When I was connected to the commune, there was a group of us involved in making one 4-day weekend a year a Festival on the campgrounds there. Pioneered by my then partner, we spent 4 out of our 5 years together planning, preparing, and putting on an event we called QuinkFair. The concept of the festival was “to spark transformative experiences”. The word “quink” was a made up word, said to mean “the opposite of trauma”. Trauma is an occurrence where your life becomes worse because of it; and a quink is when an occurrence causes your life to become better because of it. People of the festival essentially are there to interact for the cause of making positive change, personally and community-oriented.
Each year at QuinkFair, I marked milestones for me, true to the reason for the season. My transformations included falling in love (it’s own way) and energizing a partnership with My Man; my character expansion through my festival persona; and overcoming an alc*hol addiction. While the weekend was a great venue for my artistry and spiritualism to shine, the festival really became an ongoing mentality for me. In my daily, I had a thought-track that would perceive every happening as instantly good rather than let my perception slip down into a negative pattern. I evolved into a more kindhearted individual, in general, from the cavalier dark poet I had in me, into a more soft and likable lady. From a standup comic lens, I altered my eyes, seeing myself as quaint and courteous, and learned to act cooperatively. Where the difference between a flower and a weed is your judgment, I started judging my surroundings as flowers more than weeds.
The event had about hundred folks there on average throughout the years, friends from twin oaks and the neighboring areas who’ve had some kind of relationship with the commune. I stood out like a sore thumb in the Virginia group. My intellect and actions based on it was not what the people were looking for, thus I could not make friendships deeper than coworker-status; like the communards set boundaries with me because I was weird lol. A valuable lesson was how important physicality is in tribal operations. In forming community and family, we do have a natural desire to feel visually alike. No flippin’ Hitler, but myself & everyone I know, wanna be casted with people who match aesthetically. And I never fit the casting call for a communard there. Too accredited in my self-proclaimed God/dess rank, I’m the type the mortals will tolerate and help as a function of their open business, but not the type the mortals feel at level with. Nobody’s loss, as everybody’s a piece of the puzzle in their respective fields.
While my bf managed his crew to build gazebos around the event site, I could be found with my homies at the before-and-after-school program. And at the gym. And drawing my Day Owl Series in my art portfolio. Pax used to call me his “Day Owl”. The opposite of a night owl, it’s me, someone who goes to sleep as soon as it's dark and stays in bed until sunrise. I must’ve drawn 100 day owls over the years. Some could be found on my old social medias; most were material for me, his e-gurl, to text him pics of. Our partnership was heavily reliant on the phone, spending 4 days mobile and 3 days in person. I admit, our love was evidenced in (no exaggeration) 12 calls a day, continual texts thread, and video chats. It was fine, and at times, our communication style felt perfect for our story together. We made it work. Wills and ways.
The best mode to catch me in during this frame is on board with my favorite band, and their promotion of their new upcoming album. In March of 2023, they released their single from the album, a song with a backstory anyone could stand for. This is a peak point for my musical muses, as their style became about a higher message and cause, decorated in the sounds of their talent. In the follow-up of their huge commercial success, their whole deal evolved from a band playing music, to inviting their audience to participate in the meaning behind the music. This is a groundbreaking concept to me. In and of itself, it changed my life.
The thing about the tiny regional burningman festival I had a hand in organizing is that there is a key component defining it. While I would never in a million years be caught dead at burning man, I very much advocate the central theme of the festival culture: which is that it is interactive and participatory. Unlike a music festival where people go to be entertained, in the tonality of a spectator sport, burn fests invite your creativity and service as a means to make-up the overall festival experience. Offer a workshop on anything of your unique expertise; run a yoga class; teach a painting lesson; summon others to a discussion on a fascinating and innovative topic. Do something that will influence folks, spark and quink, and transform them! That’s the theme of burn festivals. And I believe that in life, we owe anything we can do to the exposure and encounter of those who may take it as a ticket to improve their qualities, in any way possible. Be it by inspiring new knowledge or by acquiring a skill - we are a world of students n teachers, yall.
Adding depth into the content of their creation, portugal. the man are storytellers not only in their musical language, but in the prologue of their latest album. As legend would have it, they had a hypeman - a guy who made his way into their band as an emcee, or host who would get the audience excited for their performance. Roasting weed, toasting beverages, call-and-response rallying, with a general demeanor of a swag cheerleader, this hypeman, named Chris Black, grew into an unofficial bandmate and dear friend of everyone in their scene.
Now, their introduction of Chris was, from the start, the fact that he had passed away. It doesn’t come out as a character who lived with us before he’s already gone (with the exception of those who knew Chris personally) [and sets the tragedy free from devastation from the audience]. Born to us already gone, we meet Chris in his death which leads to his legacy. I compare his character to vincent van gogh, a painter whose claim to fame only occurred after his death. It was the public finding his creations and calling them genius, without his mind or body in the realm he’d be forever known for them in. Like the world-acclaimed household name Van Gogh, Chris Black’s passing was the mark making him immortal. It is only after his time alive that those enlivened by his visible virtue would intact and preserve it. When your spirit lives in the ones still alive and well, you master metamorphosis into a ghost G.O.A.T.
The band spent the Spring marketing a premier theme: getting fans, classic to rookie, to think about the aspects of life which change us. Oh, yas are just like the quinkfair, I happily thought to myself, dotting another constellation from my sphere into theirs. A crowd-pleaser in the manner of wide-appeal, anyone can name a time, person, event, which changed their life. For ptm, Chris relating to them in a loving and productive way, & the shook core they grieved in losing him, changed their lives. And that’s what the album is about.
Tank Dog! Affectionately calling Chris “their mascot”, the band, now with a much higher budget for this album than all previous, made a wearable giant plush suit, looking like a dog, depictive in essence to what Mr. Black represented. This ‘[portugalthe] Man’s / Band’s best friend’ would star in a mesmerizing video for the debut song Dummy. You can always feel their ethos in those videos- whether it’s acoustic sets capturing their cool and cute jam banding, to the state of the art Alaskan snow-jetski footage, these guys deliver your dose of eye-awe matched with ear-awe. Tank Dog would come dancing on stage at Bonnaroo that year; & for me, come to be felt as some healing for my hatred of damn dogs. If it’s one thing everyone knows about me, it’s that I think damn dogs are gross. But Tank Dog is an exception :). My roommate, a literal dissociative identity disorder dude who made his dominant display of existence in the form of a dog, would come to be known as SpotTank Dawg… & I, the jam band.
I identify with Dummy. I am confident in my smarts and wits, tho, admit compassionately I have been no idiot, no dunce, but a decent dummy on occasion. I relate to their portrayal of Chris having a party-personality. My party-personality has led me astray, and to my social demise. I sense that with Chris Black, it was to his total demise. Champ, tho! The 2nd released song from the album seemed to go hand-in-hand with the story. It is thinking of yourself as a champion that can slip you into too much excess, and that’s where the “womp womp womp” riff in Dummy plays. While my initial impression was, “oh guys c’mon where’s the sick guitar solo at this part”, I realize soon that the more fitting sound for the Dummy track is in fact “womp womp womp”; as a champ lost a game, a life.
Now, we have a new found glory inside the music, making us more than entertainer/consumer, by promoting us into a headspace where the music is a movement, inspiring personal inquiries on the things that shapeshift us into who we chose to be, thus activating a chance to connect deeper with our humanity. Through the ensemble! What a remarkable means to a revolution rooted in wonderful instrumental presentation. Such magnificent substance added to music, a brilliant and core necessity, for a solution to save music from merely being mindless thus a lost art. Too many songs lacking philosophical or emotional purpose, making too much overrated nonsense and hollow art, sabotages a main feature of our universal work - sharing constructive creativity enhancing our journeys.
That summer, The Portuguese had booked a few shows, two of which were easily close to my house- a hop and skip away in NYC, and in my backyard in Philly. I bought tickets to both, the big apple on a July Thursday, and my home-city the following Saturday night. I was proud of them for scoring Radio City Music Hall, in all its prestige. And The Fillmore would be a popular and poppin’ stage for us too. In the month between the new album available and our showtimes, I would listen enough to know the songs, from the lyrics sung to my little stories invented between the lines as my embellishment.
Radio City was a fancy theater, and the only place we’d be audience at where every ticket represented a seat. There was a small standing pit up front, for the VIP ticket holders, but not every show I’m that close. Reggaeton by the Tribal Seeds opened the concert, followed by the welcoming and buoying up from new york native americans. Then, we all rose from sitting when the band got on stage, in a standing ovation. They got right down to business!
I notice all bandmates present, and my heart skipped a beat in my sight of Kane. In chapters previous the Feel It Still flourish, you can find this musician in the archives of music videos. Kane is a supermodel who has a guitar. Tall, dark, and handsome, my homie here is one of the few band members who does not appear regularly or often, but has a memorable part in the band’s productions from earlier days.
When I think of the album American Ghetto, I think of it as Kane’s. Like, one of my lil imaginary commentaries is that this album was where his style has the most obvious influence. I just feel like his musical role pinnacled in the 10-day frame when the band entered the studio and came out with the completed album. Then he opted out of his role when the direction of the band changed as a result of Feel It Still’s impact. I’m like an unofficial TMZ reporter, starting rumors with myself, simply based on my conscious stream on the Spotify stream.
Kane played about 2 songs, and then casually walked backstage. Awww, come back! He slowly strolled away, gone for the majority of the performance. Tho, when Feel It Still started live, he reappeared! With his acoustic guitar he was present for the hit single, and as the audience woo’d the end, Kane drifted out of sight.
“Thanks, Kane.” Zac said to him, laughing lightly looking over from the microphone.
Kane head nodded back, and wouldn’t be seen by me again. This instance perhaps confirmed my sneaking suspicion that Kane is like a “floater” of the band; a personal friend, who likes his association with them, but maybe doesn’t want a full commitment. He’s their buddy from the Portland scene, who happened to be in new york city that night, and swung by, just for fun. My hopes are high that in the future, he and I will grace the same venue again. Like a birdwatcher thrills the sight of a rare and distinctly beautiful hawk, it’s my pleasure to share Kane’s atmosphere.
At a p.tm show, their eclectic mix has snippets from songs jamming into each other. You will start out hearing Everything You See, and by the third verse, hear it smoothly transition into So American. It is Sea of Air blended into Someday Believers. You may not hear your favorite one played out totally, but you will hear 4 tunes spun together in harmony. This show was in particular centralized in the playing of the new album. I remember they really played each and every song from the 35min studio recording, with the exception of Thunderdome, which has a verse by a rapper, which I’m sure they didn’t play since they hadn’t a person for that specific part. Mingling their brand new material with tracks we know n luv, it was a blast traveling through their discography. Telling a compelling tale with the noticeably carefully selected sequence of songs. This one does go swimmingly with that one back-to-back, and I can hear why they have this song on the setlist correlated to both songs before and after it. It’s a movie for me! Like the opposite of the olden silent films, these concerts are audio chains linking a full narrative, in a fusion about my world.
Many folks were seated, but as my sign of devotion I remained standing, and dancing peacefully, the whole time. Show was about 2 hours, and at the very end, the lead singer bounced down from the stage into the VIP pit. It was a cool surprise to the about 25 people in the guarded section. I trailed my way a tad closer to the section, but the security guard squared-up on me. You are the reason, crazy fangirl, I'm the security guard here, he said in his demeanor to me. I was wearing a purple headband… a solid dark royal bandana, to denote myself as The Purple One from one a their songs.
Truth is, I don't wanna handshake the band and get a cheesy picture with them. I don’t wanna stand awkwardly next to them and be like, “i like your music blah blah blah!” and then go off on my way. I’m really not your average fan. I’m really saying my interest goes beyond a cheap meet n greet. Truth is, there is no satisfaction for me in saying hi and bye and continuing to live how I do in relation to this band. You guys are celebrities objectively, and my equal artists pals, subjectively. Iont wanna meet you in my ego; I wanna meet you soulfully, without the pressure of social norms by 24 other “VIPs”, because that’s not the real me. The real me is uninterested in superficial, kosher correspondence; let’s get each other off duty sometime. I’ll wait.
I did however, receive a gift from Zac. Who I was amused to see back, from his truancy in Chicago haha. The stage had been set with red roses upon the amplifiers and speakers and mic stands. This was seemingly the doing of new york city stage crew designers, rather the band’s intentional decor. Zac took a handful of roses and gave them out on the sidelines of the pit. I walked up next to a group of gorls, comparable to me image-wise, who had hands out ready to receive roses. Omigawd let me get one, boi! I was blushing internally. Zac’s bouquet dished us out each a fresh, thornless, rose, as he smiled ear to ear, like the cutest gentleman tossing dolla bill at his hoes. I still have my flower today! It’s dried out, and it lives upon my bedroom altar. Next to the guitar pic Eric threw into the audience once upon a time, and I snatched it up from the lawn ground before anyone else quickly; like a shark to a minnow.
We got home late, and slept even though my dreams couldn’t match the excellence of my wakeful times. Our next outing would be Saturday, an encore from this night. We took the train from our town into Philly, then another metro to the concert hall. We have a car, but like to spice up our commutes on public transpo sometimes. The bouncer asked for our IDs at the entrance, but with no intention to buy anything at the show, we had left our wallets behind. I used my pretty privilege and charm,
“Oh sorwy Mr. Sir, we won’t be havin’ a drink tonight, mind you please allow us forth?”
I find that often a concert, for people who aren’t me, is a drinking event with a side of live music. Sucks to be banished to the lifestyle, imo, but I dodge the subculture with my passion for the art.
We were granted access to pass over the bridge, said the troll.
This night was indeed an echo of the show before. The setlist was pretty much the same stream of the latest record with their classic tunes, with some variation in mixing and sequence. The place was fairly packed. Standing room only, the crowd was less tame than the counterparts from bougie Radio City. I certainly enjoyed myself, but this would be a show where I actually felt kinda tired. Okay so, in my time frame leading to this show, I got busy. The weekend before, I was in Virginia for 3 days, doing manual labor like construction for festival campgrounds. It was hot and humid and took a lot of physical exertion. I enjoy a good workout, but I didn’t rest. Then, I had my morning job of teaching yoga to kids (more exercise), monday thru friday. On top of that, I went to Ocean City 2 nights (mon n wed) to make about $600 bucks cash with my balloon biz. We were just in NYC that thurs. Burnout sneaks up on you; I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until I was there. I always fondly recall my quiet laugh to myself in having my internal thought, “Eric let me sit down on your lap” haha.
Despite my slight bodily weary, it was a spectacular night. Something wild happened. The band played Doubt, perhaps their most melancholic song. Doubt is about dread, despair, and the unsettling view of the unknown. I really do love this song, and believe it has a crucial role for the whole series of the band. When the song concluded, to raise the energy of the room back up due to the song’s sorta downer vibes, Zac asked the audience how we’re feelin’ tonight. Applause got us lifted, all but 1 of us.
Suddenly, man overboard. As Zac was bantering with us, somebody fell onto the ground, hard. This person was out of my direct vision, but I saw those around them flagging down security with their cell phone flashlights. Help, help, people yelled, and soon concert emergency staff came to the rescue.
The intense song killed someone lol. Just kidding, but I sensed the literal energy of Doubt could have a listener in a spell, a trance that could dissipate their sentient state. That’s the power of music, man. It is a bit shocking to me how desensitized we are to a fallen comrade. Like, people just pass out, and at a rock concert, it’s normalized. Nobody bats an eyelash, we just feel it as nonchalantly as an ant in your kitchen getting squished. Ironic, because death is the ultimate big deal, but this likely drug-induced harm doesn’t take the attention from anyone in any serious way.
A huge dude in uniform came up and carried away the unconscious concert goer. It was at this moment, the silence was deafening. Never in my life could you hear a pin drop the way this building emptied its loud sound toward the pitch quietness following the unexpected fall down. The void of decibels was like if our ears had been sliced off and we collectively hadn’t ever known sound. You couldn’t drive out to the middle of nowhere and hear less… a blackhole in outer space would even have minuscule sound waves counting as noisy in comparison. The silence was enhanced by the audience’s unsurety; where are we going from here? How will we retrieve our merrymaking after this red light in our night out? In the six and a half seconds of piercing hush, only one fan, yours truly, could bring us back, just like Zac as the finale of Doubt. Because I’d seen this show before, I knew exactly which song was up next. Quieter than a mouse, under my breath yet still in context very loud, I uttered tenderly,
“plastic island.”
Instantly, the band spun into jamming the great song Plastic Island!
I’ve come a long way from my ractous fandom at the beginning of my touring in the audience. I was proud of myself for my handy segway. This appropriate cue for continuing the show was a whisper heard by everyone, and sharply fit the scene. It loosened tensions and got us back on our train from a railroad pitstop. I am super mindful of heckling; it is not my intention to upstage the performers, or make any extra aspects of the show from my stance. It’s a privilege to be a fan, and ya gotta be proper about it. Probably the only one who knew plastic island was incorporated then and there, my nifty fandom was the best supporting castmate that night. Finally, the idea of this entire minute was understandably a depiction of the essence of the music - the person who fell feels precisely like a plastic island, a single brain in an ocean of consciousness, drowned in doubt. These shows are just too good!
In conclusion, my 7th & 8th concerts with my favorite band were a coupla best nights ever. It never gets old, I never feel jaded, and each time is a live-journal featuring myself and her shenanigans sculpting the meaning of life inside my free will: Love it, yo! Love life, by any and all sources. That’s what I am doing out here at these shows… being a role model in my pursuit of love on the planet. Embodying my authenticity, and showing up for the values that make me confident in who I am. That confidence pours unto those who cop it contagiously, in a ripple effect having all environments feeling like I belong alive and well. Tune in next time for more tuning in, turning up, and dropping it like it’s hawt.
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