Chad Smith

People are assholes, and given the chance, they rarely fail to prove the rule.

Last night, my friends Beth and Adam and I were standing in the middle of the crowd to watch The Mountain Goats at Harvest of Hope Fest in St. Augustine. Keep in mind, The Mountain Goats is a dude with an acoustic guitar. Despite this, a group in our general area — who paid and packed into a crowd supposedly to see said acoustic guitarist — continuously did the following:

a. Talked. (As Beth said, “Each word more useless than the last.”)
b. Checked their phones.
c. Smoked.
d. Passed around a bowl, looking far more interested in the weed than said guitarist.
e. Checked makeup.
f. At least one girl stood, back to the stage, looking at her boyfriend. The whole time.
g. Yelled stupid shit. (For example, when the singer explained one of his songs was about the mental health care system for juveniles, one stoner yelled, “George Bush.” Right.)

When Beth asked this one chick (with that obnoxious mullet thing that hipsters are into), the girl said, “It’s a concert. It’s not a library.”

The sole reason I went, aside from seeing my friends, was Billy Bragg. The legendary Englishman (who went on to make fun of American football in his charming way) played after The Mountain Goats and put on a phenomenal performance (though he was cut off, I presume, before playing “A New England”).

During the set, I was up front near the barricade. A girl who stood front and center was singing along with most songs, a total fan girl (that’s not a slight since we’re dealing with Billy Bragg; quite the contrary, it’s an attractive quality). Nevertheless, her tool of a boyfriend, about halfway through the set, got a phone call that just couldn’t wait I guess. He answered and proceeded to yell that he was at the show and hung up.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my generation.

Bragg talked a lot, which I loved. He talked about meeting legendary activist Stetson Kennedy for breakfast that morning at the Casa Monica. He played a Woody Guthrie song dedicated to Kennedy. It was an endearing moment. Bragg said Kennedy asked him that morning that if the young people going to the concert were doing so to support the cause of the fest (aid for migrant farmworkers) or otherwise gave a shit about political affairs. Bragg assured him that they did. It’s a nice thought, but I don’t know if he’s right. Not that assholes can’t be politically inclined. We know that’s not true. But, from where I’m sitting, very few care about anything. At least the people we were around Saturday night were more concerned about getting high and looking cool in their knock-off Ray-Bans (posers).

Beth, Adam I sound like the proverbial (and literal, given the rain the night before) stick in the mud. But a like-minded girl earlier in the evening, during Kimya Dawson’s set, asked this loud-as-hell dude to shut up. I’m pretty sure he called her a bitch and went on blabbing. Until Dawson played a song he liked. Then he got into it and started singing along.

What an asshole.

As Bragg sang in his opening song: “Help save the youth of America. Help save them from themselves.”

On Friday I wrapped up Week 2 in my new gig as the city government reporter at The Gainesville Sun, so this blog, University of Florida basketball, cleaning my new apartment and everything else has been on the back burner and will be until I get my sea legs.

I had my first marathon meeting the other night, but I’m not much worse for the wear. I’ll start posting stories soon. Meantime, I am starting to get The Sun’s city beat blog going again, so read that.

Since freshman year of college, my CD collection was back home in Port Orange, but I brought it up to the new apartment since I have more room. I just alphabetized it, and good god. I must have spent thousands of dollars on music in high school, and I have a horribly embarrassing collection to show for it. Think Mustard Plug, Senses Fail and Poison the Well.

C’est la vie. That’s how people grow up.