Why the Foo Fighters made me cry.

This morning I found myself crying at the news. Not because of the horrible things happening in the world but because they showed footage of the Foo Fighters at Reading. 

That weekend at Leeds is always bitter sweet because its usually the last festival in a year (although occasionally I sneak a later one in). But last year we didn't know when we stood in the crowd, singing along to Everlong at the top of our lungs surrounded by friends and drunkenly bonding with strangers, that this would be the last time we would do this for a while.

This weekend would have been the first festival of the year at Bearded Theory (the first of 6 I should have been going to). Now in theory they have moved the festival to September and somewhere in my heart is a little light that says we will be there. But my brain knows that it's unlikely.

So this year there will be be no night shifts on the top of freezing fire towers. No random punters that leave you with the best stories to tell. No meeting other Oxfam stewards just left of the sound stage. No singing along with a crowd of thousands who all know all the words. No sitting in the sun chilling with a cider listening to a band. No crazy fancy dress and glitter. No trying to work out how to remove muddy wellies when you are too drunk. No wondering if your tent will blow away in the hurricane that has suddenly decided to hit the site. No wandering to a random stage and finding your new favourite band.  Instead we will have live streaming and zoom calls. 

Music is helping me through this. Playing my guitar is the best way to distract me from boredom. Putting on the radio helps me feel like I'm connected to others. Putting on my favourite songs helps me process how I feel. And watching live streams from my favourite artists reminds me we will be back in the fields drunkenly singing to our favourite bands one day soon.