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Last weekend, Miami rebooted. After a lengthy absence and several postponements, III Points finally stood up, thrust out its chest, threw its fist in the air, and screamed hallelujah. The reaction was intoxicating.
Missteps along the way were hysterical. Opening tweets coming from Mana Wynwood were frightening because this being Miami, it was pouring and the gates hadn’t opened. Many debated whether they would have the strength to weather the storm, in this case the right cliché for the cliché. But the trio Khruangbin was playing. Enough said.
They performed in 2019 on a corner stage with a small enthusiastic crowd, and having listened endlessly to them since, I too got myself together, hooked up the bicycle, and braved the elements.
Pulling off an event like III Points is quite the feat. First comes the idea, one reminiscent of Woodstock but refined along the way by Montreux, Glastonbury, New Orleans, Coachella, Rock in Rio, Lollapalooza, and a dozen others. You need vision, a venue, artists, contracts, marketing, volunteers, web designers, techies, stage managers, lighting, sound, security, police, restrooms, cleaners, and big big big big money.Needless to say, there are going to be bumps. COVID bumped III Points more than once.
Writers often get graciously comped for their work, but what an adventure of little bumps. I applied for a credential, got approved about two weeks beforehand, and then received details about how to clinch the deal a week in advance. A lovely person whose name I will invent here to protect her identity: let’s call her Alexandra Leach – contacted me. Alexandra sent instructions where to pick up the pass in advance, but stupidly, being from Miami and knowing better, I still arrived on time in Little Haiti to four kind young people getting organized but unaware of my name on any list.
We talked cordially a bit as I waited and someone would deliver the credential in a little while so I chilled patiently until a young person showed up, yet still unable to hook me up. So politely, I asked a young fellow if I could talk to the supervisor he had talked to. Let’s call him by an assumed name too: I don’t know, how about Parker Johnson. He asked me to send him the email from Alexandra. Nevertheless, Parker reacted like aluminum in a microwave, said he never heard of Alexandra, asked me why I hadn’t contacted Alexandra, snapped out at me for harassing his staff which of course I hadn’t done, and insulted me for stressing the staff out, which I also had not done. Discretion being the better part of valor, I called Alexandra, left a message, and escaped.
Shortly afterward, Alexandra phoned me on the Palmetto in rush hour, said all the right things, gave me apologetic kindness, and told me where to pick up the credential.
Again, it poured Friday, but III Points snared Khruangbin, so I went, found a sea of mud, thousands of fashionably half-naked people queued up, bike police, and a sea of organized chaos. Using old school methodology plus Alexandra’s cell phone digits, I skipped a line or two, talked my way into a VIP entrance, and that was that. III Points involved lots of excellent acts, a festival inside that was extremely well-organized, impressively running on schedule. People rejoiced. It’s a bit weird going to a concert and seeing everyone feverishly videoing concert segments with raised iPhones instead of fists, but life justifies itself online as essential progress. Khruangbin is as fine a band as exists today.
Like the Terminator, I’ll be back.
