Brianland

Imaginestock

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photo by Christy Worsoe

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Imagine, if you will, a place where music and love fill the air, and every person works for free to build a utopian kingdom.

Imagine a secret island hideaway whose location is only shared to people who’ve earned an invitation by a lifetime of good deeds.

Imagine a wonderland forest filled with fluttering fairies and giggling mystics who make magic happen with the tap of a wand.

Fantasylands do exist beyond fiction and films — where living breathing human beings practice the supernatural for the benefit of all.

I was invited to such a place and can confirm its existence if not its location.  I remember tall trees and a lake.  I remember wandering for hours through campsites so elaborate you’d think they’d been built over months, not in a day.  I remember multiple stages — from the base of a Yasgur’s farm-like natural amphitheater to hidden-away cabanas in the woods on the edge of cliffs with a dozen master musicians playing together in one-time-ever ensembles sharing Marley and Dylan and the Beatles and the Dead.

I saw an army of carpenters — not a one of them paid — building out of a love of creation a giant stage befitting a dream — then breaking it all down in one afternoon so we could scatter and leave no clue anyone was ever there.  I saw the best minds of my generation forging friendships out of thin air that change lives forever, and crafting art that changed perception in the present.  I saw costumes that coulda been in blockbuster movies, brought from a thousand closets, envisioned for a year, sown and woven together, from Dr. Seuss hats & lit-up umbrellas to painted feet & Gandalf staffs.

The first two hours, I walked around jaw-dropped, unable to speak.  I heard the best music ever recorded wafting over the lands from giant sound systems to homey campsites.  I met the friendliest people beaming like they’d just drank from the fountain of ecstasy and were sharing their joy breathlessly.  I spoke to the ghosts of Bill Graham and Jerry Garcia and they were just as ebullient as you’d imagine they’d be.

And if all this magic had a source, I noticed an inordinate number of Irish leprechauns seeming to be in charge.  The Irish — the poets — the pranksters of history.  The playful, the giggling, the masters of mischievous — the spinners of language and tellers of tales — the roaming mistrals of old playing songs in the present to collectives of children no matter their age.

I jammed with 90-year-olds and 9-year-olds and couldn’t tell the difference.  I talked old verities with teenagers and young music with seniors.  I saw a 12-year-old boy buy Abbey Road from a box of old albums and walk down the path staring wide-eyed into its cover like all us old-timers grew up doing.  I talked to people who long ago brought their young children to this . . . and now were there with their grandchildren.

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Imagine a festival where every penny of the ticket sales is given to charities for kids with special needs — to help not only the children but their parents as well.

Imagine a festival where everyone from the rock star performers back stage to the front gate ticket-takers were equally as friendly — and equally paid not a cent.

Imagine all the people sharing all the work, living for today, and living life in peace.  You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

Soundswell on the main stage — photo by Joel Werner

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For another account of a euphoric festival check out my book Holy Cats!  Dream-catching at Woodstock ’94.

Or the annual Jack Fest — Lowell Celebrates Kerouac — also evokes the same love of humanity.

Or here’s the same kind of scene created by the Merry Pranksters in an undisclosed location in the Midwest.

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by Brian Hassett

karmacoupon@gmail.com   —  BrianHassett.com

Or here’s my Facebook page if you wanna join in there —

https://www.facebook.com/Brian.Hassett.Canada