[Photos via Quoleena Sbrocca; heyreverb.com]
I might be a native New Yorker, but I could easily see myself packing up my stuff and becoming a permanent resident of Colorado. Last weekend I went out to Denver (and Morrison) for the third annual Bisco Inferno Festival, and I can honestly say I came back happier, more enlightened, and completely frickin exhausted. My body still feels like a rubber band on a crack binge. If you know me, then you know I have a passion for good times, awesome people, great music, and tons of drugs. You want the rundown of my weekend? Well, you’re just gonna have to keep reading (it’s really long, but extremely worth it).
Obviously, I couldn’t wait to start the fun in ‘Rado, so I popped a Xanax bar right in Newark International Airport with all of my fellow heads. My buddy, who eats WAYY too many sticks for a mortal man, stole himself a pair of sweet Skull Candy headphones, a carton of duty-free French cigarettes, a copy of George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones (the novel), and later on – I stuff you not – a life vest from the airplane. I don’t even remember the plane ride – except the occasional uncontrollable desire to eat the pretzel nuggets that exploded all over the inside of my carry-on, and the landing that felt like a rollercoaster…I’m pretty sure I shouted and threw my hands up in the air (it was my first time on a plane in something like a decade), but stuff was already a little hazy.
Upon getting to the Mile-High City and checking into the Econolodge (which was literally directly across the Odgen Theater – the MOST clutch party spot), my brigade of friends and I went over to this dope Belgian Beer House called Cheeky Monk for lunch (a place that I HIGHLY recommend). Half price beers and lunch specials from 12-2? How the fudge do you say no to that? After a glass of both Kasteel Rouge and Gulden Draak with my flavorful, heavenly blackened chicken sandwich, I had already decided that I frickin loved the stuff out of Colorado – and the party hadn’t even started yet. By the way, they aren’t lying to you when they say that the altitude affects how fast you get fudgeed up, because I was already tipsy as fudge by the end of the meal.
Then came the drug stockpile. We grabbed a variety 12-pack of some micro-brews (I don’t even remember the brand, unfortunately – I was already too buzzed to care) and a $20 handle of Captain Morgan Silver. Some people might not think a $20 handle is a big deal, but back in NY stuff like that doesn’t exist. We made contact with a friend who’s a Colorado resident, and he came through BIG TIME. He brought us over a half zip of medicinal marijuana in three flavors: 7 grams of Juniper Stereo, 4 grams of Bubba Kush, and 3 grams of Bubble Berry. It was the most amazing mix of buds I’ve ever tasted, and each one came with a significantly different high. Then he ran out to the dispensary across the street (hotel, dispensary, and venue all right next to each other? I know it sounds too sound to be true, but I assure you it is) to grab us some Cheeba Chews (ughhh sooo delicious). That’s not all though – An hour later he came back to our hotel room with a 20 lb tank of nitrous: the wonderfully mind-numbing drug known as hippie crack.
That’s when the party started. Our entire hotel was just one giant pre-game. I drank a bunch of Rum and Cokes, a few more beers, smoked some herb, took a few fatties, and chilled with awesome strangers. Heads came through hawking all sorts of unofficial merch – Bisco Inferno posters, stickers, pins (a staple of the scene), and of course, more drugs! Some incredibly nice lady came in selling earwax hash, a deliciously soapy type of THC extract. I have NO idea how it’s made, but I’ve heard that it normally goes for about $50 a gram, so the $30 we paid was a steal, and it gets you high as hell. Then another guy came in with some hash brownies – I bought one of those guys for later…
Then it was show time. We crossed the street and, to our surprise, walked right into the Odgen without any kind of patdown. No security? DOPE. Since it’s Colorado, you can basically just puff right out in the open, so there was no discretion needed. We took full advantage of that…all weekend long. After 2 more beers and a fat capsule of moonrocks (crystalline MDMA, for all the noobs out there), I hit a bad point: I came up really hard, blacked out, and ended up puking in the sink (to anyone who’s reading this and was there – sorry, at least it’s better than vomit on the floor or on other people). I quickly recovered from sickness, but the rest of the show was still kind of cloudy for me. The night ended with a tank party in our hotel room, lots of folks doing yak, kizzle (neither of which are my kind of thing – I’ve got sinus problems as it is and every party animal has to have standards), and fishing out all over the place, and me eventually passing out in my bed spooning with another man (totally platonic, don’t worry).
The next morning I gobbled up half a brownie before we began the long trek to god-knows-where in Denver to get some breakfast at a place called Snooze that someone recommended to us. MY FUCKING GOD, I’ve never had a breakfast so delicious: Bloody Mary’s all around, a sweet potato pancake with pecans on the house, and three breakfast tacos with eggs, hash browns, and salsa fresca for myself. Seriously frickin mind-blowing. I would have gone to ‘Rado just for that meal. After another half a brownie, some major burnage, and decent Japanese food at Taki’s for dinner, my memory started to get a little fuzzy.
But it was vacation – There was no stopping me. I chomped down on half a Cheeba Chew and went back to the Odgen for the second night of Biscuits. Did I mention that I had come out to Colorado for the Disco Biscuits? Yeah, I kind of forget that fact myself. I spent the entire night dipping into my half gram of molly and danced my ass off – definitely the most musically impressive night by far, even though my memory of it is also not so great. Why? Because after the show and an afterparty at a friend’s house, my group of six retired back to our hotel room to finish off the last quarter of our 20 lb tank. At 8 AM we passed out hard after finally killing the last of our fatties. Mad whomps all around.
After about 3 hours of sleep, we checked out of our homebase at the Econolodge and headed back to Cheeky Monk for more half-priced, high-alcohol content beers before we hopped in the Taxi to Red Rocks. After three Gulden Draaks each (that’s like a 6-pack of normal beer), we’re all totally sloshed for the 40 minute ride to the Best Western in Lakewood.
After the bitches at the hotel told us that there’s absolutely no smoking allowed (and a $300 fine for it…never stay at that Best Western), we broke through the screen on our window (first-story room) for easy access to the outdoor “smoking section.” The last night was at Red Rocks, so it’s definitely a special occasion: we all dosed up for the event (it was my first time taking acid in over a year, so I was particularly faced). Two tabs and another 30 minute cab ride later, we’re ascending the 46 flights of stairs to the very top of the venue that Mother Nature herself carved out of the mountains. Every step plunged me further into a spiritual world of growing, pulsating rocks, people connected by fluorescent laces of energy, and crisp, thin mountain air. Each breath felt as if it was the first one I’d ever taken. From the top of Red Rocks, I looked at the whole of Colorado lit up in waving fractal glory. The energy in the amphitheater would pull me towards the stage like the ocean’s undertow and then spit its power back into the very depth of my soul. SO FUCKING EPIC. I couldn’t wipe the smirk off my face. Remember that life jacket my friend stole? He rocked it to the show, and everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) wanted to pull the cord to inflate it. Unfortunately, we were all tripping balls, got scared of the possibility that it could explode and kill us, and then just abandoned it. Anticlimactic, I know, but I seriously thought that stuff would blow off my head.
Every act was on point. Emancipator’s melodic downtempo grooves were great for coming up, exploring the prehistoric rocks, and meeting new people. Boombox (with Zion Godchaux sporting a feather boa, colorful bell-bottoms, and a furry bucket hat) funked it up a little bit more and I couldn’t help but dance like a complete doofus. Big Boi was the surprise hit. Of course we had some laughs watching a couple thousand white kids get down to Outkast’s greatest hits (Rosa Parks, Ms. Jackson, Bombs over Baghdad, So Fresh, So Clean), but it was just awesome: and the perfect time to light up some joints.
The first set of Biscuits threw me for a loop, though. If you haven’t heard them before, I’ll warn you now: They have a tendency to never stop playing or building the energy. It’s wonderful. I’ve seen them 20 times before, but this was the first set I ever heard that waited until the very end to really, really climax. And it climaxed HARD. As you can imagine, I was bugging out. Everyone was howling like wolves. The primal forces took over. It was like a collective frickin orgasm. I turned to my friend and tried to say something, but I just couldn’t find the words to explain how I felt.
Then Rusko killed the set break. He doesn’t do much but press play and dance around, but those raunchy basslines filled the valley and kept me on a higher plane of existence. Unfortunately, the throbbing depth of his dubstep messed up the sound for the second set of Biscuits. It was still enjoyable, but I had run out of energy, and I could tell that the band was starting to feel tired, too. I dipped into my friends’ molly to keep me going but I was really wiped. By this point most of the crowd was blasting off; I’ve never smelt so much deemsters in my entire life. But I just sat atop the stadium, looked down on all of the heads, and smiled from ear-to-ear as they moved and swayed like one giant organism.
When all was said and done, we went back to the hotel to eat a few Xanies and finish the last of our drugs. We got a few noise complaints when we smoked the last of our bud and earwax, and were subsequently yelled at for breaking through our window, but we were on cloud nine, so none of us even gave a stuff. My friend (who’s an animal, by the way) took it upon himself to suck up the last of the molly and kitty, so by the time we boarded the flight home, we were back to where we started: empty-handed and tired. A half bar and 4 hours later, and we were back in Newark, wishing we had just stayed in Colorado.
So what’s the lesson here? I went to Colorado for the music, but it turns out that’s the part of the weekend I remember the least. The experience is what will stick with me forever. I can’t wait to rage Bisco Inferno all over again next Memorial Day weekend. If you’re pissed that you missed it, don’t fret – You can always catch the Camp Bisco Festival in upstate New York July 7-9. Keep the dance party going all summer long!
