Free Press Summer Fest makes the most of the rain

Getting to know Free Press Summer Fest (FPSF) was like an exercise: tough, but the more you do it the better you feel in the end. I have never been to FPSF and when a festival veteran described the weekend to me, I was rather put-off. Apparently, the festival would be two days spent standing around, sweating my face off in the heat, long lines, mud, rain and drunk assholes who would sooner knock my phone out of my hand than say hello. Somehow, with all of that, they promised I’d have fun and enjoy it. I was skeptical about attending the music festival and their ability to define fun.

For a long time, the idea of a two-day festival in Houston seemed a strange sort of import to me – a

product of another city, state or country trying to find a niche in Houston to make some money and show off some music and beer. Instead, the whole experience felt genuinely Houstonian. Everyone there made the most of what they could.

I didn’t really understand the crowd’s enthusiasm until the rain hit. We spent the better part of a day just trying to get inside the festival. We had to park a twenty-minute walk away. Navigating the event was by no means an easy task due to maps that were poorly designed and a general lack of knowledge from staff at hand. By this time the sun had soaked me in sweat. I think I was the only human attending FPSF who wasn’t wearing shorts – first lesson learned. The plan was to catch Bishop Briggs who was playing at the opposite end of the festival, talk to some patrons and grab a bite to eat.

We had just finished our short trek from backstage at the Neptune stage near the east entrance. We were four feet from Bishop Briggs. She appeared nervous and young, standing behind the stage. I don’t say this negatively – I’d be overwhelmed too if I were about to go onstage to sing in front of hundreds of people.

I felt the first drop of rain on our way to the stage. We threaded our way to the front row, anticipation rising. Another drop. We met up with a journalist there, just as hyped as we were. Another drop. I looked skyward and stowed my things. The rain began, tepid but assured. Someone from my right pulled out a tarp (of all things), unfolding it over our heads. A noble gesture, but a leaky one nonetheless. The sun-baked crowd welcomed the gift of watery relief from the sweltering day.

We cut our losses and sacrificed our front row for dry land. We took shelter at a bar handing out free ponchos and minimal protection from the rain in exchange for $15 vodka.

I was soaking wet, holding an all but useless umbrella against a rain that didn’t give a damn. An evacuation was imminent after a flash and thunder. Drenched and needing a place to collect our thoughts, I pointed out a parking garage nearby and suggested we take cover there. In that parking garage, I encountered what I can only describe as the true spirit of FPSF.

At first, there were only a dozen or so of us, passing around towels and lighters. We checked our phones for updates, stretched out and breathed in the rain outside. We were drying off, at least. More of us trickled in, looking for friends or just a place to get a cigarette. Someone started playing music on their phone and somehow, quite unexpectedly, FPSF had followed us into our shelter. I approached a sunburned twentysomething named Cameron, offered a lighter and asked about his day. He responded with a headstand and a grin.

“Rain’s fine, feels nice and cool. Parking garage is whatever. This is my first Free Press and I’m having a blast,” Cameron said. “I’m here to see everyone, and I’m coming back tomorrow.”

Somewhere to my right, someone was singing. Detre Val, a local Houston artist, was entertaining our damp festival with songs and freestyle rap on request.

“I really like the ideology behind Free Press. It brings the mainstream and the underground together in a way that Houston didn’t really have before,” Detre Val said. “I think it helps a lot of underground acts get great exposure and allows us to be taken more seriously as artists. I love that there are great Houston acts like iLL Faded and Soul Creatures on the main stage right next to Post Malone. It’s really inspirational, and it’s really opening up a lot of doors for the city, for artists, for venues, really just creating more outlets for all facets of business.”

By now, the festival was in full evacuation, and the parking garage was filling up with the half dressed, half burned fully soaked unwashed masses. The parking garage became an extension of the festival.

I think it comes down to common ground. No one I met was forced to go to FPSF. We all wanted to see bands, drink, make new friends and enjoy ourselves. Along the way, we got to see the best parts of Houston come together, housing some of the biggest acts in the world at the foot of our metropolis. Local area chefs were hard at work cooking great food. Houston artists designed custom tote bags and painted murals. There were plenty of lines, a lot of noise and way too much body glitter. I wasn’t even sure how the body glitter survived the rain, to be honest, but it did.

My first FPSF was a welcomed experience. I was hot, tired, wet and thoroughly entertained. I can say this, however – rain is an equalizer, and when we’re all soaking wet we must make the best of it.

Also published on Medium.