V.I.C. Fest 2013

In 2011 we were lucky enough to be there for the launch of V.I.C Fest. In 2012 we pre-partied, then partied some more. We had only just recovered when lo and behold, it was June again.

Three years in, we can safely say a few things are guaranteed every year at V.I.C. Fest.

1. You will be sufficiently sauced with very little effort. Which is good because your sh-t will be searched upon entry and any herbal essence will be pitched by security – but that guarantees the kids flying around in capes beating the sh-t out of each other to the beat of Anami Vice won’t get a contact high. The alcohol, a hearty selection of island wines, brews and ciders, flowed freely through both days of the festival. (This year we got two days to party back-to-back. It was difficult but we love you, so we persevered.) And don’t forget the food. It was simple, hearty, made with love and so goddamn delicious – pulled pork poutine, charred pizzas, local coffee & doughnuts and even some gluten free Asian street food from Foo Asian Street Food for Miss Teen USSR’s delicate guts. The boys are still daydreaming about the perogy grilled cheese sandwiches that provided the necessary carbs to soak up the booze.

2. The background noise to your day drunk will be island-bred. A varied mix of harmonies, beat breaks, hands in the air, hands thumping big drums, calls and responses, passionate wails and pure voices ringing out over the lawns. Every body that graced a stage had some roots nestled deep in the salty earth of the island – earnest energy that fueled the sun-dappled good vibes we all head nodded in. Eating a WannaWafel while our buddy Anami Vice made us chant “SUPER. HARD. CORE. REALLY. DOPE. HELLA. GOOD.” Even Ice Cube would agree it was a good day.

3. The people watching will be epic. People in Victoria do not rightly give a f-ck what they look like. They are impervious to the expensive self-loathing, second guessing and critical competition we roll around in and call “style” over in Vancouver. They’re comfortable and their genitals are mostly covered, otherwise all bets are off. The result – it makes that 17th mini cup of beer your invitation to just gawk. Boobs and beards and f-ck yeah. Basically a little something for everybody.

To recap: the kids roaming around didn’t make you want to stuff them in a garbage can, the kettle corn and waffles should have made out and made a baby that smelled even better (if that’s even possible) and the moon that popped up out of nowhere, making nature nerds out of the most jaded concert reviewers, was just the perfect end to the festival. Thanks to the fine folks at The Zone 91.3 for pulling together another banger of a weekend – our hangovers were worth it.

(Jay Haddow drank with only one hand so he could snap some shots of the festivities. Do him a favour and scroll down. Also – there’s boobs.)

The Grass Tracks

01 The Grass Tracks