trick, but it's a winner. Anyway, the Police have the nicest spread of all. They have a little caravan of trailers surrounding a big white tent that is all tricked out with groovy rugs and chairs. I want to say beanbags, but I didn't get close enough to confirm. The Beastie Boys are also ensconced back there, but they have a smaller square tent that they are barbecuing under. Mind you, I didn't actually see any members of these bands, but I assume this is where their entourages hang out. Sting, I'm sure, is about mid way through some Tantric activity. Hey, whatever he needs to do to hit the high notes on "Roxanne".
5:41 pm —Ben Harper is finishing up his set right now, which has run the gamut from Jimi Hendrix-like guitar shredding to Peter Gabriel world-grooviness. The sun is finally, mercifully, starting to go down and relief/fatigue is starting to set it, but not frustration. The mood has not turned ominous like it has at other festivals (not mentioning any names cough Woodstock99 cough). Mostly everyone seems sated and happy, and the wilting heat has taken out whatever fight might have existed in what is generally a happy crowd (perhaps the $175 two-day, general admission ticket cost helped keep out the hooligans). Beastie Boys and The Police up next, followed by Modest Mouse on the South stage. Good stuff so far, better stuff to come.
5:45 pm —I'm shocked: The infield's hackey-sack circle count stands stubbornly at one.
5:46 pm —The Beastie Boys are making everyone who is videoing or taking pictures sign some sort of release form. There is some grumbling amongst the press corps.
6:00 pm—I make my way to the front of the North stage in preparation for the Beastie Boys' set.
I ask a group of two girls and a guy where they are from. DC, New York, and Germany come the replies. I ask them whom they are here to see. Everyone, but primarily the Beasties, they answer. I ask the German guy, Georg, what he thinks of the festival. He says it's "a bit too big and commercial for my taste." I facetiously call him a commie. Surprisingly, that joke doesn't go over well. I mean, OBVIOUSLY I was kidding. Everyone knows the Germans have never been into communism. Or humor.
6:10 pm—The Beasties come strutting out looking like JFK-era secret service agents: dark grey suits, skinny black ties, shiny black loafers. They are much better dressed than just about everyone in the audience. I'm fairly certain they smell better too.
6:11 pm—The Beasties kick off what I will later realize is my favorite set of the weekend. They are the only band that seems to capture—perhaps conjure—the correct mood: funky, relaxed, celebratory, and energetic.
Their set includes most of their "greatest hits": Sure Shot, Body Movin', Root Down, Brass Monkey, So Whatcha Want, Intergalactic, Sabotage. They also debut a few new songs, which are funky instrumentals with burbling bass lines. One song is called "Electric Worm". I actually like the new songs. It's when the Beasties shift into hardcore mode that I start thinking about making a beer run.
My friend Evan comments: "This is when I start to lose patience with them."
Agreed. All the 16-29 year old backward-baseball-cap-wearing boys in the crowd love it though.
The best part of their entire set, however, has to be the between song patter. They devolve into Abbott and Costello "Who's on First?"-type discussions more than once while trying to decide who starts certain songs.
At one point they screw up a song so badly that MCA (Adam Yauch, the grey-haired Beastie) makes the entire band stop. They take it from the chorus again without any discernable improvement. They stop again, laugh, and Ad-Rock (Adam Horvitz) sidles up to the mic and sheepishly says, "Let's just move on to the next song. That [song] is from the third or fourth album. You'll go home and listen to it. It's a good one."
The crowd laughs and cheers and falls slightly more in love with these perpetually smart-assed boys.
7:32 pm—The Beasties take their bows and the crowd cheers adoringly. Suddenly, out of no where, the already sizable crowd swells and heaves as throngs of people jockey for prime Police watching position.
While sandwiched in the crowd, I take the opportunity to chat with some of the youngsters, which are more plentiful than anticipated. I spot a high school aged boy who turns out to be from Owings Mills. He is wearing a Synchronicity T-shirt. I ask him if he was even born when the album came out (1983). We do some quick math and determine that he most definitely was not. He tells me he's wanted to see The Police his whole (short) life. Aw.
I find two other twenty-something dudes in the crowd. They also came to see The Police. Both are drummers. They grew up worshipping at the altar of Stewart Copeland, The Police's kinetic, polyrhythmic secret weapon (I admit that I am not particularly objective on this topic). Sure, Sting is a great songwriter with a distinctive voice. And yes, Andy Summers is an inventive guitar player. But The Police's ace in the hole has always been Stewart Copeland. Just try imagining those songs without their respective drum tracks. Sure, they'd probably still be listenable, but would they be as forceful, as danceable, as memorable? I doubt it.
8:09 pm—The Police take the stage and crack into "Message in a Bottle." Everyone is sending out an S.O.S. Is euphoria too strong a word?
After "Message in a Bottle", there is "Synchronicity II". OK. Not one of my favorites, but I'm just happy they're playing.
Next is "Walking on the Moon". Again, not one of my favorites, but I understand that I am in the minority, so I shut up and yodel along with Sting.
The pace revives when they launch into a groovtastic medley of "Voices Inside My Head" and "When the World Is Running You Down" from 1980's Zenyetta Mondatta. In the middle, The Police allow Andy a long solo, something they almost never did in their late 70s/early 80s heyday. While Andy is shredding near the lip of the stage, Sting climbs on Stewarts drum riser and they lock into a simple but elastic groove that elevates the entire song. It's awesome.
Next up is "Don't Stand So Close To Me", which Sting introduces by assuring us it's not autobiographical (he used to be a school teacher before he became a rock star). The tempo seems too slow in the verses and too fast in the choruses, but otherwise, the song is fine.
"Driven To Tears" happens.
My personal favorite, "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic," follows. It is just as it should be: joyous, mellifluous, and enchanting. Even the jocks can't stop themselves from dancing.
Next is "Wrapped Around Your Finger" followed by "De Doo Doo Doo, De Da Da Da", "Invisible Sun", and "Walking In Your Footsteps", a bummer of a song about extinction from 1983's Synchronicity. Why are they playing that?
The pace is lagging and I actually catch myself checking the time. How can that be? I spent the better part of the late 90s watching Police documentaries and surfing the Internet for information about the group and it's three members. I mean, I can tell you the names of their children and which wives they had them with. I SHOULD NOT be bored right now. And yet, I think I am.
I see one of The Police fan boys in front of me and tap him on the shoulder. I ask him what he thinks.
"I think they sound like s**t. I mean, I'm glad I'm seeing it, but I think they're dragging it out. There's no chemistry."
Word.
Things improve slightly as the band works its way toward the encores. There's the "Can't Stand Losing You"/ "Regatta de Blanc" mash-up; a slower "Roxanne" and "King of Pain"; the indestructible "So Lonely; the obligatory "Every Breath You Take"; and "Next To You" as the finale encore.
Thankyougoodnight!
And they're done.
Wait, huh? What was that? No "Bed's Too Big Without You"? No "Spirits in the Material World"? No "Truth Hits Everybody"? Instead we got soggy versions of "Invisible Sun" and "Walking in Your Footsteps"? OK, who's the buzzkill who designed this set list? I want a name. Sting, I'm looking in your general direction, buddy.
I ultimately decide that it wasn't that The Police were bad, exactly. It's just that they weren't as good as we all wanted them to be. Their set was uneven with too much self-indulgent pseudo-jazzy jamming. Sting, of course, famously fancies himself something of a jazzman and The Police have long included a little jamming in their sets, but Sting has got to know when to say when. No one needs a five-minute detour filled with atonal noodling in the middle of "Roxanne". It's wrong. "Roxanne" is a pop song. It's like, "Ok, Sting. We get it. You're sophisticated. Can we get back to the song now?"
Also: My friend Erin said that Stewart Copeland (a teenage crush of mine) looks like Andy Dick, an observation that falls into the funny because it's true category. (And also horribly unfunny because it's true category.)
10:15 pm—As I'm leaving, I overhear an apparent visitor from D.C. asking, "Anyone know where the Metro is?"
Sunday, August 5
1:34 pm —I am here, though mostly just in body. I OD'ed on sun and sound yesterday. I am also, surprisingly, still bummed about the underwhelming set The Police turned in last night. Talk about having everyone rooting for you to do well and dropping the ball.
Regina Spektor is on the North stage right now. She sounds less wispy live than she does on her CD and I am pleasantly surprised. Also working in my favor right now is the fact that a line of thunderstorms coming in from the west is kicking up a breeze today, making it seem like its in the low 90s rather than the high 100s like yesterday.
Ok, must find food.
1:41 pm— One press guy just came back to the press tent and said that the quote of the day had to be from Daryl Hannah, who is here doing some earth-saving advocating. Apparently, at a press conference, she was handed some sort of healthy smoothie type drink, which she said she couldn't drink on account of allergies.
"I can't drink this, I'll projectile vomit," she apparently said. Um, it's a tofu blueberry smoothie, Darryl. Of course it'll make you projectile vomit.
1:43—Regina Spektor is playing "Fidelity", otherwise known as "that song from Grey's Anatomy." You know the one where Meredith is thinking about McDreamy and he's all like, "whatever," so she's all like, "whatever." You know?
You don't? Oh. Lucky you.
1:59 pm—This next incident should be filed under "life is not fair". So I'm walking out of the media area to go get some food and I hear someone call my name. I turn and there is one of the magazine's former interns, a 20-year old local college student we'll call Bob. Now, Bob is a lovely person: funny, good-natured, charming, and personable, but he was perhaps not the most reliable intern I've ever had. For instance, on his first day of work, he called to tell me he would be late because, "I think my roommates hid my keys on me." You see where I'm going with this.
But that's all ancient history. I'm thrilled to see him and I run up to him, give him a hug, and ask what he's doing here.
"Having the weekend of my life," comes the reply.
"Oh, really?" I ask.
He then launches into this story about how he got press passes for the event because he works for his school's newspaper. Wow, they're not picky about who they let in, I think.
But it gets worse. Apparently, when he showed up at check-in they gave him the wrong packet. His packet contained six all-access, VIP passes, giving him access to not just the media area, but the artist lounge as well; the same artist lounge that I spent all day sneaking into. He and his "buddies" had been eating, drinking, and hanging out with the artists all weekend for free.
I am flabbergasted, appalled, and not just a little bit jealous.
"I hung out with Ben Harper yesterday. Really cool guy," Bob earnestly informs me while he friends nod assuredly.
"Who have you met?" he asks me.
"Um, John Norris of MTV news," I stammer pathetically.
"Oh, really? That's cool. He's like 73, right?" he deadpans.
2:19 pm— Press people are grumbling about Spoon, one of the bands playing today. Apparently the band's people are being hard-asses about picture taking during their shows. This is not sitting well with many of the wire photographers (Getty, Wire Image, etc.) here.
2:21 pm—This is ridiculous. I'm going out into the crowd to find some beer.
2:43 pm—OK. I didn't get any alcohol, but I did get my second basket of chicken tenders and fries of the weekend. My arteries officially hate me.
2:55 pm—The infamous Spoon are playing. They are a really good Elvis Costello cover band. Oh, they're not a cover band? Nevermind.
3:22 pm—I decide to walk the length of the infield, which is bordered by white tents on both sides holding food vendors, promotional booths for local radio stations (WTMD, WRNR, 98Rock, WHFS), clubs (Sonar, 9:30), nonprofits (One, Living Classrooms, Breast Cancer), and media companies (Virgin, Metromix, Spin). I stop at The Audubon Society's booth and inquire about the response they've gotten this weekend. Young intern Nathan insists that "a lot of really conscious, informed people" have come by to sign up for the Audubon's mailing list. I am somewhat dubious, not because the Audubon isn't a worthy organization, but because I had just seen a man in a pink tutu walk by two teenagers who asked for a hi-five, only to be denied.
"What? No hi-five, man?" one boy asked incredulously.
"Man, what a dick," the other replied shaking his head solemnly.
So, you see, I have my doubts.
"Are you sure no one has been like, 'Whoa man, birds!'" I ask young Nathan skeptically.
"Ok, yeah, there have been a few, but mostly it's been really good, serious people," he assures me. Apparently they added close to 700 names to their mailing list this weekend. So...yay! People like birds!
5:04 pm—Despite an ominous looking sky, there is a mass exodus from the press tent. I think people are going to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs who should be performing on the South stage at 5:15 pm. I decide to join them.
5:15 pm—Karen O. (the Yeah Yeah Yeahs charismatic lead singer) definitely studied at the David Bowie School of Rock Theatrics. She enters the stage wrapped in what can only be described as a cape of Christmas tinsel and a masquerade mask. She walks to the lip of the stage, strikes a messianic pose, and, as the band crashes into the first song, whips off her cape to reveal her stage outfit: a lacy leotard, black fishnet stockings, and black high-top sneakers. She growls, pouts, and struts her way through the set, pausing occasionally to swig water and Amstel Light. The crowd eats it up, but I get bored and start watching the freakishly skinny guitar player.
6:45 pm—Interpol follows the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Lots of mid-tempo, slightly atmospheric, power chord songs. Heads bob in appreciation, but I am not impressed, although they do get points for style. I mean, I wish I could get my dress shirts that well tailored. The blond lead singer also has better hi-lights than me, which is annoying.
7:09 pm—The lead singer of Spoon wanders out into the crowd to catch Interpol's set. Like me, he gets bored after a couple songs and beats a retreat back to the tent village.
8:15 pm—It's been drizzling on and off since the Yeah Yeah Yeah's set and the sky looks foreboding. Still, no lightning has come.
8:39 pm—The Smashing Pumpkins take the stage to rapturous applause. Billy Corgan is wearing a white jump suit with a black and white stripped long-sleeve shirt underneath. It makes him look like some deranged janitor.
The Second song is "Today", which ironically transports everyone back to 1994. There's a lot of half-hearted crowd surfing being attempted, but no one really seems that enthused about buoying full grown men and women after such a long, hot weekend. A couple people almost get dropped.
8:50 pm—I wander down to the South stage to see 311, who are late.
8:51 pm—I finally see my second hacky-sack circle down here. Oh wait, there's a third! I knew the 311 kids would come through for me.
8:52 pm—Still waiting for 311 to hit the stage. Maybe they're trying to give Smashing Pumpkins some more time with the crowd's full attention.
8:59 pm—When 311 do go on, the crowd definitely shifts from the North stage to the South leaving the Pumpkins with a decent but certainly not huge audience. I almost feel badly for the Pumpkins, but then I remember that they are probably rich and famous and don't need my pity . . .
9:25 pm—. . . in fact, I need my pity. My feet hurt, I am now officially deaf, I'm sunburned, and, quite frankly, I stink. I realize it's time to throw in the towel. I've got a frozen pizza and an episode of Scott Baio is 45...and Singlewaiting for me at home. (Don't you judge me!) But all my temporary discomfort notwithstanding, I thoroughly enjoyed my first Virgin Festival by Virgin Mobile. What do you say Baltimore? Same time, same place next year?
