“Heaven Has a Smoking Section and a Bar": At the Harley Davidson Homecoming
Friday. 3 pm. This is luxury. Friends is on the hotel TV. I’m eating a burger in bed. New York is far behind me. My only worries are the possibly-infected cut on my finger and whether or not wearing my flea market “LADY RIDER” leather vest would make me look like a poser. At the festival, the Veterans Park bartenders know us all intimately. When people tipsily fumble with inserting their credit cards, the bartenders joke about sticking things in the wrong hole. I get my favorite flavor of Smirnoff Ice (that my deli doesn’t even carry). The bartender doesn’t say goodbye — she says “see you later.”
The buffest guy here is worried about getting bloated. “No more lemonade for me,” he resolves. TV got it all wrong about bikers. In any situation, I’d rather go to a biker than a cop. Priscilla Block sings and makes me realize that country songs and my cosmopolitan party-poetry aren’t really that different — we both write about drinking and running into exes. Maybe country music is my fate. Priscilla chats it up with her fans: “I see your wrist. Did you get my signature tattooed on you? I don’t even know if I love my dog that much.”
5 pm. There’s a Zyn tent in the middle of the park. “What the fuck are Zyns?” I hear someone ask. We both turn around to see the line wrap around the tent twice. It’s still light out and one of the Nitro Circus guys is flying off a ramp while seated in a recliner. “Give it up for Tyler Roberts, who is lying on the ground because he just jumped a couch.”
8 pm. HARDY gets real American. “If you’re in this country and you’re not proud of it, FUCK YOU!” Everyone’s booing these hypothetical anti-patriots. I find myself clenching my Smirnoff Ice amidst an emblazoned crowd chanting “USA! USA!” People notice me not chanting. I keep my eyes to the ground and wait for the country music to start.
I’m wondering if I should’ve done pushups in the hotel room when I hear someone behind me ask, “Have you ever been in a mosh pit?” Some kid whose age is definitely still in the single digits answered: “Once.” A girl finds a motorcycle-shaped chip in her bag. Her mom reacts in a way that reminds me of the grilled Cheesus scene from Glee. She claims the Harley chip is a sign from god. The girl eats it without hesitation. Someone hops the fence from GA into VIP. For the first time since that chant we all share a single look of solidarity — a look of ‘I don’t know what the fuck that was but it’s not my business.’
Jelly Roll is on. “God bless America. God bless Milwaukee. God bless the long-haired sons of sinners.” God bless my dead camera. He dedicates his song to “those who tear it down Saturday but still end up in the pews on Sunday.” I think of when I’d leave the club at 3 and end up at my 9 am literature class the next day. “This is for those who love Jesus but still say ‘fuck’ a lot,” says Jelly. He believes that the spirit of rock and roll is with us, here at the Harley Davidson Homecoming. “The spirit of country music is here. The spirit of love is here. God is in Milwaukee. Heaven has a smoking section and an open bar.” A Ziplock bag containing cheese curds and a joint is launched to the stage. It’s an impressive throw. I definitely should’ve done pushups before coming. Jelly gives his ode to weed: “I was only 12 years old when I thought I smelled a skunk in my house. I now know that to be the smell of freedom.”
10 pm. In front of me is a heated argument about spots being stolen. One thing I learned — first from a Patti Smith show earlier this year, then from the Jelly Roll show — don’t mess with middle-aged women’s concert spots. Amidst the arguing, one of the antagonized men turns around to ask me, “Are you here all by your lonesome?” I can barely answer because I’m still shaken from hearing the phrase ‘all by your lonesome’ unironically. His friend turns around to call me cute and ask me for my Snapchat. I haven’t used Snapchat since I was in high school (in Ohio). I’m taken aback because I thought that only girls like Sabrina Carpenter were considered cute in the Midwest.
Machine Gun Kelly rides onstage (in an HD Low Rider ST. Very nice). All weekend, there had been murmurs about his surprise performance of his new song with Jelly. God doesn’t bless my dead camera so I don’t get any pictures of him. Jelly and Kelly debut their song and Kells sings with his emo voice. Jelly thanks the crowd: “You guys took the most average, overweight, white trash guy in America and made him a star.” Jelly shouts out his guitarist — it’s apparently his 57th birthday. “He’s the only person onstage with a good credit score.” Considering all my apartment applications that just got denied, I can’t say the same. “He’s also always the drunkest person onstage.” I find common ground.
The older couple next to me taps my shoulder: “You’re young. Who’s that young, skinny fellow next to Jelly?”
“That’s Machine Gun Kelly.”
“And who’s that MGK that Jelly keeps talking about?”
“They’re the same guy — MGK is just his initials.”
“Oh! He’s quite good. He should be famous.”
A six-year-old boy tears a beer can in half. The burly guy in front of me is wearing a tail. America the beautiful.
Saturday. 12pm. I haven’t taken my meds yet so I’ll take them with some free brisket and an alcoholic beverage like America’s god intended. I ask the bartender if it’s too early for a Twisted Tea. “It’s never too early for a Twisted Tea,” they reply. Truer words have never been spoken.
I’m wearing my vest. Goddammit if I’m a poser. My mullet is wild and beautiful. My cut is definitely infected. While I’m watching the ride-ins, someone from the news tells me they love my look and asks for a photo of me with my bike. “Sorry, I didn’t actually ride here. I just dress like this.” I resolve to pay my loans, get my bike license, get a bike, and ride into next year’s Homecoming to redeem myself. I spend my time in between shows at Nitro Circus, high-fiving the bikers and wondering if I could even pull any of this off in Skate 3.
6 pm. “Welcome back to the party, motherfuckers!” Cypress Hill is on and I can’t tell if the big cloud of smoke is weed or a fog machine. Probably both. Weed isn’t legal in Milwaukee. Rock on, Harley Homecoming. Joint in hand, Sen Dog grants DJ Muggs the title of Greatest DJ In The World. And apologies to all my friends reading this, you guys do not compete for that title. “Are you feeling the vibes right now? Are you feeling alive right now? Are you feeling high right now?” asks B-Real. I make eye contact with Sen Dog on my way to do some shots with some bikers.
A photographer comes around and has Alex and Stu put me on their shoulders for a photo. Very few words are exchanged before I’m up in the air.
The Offspring comes on. “Milwaukee is a mecca to a beer drinker like me,” says Noodles. “Thanks for being here instead of the beer tent.” All 60,000 of us collectively regress to our pop-punk phases. I say ‘phase’ like it ever ended, but it’s 2024 and I am two-stepping in Doc Martens and holding a digital camera while they play “You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid.” Apparently that song just hit one billion streams. “We got like, 200 bucks from that,” says Noodles.
They debut their new song and Noodles tells us, “That is the best we’ve ever played that song. Dexter left it all out there. He really nailed parts of that song.” “Parts of songs are my specialty,” says Dexter. Noodles says something about getting turned on. “It’s like we have a choir of earthbound angels.” He’s talking about us. “Do you know why they’re earthbound? Because they’re a little bit naughty. This is an audience that loves their curse words. Would you guys like to sing and cuss with us?” Dexter says this audience is the best thing that happened to rock and roll.
9 pm. Red Hot Chili Peppers are here. This is the band that all my friends in bands want to be. They bring out Willie G, who’s nearing 50 years at Harley Davidson. Anthony Kiedis is in a cowboy hat. “Take off your shirt!” a man behind me yells. I turn to give them a nod of understanding. “He wants a husband,” his friend explains. Good luck, man. Beach balls are bouncing around. There is no hatred in the crowd right now. I’m content watching the stage through the neck rolls of the guy in front of me. There’s a guitar and bass solo that brings me to tears. Fireworks go off. No one notices. Many of us are listening with our eyes closed, tired and heat-stricken, but willing to bask in the light of Flea, jumping around in a skirt.
1 am. I end up meeting that guy from the night before. Do it for the plot. We did the things you do in the Midwest — drive to the gas station and buy hot food. We waste gas to keep the conversation going.
Sunday. 9 am. Waiting for my flight, there are two guys next to me at the gate who see me editing photos — they’re decked out in Harley merch and cowboy hats, I can only assume they’re coming from the festival. “HARDY was whacked out that night.” Oh yeah. Definitely coming from the festival.