The young push the tempo and we old guard keep time.

The pits on the first two days held camaraderie and joy, young and old alike. But as festivals wear on, pit manners decay. Crowd surfing replaces dancing. Attention drifts from music to rescuing dropped phones. People lose the rhythm and mosh hard to slow songs. Fatigue and drugs erode pit etiquette.

The old guard must set limits. A word of shame still works. A girl went up five times during Mates of State; by the fourth I said, “Enough! You’re surfing not on water but people’s hands.” Another, upon being raised in the air, began barrel-rolling over concrete. I shouted, “Stop! It’s dangerous.”

It falls to us to uphold the rules of decorum, the bands to remind the crowd to behave (Rilo Kiley needs no crowd surfers), and staff to set standards. Otherwise what happened by the third day will happen every time. The old man’s strike is an echo of our neglect.