“His feet are light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.”

– Cormac McCarthy, “Blood Meridian”

“Ice all in my ear, give me brain freeze, Call off for work, and give me brain, please.”

– Rae Sremmurd, “Bend Ya Knees”

Pit Vipers have gotten too damned popular. Every third person at Cuddy Park seems to be wearing the ‘80s Oakley throwback shades that have spread like wildfire among my Gen Z cohorts. It’s time, I think, to retire my PVs and find another brand of head-turning eyewear that I can get a few months of originality out of before they’re, in turn, discovered. Maybe the Spider Jerusalem glasses will get big on fashion Twitter in a year or two, and I’ll have to repeat the process all over again.

I’m wearing sunglasses because, for an Alaska music festival, it’s uncharacteristically hot.

Sunday, the final day of the Sundown Solstice Festival has dawned bright, clear, and sunny – which is great, don’t get me wrong, but I went way too “hard in the paint” (to quote Sundown headliner Waka Flocka Flame) on Saturday night, and now every thought that grinds through my head seems to be coated with barbed wire and playing Electric Wizard songs really, really fucking loud.

Water. Beer. Fried food. Advil. I’m thinking in fractions as security checks me at the gate, and then I’m in.

Sundown Solstice Festival, a product of event planning gurus Showdown Alaska, is in its second year of existence. Last year’s festival was held downtown, sprawling across a few Williwaw-adjacent blocks and was – in the completely neutral journalistic opinion of this “reporter” – an unqualified success. The atmosphere curated by the Showdown team was impeccable, and for $100, three days of partying was a pretty unbeatable deal.

And my take on the situation seems to have been pretty close to the reality, because this year, Sundown 2.0 was bigger, better, and louder. The decision to move to Cuddy Park allowed the festival to spread out and give people room to move, while still maintaining a homegrown feel. More stages and under-21 zones made it easier for non-drinkers to party, and the organizers were able to book bigger artists from a wider variety of genres.

Friday

Friday afternoon, I get off work an hour early and mumble an excuse to my boss about an appointment, but I’m sure I’m not fooling her. My little brother, a 20-year-old who looks like he benchpresses his Honda Civic every morning and is stoked to see headliner Rae Sremmurd, has agreed to drive. “But I’m not fuckin’ babysitting you if you have like, 20 beers and start getting annoying,” he says, which I handwave away because that’s never happened before. (It has.)

Businesses all around the festival grounds have “No Festival Parking!!!” signs stapled to signs and trees around their parking lots, but we take a risk and park at the IHOP on Tudor because it’s IHOP. What are they going to do – tow us? In the IHOP parking lot? Men used to cross great ice fields and battle enormous grizzlies to moil for gold ‘neath the midnight sun – I’m going to park in the IHOP parking lot. (As it turns out, we are never towed.)

I’m wearing my camouflage jacket with a big “Dopesmoker” backpatch, an essential one-song stoner rock album for anyone with the tenacity to listen to an hour straight of Sleep’s sludgy riffs. Throughout the festival, this gets me recognized and dapped up by Anchorage metalheads – my favorite people, mostly lanky dudes bedecked with other grungy patched jackets. We’re a consortium of guys, and the callsign seems to overwhelmingly be, “Fuckin’ Sleep, man. Good shit, brother.”

I’ve gotten there a little late, so I’ve missed a few acts, but we manage to catch Waka Flocka Flame, a rapper who you’ve certainly heard played over the speakers at any high school basketball game. Halfway through his set, Flocka pauses the music to wax rhapsodic about the benefits of Bitcoin, and claims that the United States dollar will be fully digital within the next few months. This prompts a smattering of clapping from his fans, but mostly an assortment of confused looks – just a few moments ago they were “sippin’ Moscato” and “losin’ them pants.”

Some friends and I catch EDM giant Slander and indie band Turnover at the park’s amphitheater, and then call it a night, kicking rocks on the way back to the parking lot and trying to remember the choreography to the “Two of Hearts” scene from “Hot Rod.”

Saturday

They say you can’t drink all day unless you start in the morning. Keep that in mind. Saturday’s performances are ramped up a notch, ranging from local indie act Ed Washington in the early afternoon, to headliners Freddie Gibbs and Big Boi, ½ of Atlanta favorites Outkast.

I’m jumping up the Cuddy Park amphitheater seating after a set from local hardcore act She when I hear the sound of fabric ripping, and realize that my Vans shorts are now tattered and destroyed. Whether it was the frantic moshing a few minutes prior, or the attempt at gymnastics up several sets of stadium seats, but the shorts that have served me faithfully through cookout and river tubing trip alike have now gone to the great laundry basket in the sky. I reflect pensively for about two seconds on the transitory nature of American fashion and then realize my muscular haunches are hanging out for all to see. My friend laughs and laughs and he is no goddamn help, so I call another acquaintance in town and ask him to bring a replacement. For the rest of the evening, I’m wearing Costco sweatpants.

Freddie Gibbs raps like a stonemason chiseling away flakes of granite, revealing a sculpture hidden within a chunk of rock. “God made me sell crack,” Gibbs reflects on stage, “so I’d have something to rap about.” I’ve spilled a $13 margarita all over my arm at this point, after trying to balance it on a fence post, so my sleeve is sticky with sugar and tequila, but I don’t care. Big Boi raps like you’d expect him to – Atlanta-boisterous, call-and-response, chain swinging. “I’m sorry Ms. Jackson,” and so on.

The rest of the night sort of blurs together and we needn’t speak of it. Certified fuck-soundtrack staple Two Feet closes out the evening for me, and I remember standing in the middle of the crowd trying to think of titles for this column. Mr Feet’s music swirls around me, breathy synths and muted guitar riffs, and I’m thinking “The Intern Takes Sundown?”

I fall asleep on the couch at home watching “Dog Day Afternoon” and then it’s Sunday.

Sunday

Sunday dawns bright and clear and especially hot. It’s hot, and I hate to complain about it, especially considering how little sunshine we get as a state, but it might be a little too hot. I didn’t bring any sunscreen, because I’ve never learned a single lesson in my life, but “if you’re going to be dumb, you’d better be tough.”

Emo act Silverstein redeems the country of Canada that afternoon, through sheer intensity and stage presence. Twenty-three years, it seems, has not slowed the band down, and they play the hits (“Discovering the Waterfront”) to feverish applause. Metalcore favorites We Came As Romans play back to back with Silverstein, and I’m right in front of the speakers for their set, fighting off a hangover and doing war crimes to my hearing at the same time – wouldn’t change a thing. A circle pit breaks out and people are sucked into a maelstrom of whirling fists and sweaty dudes. It brings to mind Ancient Sparta on a concrete walkway. Dudes Rock.

Eventually, the final act – Rae Sremmurd – takes the stage, and by now, the sun is lower in the sky. It casts everything – the cheering crowd, the two rappers, the guy walking past me in a wizard hat and staff – in a warm orange glow, like Terrence Malick is doing the cinematography. My friend and I are standing towards the back; we’re two old men, and I think I pulled a muscle in the pit.

As far as weather, organization, and overall “Vibes,” the festival couldn’t be beat. I still haven’t checked my bank app to see how much vodka-Red Bull related damage I did to my checking account, but it was all 100% worth it. Bring Korn up here next year to headline and I can ascend to the heavens happily. Sundown 1,000 years.