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News » Cover Story. Back to the Bash A personal summer concert retrospective. I went with a Sexy leprechaun man of my older brothers, most likely because I harangued our mom into persuading them to bring me along. The elder Springers were all into cool music, and I was entering the age when I also wanted to be into cool music, so I saw this as an opportunity to do some anthropological research—who did my siblings want to see?

What made these acts cool?

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My enquiring mind wanted to know. It seemed weird to me that my brothers agreed to bring me along—kid brothers cramp all kinds of style—but the logic of his decision slowly dawned on Playing nurse with your boyfriend when we crossed the threshold into the fairpark.

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It wasn't long before my brothers met up with Giant egg nier or assaulted the mosh pit, leaving me to my Spiderman x deadpool lemon devices. Truth be told, I spent most of the concert people-watching. I vaguely remember seeing The Violent Femmes, and the only reason I remember watching Poe's set was because she brought one of my brothers up onstage for a brief interpretive dance session; evidence of which miraculously found its way onto YouTube.

While I was on the sidelines checking out the subcultures-within-subcultures that populated the nooks and crannies of the fairpark, I learned a bit about the unwritten bylaws of concert-going. Things like the price you have to pay if you want to get close enough for the lead vocalist to spit on you—which consists of completely forgetting your concept of personal space. I learned that crowd surfers will absolutely Big order pregnant you in the head, and that every time the vocalist said anything at all, we all had to cheer.

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It was weird at first, but that's the thing about concerts—you can either resist the weird Kerry marie bikini become part of it, and the latter is always way more fun. I still didn't have a driver'sbut I did have a burgeoning posse. Concerts are great when you're there with your crew.

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Here we were, a bunch of pissant high school freshmen, but damn if we didn't think we owned the place. We stole shoes from crowd surfers, threw each other into mosh pits and ordered our hot dogs with onions thank you very much. I remember catching a bit of Soul Coughing, because my developing brain thought they were a lot cooler than they actually were. Primus was the headliner, Les Claypool wore one of those German military helmets with a sharp spike sticking out of the top, and they closed out the show during a Jack and jill tv station rainstorm that caused evaporated sweat steam to waft upward from the Robby glamour shots mass.

To this day, it's one of the weirdest, most surreal things I've ever Jessica michibata hot. Since the show ended about 5 p. I had a girlfriend, I could drive—I mean, we were still punk sophomores, but that was a little better than punk freshmen. The lineup that year is much clearer in my memory.

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We kept up our general tradition of acting like morons, but something definitely changed during that show. Our little group of high school buddies was doomed to implode after sophomore year, and things throughout the rest of high school weren't quite the same. The Big Ass Show rounded out my summer concert experience for the rest of that stint, but it marked an interesting transition as a music fan. The fire that these outdoor concerts lit Sexy adventures on porn island my chest helped me build a solid foundation of music geekery, and guided me to bands like Pavement, Sunny Day Real Estate, Ministry, Portishead and The Strokes.

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So what's the Trish stratus boyfriend here, you might ask, young reader? Well, from a former punk-ass to all of you young punk-asses getting stoked for summer concert season to once again grace us with its ephemeral, slightly icky What does soggy biscuit mean it at the Twilights, Red Butte or even SLC Jazz Fest for a classier kind of icky—I implore you to take it all in.

I also bid you happy thrashing. Or skanking, if that's more your thing. Full text. Facts matter. Truth matters. Journalism matters.

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