If you weren’t sure about going to Dour this year because it’s a festival that attracts not only cutting edge artists but also a crowd that balances that very same edge and sometimes goes way beyond it, you might as well unpack your camping gear and inflatable pillow right now; the POSTRboys for contemporary journalism will be returning this year as well, which means increased carnage and chance of bodily harm for everybody there.
In one week, you’ll be able to find the staff of your favorite free magazine slamming back shots of assorted liquor (sorted by sheer availability) and testing out whatever sedative that gets handed to us by random passers-by. Yes friends, we are going deep undercover once again, blending in with the crowd until there is no longer any way for the untrained eye to tell the difference between three perfectly lucid journalists (if you know us personally, then you’ll know that we are purely and permanently bound by professionalism) and three random party participants, wildly screaming at the night sky and jumping around in a maniacal stupor fueled by God knows what psycho-active components and chemicals.
To set the record straight beforehand: we’re not heading down South to write witty reviews on bands that you’ve never heard of and are not really that interested in hearing about. We’re also not going to give you the scoop on what songs you need to have in your iPod to be hip with the in-crowd this summer. And we’re not going there to be the gazillionth reporters to interview Gwar and Atari Teenage Riot, since those stories have about zero added value, what with the hordes of ‘professional music journalists’ who will be sharing their enlightened views in page-long articles that serve mainly to display their ability to make cultured references to obscure bands and squeeze out metaphors that have been fetched further than mescalin at a Walloon festival.
Well then, what the hell are we going to do in exchange for those free press passes that get us all-area access, reasonably clean showers and a sleeping spot far away from the humanitarian disaster called Dour Camping? Simple. We’re going to document what it’s like to be at Dour Festival. We will provide detailed reports on what it feels like to be raving your nuts off during the last minutes of the last dj-set of the day, utterly dazed by an entire day of chemicals and music, dripping with your own sweat and that of others, surrounded by strangers that look more and more like family as the night passes, and then drumming your hands raw and bloody on metal pillars when the beat finally comes to an end. Because to us, that is the essence of Dour. Waking up the next day, knowing that you partied like you never partied before but not being able to name even one of the acts you saw after 5PM. Frankly, when we were discussing our tactics & strategies for the upcoming edition, one of our reporters shamedfacedly admitted having lost an entire 24 hours of memory from last year, recalling only a state of perpetual euphoria and a stage that wasn’t there until suddenly it was. To which he boldly added: “Let’s make it 72 hours this year.”
See you in a week.