Roskilde 2010, looking back.

It was a week of weed and Jäger, total lack of paranoia and being sunburned with the look of a lobster during the high-season. It was great in every aspect of the word and the sweet pleasure of freedom grabbed me like a horny servant. Legions of crazy campers roamed around like mental patients on the loose, dressed up as Super Marios, in that famous Borat bathing suit or completely naked, dirty smelly bastards and grown children on the run from a birthday party where being dressed up as a cowboy was the thing.

By nighttime you fell asleep exhausted and fucked up, freezing and pulling the sleeping bag around you, dreaming the lucid dreams of a stoned teenager. When you woke up it was like a heat wave had struck your tent and all you could do was gasp for fresh air and pull franticly at the tent zipper to let piss infested oxygen flow into the sauna you were sleeping in. The first thing you notice when your lungs are filling up with that disgusting smell surrounding the tent area, is a broken deck chair, two used condoms with semen so fresh that sperm cells are still swimming around in it and some neighbors dick hanging out in the open, marking the owners territory.

I stepped out of the tent and looked around at the madness. It was camp flags and sex dolls waving in the air, drunk lunatics snoring in the surrounding tents. The whole place was like a gigantic havoc of yesterdays party, trash everywhere and tents blowing in the wind as far as the eye could see. Say what, like 70-75.000 campers, something around those numbers, where making the best of the situation by being as fucked up as possible. Beer for breakfast, joints for lunch and booze for supper, projectile vomiting as a reverse midnight snack.

Walking around on that grand field and observing this scene, you can hardly believe you are a part of it. I mean, who can? How can you believe that some weirdo has tried to give himself a haircut in the middle of the night and are now standing in front of you in the food cue, looking like he’s been manhandled by a hairdresser on acid? Whatta fuck is wrong with these people? Nothing, they're just letting everything from normal, stuck-up society go and releasing every went, letting steam out, having unconditioned fun. And I am digging the whole scene, the nakedness, the dressing up, the music, oh god, the music.

Dirty rockers from Iceland; Solstafir, and the gigantic monster of a prodution by Damien Alburn; Gorillaz, some chick holding down the preasure of vomit pushing its way up from an overfilled wine belly, nothing but a drunken swine, probably letting it all go in the crownd somewhere, the old grunge wave with Alice in Chains in front but lacking the overdosed and long gone Lane Staley and how I miss his voice, punk fun and insults at the NOFX gig and a huge disapontment watching Them Croocked Voltures, three men having spelled success for you in ever way up untill this point, the surprise gig being The Mexican Institute of Sound, tequilla infested party style and a jumping crowd, joints in the air and kisses in the wind, and at last the grand finale; Prince, the old hag making magic in the cold evening of a Danish summer night.

But of course some seen - some missed, like Motörhead and Prodigy, Staff Benda Billili, Speed Caravan and Moderat, Robyn, LCD Soundsystem and Jack Johnson. Well, you can't see 'em all, you just can't. 18 concerts was enough and what was seen. We spent a week at the Great Festival and crawled helpless home to the boring life of everyday, back to the dead ends, back to the vacuum created in our lifes after spending a week in Sodom, a week in Gomorrah, a week in heaven. Next year? Who knows, maybe we'll find a hole and dig our way down to hell. Who knows. Fuck it.