What am I doing here?
I am standing in the middle of a 700-acre farm in
rural Tennessee on a hellishly hot and muggy Saturday afternoon in June. No fewer
than 80,000 people -- the vast majority anywhere between 18 and 30 -- are in the
open field with me.
The feeling is a little like being at Jones Beach on
the Fourth of July. Without the beach, and certainly without the water. And I
am an aging baby boomer.
About a football field away, there is a giant stage.
On it is a band I have never heard of, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Not only that,
I can't make out a word they are singing. Most kids are clapping along. Others
are lying near or on top of one another. A few others are losing their lunches
after one too many beers, or something inhaled or swallowed.