We waited for weeks with baited breath for the proverbial light (stick) at the end of the tunnel. Glow, an all night massive music and light art festival sponsored by the City of Santa Monica had–with its elaborate advertising campaign–practically promised the second coming of Jesus. I would say it was more like the second coming of Jesus Jones for its walk down retro-90’s memory lane. The glow sticks were abundant whereas, for the mostpart, the art was at times amateur, at times just plain hard to reach and scattered.

Droves of people came out for the event–a whopping 14,000. And a spirit of unity, again reminiscent of the early-mid-90s rave scene foreshadowed it. When you chatted with people it seemed like everyone in L.A. and their wannabe out-of-town cousin was headed out to the Pier on July 19th. Even claustrophobic, snobby, ‘great masses’-loathing me was excited to connect to Glow. Amidst all the crappy news about the economy, gas prices and the environment, it seemed like a good enough way to unify Angelinos and by extension, the nation. That was the spirit I went into it with. Plus, two artists aquaintances of mine decided to hold their pre-wedding reception at Glow (they also had a piece there–which had a line to see it so I never got to it).

For our crew of eight, trying to find the tent where our friends had set up the reception became something of a ‘pilgrimage into the desert.’ We walked around in wall-to-wall crowds (the pier bridge was so jammed with bodies that it looked like The Great Wall of China) searching aimlessly for our Mecca–the tent which promised friends, food and drink, and a respite from the crowds. We passed by some fairly unimpressive art pieces (if I see any more neon white or purple, green or pink day-glo I’m going to like barf).

There was one centerpiece to the whole show, a sprinkler-like installation on the beach with projections on it that people seemed really jazzed about. I’ve never seen a crowd cat-call an art installation before. It was like they were construction workers and the art was a scantily clad woman. “Whew! Yeah!” they cried, hopefully on drugs. The piece was cool ‘drug art,’ quite grand, but ooh-babying the work just seemed a little inappropriate. And then there was the giant neon white moon bounce, the balloon cave and finally the fake glowing camp fire where the earnest lesbian (?) cellist was surrounded by onlookers singing folk songs about partnership…A low-point was the people doing ‘rhymic gymnastics for ravers’ (with day-glo ribbons) by the dance area where Garth Trinidad from KCRW was DJ’ing (the latter being a high-point).

“Glow blows,” said one friend who I didn’t meet up with but who caught the late shift of the festival. It seemed to be a sort of kvetch fest from my experience. First I heard a twentysomething girl shuffle by whining, “Ow, my Achilles heel.” Then my friend Thomas overheard someone proclaim, disappointed, “It’s like Burning Man without the Acid.” When I saw a huge line in front of my other friends’ installation I told my group: “I really want to see this, but after waiting in line for everything in the past half hour, I don’t really feel like getting in another line.” A passer-by chimed in, “I hear ya!”

The most kvetchy of experiences was walking through the (already terrifying) gated bridge accross the PCH (something which gives me anxiety attacks even when it’s empty). It was full of people budging not more than an inch a minute going all the way up the stairs. I made a comment about wanting to get to the other side already and some irritated guy chimed in, “What’s the point?” Meanwhile my friend Molly was getting yelled at by an impatient dude who told her, “We’re all going in the same direction, you don’t have to push.” Uh, slightly bad vibes. And we never did find that wedding reception tent. Apparently our betrothed pals said they ended up sitting around with strangers, as hardly any of their guests found the tent either.

The positive note of all of this, for me, was the plethora of hot blond West Side preppy boys–which are exotic to me as a dweller of metrosexual/’I am an artist’ Hollywood (although I do get to hang with them at the golf course every week). “Normal boys…total bliss…” But they were mixed in with dread-locked, light-stick waving, techno-hippies.

I wonder if there will be another Glow next year, “Glow II: Electric Boogaloo.” My friend John mused that the whole evening was probably just a giant live drill for the Santa Monica Police Department.

For all its efforts, Glow failed to impress as grand art spectacle…but it did act as a West Coast metropolitan launch for the inevitable (come on, you know you want it) retro ’90s movement. Ladies and gentlemen, get out your platform sneakers, XTC, Addidas pot leaf t’s, big floppy hats, whistles and of course…glow sticks…the ’90s are officially back. 

Posted by Shana Ting Lipton