Design by Tyler Farmer.
A day of reckoning at Lyrical Lemonade's Summer Smash.
July 1, 2026
BY Millan Verma
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I remember walking around the perimeter of Centennial Olympic Park in Atlanta as Shaky Knees music festival was in full swing. My friend and I had no tickets, but I assured him that we would find a way in. Blind faith has opened many doors for me in this life, and at this particular moment, I was convinced that the world moved according to my will. As mere 16-year-olds, we were on our third or fourth lap of the fenceānot so much seeking a chink in the armor as we were mustering the courage to climb overāwhen a man in a white Mercedes pulled up on us. He rolled down his window and flashed a day pass.
āYou guys looking for a ticket? I canāt go today. Whaddya got?ā
I told him I had the sunglasses on my faceāa $15 pair Iād shoplifted from Kohlās a few weeks priorāand a stray banana, which I presented from the pocket of my athletic shorts. He grumbled a bit and asked to see the sunglasses. He put them on his face, gave me his pass, and sped off. We considered it an omen. Now, my friend had to jump the fence. The plan was for me to scout for security gaps from the inside, and maybe distract a guard with a senseless question so my friend could sprint to the safety of the crowd. Once I got in, though, I decided to catch a bit of a set before getting back to recon, and made my way towards COIN, a cheeky Nashville rock band. As if the music alone wasnāt enough to enrapture me, I bumped into a group of goth girls who Iād gotten to know through the DIY scene in our hometown. They pulled me in to dance, and unfortunately my poor friendās mission completely slipped my mind. After the set, he called me and said he successfully climbed over the fence, but when a security guard locked eyes with him, he quivered and climbed back over to the street. A valiant effort nonetheless. We drove back home giddily with a story to tell.
The following year, when we were seniors, a group of us bought passes for Music Midtownāthe cityās now defunct weekend-long fest that was once its largest. It was a real party. Before driving to the MARTA station, we realized we had too many people to fit in my friendās truck. The problem was solved by someone chugging a water bottle full of vodka and lying down in the bed with a blanket draped over them before we roared down the highway. I remember sneaking in blunts in a Swisher Sweet pouch by tucking them in my waistband. When the scanner caught them, the security guard, who was no doubt a high schooler himself, said, āYou good,ā while waving me in. I remember lighting one of said blunts at noon, and passing it around with all my friends and four or five strangers who asked for a hit. I remember feeling paranoid right after smoking it, and leaving my tribe without saying a word. I walked to another stage, where the German band Milky Chance was performing their hit, āStolen Dance.ā I was seated in the grass by my lonesome, and some minutes later, a group of mystics from Cherokee County said that I didnāt have enough glitter on. They encircled me, unloaded glitter from plastic bottles onto my hair and clothes, then pulled me off the grass to dance. I was given love from these strange country girls without having said a word to them. I followed along with them until the sun began to set. As the pink sky reflected off Atlantaās skyline, the debauching bass from Wiz Khalifaās set broke my hippie trance. I knew my friends would be that way, and after traversing through a sea of passed-out frat boys and countless cases of public indecency, we were reunited at long last. I canāt remember who the headliner wasāmaybe Bruno Marsābut as the fest cleared out and the moon hung high, I ran into the glitter girls again. One of them asked if she could kiss me, and I said yeah, of course. Another came up and asked if she could kiss her, and she said yeah, of course. Then that one asked if she could kiss me, and you can imagine what I said. It was pretty much the best day ever.
All of that is to say that these greedy corporate fests can be a magical experience for a teenager. Even as our cultureās digitization has injured the concept of kids āplaying outside,ā events like these stand as a bastion of what makes an American adolescence so wild, potent, and yes, free. I would go so far as to pose that, in celebration of our nationās 250th birthday, we decree a teenagerās first mass music gathering an official coming-of-age touchstone, not unlike the bar mitzvah or quinceaƱera, with special pins provided at the exit for those who crowdsurfed or joined a moshpit for the very first time. Though in light of the dangers these packed events pose, and the younger generationsā continued quest toward violent viral moments in lieu of spatial awareness, a safety video should be projected prior to each set where āhipā influencers like the Rizzler and Adamn Killa conduct a D.A.R.E.-like campaign about proper mosh pit etiquette and ways to avoid the all-too-common crowd surge.
As capitalism dictates, year after year these festivalsā M.O. will be to sell more tickets for more money. At around $400 for a 3-day pass to Summer Smash, the relative barrier to entry for a student who plans their year around procuring one is still quite low. They must either work a summer job, shake down their parents, or be brave and stupid enough to hop that fence. My grand times at these types of things happened nearly a decade ago, and I can thankfully say Iām a different person now than I was then. I used to only think about football and girls. Now all I can think about is money, power, honor, and the weight of my ancestors. My only concern used to be getting caught for pulling devious stunts. Now Iām worried about my dwindling athletic prowess, whether I drink too much alcohol, if fate and purpose are both a ruse, and how Iāll manage to fund the lives of my future children. So I arrived at Lyrical Lemonadeās annual Summer Smash music festival feeling more like a soldier forced to trudge forward in the name of duty than a fan excited to hear some music. To make matters worse, a lingering sinus infection had cast a dense fog over my brain, and my back creaked due to a week of sitting in a hotel conference room for my day job. This time I scouted the grounds not for a way in, but with the small hope that the press team forgot to add my name to the list.
The first thing to note is that the festival is not really in āChicago.ā It is in Bridgeview, IL, a suburb southwest of the city. The lineup, to Lyrical Lemonadeās credit, covered pretty much all the bases you could want out of a rap fest. The underground was represented in droves, street rappers were sprinkled throughout, blockbuster acts like Playboi Carti and Lil Uzi Vert headlined, and Chicago was deeply ingrained with Chief Keef, G Herbo, Adamn Killa, kels!, and Thirteendegrees performing. The week prior to the fest had been quite strange weather wise, moving from 90% humidity early on to two ravaging thunderstorms on Wednesday and Thursday. Trees had fallen all over the city, thousands lost power, and this writer had to bitterly throw away a jug of fresh Amish milk. The storms, I was later told, lost the festival 16 hours of setup time, leading to delayed performances and a two-hour wait for general admission ticket holders on Friday. Lucky for me, I elected to watch the livestream instead of braving the throes of traffic to get there. As 2slimeyās piercing noise rap filled my living room, and I scrolled videos of hyena-like attendees destroying metal barricades, I was extremely grateful to be on my couch. FOMO kicked in when G Herbo took the stage alongside his four kids, and when Chief Keef took the stage alongside half of his city.
Photo by @_saulsosa
On Saturday, though, I got there early. Past the rows of parking lot porta potties lay a gigantic, hideous mass of concrete and weed-laden grass otherwise known as āSeatGeek Stadium.ā Walking towards the main stage was a test on the ankles, as thousands of crushed water bottles, Modelos, and Red Bull cans littered the grounds. Attendees were sprinting past me with Camelbaks and Kanye Westās infamous āWetā tanks to grab a spot up close that they would surely be boxed out from in hours to come by the more aggressive suburbanite squads. In the press tent I found some solace amongst tenured Chicago bloggers who schooled me on the cityās rich history of grassroots music publications, from FakeShoreDrive to RubyHornet, and how the Blog Era was certainly the good olā days. It was a little nauseating to see so many laptops, cameras, and microphones splayed out on the tables, and the array of media groups present was pretty surprising. From local print journalists, RapTV, Moshpits Daily, Highsnobiety, and Complex: everyone was there to get the clip, the quote, the content, and post it as soon as possible. As seemingly the only one without a branded microphone, expensive camera, or coherent thought racing in my brain, I felt a bit naked. The night before, the festival PR had asked which artists I would like to interview. I put a few requests in, and was only granted the time of day by one: the venerable Atlanta legend, Waka Flocka Flame.
I had a four-minute window to ask him whatever I wanted. He was late, but there were whispers that heād be arriving soon. While waiting in the artist area, the rapper Ian walked around with Walmart flip-flops while being trailed by an enormous security guard. Chicago Bulls forward Matas Buzelis towered over passersby. 42ceo did his bit in a full suit and bow tie while artists stood next to him awkwardly. Waters were being sold for six dollars, Red Bulls for five. This restricted section, built on astroturf instead of the festivalās muddy grounds, resembled a feeding frenzy. Once the press was let in, they raced towards the talent with the goal of extracting a post. I understand that this is peopleās jobs, but it caused me to think of the wheel of suffering.
How is it that after all these years spent together as a species we havenāt managed to unlock greater truths to our existence? I imagine that even just thirty years ago, in the days of MTV and VH1, things didnāt look too different in the gated areas of a music festival. Are we destined to create and consume content for the rest of our lives, or is there a way to communicate in absolutes? I was hoping that Waka Flocka Flame, a renowned stoic who has been through hell and back in this life, would be able to provide some answers.
Photo by @pleckham
Waka entered through the back entrance with around six people in tow. He was set to perform in just thirty minutes, and the festās PR seemed a bit nervous, but he was totally calm in the storm. āIām on your time today,ā he told the liaison. She led us to a shaded couch, where I handed him my phone to speak into. Waka Flocka Flame presents himself as a fully realized man. He is confident, speaks clearly and without hesitation, and treated both the grounds crew and this lowly writer with respect. I asked him if the work ever ends, or if we must continue to produce, produce, produce.
āI love working,ā he said. āNever in my lifetime was I not working. Never. And I never want to stop, either. Itās just in me.ā
Not the answer I wanted, but perhaps the one I needed. My late grandmotherāwho worked a job until the age of 87ākept a poem on her fridge in Alabama. When things are going well / Keep working / When things are going poorly / Keep working. That mentality illustrates a rare crossover between an American and Buddhist mindset. I was always told that after adolescence, the impact of new experiences begins to flatten out. Things get boring. Life becomes a mundane war. While I watched sets for the next few hours, I found it hard not to agree.
Photo by Jacob Olavarria (@itsviewsfromthechi)
At the crammed tent stage, the Project X larping South London rapper Feng shouted his otherwise laidback songs about how crazy last night was. Slayr, the rage-rap wunderkind who I spoke with briefly in the press tent after standing in line with six other outlets, caused a lot more anticipation than I expected. Teenagers barrelled through the crowd to get up close, and when he took the stage in his full-zip Bape hoodie, bass and vocals came out in a globby mix that was hard to decipher. That didnāt matter. The energy was up, bodies were flying everywhere. At the main stage, Ian smoothly benchpressed 225 and took a swig of tequila before running out in his little flip-flops. In the prelude to āHate Me,ā his collaboration with Lil Yachty, Ian called Lil Yachty āhis brother,ā and someone behind me said, āWait, I had no idea they were brothers. Thatās so cool!ā He then performed his 2025 XXL Freestyle in its entirety. Even 2hollis, whose November show I wrote a rave review about, failed to move me. It had nothing to do with the stage or the programming or the performance; I just wasnāt in the mood to get covered in other peopleās sweat.
Itās not that Summer Smash is better or worse than the fests of my youth, itās that back then, I was a natural part of their chaos. Now, Iām the owner of a sectional couch, and got really excited to install a drying rack on my back porch. As demented as they may seem on social media, a music festival like this exists simply as a semi-controlled space for teenagers to go wild and see their favorite artists. Though thereās a lot to hate, I still see that tradition as a good one.