Ben, Zach and Soncirey reminisce about the Festival at Sandpoint
‘The best bar in town’
By Zach Hagadone
I wrote about a few of my Festival at Sandpoint memories in 2020 — in the onset of the pandemic, when all we had of the Festival were memories — including getting pasted by osprey crap during my Courtesy Kid volunteer days from 1991-’94, meeting Booker T. & the M.G.s and caddying legendary photographer Cap Davis’ gear. But I have more recent memories, including how much enjoyment I get out of seeing my son pass out copies of the Reader to the folks standing in line (he might even have handed you this copy).
One instance from contemporary days that sticks in my mind comes from the 2019 summer concert series, when a wicked storm blew into town and resulted in the cancellation of the Kool & The Gang show. I was in the press box area of the stadium stands when the weather turned nasty, and watched as hundreds (maybe thousands) of people fled the field under monsoon-like rain and flashes of lightning.
I know that was one of the worst moments imaginable for Festival organizers — and more than a few ticketholders — but the bright part of that dark day for me was when I ran for shelter through Lakeview Park and ended up in the men’s bathroom. Inside, I found about 20 dudes all mingling around with their coolers, passing beers and generally having a hell of a time as sheets of rain fell outside.
At one point, I looked over at a guy I know who offered me a slug off his bottle of wine and we toasted to what we all agreed was (at that moment) “the best bar in town.”
‘The people outside the gates’
By Ben Olson
Before I brought the Reader back from the dead and couldn’t afford to attend the Festival at Sandpoint, my favorite place to listen was on the lawn by the basketball court next to the water. The camaraderie of the people outside the gates always made me feel like I was part of something greater than me. We, the humble few, gathered because we loved the music and experience.
Now, the Reader is an in-kind sponsor, which means we receive a few tickets to each show. These are usually given away to our staff members and friends of the paper; but, occasionally, the unclaimed ones will be doled out to a random stranger.
That’s what happened one night in 2019 when I had an extra ticket to Lake Street Dive in my pocket. Since none of my friends claimed it, I decided to walk around outside the gates and find a lucky recipient. I saw a man sitting alone on the park side of the fence with his chair and binoculars around his neck, eagerly awaiting the start of the show. When I came up and offered him the ticket, he looked at me with incredulous eyes for a moment before accepting it.
“I’ve been coming to the Festival since I moved here in the late 1990s and not once have I ever gone inside,” he told me.
He got out of his chair and gave me a big, shaking hug and I felt myself grow a little misty-eyed. To this day, I’m still moved by his reaction. To be able to give access inside the concert to someone who couldn’t afford it themselves definitely ranks among my favorite Festival at Sandpoint memories.
‘Leave those kids alone’
By Soncirey Mitchell
I’ve been going to the Festival my entire life, and in that time I’ve amassed exactly zero interesting stories. This may be because I don’t enjoy concerts or crowds. Even as a kid, I would get in and out of the Festival as quickly as possible — no glowsticks, no antics and no dancing near the stage. Boring is the goal, and I consistently reach it every year.
Still, the Festival taught me some important life lessons: mainly that children have next to no rights in public spaces.
In middle school, our parents would set us free to gossip and promenade up and down the Festival’s aisles, showing off our jelly bracelets and emo hair (which was the whole point of attending). We were like Jane Austen characters parading around a ball, except wearing skinny jeans and beanies.
How liberating, right? Wrong. Because we were unaccompanied minors, every adult we encountered adopted the role of the strict grandparent who not-so-secretly hates kids. Talking at the bathroom sinks? A woman would tell us off for washing our hands “for too long.” Standing near a trash can? A man would make us pick up drunk adults’ garbage. Buying an ice cream cone? Some old-timers would demand to know if our “parents knew how we spent our money.” On one absurd occasion, a woman overheard that I wanted to dye my hair red and promptly said, “What’s your favorite color? Blue? Well, it’s illegal for redheads to wear blue, so I guess you can’t dye your hair.” What? And why?
Now, in honor of my 12-year-old self, I go to the Festival and do everything I wanted to do growing up. I get ice cream, take a few turns around the grounds and even leave early sometimes to ride the swings at the park. I still get anxious that someone is going to yell at me; but, every time they don’t, I can hear my inner child cheering.
