In a YouTube video uploaded in the days following the early September FYF Fest, which took place at the L.A. State Historic Park in Chinatown, a woman who looks to be in her early 20s is talking to the camera. Smoking a cigarette, she relays with curious wonder a story of what happened to her in the front row during spazz-metal band Lightning Bolt's blistering sundown set. (The video has since been removed, so we're paraphrasing.) It was a heated moment, she recalled, bordering on the orgasmic. She felt, in fact, as if she'd come at one point, so intense was the music and the crowd's reaction. Everybody was packed tight and pogoing. A guy behind her was bouncing along with her, holding her by the waist and dancing hard. When the show was over and the dude behind her took off, she felt something hot and, um, wet on her derriere. She reached her hand back, and, lo … gross. That was this year's FYF Fest, the seventh version of a festival born as the Fuck Yeah Fest, changed to the F Yeah Fest, and now to the curiously redundant FYF Fest. Founded by young Tasmanian Devil/go-getter Sean Carlson, the punk and avant electronic festival was not without its organizational problems — i.e., a long wait to get in. But the amazing thing about the FYF Fest was the sheer abandon with which the packed park celebrated, once they got in, the fringes of punk, dance and comedy. As in, hot wetness seemed to be flying all over the place during Lightning Bolt, Mika Miko and Fucked Up.

—Randall Roberts

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