Maybe I should stay up all night Thursday, then sleep all day Friday ... This was one of several sleep-pattern rearrangement plans I considered in anticipation of Further Future, a first-year electronic-music festival held on the Moapa Valley Indian Reservation 30 minutes northeast of Las Vegas this past weekend.
The acts I wanted to see were to stretch from Friday night into Saturday morning—8:30 p.m. through 9:45 a.m.—and I not only wanted to catch them all, but also hoped to survive the drive home without veering exhaustedly off the road. So for days leading up to Further Future, I considered ways to trick my body and brain. What if I sleep four hours Thursday night, wake up at 3 a.m., then sleep four more hours Friday afternoon before heading out?
In the end, I didn’t do anything quite so dramatic, sleeping my usual amount Thursday night, then slipping in two one-hour naps on Friday. I did conserve my energy pre-festival, however, and it’s a good thing I did, because Further Future is no place to run out of gas.
Friday, 6 p.m. Driving from Henderson to Further I’m trying to imagine what’s in store. I’ve been to lots of music festivals, but this one sounds like an entirely different animal, billed as “a gathering of people with the common goal to spend time together celebrating the infinite possibilities of the future.” It’s run by Robot Heart, known for its Burning Man parties, and Further Future seems primed to be more like Burning Man—from its cashless purchasing system to its “leave no trace” anti-litter pledge—than Coachella or FYF. Even Further Future’s ticket-acquiring procedure is unusual, with hopeful attendees asked to apply for invite codes by sending short personal statements to promoters. (I have a press pass.)
6:30 p.m. Leaving town, I pass Las Vegas Motor Speedway, home to Electric Daisy Carnival the past four summers. Watching it shrink in my rearview mirror feels fitting, with Further’s concept—from its mostly non-mainstream music acts to its wellness and speaker programs—farther out than EDC’s.
7 p.m. I’m there, wherever there is. Actually, at the moment I’m in line at “will call,” a tent just off the freeway that appears to be a mile or two from the festival grounds. Standing in line with my fellow festgoers—many of whom are costumed, scantily clad or both—I feel wildly out of place in my simple jeans and T-shirt, but no one seems to be judging. I trade my printout for a wristband, a schedule and a water container, and I’m soon headed down a curvy road toward the Future.
7:15 p.m. I’ve packed a small backpack with some festival essentials, and I wonder which—bottled water, Advil, Chex cereal—might get confiscated at the gate. Except that there is no gate. Or really much security, beyond the yellow-shirted folks along the road asking to see wristbands and pointing out parking. I simply wander from my car toward what appears to be the hub of activity, and suddenly, apparently, I’m “inside” the strangest festival footprint I’ve ever experienced.
Tents here, RVs there, massive art installations spread about, all atop what was surely blank desert one week earlier. I look for a map, an information booth, anyone who might know how things work, and realize I’m out here on my own, or that we’re all out here on our own together, which both excites me and freaks me out. I start wandering, and wondering if I’ll make it till 10 a.m., or tire and flee back to town, and the comfort of my bed.
8:30 p.m. It’s almost completely dark as I identify the main “Mothership” stage from its impressive production value and immense sound. This might be Robot Heart’s first full-on festival, but you wouldn’t know it from the sonic output over here, clear and booming. My first must act, hooded U.K. export Actress, goes on, and his rumbling, spooky set is a perfect match for the secluded, dust-blown environment and full moon overhead. I settle into one of many giant lounging pods scattered around the site, and try not to get too comfortable lying among its cushy pillows.
9:30 p.m. There weren’t a ton of people watching that performance, and hasn’t been much of a crowd anywhere I’ve been so far. Is that just because it’s early in the weekend, or did a combination of Further factors—the remote location, invite/code routine, cost (up to $300 per ticket, with deluxe camping units running as high as $3,600 per group)—deter some would-be attendees? Between the acts and the setup out here, this would seem to be a pricey endeavor for the promoters, and I wonder how much they need to recoup for Further Future to return next year.
10:30 p.m. Las Vegas-based DJ Brett Rubin is up first on the Robot Heart stage, a mobile unit that reminds me of Jabba the Hutt’s sail barge in Return of the Jedi. Rubin, spinning amid a throng of bodies atop a bus—with a glowing-red, metallic heart above his head, and a woman dancing inside that—draws a solid crowd and keeps it moving with a smartly chosen house set.
11 p.m. Back on the main stage, Warpaint is playing, which is weird, because Warpaint is a band—with guitars and drums and live vocals—and Further Future doesn’t seem like a place for bands. Still, LA’s female foursome sounds great out here and, though it strangely omits best-known song “Undertow” from the setlist, gets some appreciation from the smallish crowd that turns up to take a break from DJs and laptop artists.
Saturday, 12:15 a.m. Disaster. The lights have gone out on the multi-platformed Booba Cosmica stage, where all my morning artists are scheduled to perform (beginning with Tim Hecker at 3:30 a.m.). A sound tech explains that the generator has blown, and that it could take hours to fix the problem. Maybe I should try napping in my car …
1 a.m. The Booba lights are back on, but the delay came with a cost: The schedule at that stage will bump back by an hour, which means Hecker now kicks things off at 4:30, and my final act, Loscil, ends at 10:45.
1:15 a.m. I’m hungry, so I need to add money to my wristband. It’s pretty easy: One swipe of a credit card and two swipes of the wristband adds $10 to the latter, then two more wristband swipes at the food stand puts chicken with chimichurri sauce, coleslaw and pickled carrots in my belly. Not bad, though wouldn’t it have been easier to swipe my card just once at the chicken stand?
2:30 a.m. More exploring. Behind the Mothership is a fourth stage, the Void, an elevated dancefloor where revelers have been boogieing to DJs like Body Language and Tin Man. In the opposite direction lies one more small stage, part of the exclusive Gypset camping community. I also come across a medical tent (a bit hard-to-find, given its purpose) and “the sanctuary,” filled with sweet-smelling flowers and “mind-expanding” chairs. The chairs are closed for the night, so I lie down with my head on a pillow between two rows of automated gongs, to experience their sonic vibrations. Too comfortable down here; must keep moving.
3:30 a.m. Tim Hecker’s original start time has arrived, and though I’ve got another hour to kill before he begins, I plunk down in front of his setup to rest. I’m not sure what I expected, but the people of Further Future seem warm and friendly, I realize, as I encounter a series of strangers during my wait. Those I meet seem less interested in particular acts than in the experience, which I suppose fits Further’s mission precisely.
4:30 a.m. This is why I’m way the hell out here, because Tim Hecker is playing his first-ever Nevada gig. His droning ambient compositions are as far from Brian Eno as they are from Brian Wilson, but they still sound sublime to me. I’m at the focal point of four large speakers, seated and soaking in every twitch of the knob, every spike of harsh distortion. There are gorgeous melodies being unleashed beneath the mayhem, if you listen close enough, and as the night sky lightens in the background, I’m (almost) thankful for the delay. I chat briefly with Hecker afterward, telling him I figured he’d never play Las Vegas. “It’s better this way,” he says, nodding to his surroundings. It’s tough to disagree.
6 a.m. I’m wandering again, to stay on my feet and try to stay awake, and it’s not really working. Hunter/Game is on the Robot Heart stage, and a small crowd is celebrating the sunrise by, what else—dancing.
8 a.m. Back at the Booba Cosmica stage, we’re midway through Christopher Willits’ set, and though his music—which features live guitar loops, muted vocals and slow builds that pay off with epic crests—interests me enough that I plan to download some when I get home, his hour-and-45-minute time-slot feels overlong. Reality is setting in, that Loscil isn’t going on at 9:45. This might not end well for me.
9 a.m. Surprise! Tycho (aka Scott Hansen) is walking up to the Booba stage for an unplanned DJ set, which is amazing and terrible. Amazing because the next 45 minutes are among the most fun of the entire night/morning, filled with sharp indie picks by the likes of Boards of Canada, Atoms for Peace, Panda Bear and Ulrich Schnauss. And terrible because Loscil has now been pushed back yet again.
10:30 a.m. I should probably leave now. I caught Com Truise, the current Booba Cosmica act, in October at Beauty Bar, and how good could Loscil possibly be? Except that Com Truise is killing it, and that I’m determined to reach my goal of reaching the Loscil finish line. Still, the sun is really starting to beat down, and as I put my head on the Booba’s white Astroturf, my eyes are starting to close.
11 a.m. Loscil! But not really. He’s here and he’s ready to go, but his equipment isn’t cooperating. Best I can ascertain, the sun is wreaking havoc with his setup, and techs are trying everything to get him going. After 20 minutes of trying, he looks about ready to give up, which would make for an ironic finish to my (over)night, right?
11:15 a.m. Success! Loscil lives, though I’m one of seven people here to witness his experimental ambient soundscapes. No matter. Though every ounce of my being tells me to flee the heat and my exhaustion and retreat back to my car, I stick out the full 45 minutes, soaking up the calming set and applauding its creator for soldiering through what must have been one of the most challenging performances of his career. And then, as the soundman queues up Iggy Pop’s “The Passenger” behind me, I’m gone, striding to my car and happily heading back toward home.
I had a blast, though I clearly didn’t do Further the way most others did. For me, it was a chance to catch some artists I never thought I’d see around here, but their audiences were fairly limited, and I wonder if, should the fest return, downtempo and ambient acts might be phased out for the dancier stuff the majority clearly prefer. I hope not, but I’m not the Further demo. I didn’t camp. I didn’t dress up (or undress). And I’m not sure I celebrated life’s infinite possibilities.
But I felt at home, more than I expected. And in that way, I suppose, Further Future opened my eyes even as it thrilled my ears.
