During my 21 years on this Earth, I have attended my fair share of country music festivals. As in, I have probably been to every country music festival in Wisconsin and Minnesota at least once. Twice in most cases. It’s true, I have been going to these things since I was in middle school. I have grown up with them. Just as children of the 60’s are graced with the title of “hippie child”, I am 100% deserving of “festival child”. And I’m proud of it. In short, I’ve witnessed lots of (for lack of better word), interesting traditions that take place at these things. Perhaps the quirkiest tradition I have noticed (and taken part in) though is none other than the lawn chair line.
Just so you understand the full experience and not just the definition, I’ll give you a little peek into my favorite lawn chair line adventure. And an adventure, it was. You’re stumped, aren’t you? What in the world is a lawn chair line?
As “Closing Time” by Semisonic played over the festival sound system, there was a definite separation of the crowd. Some were stumbling their way to the beer tent while others were wandering aimlessly, lost souls hoping to bump into their campsite… eventually. These are the people who probably wouldn’t even know their own name if you asked. There were some who stampeded the gate; anxious to get back to their camper after a long day in the Wisconsin humidity. But none compared to those who were headed to the lawn chair line. These are the die-hard fans; the ones that will do anything to catch a drumstick or guitar pick or even a glimpse of a shiny tour bus. I was one of those for the night. I was headed to the lawn chair line. I wanted nothing more than to see Alan Jackson from row one. And by row one, I mean row one of the general admission lawn chair seating. Row one of the general admission seating at this particular festival was behind both the VIP and reserved seating, yet for some reason these seats are still treasured. I had saved all of my babysitting money to buy the ticket and I was determined to be as close as possible to Alan Jackson. These are the VIP seats of general admission seating, if that makes sense.
After sprinting back to our campsite to grab pillows, sleeping bags, a bottle of water, a snack, and our lawn chairs, of course, we rushed to the lawn chair line. Yes, Mother Nature would be tucking us into bed. Bed? Wait, we would be spending the night on the rock hard ground under the stars. I’m not sure that qualifies as a bed. By the time we arrived, there were at least 20 people in line. Those 20 people were considered our competition. We laid our sleeping bag on the damp ground and crawled in. The gates opened up at 11 am. That meant there were 12 torturous hours remaining.
As I drifted off into a light sleep, I heard footsteps stumbling toward me. I then felt a heavy body crash down on top of me. A drunken cowboy had crashed on his way home from the beer tent. He officially qualified as one of those lost souls I referred to earlier. I dosed off again only to be awakened by another lost soul tripping over my sleeping bag. She didn’t fall on top of me though. She bit the dust. Joke was on her.
I awoke to the cock-a-doodle-doo of a rooster. Literally. It was the crack of dawn. My body was stiff from sleeping (if you could even call it that) on the hard ground. I didn’t care though, I was ready to see Alan Jackson. It was only 6 am and the humidity of the Midwest had already kicked in. As I sat in line sweating, I dreamed of going back to the air conditioned camper. For the remaining 5 hours until the gate opened, we alternated shifts of going back to the camper for a cool down. We rotated every hour, on the hour. And you had better not be late. During my “on” shifts, I worked on my tan (farmer’s tan) and counted down the seconds until my partner in crime would return. Eventually, after 3 long shifts, it was time for the lawn chair race. The moment we had been waiting for. Although this idea may seem humorous and perhaps a bit ridiculous, it was taken extremely seriously by those who participate. Especially after spending 12 hours in line.
Four security guards with matching neon yellow t-shirts and tough grins stood before us. We were constantly updated on the status of the opening of the gate through the chatter of their radios. A stern voice finally came over the radio and said, “Gates open in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and open.” My heart was pounding. And just like that, the chutes opened and we were off. “The Race Is On” by Sawyer Brown played over the festival sound system. Dust flew. And so did people. I witnessed at least 5 bodies hit the ground as they tried to beat the person running next to them for the next best spot. I may or may not have been one of them.
Although I can admit to despising my life for the 12 hours I spent “sleeping” in the great outdoors of Wisconsin, I can also say I had the time of my life in my first row seat rocking out to “Chattahochee”. Scraped knees and all. And that is the legend of the lawn chair line… because I can’t say I will ever be “lawn chair lining” again.
