The breeze picks up, blows leaves, fresh curly tree buds. It’s hot, but not too hot. The clouds cover the sun. The people stream in. A most diverse gathering in Salt Lake City, the most.
“The fuck who threw that?” says a man, as he picks up a beach ball, crumples it with his bare hands.
“Is that Lauryn Hill?” A white woman asks with jean shorts and her hubby husband, of the only clear main singer on stage. A black woman wearing a white dress. “Yes,” I say. That is Lauryn Hill. The person who you came to see tonight? No? You don’t even know?
The man beside us smokes weed, fine. The woman gabbing on her cell phone, not so fine.
Three teenage boys push by with polo’s and flippy-flip hair cuts. Does a fifteen year old with a haircut like Justin Bieber really know who Lauryn Hill is? Maybe? Doubt it? I don’t know.
“Do you people know The Fugees, what the word ‘Fugees’ even stands for?” I’m not trying to be pretentious, I just genuinely want to know.
A man dives on stage, tries to rap. Security throws him off.
2-3 people cram into a porter potty at once. Can girls play swords?
We are water bobs in a current of the crowd, best not fight it, let the wave lift you, carry you.
Five people stand in a circle, chatting away loudly like it’s the middle of July on a Saturday afternoon and there’s no one around for miles.
Oh , and Lauryn Hill was great just, you know.