In late July Squaw Valley hosted the Wanderlust Festival, featuring yoga and music with the main stage at the top of the Funitel lift at 8,200 feet in the beautiful Tahoe Sierra. It was the first time that music was held at this venue since a Jerry Garcia concert there in August of 1991. That was my very first time seeing Lake Tahoe. And now, as a Tahoe local, it was a chance to reflect on the last 18 years of music and life in the Sierra.
I go to a lot of festivals, and each one has a unique vibe that is created by a combination of the promoter’s preparations, the bands involved, the venue and most importantly the people in attendance. And that is the beauty of such events, as it represents the energy and spontaneity of a large group of people gathering together for a common cause.
Immediately upon arriving at Squaw last weekend, it was apparent that such a commonality was in question. Wanderlust turned out to be two festivals really, one part yoga summit, one part indie rock festival. It seemed that some folks were primarily for the yoga experience. World renowned yogis were in attendance and their workshops were reportedly as an intense and enlightening experience as anyone could ask for. The classes were by sign-up only, and though some were free, many of them were quite pricey, on top of a full-price festival pass. This lent an atmosphere of exclusivity to the yoga side of the weekend.
Simultaneously with this, there was the indie rock festival up at Gold Coast featuring emerging artists spewing out music of all flavors in their own individualistic, quirky styles. This tended to be a mixed bag, from Amanda Palmer’s wailing diatribe, to Andrew Bird’s self-harmonizing looping sonic wash. Nearly all the artists commented on the dramatic scenery of the venue in the upper bowl of Squaw Valley, surrounded by famous ski lines and the azure blue of Tahoe luring the eye in the background.
Many also complained about the altitude, which might be harder to appreciate from the chain smoking, trilby hat wearing perspective of an indie rocker than those of us a little more accustomed to local outdoor elevations.
In any case, my first reaction to the all-important ‘vibe’ of the event was that there seemed to be a lack of unifying purpose for those in attendance at Wanderlust. Everyone has their own agenda, right? And these agendas seemed to be competing for attention at Squaw. But not to worry. ‘All the freaky people make the beauty of the world’, as Franti reminds us. I found my perception of this divide evolving as the weekend continued.
In 1991, it seemed that we were all there for one reason. I was at the peak of my Garcia-adoring, road-hardened, Dead Head zombie trail. There were actually a lot of great bands on the bill that weekend. Jimmy Cliff and the Neville Brothers infected the bowl with their respective booty shakin’, rhythms. Booker T and the MG’s tore it up with timeless jams echoing the spirit of the occasion. And it was my first time witnessing a guy named Bela Fleck blowing minds with his virtuoso skills on the banjo, along with his consciousness-expanding band. But honestly, most folks were there to see Jerry and David Grisman explore the musical territory of old friends unleashed in a new format, both musically and geographically. And like any Dead show, one could look around in the faces of his fellow concert goers, and with a wink, acknowledge that we were all there pursuing the same goal of musical salvation, if we could get just one more Ripple.
But at Wanderlust, it seemed that we were all there for different reasons. Some were there for the yoga, and its promise of a healthy lifestyle. Some were there for the music, perhaps seeking to discover something catchy in the ‘alternative’ scene. And some were simply there for the scenery- the novelty of catching music, any music, in such an awesome and storied venue.
But somewhere, at some point during the weekend, I began to notice an interesting phenomenon. As I danced in the sunny bowl on Sunday afternoon to some random noisy band, with the light streaking down, bathing the dancers in comforting affection, I stopped to look around me. In the faces around me, I found something I recognized. People were smiling, dancing and just enjoying the day and each other. It seems that maybe we were all there for the same reason. Music, dance, smiles, frolicking in the fields with friends. Perhaps this festival was a mode to bring people together to join in the dance that is the celebration of life in the mountains.
There were a few other odd things about the weekend. I arrived for the Friday night set to discover that the stage had been set up in the Olympic Plaza on nearly the same spot as the Shane McConkey memorial that we had attended just a few months ago. The spirit of that moment certainly wasted no time mixing it up with the energy of the day.
Overall, most attendees reported having a great time at Wanderlust. Sure, a few things could be improved. (The food was nothing short of lousy.) But I must say that the folks who ran the show were very friendly and accommodating. Thanks for treating the volunteers so well. The promoters all talked about doing it again, to the applause of the crowd. As for me, I look forward to another year of fulfilling my own version of wanderlust, and hopefully not have to wait another 18 years to do it all over again.
