The Festy Forensic: How to Spot Fake Tickets, Bum Drugs, and Cops Disguised as Hippies

We'd all like to think of music festivals as free-loving escapes from the mainstream world where we can let our whole freak fly without inhibition or looking over our shoulder. But, flouncing around like there are only daisies and no aphids will catch us in compromising positions. Like when Meggy spent two hundred bucks outside MSG for a New Years Eve Phish ticket.

1. Does the scalper look like a head? Hemp, crystals, smiles, dreadlocks, moccasins, festy bracelets?
2. Look at the ticket. No, really. Is it a printed out Ticketmaster ticket? An old roommate of mine saved our friend fifty bucks at the Charleston with the simple observation that the page said VOID behind the event information.
3. Is the scalper going to the show as well? If not, did his/her girl/boyfriend get stranded hitchhiking or what? In Meggy's case, why is he or she not going to the sold-out, most coveted show of the year and instead, selling a ticket for five hundred less than they are selling for on Stubhub? And is this person alone, or surrounded by flowery, trustworthy hippies around to reassure good intentions and vibes in general?
4. Why is this person selling a ticket? Did a friend bail? Did he have extras and all his friends were already going? Or did she decide to go to the Biscuits show across the city instead? And most importantly concerning all of these points: do you believe this person?

Generally, your vibe-o-meter should be able to tell whether someone genuinely has an extra to sell or is trying to take advantage of go-lucky jammers. Unfortunately in Meggy's obsessive desperation to get into the New Year's Eve show, she overlooked her scalper's telltale sketchiness. Yes the majority of Phish-heads are white college kids (or graduates/drop-outs), but if the scalper is not and he's a middle-aged bald-head trying to sell you a ticket in Manhattan, he should be gregariously jolly and explain how he's come to sell such a cheap ticket for such a high profile show over a joint or coat-sleeve beer. The scalper should definitely not take your money and leave the scene without joyous tidings for a helluva show.

Blackwater Festival, FL

And ah, the drugs. The bum-drugs are trickier to identify because 1.) they are more common, and 2.) because what hippie doesn't look like a head shuffling through the campsites and dance-crowds, sputtering, “Moon rocks, mushies, oil, dabs...” And really, there's only one direct way to know if a chemical is what is said to be—try it! But indirectly, the best way to make sure your “mescaline” isn't 2CE or that your molly isn't meth is to only buy what trusted friends and heads have tried and recommend. There are (or always should be) those heads you trust through and through, to the point of saying, “If she did it, I'll do it.” The more acclimated you are to the scene, the less likely you are to be sold Shitake mushrooms on Shakedown Street. No, but really. It sounds preposterous, but there are real-life gutter-skunks who actually try to get away with overcharging 14 year-old rave bunnies household herbs and bicarbonate soda. My ex Mikey would always close his eyes and go on “antenna mode,” where he could read energy in rainbows and even dance without knocking into anyone this way. Sure he went schizophrenic, but he was an excellent judge of character. You don't need a spirit-antenna, but always be aware of your vibe-o-meter.

Plus the cops. There are the venues like Suwanee in Live Oak, FL where cops are allowed to assume duty so long as they buy tickets along with everyone else. So if you are you are tucked into a tick nest in the very back of the 300+ acre music park in Florida and a cheerful dude with a shaved head and crisp new tie-dye stumbles in looking for his cell phone, you can rest assured he is not there by accident. His shoes should also be a dead giveaway. Wooks don't wear stiff, brand new Nikes.

If you are on the lookout for under-covers, it should be fairly easy to pick up on scripted dialogue. “Cold night. Rad show!/Do you go to festivals often?/Do you have anything to smoke?”) These guys are like Porky Pigs in a field full of Roadrunners, but there are, however, the very schooled “dready feddies.” In 2011, I watched one standing in a line of busted wooks with his hands behind his back like the others. When the others were taken away however, he dropped his hands unbound and walked away, this dirty blond six foot something dready guy in Charlotte. An older, raspy guy with blue eyes and shaggy hair under a mad-hatter of a chapeau had come to my vending table on Shakedown and narrated this whole literal shakedown scene to me. When he called that the alleged dready feddie would walk away untouched, I was amazed, though not surprised when that exact action transpired. Unkempt teeth and parking lot hygiene should never be a ground for who to trust on tour—the older, crustier spunions have made it this far along for reasons.

Also, be it known that there is no magic “If I ask if you're a cop, you have to tell me” rule. Take it from undercover turned activist and legal consultant Barry Cooper, who explains, “I'm not sure how this rumor started but it is not true and actually helps law enforcement. Many times as an undercover, suspects would ask if I were. I would respond, 'No. I'm not a cop and you are correct. I would have to tell you if I were.'” To really tell if someone is a cop, Cooper suggests offering him or her a bong rip, as cops can be trained to fake a joint rip through their noses, and undercovers are often drug-tested following a bust.

Also, listen for the Rainbow children and other helping friends on scene. If you hear funny numbers and encoded words being thrown around, be on your guard. But in general, although it's super omni-chingadaza-blisstastico to lose yourself in every moment and be fully immersed in the groove-adelic magic of jam, always holding onto at least a kite-string of a clue is paramount. When any spunshine sprites of the festival-love-flow get taken away or even advantage of, the whole festival gets tainted; it's the manipulation of purity. Taking personal responsibility with even a toe-hold in reality can keep us out of jails, hospitals, even rude awakenings in the wrong states. (Been there...and other places too.) Because even though the smooth roll of ecstatic dance-shine moments can feel perfect and infinite, we have to wake up somewhere, and we can totally prevent unnecessary loss of money, rights, and control. Just remember your bag, your phone, your stash, and your Shakedown Street smarts.

For more on Barry Cooper, check out www.nevergetbusted.com for an inside look on preventing nonviolent drug crimes.