Waking up late-morning this past Saturday, I had no intention of making my way to 4Knots at the South Street Seaport. The line up was good (Dinosaur Jr, Mac Demarco, Viet Cong, and Speedy Ortiz to name a few), but I was determined to be a good worker and spend the remainder of the day catching up on unfinished stories. I am rarely easily persuaded but as I read: I have an extra press pass, I’ll see you soon! in a text from a fellow blogger, I found myself typing: See you soon! Like 30min.

Polaroid courtesy Daniel Topete.

I ran into many friends, surprising given the massive turn out, but one stumble of note was my friend, the lead singer in a Brooklyn band I’ve interviewed before. He told me that while crowd surfing during Mac Demarco’s set, his pants got ripped open exposing his privates which then got pulled by over a dozen people as he was carried away across the sea of humans (apparently there are photos). Afterwards, one girl approached him inquiring if he was okay. He seemed at ease when I spoke to him, but I advised he go home and wash himself (you never know where people put their hands these days).

While I made my way along the luxurious alley to the sanctioned photo pit, I came across a group of girl friends. One of the girls carried a mason jar containing a fetus of some kind, and upon further inspection I saw it was tattooed with a merman of Mac Demarco’s likeness. She had made it as a gift and explained that applying the ink was a delicate process as the fetus’s skin was very thin. They reminded me of when my high school BFF and I would linger after a show, hoping to bump into members of Incubus or Modest Mouse en route to their tour van; we had never gotten clever enough to think up a tribute. As I walked away, a security guard approached them and I overheard him say, “So I think you’re in a good spot here, he should be…”

The crowd surfing continued through Dinosaur Jr.’s set and at some point a mosh pit opened up a couple yards from the stage. I can only imagine the chaos that was felt on the ground, as I watched above and safely aboard the deck of South Street Seaport’s permanently docked ship.

While relaxing on the boat a group of friends, spotting my camera and figuring I’d take an above average photo, asked me if I would take their picture with one of their iPhones. I agreed and they apologized for the inconvenience. As I awkwardly crouched, leaning back to get them all into the frame, a gust of wind caught the edge of my dress (that had been a nuisance all day), but with cat-like reflexes I snapped it down. “Don’t worry,” one of the friends say, “we didn’t see anything.” “I know,” I replied, “but I’m wearing nude underwear and I don’t want anyone thinking I have a Barbie vagina.”

Photo courtesy Derek Klevitz.

Polaroid courtesy Daniel Topete.