We'll Always Have Noblesville

Now that everything around me seems to tell me that I'm all "grown up," a decent place to live, a paycheck and its accompanying 50 hour work week, et cetera, I have to admit I don't get out to nearly as many shows as I used to, and certainly not as many as I would like.

But I still have Deer Creek.

Once a year. It's becoming a ritual I can't live without, like a morning cup of coffee or sleeping late on Sunday. Sometime in the spring the mailing arrives in my mailbox, and I know when to take vacation the next summer. Tix by mail, two seats, usually only one night of the run. I almost forget about it until a week or two before the show, when my anticipation starts to peak, and it's all I can think about.

I'm not sure I can quite put my finger on the magic of going to see shows at Deer Creek, but it is one of the highlights of my year. It isn't simply a matter of actually getting to see my favorite band at least once every 365 days, but a treasured road trip, a whirlwind drive from Chicago to Noblesville and back again, a guaranteed measure of car-trapped solitude and conversation with my annual partner in Deer Creek Phishing, my best friend Dee.

We catch up on new songs and some of the year's best jams on the tape deck along the way and wave at other stickered cars on the highway. Best of all, we catch up with each other, at least for a day remembering college days when road trips weren't so rare and music was all that mattered. Sandwiches from the cooler and hopefully, bright sun on the asphalt. We finally reach Noblesville and stretch our legs around the parking lot, tapping a few beers and reveling in the fellowship and worry free indulgence of the lot scene.

As if it isn't already clear, Deer Creek has taken on a somewhat mythical meaning for me; an annual reprieve from the worries and stress of my suddenly unimportant other life. The grass, the hill, the pond, the spooky trek through the woods back to the parking lot, even the completely nasty Port-o-Lets. We laugh, we eat, we are merry. We find our spot on the lawn -- or if Tix by Mail came through, the pavilion -- and reflect on the year that's passed since our last pilgrimage, think back to last year's setlist, the jams that lifted us straight into the jet black Indiana sky.

And when the show starts, there is only the now. A feeling I probably don't have to describe to you, you know what I'm talking about. Pure magic. After the show we are transformed, two creatures of exhausted joy sitting on the trunk of my car, wondering why every day isn't this perfect.

Yes it's corny, but I hope all the folks I see around the campground carry memories as good as these from these and every show they see. I can't wait to see you next summer, I'll be the one walking around with his best friend and a smile on his face.

by Mark Faro