Green River Festival

Written by Jens and Maisie

Jens

I picked Maisie up from the airport Thursday night after yet another long day stuck in a research lab, deprived of sunlight and normal social interaction. We caught up over a couple of pitchers at my neighborhood’s corner bar and went for a walk after, talking about each other’s summers and the weekend of music ahead. Everything was going well until we got back to my apartment and realized that someone had forgotten the keys to my apartment.

My roommates were asleep. More importantly, they remained asleep. We knocked, called, texted, and eventually accepted that our best option was to sleep on the steps outside my apartment. Masie somehow managed about an hour. I was not as lucky.

When we finally left the next morning on about four hours of sleep, it felt like we had gotten the inconvenience of the weekend out of the way. Boston slowly disappeared behind us, the buildings giving way to trees and open roads. The music got louder as the city got farther away; the weekend was in full effect.

Maisie 

Jens drove us from Boston to Greenfield. The drive there was one filled with a growing excitement encapsulated within the green of a thawing New England. There was a mutual realization of the adventure we were embarking on and the minimal thought we had put into it. We speculated on the size of the festival, each criminally lowballing the Google AI result of  15k-13k (which I am still not sure the validity of), and after a long conversation about the forgotten greatness of Creep by Radiohead, the car filled with the artists soon to see. That’s when I was reminded of what drew me to the festival. I couldn’t stop smiling. 

Listening to the artists, I remembered a feeling I had long forgotten. When I was a kid, I sometimes couldn’t sleep because of how excited I was to wake up. I never really knew why I was excited, and yet this excitement overtook my brain and left me awake, grinning at the ceiling. All I knew was that it was summer, I didn’t have school, and somehow that was worth looking forward to. As we drove through Massachusetts, I was beaming. I didn’t really know where we were going or what was waiting for us, but I was with friends, going to see artists I love, and that was something worth being excited for.

I first heard about GRF when a buddy from school suggested I make my way out to Massachusetts for a musical festival in June. At the time, I laughed lightly at the idea and told him it would be awesome, with no expectation of it coming to fruition. In February, I was far from knowing my summer plans and even farther from clearing a whole weekend to go to Greenfield, Massachusetts. In June, I got out of the car and was greeted by sun, the smell of damp pine needles, and the same friend standing happy as the day he proposed I come.

We spent our first day smiling and dancing to unfamiliar music. I have found that there is something special about a performance by artists that are both loved and previously unknown. When shared, it is enjoyed simply through the mutual understanding of the value of a performance you are lucky enough to experience together. This beautiful first day was not a result of a predetermined emotional connection, but rather an understanding and appreciation of talent. It was a series of amazing performances facilitated by a community that shared our newfound appreciation.

As the sunset over the patrons of GRF welcomed Texas’s own 10-cent cowboy to the stage. We squeezed our way to the front and joined those who remember the Cold War to watch Charlie Crockett do what he does best: smile.

Jens

Charlie Crockett, the headliner of the first night, evidently has a large following, but I did not realize quite how large until the crowd began changing around us. Slowly, khaki shorts and Patagonia Baggies were replaced by straight-cut blue jeans and steel-toed boots. Fans sang wholeheartedly along with Crocket, word for word. Together, they sang about loneliness, hard living, and the other familiar subjects of old-school Americana that he has given his own modern-country treatment.

The music was not the only thing that distinguished Charlie from the rest of the festival. His crowd work had its own kind of theater. At one point, he made a point of announcing that he “celebrates Juneteenth… and the 4th of July!” The crowd responded with hoots and hollers, along with a few skeptical side eyes were also exchanged, stemming from a curiosity as to why this was something Charlie felt needed to be established. It wasn’t clear he was making a political statement, reassuring the audience, or simply reminding everyone what holidays he had on his calendar.

Whatever the intention, it was undeniably part of The Charlie Crockett Experience. The music itself was easy to enjoy, especially live and surrounded by a crowd that found a real connection and appreciation of Crockett. There was something satisfying about the mix of his voice, the band, and the slower, worn-in songs. The whole show had a distinct atmosphere that felt far removed from some of the other sets we had seen that day, but it worked. As we walked back toward the parking lot, energized by the day of music and the two more days of dancing ahead of us, our smiles resembled Charlie’s, if only in essence.

Maisie

The weekend progressed in the spirit of the first day but with more recognizable voices. We continued to run into the same people who slowly became friends and consistently gave us a ride home. It is normal to go to a show or festival and meet people for the first little bit and then awkwardly avoid eye contact for the rest. At GRF, that was simply not the case. People were welcoming and kind, and actively seeking friendship with other festival-goers.

The more time we spent there, the more it felt like a festival made by the people who go to festivals, not simply those who benefit from them. The setup was beautiful, and the layout was ideal. It was filled with people but did not feel cramped with bodies. It was in no way what I expected but was everything that I didn’t even realize I wanted. This was, of course, amplified by the company and amenities but would not have been possible without the clear, intentional planning of those in charge.

Jens

Sunday had come, and with it, the deflating confrontation with the reality of going back to work the next morning. In spite of this, only one measurement of enjoyment was affected by the somber last-day vibe: crushed beers had fallen to zero. We went back to the fairground for our last day of the festival that had brought us together.

It had been warm and sunny the whole weekend until about twenty minutes into Wednesday’s set. Their emo/gothic vibe, relative to the rest of the festival, made the older crowd filter toward the back or go grab another beverage and brought the younger crowd front and center. Almost on cue, dark clouds rolled in over the hills, and it started to pour for about ten minutes. As their set came to an end, so did the rain. The fresh, cool air gave the festival a new energy, a welcome change after two days of heat. The stage was set for the finale of the weekend: Geese.

With about two hours left of the festival, we began to stake out spots at the main stage. We were not the only ones, and we were not early enough for great spots, so we settled eighty feet from the stage. About fifteen minutes into the Geese set, a mosh started to form and we made a run for it. We would not exit in the same fashion that we entered. After a few songs of dancing, pushing, shoving, and generally losing whatever sense of personal space we had arrived with, some dork collided with Masie, meeting her nose with his shoulder. Blood followed the initial impact, so we quickly left the center, splitting the crowd as we rushed to find paper towels or anything else that might stop the bleeding. We quickly left the center, splitting the crowd as we rushed to find paper towels or anything else that might stop the bleeding. Annoyed faces quickly dropped and made way for us, replaced by the brief look of horror reserved for seeing someone else’s injury.

Eventually, the bleeding stopped, the music ended, and there was nothing left to do but drive back to Boston. The car was noticeably quieter this time. We were tired, dirty, and probably smelled worse than we had when we left. The weekend that had seemed so far away a few days earlier was already reduced to muddy shoes, a bloody nose, and a collection of songs we would probably be listening to for the next few weeks. Still, there was something nice about the drive back. I had spent the weekend with one of my closest friends from college, and for once there was nowhere either of us needed to be. We talked, listened to music, and watched Massachusetts slowly turn back into Boston. By the time we got home, the festival was over and normal life was waiting for us again. I suppose that was the only real problem with the weekend: eventually, someone had to drive us home.

 Maisie

The GRF is one that encourages and highlights the community that so many people think has been lost in the past 10 years. Each day allowed for a uniquely amazing musical experience catering to a multitude of families and concertgoers. People were present, and this presence was rewarded through a combination of beautiful, captivating, and unique performances from the artists in attendance. Jens and I struggled for a long while putting this experience into words. We have settled on what is written here, but that is in no way the whole story. My relationship to these artists has been transformed through my ability to experience them in this environment. As a conclusion, because I can’t seem to come to one strong enough for my feelings, I leave you (the reader) with this: if you ever get the chance to join your friends at a music festival in Western Massachusetts, make sure you say yes and bring sunglasses for the sheer magnitude of Charlie Crocketts’ smile.