My older sister C.J. had just dropped us off at what was then called the Tweeter Center in Camden, N.J, when I called for her to come back immediately.
“I…think…I left the tickets at home,” I admitted.
So much for being on time for my first major concert.
She drove us back home, but the 90-minute trip back and forth was not something she was interested in repeating. Can’t blame her for that.
The R-5 Paoli/Thorndale Regional Rail to Temple University: Approximately $5 and 40 minutes.
The Market Frankford Subway Line to Penn’s Landing: Approximately $2 and 10 minutes (with transfer).
Walk from Penn’s Landing across the Benjamin Franklin Bridge into Camden: Approximately four miles and 100,000 years.
The day’s events before walking through that ticket gate could simply be described as “just awful.”
We were now several hours late, we had missed a few of the bands we desperately wanted to see, and my friends were more than a little ticked off that this was, put simply, entirely my fault.
But after our seemingly endless adventure, we finally walked through the gate and headed to the Tweeter Center lawn.
This was the Y-100 Feztival. This was my first music festival.
The place looked like the photos I had seen of Woodstock, though with less recognizable musicians, more clothing and fewer illegal activities taking place. The concert-goers walked between the different sets with not a care in the world. The beer was $8 for a Miller Lite (I was a young teenager at the time, so this did not concern me), but the weather was perfect and the music was good.
So I think.
I remember the Beastie Boys. Entertaining. Loud.
I remember the Darkness. Embarrassing.
I remember New Found Glory: Much better than I had anticipated.
I don’t remember specific details from any point throughout the day; it had been a long day for the weary travelers. But I’ll never forget the absolute comfort of stretching out under the sun, covering my eyes with the brim of my Phillies cap, and soaking in the tunes of bands I would never have paid to see alone.
Bliss.
This vision returned to me when I first heard of the idea of Wallypalooza. That moment, relived, was awfully tempting.
There would be no travel miseries; I lived a few blocks from the concert site.
There would be no $8 Miller Lites; there would no Miller Lite at all.
There would be no New Found Glory, there would be Asher Roth.
But the thought of another festival in addition to Movin’ On was comforting, like idea of basking under a ballcap under the sun.
Mike Wallace, the founder and namesake of the event (and alumnus of my alma mater in North Philadelphia), deserves a lot of credit for the work he did putting this together.
When he announced last week he was resigning from his UPUA position, which enabled him to put on the show, it was hard to be upset or concerned. The concert had taken place, it would take place again, and he needed to focus on school. Perfectly reasonable explanation for a college student.
But now that he’s parted ways with the event, it’s time for a change.
UPUA President Gavin Keirans (another SJP alumnus) told The Daily Collegian it was undecided whether the concert would still retain its name.
This shouldn’t even be debated. The name needs to go.
I like Mike Wallace on a personal level. He’s a good, hard-working guy. But naming a concert after oneself is a bit egotistical, and UPUA should not support the highlighting of a single individual for a group effort.
Call it upuapalooza (“Ooo-pwa-pa-loo-za” or “Up-wa-pa-loo-zaa”).
Call it AsherRothALooza.
Or just call it the UPUA Feztival, if for no other reason than to see if Graham Spanier will sport a fez that day.
And, please, leave Asher Roth at West Chester.
