“Trying to ride waves of activity/in every direction You’re the center, and you’re always free/in every direction” — Junip, “In Every Direction”
The rodeo didn’t start for another hour. We wandered the vendors, eyeing signs for savory, health-ruining foods. Somehow the decision seemed crucial. What is the most authentically “American” thing to eat at a rodeo? Barbeque? Cheeseburger? Corn Dog? Deep-fried: mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers, onion rings? Not the caramel latte. Caramel funnel cake, maybe? After 20 minutes of vendor-ogling, I decide to buy a Coors and put off the decision for later.It was a Friday in August, and I was at a rodeo in Payson. The next night, I’d be at a themed rave in Warehouseville, Phoenix. I could make up some philosophical excuse — some rhetorical bullshit to explain why I chose to do these things, but really I just wanted to say, “I’m going to a rodeo and a rave this weekend.” The alliteration’s nice. And actually, some rhetorical BS sounds nice, too — the latent meaning of this experience and this essay is to explore how one America could possibly contain these two polar opposite events.
A GOOD FRIEND of mine — let’s call her Cinnamon — is leaving to teach English abroad. For her last weekend, Cinnamon wanted to go with a few close friends (Draco, Evalyn and I) to do the most American thing she’d never done before: go to a rodeo. Where best to revel in Americana than what many people say is the world’s first rodeo? August Doin’s has been held annually in Payson for the past 126 years; although sack races, greased pig contests and chicken pulling fell out of vogue, events like calf roping, barrel racing and bull riding still rowdy up the third week of every August.
On Friday, we all got off work and changed into semi-authentic Western garb (which for me was a Roger Cline T-shirt and a borrowed cowboy hat) and hit the dusty trail together, in a car on Highway 87.
Inside the rodeo, we sat in the grandstands and laughed at the earnest and frequent use of terms like “bareback riding” over the loudspeaker system and at a billboard advertisement for “Miles/Davis, Attorneys at Law.”
Suddenly, a black sheep catapults through the arena gates, a small child with a helmet, clutching on its back. Within seconds, the plaid-shirted kiddo is dashed into the dust. The crowd cheers. The MCs continue their loudspeaker banter as if nothing happened. For our part, we’re not horrorstruck, but it’s hard to overstate our confusion at this moment. What in the hell just happened?
That, my friends, is “Mutton Bustin’,” a crowd favorite at the Payson rodeo. Kids like to emulate their heroes, and adults like to watch children be humiliated. (It’s cute and funny and harmless, as opposed to adult humiliation.) Thus “Mutton Bustin’,” where 6- and 7-year-olds cling desperately to agitated sheep like their bronco-riding cowboy idols.
The actual rodeo events, however, were impressive, awe-inspiring. Watch man overpower beast and not be impressed. It requires a musculature and self-reliance I’ll never know.FOR SOME POST-WRANGLIN’ FUN, we went to the Ox Bow Saloon, eager to learn how to two-step from the locals. The expansive, empty outdoor floor immediately intimidated us. For hours, we stood paralyzed, clustered together in a defensive maneuver. Why were we scared to go out there? It’s just two-step.
But our problem was elsewhere. Nobody likes to be a tourist. No one wants to be That Guy, the asshole outsider who ruins a community event just to balm his/her own insecurities.
Eventually we just went for it, and had a good time. Cinnamon even asked a couple cowboys to show her the ropes (pun intended) before we contented ourselves to watch the experts.
Maybe the moonlight beautified things. Maybe I was blessed with a momentary glimpse into how folks reconcile life as I watched couples navigate each other tenderly through a messy crowd of humans. Regardless, I was content to watch middle-aged Southwesterners two-step to Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville.”
I ask everyone on the drive home, sometime after 1 a.m., what they learned about America from the rodeo and saloon.
“America’s … worn me out,” Evalyn says, wearily, tactfully. RAVES AREN’T AMERICAN by origin (modern raves began in 1980s England), but they still embody the good and bad of us — the individualistic, energetic, self-centered, hedonistic, provocative and consumptive.
There's no real history behind Lingerieve 4 (pronounced “lawn-jir-EVE”). Reflecting on this party theme, Draco asked, “Isn’t that already the theme for every rave?” A MONSOON BEGAN as we left for Lingerieve. Evalyn had work the next morning, leaving just Cinnamon, Draco and I to represent. Shortly after 10 p.m., we arrive at an abandoned warehouse at 25th and Jackson streets. We walk past chain fences toward deep bass resonance in the rain.
As we join the queue to enter the warehouse, a young man is being detained by security outside. The seemingly Ecstasy-laden lad falls backward into a metal barrier, knocking it over and onto Draco’s ankle. An inauspicious start to the evening, and a reminder why I’m attending Lingerieve 4 completely sober.
After reluctantly searching rave message boards that afternoon for What Guys Should Wear, I’d decided I didn’t care, choosing plaid boxers with argyle socks. Once inside, I see that most dudes are in cargo shorts, some shirtless. The females are scandalous.
The space is sprinkled with a few people so perfectly outfitted for a rave that they seem to be motifs, not humans. Like a cowboy in Wranglers and a 10-gallon hat.
I expected drug-fueled light shows with glow sticks; obscenely loud and fast electronic beats; dilated pupils screaming “I love you” to strangers.
I expected the guy wearing Converse shoes and a serial killer/hockey mask, or the Asian girl in pigtails and catholic schoolgirl skirt, or the toned teenager wearing mini-briefs, mini-backpack and a child’s unicorn hat.
I also expected that sexual and gender roles would be more fluid and open here. But no, if anything, this rave is hyper-hetero. (Who’s more liberated: cowgirls or rave girls?)
After a couple hours of dancing, my notebook is soaked grotesquely with sweat, my hands pruned as if I’ve been swimming too long. Cinnamon, usually one to close out the clubs, says she’s nauseous and has to leave.
Of course we can’t find her keys. I wore a knapsack holding all of our personal belongings, but amid the breakbeats and bedlam, poof, keys disappeared. We comb the floors for a few minutes of carefully unstated panic before making our way toward the security crew. I think to myself: Cinnamon’s lost her keys on her last weekend in town because we just couldn’t resist the novelty of this dumb event – we’re nothing like these people, this place doesn’t deserve Cinnamon’s keys. Why did we pay to be here?
I make a note to remember these thoughts, because they seem to say something more about me than the environment around me. Cinnamon returns 30 seconds later, all smiles and jangling her keys triumphantly before leaving.
BOTH RODEOS AND RAVES make sense only on their own terms: the rave is a celebration of freedom, the rodeo is a celebration of community. Both celebrations were things you could love or hate, depending on whether you chose to participate and understand.
The ravers must seek community, too, and all rodeo-goers must ask themselves, “How do I be my own cowboy/cowgirl?”And though these communities would’ve most likely hated one another, I (kind of) understand both now, and don’t hate either. Only the ideals differ, and they are magnetically repellent: sacrifice, work ethic and strict tradition vs. self-abandon, sensory indulgence and individualism.
America is not a melting pot. It's the fondue. Everyone thinks they belong to their own food group, only dipping into some collective identity to coat themselves in Americana sauce when convenient.
