It Feels Like A Heartbeat - The Magic of Austin City Limits

Writing and photos by Ashley Gallegos

Graphic by Rebekah Witt

“It feels like a heartbeat,” I heard from behind me in the middle of Lorde’s set. This has since been ingrained in my mind. Something I have been endlessly fascinated by is how much of a single organism a concert or festival crowd can become. How do artists and performers influence that? In what ways do concert or festival-goers shed or shape any anxiety, frustrations, etc. in order to be present and truly alive within that space? How do we allow ourselves to preserve those feelings and memories?

I noticed early on that this piece should serve as an ode to the people of Austin City Limits: those who buy the early bird tickets without any knowledge of who will be on the lineup, those who scrape up whatever they can leading up to when tickets go on sale to ensure they will step foot onto those festival grounds in October, the people working as security who make a joyous event out of spraying festival-goers with water and enjoy a bit with them (thank you, John J. for being the angel to cool us down with those recurring flashes of water), the photographers in the photo pits who find themselves singing or moving along to the music that fills the air, the fans who queue up all day in hopes to get their desired view, but also the ones who are fine with whatever time they make their way to the crowds as they simply want to be there. I think about the young lady named Sya I chatted with. She and her friend, whom she was attending the festival with, had begun waiting to see Charli XCX from around 1 PM. I asked if there was a song she was hoping to hear live that night, to which she responded, “Track 10”. I later wondered how she might’ve reacted when Charli performed that song. I wondered whether she sang the lyrics to her friend or screamed them back toward the stage. I think of this as an ode to those people, the ones that scream-sing out every lyric, the people that show off their best fan adornment and know what song may likely be performed next, the ones who create real friendships with the people who get it, the ones who know what it is to look out for one another while queuing up, the ones who travel for shows, those who know to either trade out or fairly join in on mirror time in the hotels while getting ready, the ones who will make a bed out of a hotel floor and sofa cushion as a pillow if needed, the ones who have no other choice but to let the emotions override any sense of resistance when they hear the lyric they’ve been waiting months to hear live with their own ears, the ones whose voices waver when saying goodbye. All the people who know the impact and seriousness of it all but approach it with a pure lightheartedness and biting playfulness. You’ll quickly find you are at the mercy of whatever your body and mind allow you to be, and if you do preparation and openness right, it is a beautiful and relentlessly wondrous time. 

Full-time independent artist LeTrainiump is aware of this feeling in a different manner. He got the call regarding an opportunity to play weekend one of ACL and had only about thirty minutes to make the decision. He agreed and was later also invited to return for weekend two. Naturally, I was curious about what the difference in his preparation was like between the two weekends. In response, he mentioned that going into weekend two, “There’s a different kind of excitement.” As he had the time to really sit with what happened before then, he went on to bring up that he knows “what it feels like to stand on that stage now” and made me aware that he doesn’t take being invited back for a second weekend lightly. Georgia-born singer-songwriter Macy Todd expressed feelings of excitement about experiencing the festival as both an attendee and a performer; she’s been going for a few years now, and it’s always been a dream of hers to play the festival, noting, “to be able to walk around, take in the music, and know that I had played a part in it too.” Remember: it’s not just festival-goers and fans who are aware of the impact of these types of experiences, and Austin City Limits, specifically, but also the artists who grace the stages. It’s as though we’re all collectively in on the purity of the wholeness and magic you feel when you’re there. I’m not sure we acknowledge this enough. I do think there’s something worth recognizing or reminding yourself of with just how much of a privilege it is to be there. I don’t mean that solely in terms of physically being there, but emotionally and mentally as well: how all of the long food and brand activation lines, the aching feet and back, the crowds that can surely become overwhelming to be in at times, the bandanas placed beneath hats in order to shield from the blaring Texas sun, and the last-minute rain boots all seem to be worth it. Hearing your favorite song, seeing an artist with your friends for the first or 7th time live, seeing those iconic flags in Zilker Park as people get their photos in, looking around you and witnessing how passionate people are about documenting their experiences and those feelings, feeling the heavy thumping of the bass in your chest so deeply it almost moves you to tears — how alive it all makes you feel. 

In a way, I believe the culture of Austin City Limits as we’ve come to know it is mostly a representation of all these people and what they believe in: what shakes and rattles them, what doesn’t speak, but rather shouts life into them, what they have no tolerance for, what occupies their minds when they travel back home or return to work that following Monday morning. 

Out of the festivals I have been to, ACL Festival has a specific kind of charm about it to me. I’ve talked before about how the magic of some shows and experiences can’t be explained, only felt firsthand, in order to begin to understand why people are so drawn to them. This is one of those experiences. Granted, you do have to and should prepare yourself and your body for what three days of a festival looks like physically. But, again, it’s all so worth it. From the times I’ve been to ACL, I’ve noticed there’s almost an innocent type of delirium you get from it all. I see it in the faces next to me when I’m there, and I see it displayed back on the screens. Even through the live streams while watching sets from weekend one. I tuned into streams of sets from artists such as Audrey Hobert, Labrinth,  Bleachers, and Turnstile, and I recognized it. There’s also something that happens when people see a camera pointed at them. During Audrey’s set, there was a person with overalls and pink hair that seemed to turn it up when they saw themselves on camera; it was also apparent during Turnstile’s set. There was a person there at “Mudfest” who noticed the camera and started wiping their muddy face more and more as the people behind quickly started moving into frame. Equally as ready to announce what a special time they’re having, they start making the personal impersonal, like they’re inviting you in. It’s a violent kind of emotional state you’re left in seeing how close and shared it can become between people in those experiences. When I went to Weekend Two, there was a moment during Bleachers’ set where frontman Jack Antonoff demands that everyone get low, essentially to call for everyone to share the buildup of the song with one another. There were chuckles and people muttering that they can’t get too low, but despite that, everyone did it anyway. It’s cathartic, intense, and freeing being a part of those shared experiences. It suggests there’s something sweet and playful to that collective solemnity in doing it. 

When it ends, there’s a quiet air you all live in, no matter whether it’s at the end of each day or after the entire festival weekend. All the screaming, sounds of chattering and singing, it’s been hushed. You’re left alone with what you just experienced as you try to meet back up with friends or frantically find the correct exit. I now think about every song that has yet to meet the air of Zilker Park and the festival crowds, the lyrics that stick with someone who had never heard it prior to their weekend at ACL, the faces decorated with festival glitter, the shoulders that were holding someone up, the legs that sometimes achingly walk the park those first two weekends of October, the dreams of artists and the people in the crowds, all of it. It feels so personal. I think of how the movement that possesses you becomes almost instinctual. I think of this piece also in the same vein of what it is to be there in the crowds, body to body with people who are present enough with themselves and experiencing all the music and wonder. In those spaces where all the sweat-drenched hair blends together. There’s an intimacy within it that I also feel with writing. It’s very pure, and on some level, you’re allowing someone in. I found that some of the artists I saw referred to moments and feelings. 

Towards the end of Cassandra Coleman’s set, she stated, “All things come to an end, but this has been a beautiful day” before singing the title track of her latest EP, End Of Your Love. I remember thinking that sentence she so casually uttered was just beautiful, and I wrote it down in my notebook. During Charli XCX’s headlining set at the American Express stage later that night, I had another moment where I thought: I want to remember that feeling. As Charli performed "Camera” from her recent album Music, Fashion, Film, there was that reminder in a way that sometimes those moments and feelings, even the memories of them, are all we have: “I’m inspired and alive, ‘cause all I know is how it makes me feel and it makes me feel how it makes me feel” has permeated throughout my brain since I’ve heard it live. Even now, it finds me in different ways. In response to a curiosity I had regarding putting together setlists for ACL, LeTrainiump shared that he thought about energy and “the moments where people can sing along, and how each song contributes to the overall feeling of the set.” Cassandra Coleman revealed to me, “As the song progresses, I can see their understanding of why this is the last song in the set. ‘End Of Your Love’ may start fragile, but there’s much strength as well.” She went on to recall the blending of the harmonies, the way the “drum hits are loud and the cymbals are crashing and it all comes to a crescendo.” Getting to show the audience “the bravery and boldness we all hold in showing up to love, despite the possibility of losing it,” is a part of her sentiment she shared that softened me the most. She seems to understand there were not just crowds in front of her that she had to perform for, but, in that exchange, there were real people living real lives. 

It’s all so personal but somehow hardly singular, and there’s a beauty to that. How do we possibly remember or capture those feelings or moments? For some, like artists, I suppose it’s through acts of writing and performance. For others, like festival-goers, photographers, videographers, and writers, it’s documenting through photos and videos or writing. There’s a quality to Cassandra’s recollection of her experience that reminds me a lot of how I happen to remember my own experiences and feelings. It’s not just in visual and written documentation. It’s also in the way I remember what sounds were around me, like the screaming of the crowd when an artist inches closer to them, what details in a person's face change in a specific moment and how, noticing what gets a physical reaction out of me. 

Here’s to the beautiful days we have yet to meet and the feelings we wish to both capture and do our best to describe. Here’s to another year of Austin City Limits!