One of the hottest days that I've witnessed this year, and we are in a field full of people - up to 100,000, or so the security guard claims. Screaming, drunken, high teenagers and college kids all around us, who decide to hurl water bottles during Dispatch playin "Water Beneath". First, empty water bottles, then not empty, uncapped, then not empty, capped, such as the one that pegged me in the hip. Then coolers, sodas, and an aborted attempt at throwing a large glass rum bottle. Chuck in a too-quiet sound system (for those of us at the back, at any rate) and a solid wall of people surrounding the field, a few brave tree-climbers, and a sick friend, and you've got our Saturday down. I appreciate the band, just not the liquored-up fans. I guess I'll have to cherish my memories of over-21 concerts past. These kids were 11 or 12 when Dispatch started, but who's counting? Lots there, about half for the right or quasi-right reasons.
Life is stressful, but I was mostly stressed for my friends. My stress also resulted from a fairly short and flippy red skirt turning traitor in the heavy breeze that did not penetrate the crowd, but made walking around Charles St. a two-handed job - one hand on each side of my skirt. Taking a picture was an amusing three-person experience. I wouldn't have minded staying longer, but it was mostly a bust, and we had fun in Boston anyway. That same night we enjoyed the breezes, and I changed to jeans, and the next day A. & I got to shop and explore.
So, chau, Dispatch. Un brindo para los músicos:
"Amor, Salud, y Dispatch!"
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