"Mirrors are the bomb!" one concertgoer yells out by the pathway. "Everyone thinks I’m the easy type of girl but na-uh" another rambles on about. "I’m so lost, but I just don’t care right now," was what was on everyone’s mind. This was the type of weekend in store for the massive pool of sweaty and dehydrated bodies and everyone knew it, everyone also knew to review the buddy system.

Situated in Tweed, also known as the place to see Elvis, for the second time in the festival’s eleven-year history, the only mode of transportation available was by wheels or foot. It was obvious that it was going to be heaving with the plethora of groups attending the experience due to the increase of ticket sales up 30% from last year. Getting there early only meant a "first-class" campsite, however, everyone also knew that and by 2’oclock, the main gate was ambushed with vehicles from just about everywhere.

The view was out of this world entering the park: a skinny, two-lane dirt path guided by the lake with trees hovering overhead and the smell of the country instead of smog was quite orgasmic. Sharp hills dominated the region as fishing boats could be seen in the distance, but no Elvis sighting so far. This all made the anticipation grow thicker as everyone’s musical heroes laced their aura with a sound that can only be imagined in utopia.

The journey was almost as euphoric except for the fact that once at the gate, the jubilant OPP officers smiled, not because it was a beautiful day (even though was), but simply cause a host of party junkies were just about to lose their instrument for fun, a la liquor. "Bring cans, bring it in cans" they kept ranting. "What are you going to do with it?" the public replied, "Throw it away." Sure there friend, keep your smile and kazoos hidden.

Hint for next time, if there is one: keep it in your bags, they cannot check that.

With three major campsites, it was just a matter of time and prayers that the sun did not die too soon until a reliable one could be found. Up sandy hills one after another trying to avoid the drunkards bobbing around, partiers had to reconcile with a modest but rocky, very rocky campsite. For ones who were veterans in the game, bringing a foam pad or even an air mattress was not a problem, for others, they were sleeping in ditches littered with jagged rocks and if lucky, shards of glass. It was not so much that it was not comfortable, it was more that you had to be ingenious to find it.

From the moment the festival could be seen, music could also be heard and it was great, what was not great was that it was being played constantly right till Sunday morning at 6:00am when the shebang bang was over. The renegade DJs were a bit selfish, three guys to a set of turntables playing uncontrollably while a thousand slept nearby. With three major stages and too many renegade ones to count, the ground shook as regularly as footsteps can be heard, not to mention the amount of air horns ruining the peace. However, this is WEMF, this is what was expected.

Perhaps the biggest drunkfest in the history of drunkfests, garbage bins were not to be found anywhere. Some chatter spoke of folklore where there were trucks driving around taking waste, however, it was a merely just that, a bad fiction. Think of Toronto’s infamous "Tent City" but in a national park with a mammoth of a rave.

As many diverse kinds of beer cans that could be found, the same could be said of the crowd. Evidently, there were Canadians, but there were also people from south of the border and even as far as Russia unless he was lying. Baggy pants, glow sticks, inflatable-multicoloured spiraled hats; it was all there. They were all here to see some of the biggest acts in the scene such as Goldie, Krafty Kuts, John ‘00’ Fleming, Anne Savage, and rising talent such as JD Turbine from New York. However, with this much mixture, the rock stage also provided with a parallel assortment.

Headlining was Broken Social Scene who put on a heroic effort but after a track or two, the crowd of a hundred dripped down to a handful of kids. It was not that they were bad even though some tracks proved to be difficult (ie. Shampoo Suicide), head honcho Kevin Drew just did not provide the same performance witnessed elsewhere. The jam session he led at the end of the set proved to be fun until yet again, the theme of the event, became too much noise.

However, no jargon tarnishes the experience at all; it just made it that much better. With so many tents pitched so closely to one another, friendships grew stronger, new friendships formed; the timid disease that haunts us all seemed not to exist. This was the Fellowship of the Ring but on a bigger stage, the drugs were definitely accounted for but who cares, whom else are you going to talk to in the woods?

The ones that benefited the most out of all this madness were the sober observers. They were the ones who caught the most action as people can be seen running out of mating tents in shame. The comedy of it all was dispatched everywhere. From the Happy Hardcore stage with concertgoers rocking out oh so hard to the victims of urination submitting to use the outhouses/bomb shelters, nothing can take those mental memoirs away.

The love affair with the WEMF is one that pulls on the worst nerve and injects it with so many different layers that once it was all rendered, a dirty grin can be found under it all. - J.N.