Teens, J Cole, Half of Kanye: A Diary of The Meadows (in a Parking Lot)

I, a British man, fresh-faced and dewey-eyed in this country, am accustomed to shit festivals. My people revel in the mud, prepare for it, lust after it. We see the weather reports in advance of Glastonbury, for example, and say with a barely-concealed glee that "It's going to be bloody raining again isn't it." It's a point of pride, however perverse it might look.

But what was I supposed to do with the inaugural Meadows Music and Arts Festival this past weekend in Queens? I might still hold some affection the eternal damp of a British weekender, but a two-day festival in a parking lot in October? There's a masochism to that idea, something that even a self-loathing, weather-hardened Old Worlder might find strange.

With that in mind, I took notes on the weekend as I went. There were teens, J Cole, and some really miserable people wearing The Weeknd T-shirts.

2:05 PM: The subway should be fuller than this. The 7 is as good as empty but for me and a gaggle of ill-dressed twenty-somethings. It's 55 degrees and overcast outside, yet every one of them is wearing sunglasses. One particularly flash man has paired his with a camo bucket hat. "Don't worry guys," says one of the girls, "I have a choker for Saturday and a choker for Sunday!"  Great.

2:15 PM: In the ten minutes that I've been taking notes on these people, I've come to admire them. They clearly planned their outfits in August when the line-up was announced and had no intention of breaking with that now. Their stubbornness in the face of reason is what makes this country great.

2:46 PM: Wait, this is actually just a parking lot? I was joking when I told people it was just a parking lot.

3:24 PM Frightened Rabbit probably feel very at home here. The Scottish quartet's morose, introspective indie was borne of grey skies. Now they're standing in the middle of what they, and I, would refer to as a "car park" in Queens. "We love coming to this city" says lead singer Scott Hutchison as though the Statue of Liberty is rising majestically up behind him. Hutchison wears what can only be described as an incredibly practical, weatherproof jacket. He may be the best-prepared person for three miles.

4:10 PM A teen walks past me wearing a black shirt with white writing: "I KNOW H.T.M.L.," it reads. Then beneath that, in parentheses: "How to meet ladies." The immediate disharmony of the T-shirt comes out of the fact that this young gentleman is not, in fact, with any ladies. Rather, he is with two other young gentlemen, neither of whom look particularly prepared to meet anybody, much less "ladies." But there's a deep sadness to this spectacle, too. It's such a simple statement, so innocent; I know "how to meet" people, as though that's everyone else's Everest.

4:34 PM: New York Mets mascot Mr. Met is here. He has his photograph taken with a young woman who says that this is the highlight of her day. "I might cry." Fair to say we've hit a lull here.

4:35 PM: My friend tells me that he's written a fan fic about Mr. Met and his wife, Mrs. Met. The premise is that every baseball that the New York Mets use on gameday is an unhatched egg from the family that Mr. and Mrs. Met are trying to start. Their dreams are forever thwarted. It's pretty dark.

5:33 PM It's fair to say that The Meadows was counting on The Weeknd to make this Saturday worthwhile. And, well, he pulled out. Twice. So now we're left with an assortment of odds and ends, musicians who happened to have space on their schedules. Example: what the fuck is a Thomas Jack? Somehow his endless, thudding EDM has dragged me from my comfortable chair to the middle of a crowd of molly-addled youths. Now I'm not only in a parking lot, I'm listening to EDM in a parking lot. At 4:22 PM. This is what Spring Breakers would have looked like if they'd shot it in a deprived Eastern European city.

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6:15 PM: Thomas Jack is over and any lingering serotonin has now passed. Suddenly the space outside Citi Field is a dystopian concrete hell. Seagulls are swarming overhead like dollar store vultures. I calculate that the odds of being shit on by a seagull are now around 60-1, but given that I'm sitting near a burger truck, maybe it's more like 20-1.

6:24 PM: Two women walk past wearing matching The Weeknd T-shirts. Suddenly I am sad.

6:46 Grimes is good. All is well.

8:40:
Me: "Should we just leave? I don't really want to see J Cole."
Friend A: "Yeah, J Cole is dumb."
Friend B: "Let's stand at the back and make fun of him."
Me: "OK!"

8:46 PM: Me: *raises one eyebrow*

8:48 PM: Fuck, what if I like J Cole?

8:59 PM: J Cole removes his sweater to reveal a Seattle Reign jersey with Megan Rapinoe's name on the back, shining a light on the only white athlete to so far take a knee during the national anthem at a sporting event.

9:00 PM: I don't know who I am anymore.

1:06 PM: The 7 train is busier today. No sign of those optimistic, sunglassed college kids with their chokers and their bucket hats. Everyone on this train seems to be 16. Four girls next to me start singing "Ignition (Remix)" in a lazy, half-embarrassed unison.  Were… were they born when this track came out? Who told them about R Kelly?

1:41 PM: Everyone here seems to be piss-drunk already. One dude in an LA Lakers jersey—he can't be older than 18—surely won't make it to the festival. He's bouncing around like a dodgem off the assembled youths; three police officers watch him, straight-faced. The day has already tipped over into damage limitation.

1:58 PM: A reliable source tells me that the line for Kanye merch has now takes over an hour from start to finish. For merch. Which costs lots of money. I'm lost.

2:30 PM: In fairness, The Meadows is a different proposition on Sunday. It's not necessarily better than Saturday—the sheer number of teens make it a terrifying prospect in its own right—but it's twice as full and, thus, feels like a festival rather than a mediocre tailgate.

4:45 PM: Mac Miller has a divine future​.

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5:45 PM: I saw Chance the Rapper play in Philadelphia four weeks ago​ and I'm still more excited for this set than I am for Kanye's headline slot.

5:59 PM: This is not the same Chance the Rapper that I saw in September. There he played through ​Acid Rap, ​occasionally dipping into ​Coloring Book ​as though it was an obscure new project. It's performative and inventive and full of brightly colored puppets and I don't care what anyone says, it's not corny, shut up. This is what Chance was made for.

8:10 PM: OK, I'm now pretty excited for Kanye.

8:12 PM: This'll probably be great.

8:17 PM: Can't wait for him to turn up.

8:28 PM: OK

8:32 PM: Where's Kanye?

8:34 PM: This is stupid, I don't even care about Kanye West.

8:50 PM: Oh my God it's Kanye West I'm so fucking excited I love him so much.

9:39 PM: "Heartless" is such a great song

9:40 PM: Bye, Kanye.

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​All photos by Liz Barclay.

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