No Spain, No Gain: Sónar Festival Day 4 [Part 3 of 3]

It's 9AM Sunday. I'm dragging myself up the hill, legs slow, face stiff, jeans full of sand, smoking a last cigarette on my front doorstep.

I'm the last one out of the cab again, clutching Jonas' 20€ note, which he made me take when he got out at his AirBNB-rented flat. I'm trying to remember how I met the group of Norwegians in the first place: Lars, Jonis, Maiken, Kine, Daniel, Mattis.

We met next to a pool at the Resident Advisor party on Thursday, on the roof of a fancy hotel. We were introduced because I had randomly met their friend Mattis on a bike in Austin at SXSW back in March, and saw him at the pool party as I was about to leave. We watched Scuba play, talked about music, made plans we didn't keep.

We almost never saw each other again, yet somehow ran into each other every night. I've met so many of my best friends this way. We almost didn't meet.

I wake up. I feel like going for a jog. My shirt from the night before smells like a barn. My phone lost all its credit texting Norwegians and French TV reporters. It's Saturday and local event promoters Monkey Bar are throwing a party at the Parc Del Forum. I want to head down with my best friend Joe, who knows them, but I also want to check out Sónar Day. I want to give the festival another chance. I had fun, but it didn't quite live up to my lofty expectations.

On my way to Sónar, I run into my Catalan housemate's brother and girlfriend at lunch in a small plaza.We drink coffee and rum – Carajillo – and talk about how Sónar has changed, from the new day location to this year's bookings. They like the old location better and think Skrillex's set was entertaining, if not good. They think his Barça jersey, remixed Barcelona Olympic anthem and Catalan flag projections were patronizing.

It's close to Sant Joan, a wild "Night of Fire" summer celebration, so little kids are lighting off bottle rockets and firecrackers at random in the plaza. The explosions range in volume from fun snaps to mini-car bombs, but no one seems to care. I'm getting that festival anxiety, so I hustle to the festival.

I arrive at Sónar just as Jackson and his Computer Band finish playing. I check Felix Kubin and James Pants, making a festival racket at the Red Bull stage, then head outside to see what Mary Anne Hobbs is up to. Playing grime.

All the kids outside are still doing drugs. I wonder what they're going to look like 12 hours later at Sónar Night. I'm supposed to meet up with Seth Troxler at 9PM, but I haven't heard back about a meeting place. AlunaGeorge takes the stage outside, but her voice is a bit too cute for me, so I head back inside to catch Darkstar and Vatican Shadow.

Darkstar play well. James Buttery's voice soars over skittering claps and dulcet synths. The melodies wander and weave. I run into the Warp Records crew I partied with at SXSW, and we make a variety of plans for the night — the Hotflush party at Apolo, the Resident Advisor thing at BeCool — but I suspect we won't get it together. I've promised my plus one to at least a dozen people.

We discuss the festival. Everyone likes the day location, is perturbed by the night. Too many afterhours zombies, the best things are too late. Six or seven hours is a long time to wait to see Karenn in a hall full of ghouls.

One of their friends has gone missing. On a Sónar shuttle to his hotel last night, he lost his phone, got headbutted and disappeared. No one has seen him since. I've heard a couple of these stories. They usually turn up like nothing happened.

I'm waiting to see Vatican Shadow, but Joe is texting me shots of the Forum. I know he's probably alone and bored and I haven't heard from Seth Troxler's people, so I head out.

The Forum is a cement structure by the water where Primavera Sound festival is annually held, and the Monkey Bar party is the size of its smallest stage.

Tama Sumo DJs in front of what looks like a neon cat's cradle, while Fred P stands, unmoving, behind her, and DJ Qu, a former competitive house dancer bobs around the stage.

"I don't know where to go at this point," Qu tells me. "This is my first time here when Sónar's happening, so in all actuality I don't even know, like, what's the festival and what's happening at the festival. I thought this was part of the festival. Come to find out it's not, so at this point I'm just enjoying it."

Tobias weaves around backstage, hugging people, greeting friends. He plays live and he gets into a groove during the second half of his set. Marie, my French TV reporter friend, wanders around the hill searching for weed. She comes back with a small bud. "I just tell them 'I lost my marijuana' and they give this to me," she explains sweetly. I can't imagine that working out at Coachella.

None of us are feeling Steffi's set, so we head to the Hotflush party at Apolo, where I lose Joe to his late-night appetite. He leaves me with a text saying, "So much dead animal. Horrible."

Apolo is a large concert hall and Nitsa is one of Barcelona's best parties, but Dense & Pika are a bit too dark for my French friends. It's too loud, there's not enough melody. I'm 0-2 with them now, as I previously took them to the Hessle Audio thing, where they said the same thing. The Innervisions party was their favorite of the weekend. My vote's Ben Klock and DVS-1.

We meet up with the Norwegians at the upstairs bar as Scuba gets on the decks. We discuss his Twitter feed, how his career has changed, who the secret guest might be. I suspect George Fitzgerald, who played Sónar at 1AM. We're not up to staying around for South London Ordnance at 6AM, so we head to Prins Thomas and Donato Dozzy, who are playing another Resident Advisor party at BeCool.

I'm not on the list, the Norwegians get me in. It's the second time we've been to the club this weekend, we're drinking beers with water. We're all here, dancing to Prins Thomas. We run into Mattis and his girlfriend Kristen, whom I know from LA. I love reunions. My family's small.

Prins Thomas is killing it, playing vibey techno tracks, and I forget we've made a plan to go to the beach 'til they're kicking us out—it's 6AM, and we're the last people in the club.

We're walking in twos, we're sitting on the beach. We roll up our jeans, watch the sun. Here and there, groups of kids do the same. Friends arrive in twos and fours. The Norwegian girls, Kine and Maiken, show up with two Spanish guys on scooters. The Spanish guys bring a transsexual prostitute, she tells the world's longest life story, strutting her stuff in a jeweled thong. There are a dozen of us, laughing. We buy 40€ worth of water and beer.

An old naked man saunters by, brown like a baked bean, wagging his dick like a meme. A group of retired mafioso in banana hammock bikinis play in the sand, building small hills around their equally tanned and oiled wives, crowning the mounds with coke cans and sticks, like some alien ritual. They're happier than any of us.

Two Norwegians run naked into the ocean. A Brit with a camouflage-patterned sunburn parties solo, clutching a six pack of San Miguel like a child's hand, frequently dragging it into the ocean to wash off the sand.

Slowly, the friends take off in ones and twos. They have flights to catch. This is the last time we'll run into each other at BeCool, Apolo, an RA party, Ben Klock, Off-Sónar. They have lives to return to. It's sad and it's not sad. It's something else. It's just Jonas, the Norwegian girls, one Spanish scooter guy, Pau, and the storytelling prostitute, Sofie.

We pack up our beers and hand out waters. For the third consecutive night we split a cab and say our last goodbyes. Jonas hands me the 20€ and I head back to my place.

I've made plans to visit Oslo in August. I've checked out flights. I'm buying my ticket tonight.

Theo is homeless in Europe. Buy him some tapas.  - @badbarks