When I attended the Charivari Detroit Music Festival last summer, I was looking for something I couldn’t put my finger on, listening for a sign. My husband, son, and I had gathered with a few hundred folks on the fields of Detroit’s Historic Fort Wayne for the electronic music festival, held each year during the second week of August. The grass was dry and brown, but in the near distance, the Detroit River shimmered in a jewel-tone blue. There we stood, in the third summer of the pandemic, at the intersection of weariness and flickering optimism. The DJs worked three different stages, which featured talent from Atlanta, New York, the West Coast, and of course, Chicago. The Wonderful stage featured only women. Music pulsed from multiple directions as dancers kicked up dust.
Though everyone besides my spouse