Exterior: a cold and snowy New York night, not a creature stirring, not even a mouse. Interior: the craziest shit you’ve ever seen. A rage carnival, a hell-themed season of Fortnite, a stadium in permanent sicko mode, and the ringleader himself at the center, Travis Scott.

He possessed the hype of fifty men, he played bass so loud you forgot what stillness felt like, he watched a sexualized female robot give itself a tattoo, he displayed CGI children vomiting Nickelodeon slime, he gazed at the stars, and he gave ’em all the middle finger.

 

The crowd moshed hard and the stage lit up with fire so strong that you felt the heat. Fireworks were accompanied by the sound of eagle screeches, and fans were treated to indoor amusement park rides that sent them upside-down and traveling above the crowd in a rollercoaster car with Travis Scott himself.

It was the closest thing angry millennials knew to fantasized hedonism, and it was over before you even knew it. Astroworld is a conservative’s nightmare, and the kids f**ckin’ loved it.