I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still intrigued by 311 Day. (At that point in my life, I also had a terrible vocabulary.) My parents didn’t let me go, so my 311 Day memories will never extend beyond the 311 Day DVD we used to burn through every Friday night. Not yet knowing of Lollapalooza or Coachella, this seemed like the greatest musical mecca, five rap-rock-fueled hours of SA’s sick rhymes, P-Nut’s sick bass lines, and Chad Sexton’s sick drum solos.
One year for my birthday, I asked my parents for an airline ticket to New Orleans so I could go to 311 Day. Mine was pretty hardcore: I listened to their Greatest Hits CD every morning on the school bus (“Beautiful Disaster” was my jam) and I probably saw them three or four times at the venue formerly known as Nissan Pavilion in Bristow, VA.
Almost every child of the 90s undoubtedly had a 311 phase.
