A lazily tattooed man hamfists classic rock, accompanied by a vacuum cleaner (literally), Trump flags fly above battered RVs in the festival campground, and we’ve just played soul music to people - stone-cold sober people - in MAGA and NRA hats.

Northern Minnesota, while strikingly beautiful, might not be my bag.

Then again, there are all manner of familiar misfits scattered throughout the crowd, young and over it and destined to become the inspired contrarians our future yearns for. And people are dancing during our set, pleasantly surprised by our unique brand of “huh?”

Music, especially this music, has a way of displacing learned biliousness, stripping away layers of cliché until one’s inner child smiles back, naked and without shame.