I Lost My Mind In Toronto: The OVO Fest Experience

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Complex Original

Image via Complex Original

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I get back from Canada and I'm hard-pressed to write even one word about it. What do you say about a trip that doesn't feel like it really happened? In what world is it okay for me to drop all obligations and ignore all responsibility for a week of insulated debauchery? By the time I return to LaGuardia, I'm expecting a customs agent to flash me with one of those neuralyzers from Men in Black before admitting me back into the States because my week in Toronto is so surreal I feel like I'm not supposed to experience this.

As with any memorable trip, I almost miss the flight that starts it all. This "not having an office job" thing that I've been trying for the past month doesn't mesh well with my poor time management skills and, before I know it, I have an international flight in less than two hours and I still haven't packed or showered. But, of course, I make it.

This is where the blur begins. After setting foot on Canadian soil, things do not let up or slow down until my departure. I take a cab from Pearson International to meet up with this writer, Slava, who lets me crash at his apartment and immediately gives me weed and takes me to this party his publication is throwing where there's free beer and the whole time I'm just trying to understand how people can be so nice and hospitable.

It's around this time that I tweet the Lil Wayne lyric "thank god i'm famous" because that's honestly how the citizens of Toronto make me feel. You know how Kanye said, "Hard to be humble when you're stunting on the Jumbotron"? I find it hard to be humble when, every day for a week, including several times at this Vice event, motherfuckers come up to me like, "Oh my God, are you Ernest Baker? I love your writing." But as much as that boosts my ego, I'm mostly shocked and appreciative. I still can't completely grasp the fact that writing articles for places like Four Pins about drugs and getting cheated on has a real world impact, but I'll take it.

The next day, I don't do much until the late afternoon because a story I wrote gets published on Gawker at noon and I take some time to promote it and troll the comments. Then I meet up with my girlfriend Lauren and her colleagues from Complex and kind of just follow them around while they work and interview people at the Remix Project, which is like this creative space for kids in Toronto to record music and develop business ideas that's partially responsible for stuff like So Far Gone and Gangster Burger. We eat some crazy Italian food and I harass people for their WiFi passwords everywhere we go so I don't have a six million dollar roaming charge on my phone bill like I did when I was in Toronto a month prior to speak about writing on this panel at NXNE.

For the remainder of the night, I'm rolling and Lauren is fighting dudes who are mad that she doesn't post their music and she sons the fuck out of them but mostly we're running around to Migos and smoking endless Belmont cigarettes at Tattoo until everything is closed.

The rest of the day is defined by my tendency to do the Shmoney Dance at every possible opportunity. We go to this OVO Bounce basketball game and push through this crowd of people trying to get in, but have no issues because we're plugged and Lauren rolls her eyes when more people recognize me and then I hit the dance in the middle of the court when the DJ throws on "Hot Nigga." Then we walk to her friend from college's apartment to drink some wine before going out and "Hot Nigga" is playing from some random car so I throw my hat in the air and hit the Shmoney Dance in the middle of Yonge Street to cheers and applause from pedestrians. The same thing happens at Soho House later that night except I'm not alone because the only thing that anyone does at a party these days is wait for Bobby Shmurda to play and then Lauren snaps on some girl for fanning out and trying to sit on my lap and eventually goes home, but, like a true degenerate I try to keep the night going.

I wind up at some house party where I get more fucked up and meet more people from the Internet and some guy tells me that he can get me acid and I entertain the thought for a moment before turning off the rap for a second to start playing Joy Division and sing along in my spot-on Ian Curtis voice and wonder if this shit is a dream and why I'm even here, but the conversations are great and the substances are flowing and there's nowhere else to go.

Maybe some four hours after I've gone to bed, I'm back up and going to meet Lauren and everyone else from Complex and she takes us on a tour through the University of Toronto campus and shows us where they shot this one scene from Mean Girls before we eat lunch at this Vietnamese place then drink and dance at this bar Cold Tea for what feels like an eternity. The outdoor space is impeccable and the DJ is flawless, but I take a second and dip off to the OVO pop-up shop because Oliver asked me to come by. I'm straightforward with him like, "Dude, I wanna write movies for OVO" because I'd rather just be honest about my intentions than try to linger with the crew and take Instagram pictures with them so I can seem cool and then I talk to Tommy Campos about the trading cards I worked on for the Drake vs Lil Wayne tour and he gives me this "6IX" hat and soon enough darkness is approaching.

For the remainder of the night, I'm rolling and Lauren is fighting dudes who are mad that she doesn't post their music and she sons the fuck out of them but mostly we're running around to Migos and smoking endless Belmont cigarettes at Tattoo until everything is closed. But there's always an after hours move and long after most retire, Lauren and I remain on the streets until 6am and then we do depraved things to each other and it's awesome and then finally it's time for OVO Fest which is the reason that I came here although I've almost forgotten about it.

I take Slava to brunch at the Drake Hotel as thanks for being such a gracious host and meet up with my boy Tomi and we go to this thing where everyone is pre-gaming for OVO, but then I get a tweet to come by this store Nomad which is right down the street and Majid Jordan is in there and this dude Williams is all like, "You're an amazing writer" and tells me about how he did a reading of "The Unbearable Sadness of a Great Night Being Over" at an after-party and everyone loved it then he hooks me up with some gear, but I still want to buy something so I don't come off like a complete mooch and they have some A.P.C. KANYE so I cop the white pants because I don't have any white pants and then I'm in a car on my way to the first night of the festival.

By the end, I'm exhausted. I feel like I just did P90x and how is it possible to feel any other way when "Trophies," "Worst Behavior," "Believe Me" and "0 to 100" are the records that close a show?

By some act of divine intervention, I run into my favorite people in Toronto, the Get Home Safe crew, right away and while we're talking some kid notices me and low-key seems like he's about to cry when he's like, "They're playing with me, man. Is it really you?" and starts quoting a bunch of my tweets and once again my fake fame makes me feel really cool. Time flies and suddenly "B.O.B." is ringing off while we're still drinking and loitering and we do this pass back strategy with the tickets so that all of us wind up sitting close as fuck for OutKast even though most of us only have lawn seats. We spend the entire set screaming every lyric and moshing and going as insane as you can go at a concert to the point that the people around us are uncomfortable, but fuck those losers for not doing the same. It's OutKast. There's no excuse.

All of my media friends have to go work and write shit and upload photos after the show so I party at the Get Home Safe residence, better known as The Palace, and wind up passing out on a couch in a room with no windows and after consecutive days of basically not sleeping, the next thing I know, it's 2pm and I have no concept of time because it takes a minute for it to set in that it's Monday when I see that Bauce Sauce has dropped his "0 to 140" video, but I'm mostly thinking about how I don't even have a fucking ticket to see Drake and doors open in a couple hours, but I don't fret because Toronto is magical and everything works out and sure enough I'm eating a cornflake chicken sandwich at the Lakeview diner when, after agreeing to buy a ticket for $330 from a random online, I get a text from this amazing publicist that she has a free ticket for me and the day is saved.

Lauren is with a group of popular musicians from the city and we all chill for a second before everyone catches cabs and heads to the Molson Amphitheatre and every human in visible distance is wearing OVO gear and it feels we're on some distant planet where Drake is the benevolent dictator. In the first surprise of the night, Lauryn Hill takes the stage and Drake comes out nowhere, kicking off his set with "Draft Day." I know that all anyone at OVO Fest cares about is what guests Drake is bringing out, but that's corny to me. Fuck a surprise. That's not what a show is measured by. This dude has a half a decade's worth of hits and I'm losing my mind to every single one. In fact, the only time I chill and use the bathroom or get more drinks is when the guests like J. Cole and Usher are performing.

By the end, I'm exhausted. I feel like I just did P90x and how is it possible to feel any other way when "Trophies," "Worst Behavior," "Believe Me" and "0 to 100" are the records that close a show? I'm probably extremely embarrassing to those with me because I'm jumping around and pushing randoms and standing on chairs and screaming and pissing off boring couples who fucking hug the entire show instead of turning up and good because you don't go to see one of your favorite artists perform to do anything but lose your fucking mind anyway. I get a tweet from this person who I don't even know who must have spotted me and is like, "This guy Ernest Baker just started a riot in the aisle because of 0-100" and he isn't lying.

I head to the Eaton Chelsea Hotel where the Complex team is pumping out content and say goodbye to Lauren because she has an early flight then I go to Slava's office while he's writing some shit for Vice and I try to write some shit of my own but fail because I can't focus. Then I get a text asking me to come to The Weeknd's crib at the Trump for another party, but I decline because I know I'll probably die if I push it any further. But I have no regrets.

OVO Fest is about so much more than a Drake concert. It turns the city into a madhouse. I take full advantage, spending the better part of a week celebrating life and losing my mind and never thinking about the consequences. I wouldn't have it any other way. See you there next year.

Photo by Justin Hogan

Ernest Baker is a writer living in New York. Follow him on Twitter here.

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