Yoo-hoo & Heatstroke: A Vans Warped Tour '98 Story
Here, in Aurora, Colorado, where you can walk a mile high through an endless polluted fog of marijuana smoke, big-boy truck exhaust, and fast-food beef stench, when winter finally lets us free from it’s dismal clutches, usually sometime at the end of May, and spring has about two weeks of existence before summer comes bullying it out, I get a bit of an urging to see/hear music performed live outdoors.
There’s nothing quite like paying well over one hundred American dollars after all the corporate ticket owning conglomerates tack on their “service fees” to attend an outdoor music festival, drive to the even through endless miles of traffic, pay an additional thirty American dollars to park in an empty field a mile long walk from the actual event, arriving sun-scorched and thirsty to be met with run-of-the-mill canned beer that costs eighteen American dollars, then finding a decent seat to enjoy the music you went through all this for only for the clouds to open up and cast a torrential downpour all over the place.
Money well spent.
My fondness for outdoor, all-day, summer music fests stems from the traveling caravan that roamed American towns every summer, the Vans Warped Tour, a collection of Punk Rock musicians and extreme sporting athletes that came to your city on the hottest day of the year to spread punk rock fueled, skate boarding madness.
In the summer of nineteen hundred and ninety eight I had taken employment at the local chain of the nationwide Kroger companies grocery store King Soopers. It was my first summer job, at the behest of my parents, who were decidedly united in their position that I “needed to learn some responsibility.”
I started my position at King Soopers as a “bagger,” shoving customers grocery purchases into their preference of paper or plastic bags after some high-strung cashier fairly hurled them down the automated conveyer belt at me like some sick blood sport you can only lose. To break up my day of grocery catch I would also be tasked with collecting stray shopping carts from the sprawling, black tar and gravel parking lot. The sun, who is a merciless, uncaring bastard of a celestial body, would make the cart collecting extra exciting by remaining a consistent one hundred and thirty five degrees Fahrenheit at all times and heating the metal and plastic constructed carts to untouchable levels, making it nearly impossible to collect and push from the far ends of the boiling black tar parking lot. Grocery store patrons who don’t return their carts when they have finished with them are the scum of the earth. Never let anybody tell you otherwise.
Not long after I started, probably due to my excellent performance as a bagger, and, not wanting to make the other baggers feel inferior, I was transferred to the recycling center where I was rewarded with a job in a dark, single lightbulb lit room on the side of the massive building where the only natural light that entered was through a door that only opened on the top half, which through I would collect people’s garbage bags full of crushed diet, caffeine-free Coke, and Crystal Pepsi soda cans, weigh each bag, then scribble on a scrap of paper to total weight which the recycler would take to to a customer service representative inside the air-conditioned store to be exchange for a meager amount of American currency.
To show my gratitude for such a “promotion” I would make sure my friends knew to bring their recyclables to me in my hovel where I would weigh their bags then, on the scrap of I paper I would write an inflated number for the final weight, sometimes increased by five or ten times. Word spread quickly. In the summer of nineteen hundred and ninety eight it was good to have acquaintances that could be relied on to successfully procure marijuana, or come through with cigarettes or alcohol. I was the friend who helped you scam King Soopers for an extra five American dollars on recycling. Fucking take that, the man.
The one luxury I was afforded in my dark, dank, recycling cave was a radio, which during one of my eight hour stints hoarding cans, is how I came to be alerted that the Vans Warped Tour was planning a stop in my fair state of Colorado. Now that I was a working man and was receiving around seven American dollars per hour of can collecting I could spend some that sweet dough on a concert ticket instead of punk rock compact discs, cigarettes, and fast food. My parents would be proud to know I was spending my money “responsibly.”
And why the fuck wouldn’t I? It was a veritable cornicopia of Punk Rock elites. The Vans Warped Tour traveled with about a million punk bands each summer and included in this year’s horde would be Bad Religion, NOFX, Rancid, The Specials, ALL, The Bouncing Souls, CIV, Deftones, Frenzal Rhomb, Guttermouth, H20, Less Than Jake, MXPX, Strung Out, and The Vandals. All of my favorite bands in one fucking place. The only problem was that that place was Boulder, CO, the hippy mecca and frat boy, trust-fun kid paradise, a solid forty five minute drive from where I stood in Aurora, Colorado. An insurmountable distance to travel by skateboard, my preferred method of transport as I had not yet procured a state issued driver’s license due to not being old enough, and, also, not having a car. Maybe this job thing had more to it than I had thought.
“Fuck it,” I punkly thought. “this is but a minor setback.” I’d spread the world through my other punk rocking friends and surely somebody would have access to some for of motorized transportation, single engine aircraft, dune buggy, or blimp that would be willing to transport us to Boulder in exchange for the much coveted booty of gas money.
It worked like a charm. A few of us punks would be attending the Warped Tour and a local, older kid, who was absolutely not a punk, that we hung around with because he had a house full of snacks, and seemingly, not parents, would be the chauffeur. Tickets were purchased, days off of work were requested, and we were on our way to invade the flower power mecca of Boulder with some punk rock hooliganism.
Having lived in Boulder for two years in the the late two thousand’s aughts I know that the the drive from Aurora to Boulder does not, or should not include any mountainy trespass, which might surprise you as the general consensus about Colorado is it just a giant mountain, every town residing nestled in the valley of a tremendous mountainous landscape, but I swear we went through mountains on our drive there. Luckily our journey began in the early morning as to allow time for optimal punk rock participation at the Warped Tour so even delayed by mountains wouldn’t impact our schedule.
Upon exiting the maybe mountainous path, and shortly thereafter arriving in Boulder we decided we’d need some pre-game sustenance, something that would keep us full of energy for the days festivities. We chose Burger King.
While enjoying our signature Burger King flame-broiled Whopper sandwiches and accompanying extra large fries and and soda in the parking lot we saw a group of other oddly dressed travelers approaching us. Wayward punks seeking kinship, directions to the Warped Tour, and smokes, which we happily obliged, our driver assuring them he knew the way (despite our visit to the mountains just having passed) and that they could follow us as soon as we depleted our meals, which we soon did.
Now a caravan of punks, we travelled to the fair grounds without further incident, parked successfully in the, get this, FREE parking lot located on the University of Colorado’s sprawling campus, which slightly concerned us, as the university is ground zero for Boulder hippies, and we braced ourselves to be assaulted by dreadlocked, hackie-sacking, college hippie students at any moment lest all our viewings of the 90s’ cult classic comedy “P.C.U.” had taught us nothing. Finding no patchouli oil-infused flower children between the car and the fairgrounds, the path was clear and we gained access easily, setting forth on our day of punk rock frivolity.
The site was overwhelming. Stretching as far as the eye could see were tented booths operated by every band on the tour, hawking their branded wares. Interspersed between the booths were large, half-pipe, skateboarding ramps, complete with airborne skateboarders. Among all this, a sea of multicolored hair, punk band shirt clad torsos, and attitude, all slamming and jumping to the constant reverberation of punk music. I was sure this was indeed heaven, albeit the hottest version of heaven as we’d past the noon hour and the sun was high, and scorching in the sky.
Seeking refuge from the unrelenting heat, we dove in to a tent that had some water misters surrounding it. Unbeknownst to us this tent was serving as a shelter for meet-and-greet events with various bands from the tour. Just our luck it was Bad Religion’s turn to press the flesh with the fans and if I wasn’t already convinced this was heaven, this sealed the fucking deal. We managed to get in line and meet all of the members of Bad Religion. Knowing they were playing that day I had worn my recently purchased Bad Religion shirt, a white shirt, featuring the classic Bad Religion “Cross Buster” logo (think the Ghostbusters logo but busting a cross instead of a ghost) on the front. On the back it featured what look like directions from a community swimming pool with a basic shaped human jumping headfirst into shallow waters, complete with a “WARNING! No stage diving, shallow water,” message. Having nothing in my possession to have an autograph scrolled on I asked lead singer Greg Graffin to sign my shirt on the back about the doomed diver. Having already signed a gaggle of sweaty punk rockers, he graciously obliged and informed me my shirts message was “good advice.” I shook his hand and thanked him for being the best, and I’m sure, kept my composure cool as I squealed like a kind in a candy store on the inside. I’d wear that shirt until it quite literally fell off my body, saving the autograph and diver, stitching it on to the chest of my punk rock jean jacket vest, of which I still own.
Having lucked into such a tremendous situation, we left the cool air of the tent and went back in to the sun to enjoy some punk music. While doing so we ran into Adam, our short, skateboarding enthusiast friend one year our junior at school. He’d now been absorbed with us into the crowd as we spent the next four hours in a massive mosh pit under the hot, hot, heat of the summer sun.
Now, being young and impulsive, we didn’t plan on needing any water, or really even considered any sun safety precautions. We would simply survive the day by youthful exuberance. After a few hours moshing it up among hordes of sweaty punk rockers under the ever vigilant, fiery eye of the sun, we got pretty fucking thirsty. Not wanting to miss any of the action I scanned the surrounding area looking for any sign of hydration. Nothing water like. However, omnipresent since we entered the festival, stood tall any yellow loud, the traveling dispensary trailer of liquid-ish, chocolate-like beverage, Yoo-hoo, one of the Warped Tour sponsors. When one thinks of punk rock and skateboarding, naturally, one thinks of Yoo-hoo. They had been dispensing little Dixie cup portions of the drink all day.
My body rapidly drying out, Adam, surely feeling the heat, notice where the gaze of my eyes had landed. He’d keenly observed that only one person was manning the Yoo-hoo trailer, and that one person would occasionally exit the trailer to replenish the inside stock from a bounty of unopened and unsupervised bottles of Yoo-hoo behind the trailer. Having earlier pushed the limits of the Yoo-hoo companies free samples we knew this would be the only way to stave off dehydration. A plot was hatched to liberate a few bottles of Yoo-hoo. Like bank robbers planning a heist, we watched the movements of the Yoo-hoo-er and timed them for when they ran out of the free samples to when they would retrieve more from the back. As soon as they returned to the trailer and closed the door we sprang in to action, quick, like foxes, we snagged a few cans, and ninja-like, vanished back into the undulating crowd with our ill-gotten gains. To celebrate our victory we quickly downed the bottles full of sun-warmed, chocolate sludge, confident we now were fully fueled with all the vitamins and nutrients we’d need for the rest of the hot day.
Hot it remained and steadfast in our determination to stay in that mosh pit we remained. I would not miss any of these bands. It was my first time seeing the Vandals, Rancid, NOFX, and Bad Religion, among others. The sun would not beat me.
What would beat me was our ride informing us he needed to arrive home by a certain time and in order to make that time we needed to leave right now. There’s no arguing with the ride.
As we made our way to the exit we stopped by some booths to buy band merchandise, the sweet, two-tone ska beats of The Specials played us away, growing softer by the second as we marched back to the car, the sounds of punk rock still filling our hearts and minds, Yoo-hoo coursing through my veins. A good day for a teenage punk rocker.
