Once our tents were pitched and bonds were made with the neighboring salad-lovers, we began to explore the festival grounds. I won’t get too into the details of the infrastructure and payment systems but let’s just say it was world class and very thought out considering the scale of the event.
Our first stop was the Farmer’s Market, where they sell ice cold Becks for 2.50 with the can deposit. And oh boy. Did we drink. I counted at least 20 beers in that day. None of that stubby 0.33 bullshit. I am talking 0.5 liter cans. ICE FUCKING COLD. And we spent the rest of the day relaxing and taking in the spoils of the victory of our journey. Everywhere you look, metalheads.
Now, I’ll have you know that many other metalheads I have met over the years absolutely despise this event and everything it represents in their minds. Corporate greed, mass consumption, extortion-level ticket pricing, etc. I had only heard absolute dogshit stories from many of these people. And while some of their criticisms are definitely noticeable, I would say a lot of it is justified by the sheer scale of the event. The amount of logistics, infrastructure, funding, catering, et cetera.. It is not something I could imagine being possible in any comfortable manner without a degree of necessary evils.
And as we had two days to kill before the bands would start on Wednesday, we spent most of our time drinking in the Farmer’s Market and exploring the festival grounds as the infield would not be open until Wednesday. We wandered around and checked out all of the different merch tents, food vendors, general attractions, horrible horrible horrible karaoke that tended to be one of two songs ever: Evanescence - “Bring me to life” and “Tenacious D - Kickapoo”
The coolest area to explore and hang in the early days of the event was at the Wasteland area, with people in full Mad Max style costumes and a house band (MegaBosch) that plays every so many hours. The team that organized the Wasteland had their own post-apocalypse type vehicles and would ride around the festival grounds a couple of times a day like the caravan in Fury Road.
As we sat in the Farmer’s Market drinking with my old Estonian friend, reminiscing of the old days, I was passively taking in the scene of people. At a festival this size, you can expect most people there are pretty surface level type rockers and metalheads. And I have nothing against them but it gets a bit samey to see all the Five Finger Fruit Punch and Avenged Sevenfold patches mixed in with the obligatory Metallica and Pantera patches.
I am a bit of a patch connoisseur and while I know that 99% of patch jackets are going to look like some bargain bin patches were sneezed onto an ill-fitting denim vest probably bought online for far too much money, it makes it a lot easier to notice the particularly cool patch jackets with more underground bands or downright obscure artists no one will ever hear about after its initial release.
Patch jackets for some are just some sort of nifty fashion piece that has become synonymous with metalhead and rocker culture and identity but to me they are flags. Battle standards that tell those around who know the patches that this is what I am into and you can guess a lot more about a person, with decent accuracy, by the amount of effort they put into their vest and their choices of bands. Some patches representing previous festivals or concerts attended and others simply being their favorite band ever or maybe a small band that passed through that delivered an unexpectedly amazing live and preserving the memories of such an awesome time in thread on denim and leather.
I had seen only a couple of guys with the underground retro stuff that I am into during day one but there was still the whole week ahead.
I parted ways with my companion for the evening to do some exploring on my own. It got dark and I was properly sloshed and alone. But something that is great about festivals is that when you are alone is the best time to meet new people and hear their stories.
I sat alone at a table, drinking through my stash of beers, when I saw another sitting alone. I joined him and offered him a beer and we got chatting. I saw his arm and he had something around 20 years of Wacken wristbands on display. One of many such people there.
During the first day, in the drunken haze, everything felt extremely surreal and larger than life. I made my way back to my tent and passed the fuck out.
DAY 2 - TUESDAY
We began the day the only way it should ever be started. Several cold beers that kept their cool during the night under my tent. When our neighbors had woken, I joined them for a couple of salads before making my way with my group to visit the actual village of Wacken.
Now, for my Estonian readers, Wacken village has a population of around 2000 people. Our tent area was situated on the far end of the festival grounds away from the village and it takes a good half an hour or more to get from one end of the festival to the other. And that just gets you to the edge of the festival and village. Then you have to walk all the way to the other side of town to get to the shop where you can buy FIFTY FIVE CENT BEER.
My dear lovely companions were both cripples at this point; one with a leg injury and the other with the cracked ribs. So we did take the journey slow and had many breaks. The round trip with the time spent in the shop took us a bit over three hours and, while probably good for us to be moving our bodies, we only would do one more shop trip during the event because like fuck I am gonna walk that every single day of Wacken.
We stocked up on essentials: snacks, beer, beer, more beer, and a coffee. The coffee was a mistake.
The journey back to the camp consisted of a series of pauses for the crippled and beer breaks. While I was not financially burdened by this all, I would say the trip to the shop was not worth the journey. But it was worth it to see everything in between. The makeshift bars, the locals who have invested in this tradition and added their own flavor as well as grabbing their own stake in this yearly economic pulse, the Lemmy memorial statue, the Wacken Tower, the family-made target games in various front yards of fenced off houses for tossing in tare that might be burdening you on your way back (tare is 25 euro cents per can), DIY side vendors selling canned food or jarred soups.
Me posing like a Japanese teenage girl with a statue of our lord and savior, Lemmy Kilmister.
Same tower on the other side during the journey back.
Hippy-mobile!
Temporary-road laying army vehicle thing, model nr. I have no idea. I am not acoustic like that.
Day two consisted mostly of drinking, walking, drinking, talking, sitting, drinking, talking, sitting, walking, eating, drinking, and lots of salds,and drunkenly returning to the tent to spend time with the small tent community that had formed by the end of day two. By the time of writing this second entry, (several months after the event) the minor details blur together as far as timeline is concerned but who wants to read a detailed recounting of conversations of nerding out about this and such bands and video games?
The walk home at night to the tents was closed with this image. Another small glimpse at the sheer scale of this event that left such an impression on me:
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