When I was 19 years old, I had never been to a music festival until Cruel World 2022 — not that I’d been dying to stand in the dusty heat with a bunch of sweaty people, paying ridiculous fares for necessities like water. However, if there was any festival I’d put myself through, it would have to be one with performances from Devo and Blondie. $308 later, I had a general admission ticket ready to go for Saturday’s festivities, and I was feeling pretty excited.
The drive to the Rose Bowl was already miserable in my sister’s 1990 Volvo 240 without air conditioning, but we managed after being yelled at only one time by the employees in charge of parking. Our goal was to get there by 3:30 pm for Missing Persons, but we missed them by a long shot. The walk to the venue was half an hour, and my feet were already getting tired.
The Damned performed on the Sad Girls stage from 5:10 pm to 5:50 pm. The buzz of the crowd and the outside environment swept their voices away before they could reach us in the back of the crowd, and we could hardly hear each song as they played. Their performance was great from what we could see, but the overall experience was dulled by the low volume levels.
By this point, we were already both delirious with heat and dehydration, and we stood in line for frozen lemonade. Two orders away from the front of the line, someone yelled, “We’re out of frozen stuff!” and my sister and I begrudgingly skulked out of the line toward a different lemonade stand that also sold pizza by the slice.
An entire hour in line gave us quite a bit of time to take in the scene with three stages, a very diverse crowd, and greasy pop-up food stands with an hour line before each booth. It was much less glamorous than I had expected based on the photos and videos I had seen leading up to this festival and others.
The clothing choices were outrageous across the board. Some festival-goers looked like regulars, wearing similar clothes one might wear on a hot summer day at Disneyland, their outfits not coming close to fitting the general vibe of the performers. On the opposite end of the clothing spectrum, there was a large chunk of people who were leather-clad, dressed like they were regular listeners of the music in plaid pants, band tees, dark makeup, and platform boots. Some even wore Devo “Energy Domes” to sport their appreciation for their favorite bands. I also made the mistake of wearing long pants and all black. While my outfit was cute, I felt like I was going to die of heat stroke as the sun beat down on me well into the night.
Finally, at the front of the lemonade stand, my sister and I had come up with a delicious game plan: three lemonades and a slice of pizza to share. We were rudely interrupted by the most devastating words to ever be spoken. The man behind the counter yelled in our faces and down the line, “No more cups! We’re out of cups!”
Stunned, my sister and I sputtered nonsense at him for at least half a minute.
“What do you- are you sure that- so no lemonade… like, at all? Just pizza? Okay, uh-” was all we could manage before some angel of a man showed up, running toward the booth with cups half the size of the original lemonade cups. We couldn’t have cared less about cup size at the moment, and we eagerly ordered three lemonades, and two giant, greasy slices of pizza, grateful we were too stunned to step aside and let someone else order before the cup man arrived.
Not only was the entire experience dreadful but we were also charged $75 for the worst meal on the planet. The so-called “lemonade” was a diluted pinkish purple, and it tasted exactly what it looked like, entirely bland and not a lemon to be tasted. As the manager of a local pizza shop, I feel qualified to harshly judge the pizza we were served. The slice of vegetable looked just as sad as it tasted; the sauce was too sweet, and the only veggies in sight were giant chunks of onion and whole olives. Admittedly, the pesto slice was delicious and almost worth the price. Although, my judgment was undoubtedly clouded by the intense hunger and blistering heat.
As we sat on the grass by the trash cans, gobbling up our costly dinner, Devo began their set. Floods of people swarmed the main stage, including me and my sister, as they opened with “Girl U Want.” Their voices boomed across the venue, and they looked larger than life on the giant screens beside them, but on the tips of our toes, we could just barely see how far away they were, dancing like little ants around the stage.
They put on an impressive performance, and we began to actually enjoy our time. It was cooling down, and we could actually hear them. They had choreography, iconic costume changes (including giant fake monkey heads during “Jocko Homo”), and enthralling visuals on the screens.
Despite the brilliance of Devo’s performance, I left their set early to catch the Psychedelic Furs on the Sad Girls stage. There wasn’t a chance I was missing “Love My Way” live. Unfortunately, Richard Butler’s voice wasn’t as great to live as it is to listen to. Not here to judge (sort of), maybe it was just one of his off nights.
During the semi-lackluster set, my sister and I got in line for churros, $8 apiece. Mine was delicious, and her’s was actually ice cold. Disgusting, but I’m a nice sister and we split both, so we each got to enjoy half of a churro.
Strategically skipping Bauhaus for decent spots for Blondie was definitely a skilled move on our part, but we were still quite far from the actual stage. Seeing Debbie Harry live was a dream come true, and for the most part, she and the rest of Blondie sounded really good. Her outfit and dance moves were semi-questionable, but I commend her performance and talents. Blondie is a marvel, and it was an honor to see them at this festival.
Morrissey was headlining Cruel World, playing after Blondie, closing out the night. After one song, my sister and I decided to just listen to his set as we walked back to her car. The sound traveled all the way to the endless rows of cars in the grass that looked worlds different in the darkness.
We walked around for half an hour, trying to remember where we had parked, eventually tracing our way back to the spot by a terrible photo I took on our walk to the festival, linking the pattern on the concrete and a random gate to the location.
As we fought to stay awake on the drive home, we discussed our subtle disappointment with the Cruel World festival. We had been in the presence of some of rock music’s greats, and we were not blown away by the magnitude of that fact. With the distance we ended up from each of the stages, it was almost like we weren’t really watching them — all we could see was their faces on massive screens. The sound was not as great as we’d hoped, and the weather certainly did not help the enjoyment of the show.
Ultimately, when we listen to this music every day, we still hear these artists as young people, passionate about life and love, singing songs of youth frozen in time. Seeing them and hearing them live revealed their true ages, and it was somewhat shocking in a way.
Don’t get me wrong, I know people age, and all of the artists were still incredible, but the magic I expected was not all there. I am not a festival person. As I’d suspected before, they’re much too dusty, suffocatingly hot, and altogether underwhelming for a ticket price that is just not quite worth it.
I fell asleep that night with my makeup still on and contacts still in, knowing full well that I would likely forget just how much I disliked the experience of my first festival, and will likely buy tickets again next year.