I Went to Ozzfest So You Don't Have To

By Stephen Haag, PopMatters. Posted November 10, 2004.

2004 marks the third consecutive year I have covered Ozzfest, Ozzy Osbourne's venerable heavy metal fest, for the Hartford Courant. I'm no metalhead, but the $75 bucks I make for my trouble is worth the sunburn. The Courant gives me only 400-450 words to sum up Ozzfest's 13-hour day (10 a.m.-11 p.m.), so most of my notes go for naught. But not this year. Below are collected musings on the sights and sounds of Ozzfest 2004.

The Fourth Estate

The media pass for Ozzfest features a devil wearing glasses. Funny, to be sure, but it's the only hint of subtlety to be found on the Ozzfest grounds (the Meadows Music Centre in Hartford, Conn.). Despite two-plus years of concert reviewing, this is the first media pass I have been granted. I am unsure as to what access it grants me, and I'm too chicken to barge backstage. "Act As If" – that ain't me. Ozzfest is divided into two stages – the main stage (5 p.m.-11 p.m.) with the big-time acts, and the second stage (10 a.m.-5 p.m.) showcasing up-and-comers. I manage to gain access to the second stage's backstage are by accident: I wandered into the area and when a security guard asked for a pass, I flashed my bespectacled devil badge. Voila!

I am in a roped-off area where the second stage acts' gear is sorted by band, immediately to the right of the stage. A roadie carries an impaled severed-pig's head off the stage; it was part of Otep's set. Every pre-conceived notion you've ever had about Ozzfest is true: Skulls, black leather, tattoos, they're all both backstage and in the crowd. I can't exactly see any of the band's perform from my vantage point, but I don't care because A) Word-limit constraints keep me from writing about any of the second stage acts for the Courant; and B) It's much safer where I'm standing. The sweaty, filthy crowd is pressed cheek-to-jowl from the front of the stage to the sound tent, about 50 yards back. Sundazed/drunk/stoned souls try to shimmy over the fence to where I'm standing in an effort to reclaim some personal space, but are quickly returned to the throng by beefy security guards. I laugh to myself and swing my arms, just because I can.

Health and Wellbeing

One way to get backstage, sans credentials, is to pass out. Here's a tip: Don't pass out, but if you must, be sure not to do it in the middle of the Ozzfest crowd. A pocket of kids are flailing their arms ... just like everyone else rocking out to Hatebreed, who is commanding the stage right now. But they're not moshing, they're trying to attract the attention of security or EMTs to aid a friend of theirs who has passed out. They likely would have been waving in vain forever had a cameraman on a raised platform next to me not seen them and flagged down a guard. It takes nearly two minutes for a phalanx of burly security guards to muscle their way to the frantic fans and get the young man backstage and under a tent, in the shade. He is out cold, and as pink as a newborn. A concerned buddy of his boasts a small swastika tattoo on his shoulder. The stricken fan lies on his back, arms splayed. The EMTs revive him and he sits up blinking, stunned. He'll be okay, but he has a look on his face that suggests he had no idea that a combination of overexposure to the sun, a steady diet of $7 beers and dehydration could lead to health problems.

It's a drama that's replayed many times throughout the afternoon. I'm trying to watch Slipknot's set from the fringe of the second stage crowd when a young girl – late teens, curly brown hair – passes out in front of me. She doesn't collapse "straight-down," as it were, like a house of cards; rather she falls backwards, a trust exercise gone awry. Her friends help her to her feet and water bottles are offered. A few woozy seconds later, she fall face first into the dust. If this lot was concrete instead of dust, she'd have a mouthful of bloody chiclets. There isn't anyone – guard or EMT – in sight or shouting distance. I suggest to the group of girls that their take their friend, who's once again on her unsteady feet, to the nearly shady area – the Jagermeister tent 100 yards away. They wobble out of sight.

Water is Ozzfest's most precious commodity (just barely edging out pot), especially on an 85-degrees-and-sunny day like today. So why the hell are people flinging full water bottles at the acts onstage? The musicians have access to all the water they want backstage. If you don't like an act, give 'em the finger (hell, at Ozzfest, if you like a band, give them the finger too); just hold onto the water. Between sets, security guards hose down the crowd in front of the stage with a garden hose that's only strong enough to spray 10 people deep. And most of that water is sprayed onto the chests of girls who are sitting on their boyfriend's shoulders, flashing the crowd. Standing next to one of these couples is one of the only ways to get water at Ozzfest. (Aquafina bottles are $4 at the concession stand. The lines for the two pathetic trickles of water that pass for fountains in the concourse are rarely fewer than 20 fans deep.) Concert organizes have decreed that fans may bring one factory-sealed water bottle into the venue; a few gallon jugs pepper the crowd, but the folks who are smart enough to bring water are among the least likely to mosh themselves into a state of exhaustion and truly, medically NEED the water. To these eyes, keeping concertgoers properly hydrated is Ozzfest's biggest logistical nightmare.

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