Surell

Written about the time I went to see but didn't really see Odd Future:

​The worn Chicago streets sizzled dryly in the smoggy haze thrown down by the sun. Feet wandered up walkways silently suffocating in their servitude. Sleeves were superfluous, but the boy chose to hide part of his fair, glowing arms, cloaking himself in black summer’s outfit, wolves howling to a glimmering moon on his chest. The girl kept it cool, with aquatic washes over her indigenously dark skin. Before the night was over, her flesh would turn even a shade darker, prompting intrigue between them.
​“You know,” the boy said, “Tyler’s had a broken leg in the last couple videos I’ve seen.”
​“Yeaaah…” she inquired.
​“I just think it’d be crazy to see the most wild’n, riot inciting group sitting in a cast, or trying to stage dive in a wheel chair. Maybe it’ll make the show even more dangerous.”
​“I don’t know that I can catch wheelchair bound rockstars. And I’m sure that you can’t, with your old chicken leg arms.” She began dancing around him with noises and mannerisms like poultry before it reaches the killing floor. His sight forward and tone relaxed, he retorted:
​“The last man that made fun of my arms was slapped like a bitch. Is that what you want?” She persisted, and danced wilder yet and in a more antagonistic space. He shook his head slowly and reached in his pocket, quickly maneuvering the camera on her dance. She shriveled away, but in vain. “Come on chicken boy!” he taunted, “do your jig for the adoring public.”
​“You better get that thing out of my face,” she warned coldly.
​“Flip us the bird first.”
​“What?” she laughed.
​“It’s pretty much a punk show we’re going to, so get mad.”
​“Get outta here.”
​“This camera’s on you until you **** it up.” She finally obliged, after much antagonism from her paparazzo. They came to the slanted crossroads just a block before the gates to their show, bypassing the will call and heading right for their stage.
​They arrived for the band before their goal, a fine band in their own right, to avoid any hassle with getting up front. But, approaching today’s primary stage, it appeared that much of the space had been claimed: Manually sleeveless shirts and torn shorts stood amongst themselves; bandanas and off brand aviators shielded against the sun’s rays; some groups staked out their turf sitting in a huddle, their patchwork neon garments acting as coat of arms. The boy could have sworn he saw a flag waving amongst the crowd, but it was just someone readjusting their bandana. It had to be at least three hundred degrees by now, reaffirmed by the lack of a breeze in this green blotch on the city’s concrete grid.
​Stepping over their fellows, they found a spot as close as they were allowed, about three person rows back; two stoic behemoths armed with trick knives and drizzled with fake blood guarded the way. A long, outdoors equipped crowd member asked:
​“Where are you guys coming from?”
​“Down south, Arkansas,” the girl replied.
​“Yeah, the land of dog maiming and complacent lynching, according to Mark Twain,” the boy added. Their associate laughed. “How about you?”
​“Iowa. I’m a neighbor and partner in corn.”
​“Very good,” the boy observed. “I appreciate all the work you midwesterners have done in feeding the cows I love grinding up and munching on.”
​“It is no problem at all, we’re just happy to help.”
​There was a lull, allowing the hissing heat to have its say. “God! how can we have this little breeze in the Windy City?” the girl exclaimed, fanning herself swiftly. A few moments later, the first band began took the stage, a mop topped blond guitarist and aloof brunette bassist with bug eyed glasses as the centerpieces. Their guitars wailed, grooves swelled in circular fashion, ambivalent in the bright tones and trembling vocalizations. The crowd was tolerant of the band, awaiting their main event, while the boy, girl, and Iowan enjoyed the sounds – until a guitar stopped. The band played on for a moment, as the crowd quietly culminated their frustrations into complaints and harassments thrown to the stage. Though they regained themselves, the band left shortly after the mishap and the crowd clamored in anticipation.
​The girl looked behind them, and due to her height saw an endless mass of people. Her heart jumped a beat but made up for it with extra pounding. She looked back toward the stage, where the festival’s hands passed cool water bottles out by the cooler. The girl and boy shared one, though most of it went to rinsing the sweat off their heads and necks. Due to her deeper entrenchment in the crowd she was granted most of the water.
​The crowd as a whole was antsy. It had grown: the veterans were even further exposed to the sun’s undiscriminating blast, and newcomers knew what was at hand. The stage was set and set still. A red flag waved atop the platform, along with banners draped along the sides.
​The transition music ceased. For a moment there was silence, followed by isolated yelps. Then a small, brown figure in a denim vest took the stage. The crowd roared, and in one second swept forward, like a wave slamming the sand after its withdrawal. There was resistance from the front, as to not be destroyed. The boy planted his feet and pushed back, trying to maintain space for the girl; she was already trying to push her way to the barricade, being withheld by the two behemoths. The Iowan plead they let her out, and pushed through a little bit – finally, she escaped. She fell over the gate and stumbled into the arms of one of the festival workers, who poured cold water over her trembling body and escorted her away. The boy shoved his way through too, also helped by the Iowan, and wandered away awkwardly.
​He hadn’t seen where she went, and held both of their phones. He stopped by a concession stand to no avail; a merch stand without result; the medical tent search was fruitless. Finally he settled under a tree, watching on as the group performed over the boy and girl’s “song.” The screen showed his hero of the day, Tyler, the Creator, leaning on a stool, barking and growling his songs of wrathful hate into the microphone. The boy see later on video that he did stage dive with the cast on.
​Before the group even took the stage, though, Tyler saw an ailing girl laid on a backstage table. He took a seat by her, looking on with curiosity. She looked on him, and seeing her at least partially conscious, asked:
​“Are you feeling OK? You’re too pretty to be sick.”
​She absorbed the comment, nodded, and unknowingly responded “How’s your leg?”
​He blurted a laugh, and warmly assured her it was fine if she was. His bandmate came and tapped his arm, and they took their positions onstage.
​After about half an hour she awoke fully, though remained exhausted. She found a couple of trusting strangers who allowed her a couple of phone calls, which mostly went unanswered. Finally one got through. She trudged over dirt patches in the grass field along shady passages to the rendezvous point. The boy took her in his arm, seeing her wide, fragile, scanning eyes.
​“You look like a Jenga tower on its last couple blocks.” She nodded at this. He took her from the festival and to an Italian place; he thought the tomato might brighten her color. They left town that night.

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