I was amused when I glanced over Al Gore's big plans for a 24-hour, worldwide-broadcasted concert on July 7th (7-7-07, get it?) to draw worldwide attention to the issue of global warming. After all, who ever thought that Fall Out Boy, Lenny Kravitz and Bon Jovi would help save the world? Will KoRn's set be sponsored by the Biofuels/Ethanol industry? (Sorry, couldn't resist.) I guess that if people won't listen to the facts, they'll listen to Cameron Diaz.
Anyway, I chuckled the loudest at Al's assertion that he would be organizing "the first ever rock concert on Antarctica" as part of the festivities. As someone who spent sixteen months living and working in that pristine winter wonderland, I thought I should offer my two cents as to what's involved in putting on a rock concert at the bottom of the world.
Antarctica's not a pleasant place in July.
In fact, it's the coldest time of the year in the coldest place on earth. How cold, you ask? The kind of cold that makes your lungs clench like fists every time you inhale. The wind effortlessly penetrates whatever clothing you've layered yourself with, rushing up the sleeves of your parka, down the front of your shirt, up your nose and down into your boots. If you wear eyeglasses outside and you walk against the wind, your breath can condense into a mist on your lenses and then harden into frost. It's happened to me. Forget your scarf? Prepare to experience the closest simulation to having your skin sandblasted off your face. If you ignore the warnings from the weather office and go outside at the wrong time, it can kill you. No kidding. It's cold enough to make the Red Hot Chili Peppers consider changing their name for this event. Man, that sure is cold.
Oh, did I mention that it's dark 24 hours a day? We're talking pitch dark, total darkness, black-sheet-thrown-over-the-birdcage dark. Even if you wanted to land a plane full of rock stars and amplifiers, you'd likely be doing it without the benefit of landing lights on the ice runway, which by this time has become quite bumpy and dangerous due to accumulated snow drifts. Don't expect any air traffic until the last week of August, when slivers of sunlight begin to peek over the horizon for the first time in months.
Even if they could somehow land the plane, offload the gear (every scrap of it retrofitted for extremely cold weather conditions, of course) and supply enough juice to run the show (hope they brought a few dozen generators), would it all be worth it just to see Kelly Clarkson wrapped in a puffy parka, her eyes hidden behind ski goggles, her high notes muffled through her balaclava and further drowned out by the relentless howling of the wind? Yeah, right.
Aside from the logistics of running the show itself, there are other things to consider, such as accommodating tour riders for pampered rock stars. You see, as per their contracts, famous people are allowed to demand an esoteric cornucopia of comfort foods, oddball trinkets and other materialistic items which must be provided before they go on stage. However, in lieu of foie gras and Dom Perignon, you'd likely have to settle for powdered milk and PB&J. Fresh fruit? Hope you brought it with you. The closest thing we have to limo service is riding in the back of a Delta, which is a monstrous orange cargo vehicle that's built for durability, not comfort. The ride's a bit rocky – I have many memories of being launched out of my seat by an unexpected bump, hitting my head on the roof, and landing back in my seat, all within the timeframe of a second. Oddly enough, my portable CD player never skipped.
As far as lodging goes, you might have to forfeit your hotel suite and your 800-thread-count Italian sheets in favor of a lumpy mattress in a drafty room shared with a middle-aged mechanic or kitchen worker. Community showers and toilets are down the hall, and if you need shampoo, go check in the "Skua" bin, which is a depository for secondhand/leftover items. Use water sparingly, and while you're at it, make sure to sort your garbage and place each item into the appropriate bin – Burnables, aluminum, glass, plastic, medical waste, food waste, etc. If you get bored later, we'll be playing Monopoly in the second floor lounge, and they're showing "Crocodile Dundee II" on TV tonight! Sweet!
So, perhaps a winter Woodstock for a good cause just isn't feasible at this particular time. However, an outdoor rock concert in Antarctica is not impossible. In fact, it happens every year.
As December draws to a close and the temperatures rise to a balmy +30F/–1C (austral summer, remember?), the rusting hulk of a flatbed trailer is dragged in front of an open area located adjacent to Building 155, which houses dormitories and the dining facility. A canvas parachute is deployed as a backdrop for this makeshift stage, and a colorful, hand-painted banner is draped across the front. The weather is unusually cooperative for this type of an event; it's almost as if the local organizers have a tacit agreement with Mother Nature to keep the clouds away and the winds at bay so that everyone can come outside and have fun.
Welcome to Icestock.
It's everything you'd expect from a great outdoor festival – Flashy costumes that would fit right in at Mardi Gras, hula hoops, beach balls, decorations, and hundreds of Antarctica's summer workers convened together under the afternoon sun for a one-day celebration of music and friendship that marks the closing of a year and the beginning of another.
Two rows of lavishly decorated conex shipping containers serve as refreshment stands, all of them offering various concoctions of homemade chili, which is handed out enthusiastically in paper cups with plastic spoons. The annual chili cook-off is a major event, with participants arranging for their special ingredients to be shipped down weeks in advance in preparation for the show. There's plenty of beer and soda available, even if it's a bit less potent than expected due to a few months of lapsing in storage. There's an easy solution for that, though – Drink more!
The music is provided by the same people who drive Antarctica's vehicles, fix her computers, plow her runways and serve meals to her guests. A few of them have brought their own instruments from home, but most of them are content to pound away on the weathered equipment that has been passed down from season to season. They're not getting paid for this, save for applause and a free drink at the bar afterwards. Many styles of music are represented here, from hippy folk jams to harmonica-puffing blues ensembles to angry punk rock, the latter of which is provided by a youthful crew with the hairstyles to match – Antarctica's one place on earth where you can show up for work with a blue Mohawk. I cheer during a Social Distortion cover and climb on the stage to sing the "Whoa-oh-ohs" for their rendition of Pennywise's "Bro Hymn Tribute." They close out their set with a "punked-out" cover of the Cure's "Just like heaven," which makes me roll my eyes and wander back for some more chili.
Beach balls bounce through the crowd as the next band kicks off their set. In between songs, the frontman is constantly shouting out instructions to the soundman, who takes off his gloves so that he can twiddle the knobs to their appropriate settings. "I'm getting a lot of feedback in the monitors over here – oh, maybe that's just the wind. Never mind." The band laughs and clicks into their next number, which is likely a standard classic rock cover of Bob Seger, Lynyrd Skynyrd or the Rolling Stones.
The highlight of the event, for me at least, is the final set of the day by Antarctica's much-celebrated Ramones cover band, the McMones. The frontman yelps out the classic Ramones intro of "One too tree foah!" and the first wailing, distorted note ignites the mitten-wearing moshers in front of the stage. The ensuing conflagration of activity kicks up a spreading haze of dust, which rises around the churning circle-pit like smoke, a cool visual effect that you'd expect to see in a music video. Hats get yanked off and sunglasses get stepped on, but everyone is smiling and laughing. After all, they're all in this together, a surrogate family to each other. It's not unusual for a scientist to jettison his professional decorum for a few seconds and dance like an idiot with all the youngsters. Have you ever slam-danced with an evolutionary paleontologist? I didn't think so. Massive cheers erupt between songs.
After the last note of rock and roll echoes off the surrounding hills and gradually fades out over the Ross Sea, the amps are taken down, the trailer pulls away and the empty beer cans are collected and sorted for recycling. 24 hours later, it's as though nothing happened at all. The clouds move back in and the winds pick up, and everybody goes back to work in the laboratory or the lavatory. Friendships have been cemented and memories have been built, and there's plenty of digital photographic evidence to encapsulate it all. Nobody asked for anything more than a cup of chili.
While I admire your ambition, Mr. Gore, I'm sorry to inform you that you're not the first person to hold a concert in Antarctica. We beat you to it.
Behold, an Antarctic mosh pit in all its glory. I'm in there somewhere.
June 19, 2007
