Review: On Being The Old Guy At Warped Tour, And Why That Might Not Be So Bad

–Words by Kevin Madert

The following took place between the hours of 11:00 am and 10:00 pm on July 22, 2014. The following is a firsthand account. The following is a true story.

Traffic. This being my fourth Warped I should have expected such a thing. The thruways around Merriweather Post Pavilion aren’t expressly equipped to handle such a single-day influx. Predictable as the predicament is, it’s no less brow furrowing. I bet the pioneers didn’t have to deal with covered wagon backups on the old dusty trail. Then again, they didn’t have a nation-touring 70+ band all day experience to enjoy either. A few moments pass wherein I contemplate Warped Tour circa 1868. Gives brand new meaning to the term “bandwagon,” eh?

I push ponderings of puns into my periphery and pilot my personal wagon out of the fray and into the nearest exit lane. I don’t have time for delays, really. As my phone mutters unfamiliar street names in familiar metallic tones I shift my thoughts, sifting previous Warped memories through my mental sieve. The original search engine, I suppose. There was that time I crowd surfed during The Devil Wears Prada, lost my shoe, and had it thrown to me while I was still held aloft by so many tangled hands. I caught it and returned it to my foot moments before being dumped – right side up, luckily – a short five feet from the barricade. There was the time my friends and I were front and center for Andrew W.K.’s triumphant Warped return, fending off wave after wave of surfers and being subsumed countless times by mosh pits. There was…

This continues as I traverse back roads, crawl through two stoplights, and guide the great gold beast into the outer rim of the Columbia Mall parking lot. I put her in park and shut off the engine. My mind still coated in the glossy sheen of youthful nostalgia, I hop out of the car and head towards the low tone thuds emanating from the Merriweather trees.

Twenty minutes later I’m properly credentialed and ushered through the venue’s front gates. I always try to encapsulate this moment, or at least acknowledge it. Without truly leaving the outside world, I’m entering a place that is tangibly “other.” It’s like all the newness and difference of traveling without any of the travel.

Most everyone around me doesn’t feel the same way, and the crowd buffets me along until I find myself on the edge of the main pavilion lawn. Fuck, it’s already hot. I check my phone. 11:45. Only going to get hotter, I suppose. I point myself in the direction of the backlot – in essence a large open field behind the pavilion where much of the Warped action takes place. As I weave through resting revelers splayed out on the lawn, a thought crosses my mind. I pass by throngs waiting in a food line and the thought grows more prominent. By the time I’ve navigated through the crowd at the Battle of the Bands stage and made my way through the woods onto the backlot, it’s the only thought in my head.

Am I really old, or is everyone else here just really young?

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, I suppose. At least not one of this magnitude. I was barely 18 the last Warped Tour I attended, and even then I felt much like the kid at the upper end of the summer camp age bracket. All the same, it’s a realization I’m still contemplating as I reach my first of many destinations: the massive inflatable schedule.

The first thing I notice is that I’ve missed Nit Grit, a future-bass fellow certainly in my top five. His set ran from 11:30-12; I’m bummed, but not angry. I file an idea wherein each day’s acts are voted on by each day’s attendees regarding their set times away to the back of my mind – somewhere between the pioneers and the preteens – and attempt to block out my itinerary. It ends up looking something like this:

1:30 – Bayside Shitty decision to have to make
1:45 – Four Year Strong
2:45 – Of Mice & Men
3:00 – Cute Is What We Aim For (the middle school nostalgia is strong with this one)
3:45 – We The Kings (I’m talking real strong)
4:00 – The Maine (Did I mention how strong it was?)
5:00 – Saves The Day Worst conflict of the day
5:15 – Yellowcard (So. Much. Nostalgia.)
5:45 – Every Time I Die
6:45 – The Devil Wears Prada (four Warped Tours, four TDWP sets)
8:00 – Anberlin

After a bit of uneventful wandering before Four Year Strong I stop by the Monster Truck – that’s the air-conditioned 18-wheeler they pop open and hand out complimentary energy drinks from – and have a lengthy chat with a kind woman we’ll call Beth. Beth hates energy drinks but loves air conditioning. Beth is obsessed with Parkway Drive and Chelsea Grin. We discuss career moves. Student debt. Our ability to consciously recall events that occurred in the 1990s, and how many people around us probably lack said ability. It turns out Beth is several years my senior. I feel old enough, I say. I can’t imagine where that leaves you. She laughs and says something that turns my contemplations upside down.

“Sometimes it’s nice to have reprieves like this sandwiched between responsibilities. Did you realize at the time how much fun you had as a young kid coming out here?”

I down the last drops of fruit punch something or other (now with twice as many ingredients you can’t say or spell!) bid her a happy Warped, and head for my first true set of the day. Standing around in the muted dust waiting on Four Year Strong to take the stage I delve deeper into Beth’s words. Remembering Warped Tours past, I know I had a good time in the moment. But looking back with the perspective I’ve gained since, I can’t believe how much fun I had. My responsibilities hovered just above zero. Bank accounts and credit cards were things my parents had. Warped Tour in 2008 was just another day of enjoying adolescence. Warped Tour in 2014 is an escape from adulthood.

Four Year Strong pummels these thoughts from my head over the next half hour, flying through a set of fan favorites – including several tunes from Heroes Get Remembered, Legends Never Die – and new material from Go Down In History, an EP that co-lead vocalists Alan Day and Dan O’Connor both remind the audience “came out to-fucking-day!” Being a long time listener, first time viewer of FYS, I’m pleasantly surprised. Their signature hardcore-yet-accessible sound translates well to a live setting, and the energy is off the charts. By the time all’s said and done, I’ve participated in a half dozen moshpits. Sweat drips from every square inch of me dust hasn’t coated, although I’m uncertain how much of it is mine. Fuck, I’m starving. I begrudgingly forego Of Mice & Men, my physical needs derailing my schedule after about a half hour. I don’t know why I make plans at festivals. I enjoy the illusion of order among chaos, I suppose.

Eleven dollars and a subpar chicken caesar wrap later I’m back in the game. Sort of. I decide to seek out shade and rest there for another twenty minutes or so. Getting down responsibly is another thing I can thank experience for; 2009 model me drank way too little water and absorbed far too many UV rays. As much as I would have enjoyed hearing “The Curse of Curves,” I’m in this for the long haul, so Cute Is What We Aim For plays on without me in attendance. Next up is

We The Kings. Now, I’ve seen these dapper young gentlemen before, and they’ve always delivered a consistently quality experience. This set was no different, leaning towards material from 2013‘s Somewhere Somehow. I haven’t been keeping up with the Floridians of late, but I often find myself enjoying new music when I hear it live for the first time. “I Feel Alive” and the rousing, anthem-like choruses of “Any Other Way” both fall under this category. Of course, crowd pleasers like “Say You Like Me” and “We’ll Be a Dream” inspire massive singalongs – or as lead singer Travis Clark puts it, “scream-alongs” – and they end with “Check Yes, Juliet,” the song Clark says will always be the band’s last. I’d be lying if I said I did anything else but belt out every word.

Now it’s time for more rest. I’ve met up with a friend and – in the words of Roger Murtaugh – we’re too old for this shit. We find a swath of shade a ways back from a side stage and take a seat. I recline in the grass, fingers interwoven behind my head, eyes closed. God does it feel nice to get off my feet. We can drop that in the “getting old” column.

I enjoy a band from Kentucky I’m just now hearing of for about a half hour. They’re playing one of the smaller stages but you could have fooled me; the lead singer is holding nothing back as she belts out infectious tunes and encourages the crowd to dance along. Any other time I’d probably stay and watch the whole set, but I knew I had a date with pop-punk nostalgia over on the main stage. We gather ourselves and head for the pavilion to catch

Yellowcard. I feel as though I don’t need to tell you they played a fantastic set (they did). I feel as though I also don’t have to tell you I sang every word like I was 16 again (I did). The group has all the youthful energy of their pop-punk peers on the Tour even though many of those acts are ten years their junior and would probably cite Yellowcard as a major influence. As much as it pains me to leave, my co-editor’s voice echoes in my head: “If you miss Every Time I Die, I’ll probably have to beat the shit out of you.” He was kidding, I think.

ETID take the stage just as I reach the back edge of the crowd. Once a pit opens up it’s a matter of ducking a few arms with urgency; as soon as people see your intentions they almost seem to encourage you forward, living vicariously through your desire to put yourself in harm’s way. The set is a full-throttle blur of flailing fists, careening bodies and ever-rising dust. Frontman Keith Buckley conducts the entire affair from behind a mop of jet black hair, occasionally joining the crowd on the barricade and allowing them to sing (or scream) along. The entire set passes by far too quickly, and before I know it I’m chanting “TDWP!” with the rest of the crowd in anticipation of the next band to take the stage.

My fourth time seeing The Devil Wears Prada starts off much like the first three did: with an authoritative bang. They open with “Danger: Wildman” and the crowd response couldn’t be more unbridled, with the biggest pit I’ve seen all day opening up after just a few seconds. The group did something novel for this year’s Tour, lead vocalist Mike Hranica informs the crowd. “We’re letting crowds vote on our setlists every day. It makes each tour stop that much more fun to play so many different songs.” The voters present in this crowd certainly weren’t messing around – it’s an all-out aural onslaught for a majority of their timeslot. Warped Tour 2009 model me doesn’t remember time passing nearly this fast; the sun is falling with speed and I’ve only got one band left to see.

I decide to head to Anberlin a bit early; this is a band I’ve been listening to for almost a decade and still have yet to see. Standing in the slowly thickening crowd, I’m on the Warped Tour equivalent of a runner’s high (a rager’s high?). My legs are half jello, half cement. My mind, so active earlier in waxing poetic on the questionable woes of lost youth, is now an engine running on fast evaporating fumes.

And yet the moment they take the stage I’m a ball of energy and a blur of motion. The crowd feeds off the band, the band feeds off the crowd, and I feed off both. “We just released an album today,” frontman Stephen Christian informs the crowd, “But we know you want to hear our old music, so we’re going to play you that.” I hurl myself into the middle of every pit. I scream my lungs out to “Feel Good Drag,” “Adelaie,” and “Godspeed.” I put every ounce of myself into these thirty minutes, like they’re the last thirty minutes I have. And when the last chords fade to static, I feel like anything but the old guy at Warped Tour.