The Burning Man Experience | Jon R. Luini | 1995 Burn
jon r. luini
falcon@addict.com
After co-founding IUMA, Jon assisted Michael Goldberg in creating this online representation of Michael's vision known as ATN. Thankfully, after entirely too many 14-hour days over the course of the first 6 months, he has been able to pass off key production reins and concentrate on the aesthetic and technical direction of the magazine. From time to time, he drops in reports from the road for Music News Of The World and has been known to even do a Feature story once in a blue moon. He gets his art kicks by doing the Cover Story image artwork for each issue. Oh yeah, he's also in a buncha bands who aren't big enough to slip into ATN quite yet.
Should you care for more information, check out his home page.
A series of three installments of one man's
journey to the middle of nowhere in search of
personal discovery and wicker burning.
By Jon R. Luini
Part I - "A drive to nowhere" aka "In Search of ... Wicker"
Part II - The Weekend: Hail, Lightning, and Fire
Part III - The Mermen Play & The Man Burns (Coming in In Issue 1.11 November 1)
The Burning Man Experience
The first of 3 installments of one man's
journey to the middle of nowhere in search of
personal discovery and wicker burning.
By Jon R. Luini
Like you, I love fire. Also like you, my eyebrows perk up at any opportunity to escape the regular grind and relax somewhere far, far away. Thus Burning Man. You see, the Burning Man event takes you to a 400 square mile expanse of Nevada desert where a 4-story tall wicker man is erected, and after a few days of doing nothing in particular, is burnt down. Could anything involving wicker be better?
Burning man began in 1985 by Larry Harvey, who was looking for a break from a romance gone awry (by doing what we all do in such situations--setting fire to wicker on a beach in San Francisco). After some quick frowning by the local law, Larry hooked up with a performance art combo (San Francisco Cacophony Society) and moved the event into the Black Rock Desert in Nevada, where this past Labor Day weekend it sported an astounding crowd of 4,500 neo-pagan-pyrotechnic-hermit-wannabe campers, double the 1994 attendance. Clearly, the progression of this event is packed with history, but in attending this event, all that really matters are three things: fire, escape from the "real world", and your being there.
The Mermen
Photo: Jay Blakesberg
My attempt to get to Burning Man began in April of 1995. Allen Whitman, bassist for the San Francisco based tribal-surf band the Mermen, flexing his recently acquired Internet muscles, dropped me some email saying that last year he had attended this insane event in the desert sitting in with the percussion/noise band Sharkbait. He filled my head with primal images of painted bodies dancing and screaming while a towering burning wicker man loomed above, urging them on. Not the usual Labor Day at home with the family. As if this wasn't intriguing enough, he added that the Mermen were going to be performing this year.
Now let me interject for a moment-- if there is a perfect modern soundtrack for the Burning Man, it would be a combination of Crash Worship, Sharkbait, and the Mermen. The opportunity to be involved in an experience such as this with the Mermen providing their uniquely beautiful surf-feedback sound is not one easily passed up.
As Labor Day approached, the amount of hype surrounding Burning Man exceeded that of Windows '95, both in quantity and interest. The Internet was filled with the excited ramblings of various groups working on their outlandish campsite extravaganzas. All the technological elite were plotting away: Organic Online, HotWired, Club.Net, C-Net Online, and even folks from Skellington Studios (you've heard of "Nightmare Before Christmas?"). Concepts involving parachutes, weather balloons, RV rentals, trampolines and fireworks were bandied about. When the Mermen and the Screaming Divas played a "Burning Man Fundraiser" show at the Bottom Of The Hill in San Francisco, the place was overflowing and their transportation costs were clinched. Using the recently-honed, crafty-reporter techniques taught to me by ATN Editor Michael Goldberg and Managing Editor Eric Lipton, I sweet-talked myself into position as roving reporter with the Mermen posse, which had recently mobilized an entire film crew from a bay area university. Little did I know that a "roving reporter" position was another way of saying "roadie" or "cook's helper".
THE DRIVE UP
A few days later, final preparations were made, and after waking up at the ungodly hour of 5:30am and driving two hours from Santa Cruz to Oakland,I was onboard the Mermen "mother ship" RV en route to Black Rock desert, Northern Nevada (aka "bumfuck nowhere"). It should be noted--for historical purposes--that in an unprecedented act of punctuality, we left on time from our meeting spot. This most assuredly could not be extrapolated to the rest of the Burning Man attendees, and certainly not for the Mermen (or myself) in regular practice.
At this point let me give you a quick breakdown of our posse, as it was probably about average in size of the average groups who attended Burning Man:
Vehicle 1--"The Mother Ship" (a big RV)
Passengers:
Allen, Mermen bass player, driver, and the mean mastermind behind the organization of this journey.
Leslie, his partner in crime, sharp-shooter extraordinaire, and who we discover later does a mean dance
Doc & Laura, the cooking crew
Mark & Vicky, bass tech and his partner
"Four of the film crew ", aka "I don't remember all of their names"
Me, your intrepid reporter, general roadie, and cook's helper.
"Mystery hitcher" (the drive up only)
Supplies:
The TOILET
All of the Food
All of the alcohol
A clean floor
Vehicle 2 : "The Mer-Van" (A big van with attached trailer)
Passengers:
Other Mark, driver, guitar tech, and accupuncturist
Jim, Mermen guitar player
Martyn, Mermen drummer
Robin & Dave, Martyn's housemate/friends
Clayton, Mermen friend (as featured on the "Krill Slippin'" release)
"more of the film crew" aka "more of the film crew"
Supplies:
All of the band's sound equipment
Vehicle 3: "Monster Truck" (Kevin's 4-Wheel Drive Truck)
Passengers:
Kevin, Mermen roadie
"last of film crew" aka "last of the film crew"
Supplies:
Other Mark's dirt motorcycle
Gallons Upon Gallons of water
The drive up consisted of an enormous amount of beer being consumed by the film crew and Doc & Laura, a small portion of which ended up on one of the seats, and a bit of sleeping by those of us who had only an hour or two of sleep in us already, because of our 5:30 am drive. But I am not bitter. Our first rest-stop resulted in the doors being flung open (once we figured out how they unlocked and flung) and a sea of people emerging in a rush towards either the restroom or a lit cigarette, depending on each person's priorities. Reports of antagonistic and violent people at the payphones came in and we sped back onto the freeway, accompanied by an additional passenger who had left the night before destined for the Burning Man-- transport: his thumb. As you may imagine, he was rather overjoyed to join our caravan the rest of the way, and, no doubt trying to not offend our hospitality, joined in the drinking festivities. Next potty/smoke break: "The Reno Truck Stop."
"The Reno Truck Stop"
Repeat it in your mind a few times. Imagine an unreasonably hot land of concrete and slot machines and 18-wheelers and large TVs and sunglasses and old pro-Aryan men and showers and you've got it just about right. We filled up on some junk food essentials, some sunglasses for those of us who always seemed to lose ours just before trips. Doc & Laura whipped up a plethora of sandwich fixins which were gobbled down furiously, re-energizing the drinking members of the posse. A few more cigarettes later, we dumped our quickly accumulating trash and headed back on the road. About now, I was beginning to feel like an MTV film crew might be hiding in the RV somewhere, filming the next installment of its car-sick "Real World" clone, "Road Rules."
This was once a lake. Really. It's true.
THE ARRIVAL
After seven hours on the road, we approached the lovely scenic town of Gerlach, which holds the lofty position of "the closest town to Black Rock Desert." Suppressing our urge to submit to Gerlach's promise of a final fueling on coffee and sugar, we powered through the remaining 20 minutes to the Burning Man entry point. We were greeted at the desert border by the Burning Man registration crew member. Decked out with cool shades and hat, walkie-talkies, and a menacing looking gun, we were relieved to discovered he was a Mermen fan. He went into an excited "I love you guys!" rant, which was nice for us as it resulted in a quick processing and send-off into the desert.
The Burning Man site in Black Rock desert, aka the playa, is approximately 400 square miles of "dry" lake bed. From the entrance you can see the outline of activity many miles in the distance. Enormous trails of dust snake behind lone motorcycles and cars racing across the barren expanse, and there was only the smell of dust, lightly settled on the ground. It was an incredible sensation as we pushed the RV's speed limit to the test across the open playa, with "Monster Truck" pacing us to the side. Jim had the bright idea to open the RV door and succeeded only in filling the entire interior in a whirlwind of dust. All around there was no sign of any human life, just an open never-ending stretch of lake bed. It was big, real big.
We only had the tire tracks of other vehicles before us to guide us towards the recently erected town and as we continued, the small speck in the distance grew and grew until we could make out cars, RVs, tents, and radio towers. We played with our compass and consulted maps, trying to determine where the hell our camp was supposed to be. Finally, we made a guess and then zeroed in.
THE SETUP
The time was 6 pm and sunset was scheduled to take the stage soon. Spotting the Sharkbait campsite, we staked out a space nearby, and constructed a circle of vehicles not unlike the wagon circles of days past. Little did we know then that the Sharkbait camp had a tendency for catapulting fruits and vegetables at their neighbors. As those with tents began to erect them, I converted into "cook's helper" mode and helped Doc begin dinner preparations. Allen had brought a dinner bell which we tested out (successfully) and our posse wolfed down a meal which was most likely better than any we had eaten in the last month. With the sun setting, Allen erected his flag atop the RV as a marker for those meeting up with us and people began their wanderings and investigations of the "town."
The center of the Burning Man town consisted of a few stages, a number of marketplaces (including such wonders as the Margarita Bar), a bulletin board, a radio station tower, and of course, the requisite privvies. To ease moving around the entire site, the town center was encircled by Black Rock Blvd., a makeshift street, which meant that there was an open space for vehicles to move around without barreling through someone's tent just to get to the other side of town. Further out was the temporary suburbia, where everyone began setting up their camping sites. There were different thematic neighborhoods, ranging from "White Trash Camp" to the Grateful Dead inspired "Shakedown St. Camp" and the Dorothy Parker-esque "Algonquin Round Table."
Once outside of the center of town, there's nothing stopping you from driving just about anywhere. Happily, this didn't seem to cause any problems. (I didn't see anyone driving through people's tents, or driving through people.) Reports from some of the posse showed Doc declaring "Well, Friday night I got wasted," and Laura recalling the simple pleasure of the Tiki Bar's margaritas (where you could bring whatever ingredients you could muster up and turn them in for valuable cash prizes... I mean drinks).
There was a high level of alcohol intake thus far, however it is important to note that the environment was not where that was necessarily expected or "required." To the contrary, I ended up drinking much less than I probably would have, had I been at home over Labor Day weekend. Those that were sucking drinks down had the advantage of it being out in the middle of NOWHERE with nearly 4,000 others letting go of their usual inhibitions. For some, that meant downing a few more beers than normal, for others it meant taking the chance to experiment with those drugs their friends had been raving about for a while, and others still might prefer a bit of yoga and tarot readings. This environment, where the most dangerous disaster might be stumbling into an unmarked tent-pole (rather than wandering 5 steps into a busy street and getting knocked into the next town), certainly makes this a fine setting to release and do a bit of experimentation.
"The Burning Man, glimmering with blue neon, loomed in the distance..."
Sitting about in the Mer-camp, you could hear the sounds of activity filter by, smell the combination of burning sulpher and cooking food, and feel the night tug at you in your chair. Having no defense from that fate, I set off into the dark unknown to the background music of a band blaring into the playa, unsure of whether I would be able to find my way back. It should be noted that this particular band in the background was comprised of a bass player, guitarist and drummer who seemed to have hands made of steel. Their sound, oft referred to as "the wanking of the bass" kept up such a furious pace for so long that there were suspicions of electronic looping. I had visions of a bass player who had flayed all of the flesh from his hand and was using just the bone.
The Burning Man, glimmering in blue neon, loomed in the distance. It symbolized the reason for my presence. I didn't expect it to be adorned with glowing blue neon. When I was a child, I had a toy chest made of wicker. If it had glowed blue neon, I think I would be psychologically damaged today. The thought of 4,500 psychologically damaged people in the middle of a desert was not a calming one. I approached to get a closer look. There was a small group of people gathered around the base of the man, glowing blue. In fact, most everything in the vicinity was glowing blue, which must have made the pictures they were taking look a bit eerie. Not that a picture of oneself with a 4-story blue neon man behind you isn't eerie enough in itself, and certainly more so that a wicker toy chest. I'm sure glad they opted for a man instead of a toy chest.
The unknown tugged at me again. I swatted at its hand, but couldn't make contact. It was like trying to swat that annoying fly at a picnic. I set back off into the dark, chasing after the unknown fly. That's when I came across them. Them. The last camp before the desolate half mile stretch to the remote "Rave Camp," a tightly gathered circle of RVs drew me in with the hypnotizing multicolored blinking lights hovering 30 feet above them. "Them" were Weird Blinking Lights (WBL). Not quite a band, not quite an art organization, this San Francisco group of musicians, computer geeks, and inventors were scuttling about in the final preparations of their latest creation. I was greeted by a goggle-headed form, self-identified as "Caliban", and quickly ushered in for a tour. Entering the "inner circle" of RVs I discovered an enormous orange parachute spanning the entire area. Formless bodies scurried around atop the RVs, performing secret work and perhaps even secret handshakes. Caliban, who in mild-mannered Clark Kent-form works as Production Manager at the Web-Creation company Organic Online, explained their plan: to lash the parachute to the RVs, then inflate a few weather balloons in the center to lift it up into a protective chill tent where playa travelers could stop by for a cool relaxing room and enjoy the ambient electronic music of WBL. He invited me to help out, though I wondered if I did, if I'd end up with goggles on my head. Caliban waved to a body atop an RV who, goggled, scurried down and joined us. Extrapolating about the specifics of the lashing of this and the raising of that, "Tapeworm," who normally spends his days molding plastic bugs and giant peaches for Skellington Studios, while looking like candidate for an alien research mission at night. He kept extrapolating on the lashing. I smiled a lot. We were joined by other goggled fellows, and for reasons I haven't fully figured out even now, I ended up spending the next three hours assisting in the rather intricate working of the WBL camp. Also joining WBL were people from Apple, Hyperreal, Club.Net, and Cyborgasm, and they all seemed to be wondering why I hadn't any goggles on too. I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. More happily, nothing went in either (like, for example, a small plastic bug or giant peach).
Imagine drifting off to sleep to the lilting sounds of a Rave...ahhhh....Photo: Max Pere
Finally, the lashing of the parachute was complete. Even the folks bouncing gently on a trampoline came over to check out the WBL version of a pagan ceremony, "the inflating of the balloons." The balloons inflated majestically, raised the parachute a few feet, and then stopped. In the confusion of discussions surrounding additional rigging and co-opting large nitrous balloons I slipped out to tend to my fatigued body, promising myself to return the next day to see the final results.
I successfully guided myself back to the Mer-camp by the now-familiar neon glow of the Burning Man, set up my bedding, and, huddled comfortably inside my sleeping bag, stared up into the wide expanse of stars. They seemed brighter than I'd ever noticed before. The music echoing across the playa from the Rave Camp, now in full swing, drifted lightly by. Well, as lightly as Rave music can drift. Just before I drifted off to sleep, I saw a quickly moving light in the sky. Was it just a shooting star? It seemed to be moving towards the WBL camp. It didn't seem out of place at all. I would have wondered what the coming day was to bring, if I had been conscious...
TO BE CONTINUED...
Related URLs:
Caliban's Weird Blinking Lights Page Caliban's Weird Blinking Lights Page [dead link]
The Burning Man Experience - Part II
The second of 3 installments of one man's
journey to the middle of nowhere in search of
personal discovery and wicker burning.
By Jon R. Luini
In the desert, the morning sun comes upon you furiously. In my case, this meant that I was awakened in the Nevada desert at 7:30am on a Saturday morning-- before I often go to sleep. The other 4,499 campers at the 1995 Burning Man, in strange synchronization, awoke with me and began to scuttle around, performing strange morning rituals. My ritual was more of an instinctual emergence from my sleeping bag, a reaction to the vision of being sizzled alive in the desert heat, the bag serving as a hot dog bun-- with no condiments in sight!
The dry playa of the Black Rock Desert once again greeted the tenth convergence of the Burning Man event, and more specifically our "Mer-camp" composed of the tribal surf band, the Mermen, a film crew, other friends and housemates, and myself-- ATN intrepid reporter and roadie for the weekend.
For a group of people rising so early, spirits were high, perhaps in response to the smell of the cooking food, and perhaps in anticipation of the unknown. I've never before appreciated the wonder of bringing people with you who can cook. Doc whipped up a fantastic breakfast. Granted, a bowl of cereal could pass for fantastic in the desert ("Got Milk?"), but this really was a bountiful selection of pancakes, potatoes, toast and bacon. Fueled up and raring to go, the entire Mer-camp moved a couple of hundred feet north-- away from the pyrotechnic danger zone of the "World On Fire".
This "World On Fire" innocently sat near our
camp until we were warned that it soon would
become engulfed in a white-hot flame of death.
We moved further away.
Following an hour of picking things up and putting them down in the exact same configuration a few hundred feet away, we all promptly relaxed. Indeed, most of the afternoon was spent sunbathing while taking in the strange scenery around our encampment: RVs with flags, naked folks on bicycles, and of course, the Burning Man himself. Entertainment was not lacking, whether it was the "Rabbit Scooter" (the moped made up to look like a rabbit gave me deranged visions of the Alice In Wonderland-themed episode of Star Trek), the "Shark Car" with huge silvery fins stretching skyward, or the surprising site of a naked folks "couch surfing" (aka dragged across the desert by a car). Allen and Leslie set up a badminton ("It's shuttlecock!" corrected Laura) net and a few games ensued by those with the energy. They did not last long in the hot sun, and soon joined the others in sunbathing, relaxing until the sounding of the lunch bell stirred people like a Pavlovian herd of cattle.
The Weird Blinking Lights camp lured people in with its billowing orange parachute.
After lunch, I took advantage of Other Mark's motorcycle to take a daytime tour of the site. After a quick helmetless (gasp!) zip past the Burning Man later, I was once again pulled into the orange parachute of the Weird Blinking Lights (WBL) camp. The goggled night crew had done a fine job of compensating for the insufficient lift of the balloons with a renewed rigging effort, and things looked impressive. Folks were bouncing on the trampoline, lucky to be shaded from the heat. Out in the desert a little bit of shade can be amazingly effective. I don't know if it's the lack of wind, or perhaps something special about the playa surface, but once you blocked out the sun, the difference was thankfully noticeable. After reacquainting myself with the now-goggleless faces, I enjoyed a bit of ambient relaxation and then pushed on.
After a quick jaunt out to the deserted rave camp (though they in fact were still playing music for the remaining three dancers) I headed back towards the site itself and began a clockwise tour. I didn't come across anything particularly notable, yet the subtle, surreal nature of the environment had an impact of its own. Here I was, riding this beat-up old off-road motorcycle past a small group of airplanes which had been flown out from points unknown into this small dot in the Nevada desert. A small turn to the left and out into the vacant playa I went, able to stare straight up at the sky without worrying about running into a curb... a car... *anything*. A small turn to the right and I'd head into the center of this hybrid of technology and nature. It looked as if aliens had visited in millennia past and given a roving band of gypsies a radio tower and generators and network connectivity to the Internet. Some people had set up makeshift performance areas where attendees could stop by and play guitar, sing a bit, or perform in whatever way they wished. The trip back to our area was too short and I putted in, watching (and ready to participate in) the covering up of pasty white complexions with a serious tan.
An atom-bomb of a hail cloud descends
on Burning Man
Video by Gabe Eberhardt
In the desert, there is one constant: still, dry, hot weather. Or so we all thought. This illusion was shattered when suddenly, in the horizon, a huge cloud of dust approached. We watched as it zipped through one part of the town, like the twisted cousin of a tornado. The force of the wind and its effect on this temporary city was swift and hostile. Many people retreated into their RVs and others went chasing after their tent. The enormous cloud of playa dust tore across the camp and just as it looked as if the Mer-camp would remain untouched, it shifted and swept down with a vengeance. At first we casually gripped our shaded retreat, as it was secured into the ground by stakes. I sipped my drink. A moment later I was in danger of enacting the tornado-tossed Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. The force of this whirlwind was entirely unexpected and with my full weight on one of the four corners of this 8'x8' artificial roof, it was lifting me up, threatening to toss me back on my ass and the "retreat" out into the playa. Some ran around haphazardly, securing down anything loose, hoping their tents didn't pull up and fly off. Others joined me in my foolish quest to keep order in the centerpiece of our little Mecca. Ten minutes, 2 broken stakes, and a dust storm later, we had succeeded. As with most natural disasters which befall a community, conversation was fast and furious. "That was intense!" "I've never seen anything like it!" "My tent collapsed!" "Did you see that huge beer can go rolling by?" The latter is unlikely to have been bandied about after the latest California earthquake, but it was in fact accurate for the Burning Man. You see, a group of destructionists known as the Seemen had a four-foot tall Budweiser can they'd been attempting to destroy for quite some time. It broke loose and rolled back and forth with the wind, doing a great impression of a bowling ball. This Bud's for you!
Things settled down, the sun began to set, and we turned our thoughts to the impending chaos of the evening's planned pyrotechnics: the burning down of the nearby Toyland, the unknown mechanical fire of the Seemen (consisting of some members of the industrial destructive Survival Research Lab team), and the incineration of a suspended rebar and sheet metal earth sphere known as "The World of Fire." Before any of these man-made performances could start, bright flashes began illuminating the entire sky. Yes, it seemed that the dust storm was only a precursor to mother nature's own light show, which was impressive indeed. What started as plate lightning filling up the entire sky soon became intermixed with astounding bolts. We nervously removed any metal from our pockets, "just in case." It was still fairly far away, so we mostly just sort of eyed it cautiously from time to time.
Thanks to the choice placement of our camp, all three events were laid out in a 45 degree arc around us, placing us in the enviable position of watching from our chairs. One of the shark cars had come up and parked by the art globe and as they worked in darkness, presumably packing this metal sphere, perhaps 4 feet in diameter, with as many fireworks as possible. the globe was then strung back up into it's holding place 8 feet off the ground suspended within a triangular metal structure.
When we had first heard they were going to "burn" this hunk of metal, visions of a molten volcanic substance burning the metal white-hot danced in our mind. That image turned out to be a bit off-base. The burning was more akin to a neo-pagan 4th of July ceremony. The crowd that had been slowly gathering formed a loose circle around the structure. The globe was lit amidst the sounds of not-quite-so-rhythmic drumming. The burgeoning fireworks which at first snapped, popped, & sizzled progressed to a five to ten foot shower of sparks, sending the globe into a glorious fireworks-induced spin. Unfortunately, the confused drumming and the unsurprising nature of the fireworks used ended up more comical than awe-inspiring. It was no less entertaining, however, as people danced about, hitting the dying globe with a variety of sticks.
As the globe's fireworks petered out, we redirected (turned our chairs 30 degrees to the left) our attention to the Toyland camp. One of the interesting facts about the Toyland setup was that in the dust storm earlier, it had been blown down and spread across the playa. In an impressive display, the Toyland staff (which disappointingly did *not* consist of clowns and dwarves) had entirely rebuilt it back up. From our vantage point, we had seen the rise and fall the large "T-O-Y-L-A-N-D" letters, which were again sprouting into the sky. The crowd of people grew in size, the distant lightning moved closer, the accompanying thunder crashed louder, and the crowd swelled, sensing that Toyland was going to burn, and burn soon. A roar of screams lifted into the air and as the night sky became illuminated with the unmistakable yellow flicker of flames, there was no doubt that it had begun.
Toyland Burns
Video by Gabe Eberhardt
The dwellers of the Mer-camp, comfortably relaxed in lawn chairs and spread out atop the RV, looked on at the crowd and weighed the comfort against the thick crowd. There was no way any of us were going to fight our way through, especially with rain and lightning threatening. As such, our experience of Toyland's burning was a mixture of what we could make out through the bodies and what was excitedly relayed back from the danger zone. The mass destruction, involving a centerpiece featuring chain reactions of burning teddy bears and baby carriages, was like a demented art interpretation of Prometheus bringing fire to the humans and having it all go awry.
Perhaps that's a bit to deep for Toyland, which more likely was simply focused on the good clean fun of pyromania. But whatever the plan for Toyland's destruction, it was cut short as the rain finally arrived, pouring down atop a scattering crowd and shooting fireworks.
The rain kept up steadily for a while and the Seemen, who already had their scaffolding knocked over in the dust storm, opted for postponing their performance until the next day. As the skies suddenly cleared twenty minutes later, the general mood in camp was that it would have been *perfect* for the Seemen to go on as planned. No other major performances were scheduled for that night and the next night was the "big event" (the burning of the man). Alas, it was not to be, and so we did what any other group of musicians and a film crew in the middle of the nevada desert would do-- we plugged in the movie projector and presented some fine quality flicks on a huge screen hung on the RV. Our evening's selection featured a wonderful short from the 60s entitled something like "The Policeman Is Your Friend," and featured catchy informative still captions: "Policeman's Cap," "Car," and "Stop!" I know, I know -- you are thinking to yourself, "What could possibly be able to follow up such a film as that??" These film guys are pretty clever you see, and they make the rounds at garage sales and pick up these oddities and sometimes even come across something a little more accessible. In our case, we powered straight into a well-received old episode of The Twilight Zone. Next up was an episode of Rawhide, during which everyone left or passed out. As for me, I did both. After napping through potentially the dullest show of its era, I got up and embarked on a midnight trek through the darkness with Robin and Dave, destination: WBL Camp.
Walking through the middle of the desert at midnight is an experience I can't recommend highly enough. Here in Santa Cruz, CA when you look up at the sky at night, there is generally a bit of cloud coverage which reflects all of the business, street, and house lights, making it difficult to really enjoy the stars. The Lake Tahoe area, or perhaps the local Santa Cruz mountains, is a nice place to get a better view, but nothing compares to the pure brilliance of the stars in the desert. The dichotomy of walking through a small town as well as being able to see the stars so clearly was a truly memorable, surreal experience. You won't see any images of this here, as the sheer beauty and chill that you feel can not be distilled and captured.
We walked through the other side of town, which I hadn't explored thoroughly before. It was a nice change from the chaotic fireworks elsewhere throughout the site. Upon arriving at the WBL tent, I was happy to discover that the new Team WBL musical lineup was just about to begin a set. We settled down under the remaining balloons (one had been damaged in the dust storm in the afternoon), I pulled my duster around me and laid back to have a cigarette and enjoy the electronic music mastery of WBL. After a short bit, Robin and Dave departed for a visit out to the rave camp and I remained until they closed up as it began to sprinkle and equipment had to quickly be packed away. I walked back, luckily not along the same path as the clouds, and quickly set up for bed and promptly passed out proper.
"THE MERMEN PLAY ALONE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DESERT"
Sunday, ah yes... the sabbath in the desert. Brings a tear to one's eye, not to mention visions of Ozzy Osbourne and Tony Iommi (members of Black Sabbath, for those of you who don't get it). Once again, the sun got everyone up bright and early and the big plan for the afternoon was a trip out into the wide expanse of the desert with the van and Jim's guitar equipment for a performance of some of his "weird feedback ambient shit." Those unfamiliar with the Mermen's live sound won't quite feel the anticipation of Jim blasting feedback and loops into the hot desert air. We prepared ourselves, the film crew packed up, excitedly mumbling about "great footage", and we piled into the Mer-Van, turned away from camp, and drove into the empty playa.
Following the huge length of cable from the generator to the band.
Video by Gabe Eberhard
After a couple thousand yards, we decided this space of nothingness was just as good as any other space of nothingness and stopped and surveyed the situation. After a bit of discussion, the plan was modified to include a DAT audio recording in addition to the film footage, and Martyn joined in some minimal percussion and gongs. As the unloading and setup commenced, we all soaked up the phenomenal absurdity of our situation. The generator puttered along at the end of multiple extension cords 200 feet away. Martyn suggested we trek back and get Allen out in order to play a full performance before Jim's fun. Not wanting to pass up an unrepeatable event like this, a messenger was sent and a short time later, the full band was set up. In defiance, some dark clouds zipped in and loomed on the horizon. I hopped on a bicycle and rode out to check them for rain. Two songs later, the plate lightning started up again and, feeling the first few drops of rain, rushed back. As the rain drew closer and began to fall, we succeeded in setting a new world's record in the "quickest tear-down time for a band" category.
"WHEN IT RAINS, IT HAILS... ? or HERE'S MUD IN YOUR EYE"
Amid equipment which had somehow fit properly on the way out yet now was on our laps, we drove back to base camp. Someone opened the heavenly rain faucet and it really started to pour. Thunder shook the earth and bolts of lightning struck down in the distance. Other Mark sped the Mer-van through the playa, kicking up the forming mud, anxious to get us back to hide safely from the lightning. We didn't know a lot about the natural properties of lightning, but we were finding out the hard way was not an attractive thought. Other Mark sped us along. The rain increased in intensity. Just minutes later, we were back. In a fit of stress reduction, cleanliness, and desert fever, people across the playa were pulling off their clothes and risking a being fried alive to take advantage of a free shower. Something snapped: perhaps it was too much exposure to the concept of mud wrestling as children, or perhaps they were having an Altered States-like bond with our caveman past, but suddenly there was a throng of naked bodies in mud. The rain fell. A natural Slip 'n' Slide emerged. The rain fell harder. People ran and fell in the mud. The hail started. I stopped caring about the people in the mud and retreated deeper into the RV.
An amazing full rainbow spread across
the Burning Man site desert sky
Video by Gabe Eberhardt
The hail lasted a short time and within 10 minutes the sun was back out and the two-inch mud base of the playa was already beginning to bake back into it's previous crusty consistency by nightfall. In a period of one hour we had gone from experiencing the music of the Mermen drifting through the desert air to watching lightning and hearing thunder to a hail storm to strange mudbaths and then back to the usual desert heat. If that's not a unique experience for you, you probably just got your Internet access in the past six months and used to live a Grizzly Adams life in the wild.
TO BE CONCLUDED IN ISSUE 1.11, wrapped into one piece. {Ed: Never published]