My shins were burning as I sped-walked through UC Berkeley’s tree lined north campus, down and up the paved path as my “Slow Jams” playlist queued Cat Stevens in my ear, attempting to calm me down so no one would have to hear my laborious inhalations for air. The problem was my GSI’s tense classical music–– played during the midterm review session I was rushing from–– was stuck in my head, totally counteracting the soft melody of Stevens’ voice. The melodic dissonance in my head only contributed to my stress: it was 3 PM and I was supposed to be at the renowned Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco in 40 minutes.
I was meant to write my first piece on the talented Aoife O’Donovan, as a new member of the B-Side editorial team, but not only was I running late, so was my best friend who had offered to drive me from Berkeley to the festival. But it got worse. When I ran up to the light brown Fiat, I saw my bestie in the passenger seat and her mom instead at the wheel. I needed to beat Waze’s ETA by 12 minutes, and my friend’s slowpoke mom was not going to do it. Thinking on my feet, I told my friend to blast her Country Boots playlist, hoping Beyonce’s Cowboy Carter (2024) and Rascal Flatts would inspire some speed. It might have worked, if it weren’t for the bumper-to-bumper traffic trying to get past the Bay Bridge toll. Yet, I was still having fun, carpool karaoke-ing to songs about the farm life and lost love.
I had incorrectly assumed that it would be smooth sailing once we made it to the city. It was even more packed than the freeway, and we moved at a snail’s pace trying to get to the park. Then, I understood why. We were crossing the Castro District, the vibrant, prideful queer community, who were throwing their annual street fair. The clock was winding down for me to see even part of O’Donovan and we were at a standstill. We called it quits on the country and rolled the windows down, revealing the natural ambiance of the crowded streets filled with one of the most diverse populations in the world. The distorted pop music, patron chatter, and vibrant pink hues of the setting sun created an image imprinted in my memory.
We steadily rolled, up and down each hill, crawling across the city. I watched the analogue clock, second hand ticking away, along with my hope for catching any part of O’Donovan’s act. But suddenly the sounds of the festival broke through the city clamor. I had hope again.
My friend and I decided to take a chance, getting out of the car, slamming the doors, and run-walking towards the park. We were down to minutes left in the performance, and I could hear the string guitars and the thump and crash of drums, cheering me on to the stage, and the festival goers–– my fans (at least in my head)–– cheering me on to catch the last song of the performance.
We got to the stage and it was over. Concert goers were dispersing and we didn’t even catch a glimpse of O’Donovan.
Although disappointed, my friend and I cracked up, out of breath but laughing at the adventure we had just been on. The entire trip was one worth remembering, engraved into my mind like the grooves of a record. Despite being at the festival, it was the quietest it had been all day, with only the chatter of the crowd in the air, other festival acts taking a break too. And I realized the effect of musical soundtracks in life: just like in any movie, music makes a moment. Walking through campus I’m in a music video; in the car, I’m on a life changing roadtrip; and at the festival, I’m having the time of my life, creating memories that will last forever.
Article by Madeline Heinemann