Mariaville – After two years of mayhem, packed houses and parking lot roadways much speculation took place that local residents would finally stand and say enough was enough. In the end townsfolk decided they’d rather have greenbacks than three more sleepy days.
Learning from their mistakes, the event’s planners mostly solved one of the event’s overarching issues threatening future gatherings. Rural New York infrastructure unable to absorb explosive growth over the last four years resulted in freeway style congestion for miles in every direction. A further year of reflection brought enlightenment.
Announcing Wednesday evening entry alleviated congestion and dispersed arrivals considerably. Many biscoers journey, driving from Florida and Oklahoma, others flying in. 
Dodging police tucked away along roadsides, sundown found a full lot waiting. Biker’s own and operate the land where festivities occur. Respect is advisable. Cars ransacked, contraband confiscated as progress ceased.
Not purchasing the car camping pass proved correct as the Ottawa chieftain rolled to a halt on prime real estate. So much for walk in camping. Wednesday night proved soggy into Thursday’s wee hours, participants providing the early entry womps.
A clear dawn, everyone gushing over a rainless forecast. Realists reminded everyone it always rains here.
Arrivals kept appearing, pushing toward the back boundaries along gravel roads. 
Smatterings of sound drifting every which way endlessly. A thankfully shorter stroll main stageward found Inspired Flight cutting the ribbon on Camp XI. Downtempo beats blending smoothly into indie trip hop.
Some quick Kung Fu and a B.I.G. tent crowded with ten months of pent up energy. The M Machine set the air shivering, throbbing bass crushing those gathered.
Broke out regretfully early to hand over a ticket at the gate to our late arrival. Striding across former fairways found an impossible story, empty painted lines where last year’s gridlock took place. Overnight access cleaning up the mess. Good work.
Other pursuits and refreshment missed Rubblebucket to the sadness of all. Trekking back downhill through the beverage confiscation checkpoint toward Canadian insanity caught the second half of wompstep duo Zeds Dead shimmering ozone. Dubstep was quickly becoming the word of the weekend, but as the far stage lapsed into silence madness began.
the following images were captured with a disposable camera whilst being thrashed
Two twenty somethings, distortion and loud speakers took over as Ethan Kath and Alice Glass entered stage rear. Known for their frenzied live performances, the hope twas por a late night set. Instead a darkening Thursday afternoon had to suffice.
The pair better known as Crystal Castles have blossomed along with the rest of the suddenly mainstream electronic music scene. Kath supplies the maestration that allows Alice Glass to dance, drink, crowd surf and belt lyrics wildly through the marvels of modern technology.
Upsettingly short, a forty five minute set left many wanting more. Drowning Jack while moving between vocals and instruments to Kath’s relentless electric orchestration, Alice provided a memorable moment before attention flipped stage left.
Wunderkind Corey Feldman update Skrillex returned to womp. Thousands pressed forward, hired security stood as a bastion, protecting the higher class of citizen enjoying VIP viewing. Fought backward through the drops, vacated space rapidly absorbed in our wake. People love this guy.
Escaped the masses to head uphill for Virtual Boy. Never managed to make it, hordes and fences shut tight for traffic.
Managing the flow of patrons, musicians, support staff and media between five stages requires coordination. Larger dance tents and moving one alleviated old problems while creating new and unforeseen.
Darkness quickly closed in as the hosts were waited out. Ceased conscious thought accidentally once more before waking to stars with a start. Bleary wanderings found a seemingly inebriated Porter Robinson yelling into the mic over confused beats.
Collapse amidst the quieting murmurs of predawn in preparation for a second day. 
Radiance piercing thin lids and turning tent into convection oven brought a stagger into the light. A sea of tightly packed tents and plastic cages that happened to roll. Our abused shelter remained aloft at least, duct tape tightly wrapping the many snapped struts cheap goods produce.
Morning thwomps and neighbors, waiting until an echoing sound check set things in motion once more. Finally managed to catch one of those acts that’s always somewhere you are, but you never catch the opener or are at another stage or off doing something else… Anyhow Mux Mool opened the daily festivities.
Heavy, humid air hung above the gathering. Breeze pushing in from the west carried more. Hazy sunshine for to start a day.
Walking through the adjacent tent toward the main stages resulted in participation in the weekend’s only interactive performance. Rich Aucoin and band captivated with the crazed professionalism indie rock was once about.
Providing a respite from the mostly continuous electronic throttling, Aucoin took a break from his keyboard to get down with the crowd. A splendidly smaller visitor’s gallery for the early afternoon antics moved with the performer.
A siting of borrowed nostalgia from the unremembered ’80s, young’uns who weren’t there starting to collect enough paper to attract marketing.
Hosting a crowd that’s seemed to grow younger every year, Bisco always welcomes home thousands of returning revelers while accepting the waving dollars of newcomers. Preventing some problems before they continued, the show’s promoters banned those under sixteen years of ages. Should’ve just said eighteen and been done with it, keep a few young men out of trouble.
Providing substance in the Ferris wheel’s shadow, Cinder Block Hustle returned with an expanded presentation. In addition to artistic offerings for the tasteful improvement of one’s domicile the group contributed much needed seating, lighting and large scale artwork for the betterment of the community.
Further improving the ambiance a large group of uhmerican folk art adorned the lawn surrounding their space. Heroes, monsters and regular folk side by side.
Filling to capacity as folks with jobs and other real life responsibilities filtered in finish occupying space, no official announcement heard about a sell out, but every fairway was street to treeline. Late afternoon with the main area awash in commerce and large amps.
Orchard Lounge between wandering through other unknown sonic offerings and window shopping among the relentless hawking by vendors of all stripes. Dragged the rest back 
uphill after babbling for weeks about a young woman caught on stage late / early one day at the Gramercy.
A spectacular style of intermingled beats and live vocals fusing to produce a unique glitch womp sound. Melding a slue of the rapidly evolving sects of electronica ill-esha spiraled elegantly through a mellowly upbeat set slightly spoiled by sabotaging her rhythm every track or two to sell. Already paid to see you miss, just flow.
Tough decisions at any multistage show. Missed the hip hop headliner for the Canadian songstress. Moseying outside for air caught Big Boi’s bus fleeing the scene moments after his set / gettin’ paid. Too many crazy white folk prolly.
Referencing our handy dandy notebook led to nowhere. Cancellation of Shpongle’s reappearance sans reasoning brought together members of several outfits for a very special bisco performance.
Emancipator involved members from four acts while incorporating what seemed like far more performers and some wigged dancers.
Unable to replace the psychedelic experimentation of Mr. Posford, the act grew through collaboration to fill shoes splendidly. String, sax, electronic ministrations and verse swirling through a packed audience into dark.
Off into pooling darkness to see what was to see. There is no better place to drop some gear and gain fans in the Northeast than this weekend in July. Some made the most of an opportunity, impromptu gatherings vying for attention across the grounds.
Revving engines and forceful cries to clear the road as the latest casualty rolled past toward biker central and the medic station. A young, mostly naive crowd, lots of mystery powder and pills circulating quickly spells problems.
‘merica’s drug war wages on for all the wrong reasons in all the wrong ways. Instead of concentrating fire on the things really endangering our youth, chemicals & pharmaceutical laboratory concoctions, a blanket policy of fear mongering, repression and inhumane brutality destroys lives daily while allowing crooked law officers to act with near impunity.
In the midst of this some people work toward intelligent drug reform, educating adults and allowing them to make choices (you know the point 
of this nation). The Bunk Police returned to camp with a name, hand outs and fame gained from a year touring. Helping people realize what’s actually going in their body.
Stopped to watch a friend blow before an accidental collapse meant none of Amon Tobin’s sound art and madness that apparently left many attendees confused. Woke to rain drops and roars of bass drifting downhill. Half alive for Mimosa’s end.
A soggy night before morning sunshine. Roused half soaked in a puddle. Hurriedly tarping a tent during the land grab phase left something to be desired. Run off from surrounding shelters too. Righted the sinking ship of a canopy, a liquidy gush for earth.
One in the afternoon and El Ten Eleven after drying out somewhat. Light crowds allowing ease of movement that would soon evaporate. Something to be said for real instruments in a sea of electronic parlor tricks as the present maestro noted. An interesting two piece.
Actually ate while enjoying the morning. Conferred with those up and about, taking advantage of the mid summer gathering to check the pulse.
Drawing a fairly diverse group of individuals due to camp’s history and mix of genres, high schoolers and professionals lying about their weekend came together once more. The 
continued growth of a burgeoning festival scene in the states helps attract new blood to upstate new york each year. Bisco’s reputation creates trepidation for many considering attending while attracting the best and worst of the electronic dance music world.
Sifting through the webshite’s visitor data in the weeks prior to bisco part eleven highlighted what people really want to know. Needed a laugh.
Fighting the current upstream through a moderately expanded cattle chute found a smashingly dressed gentlemen throwing down. Paul Chambers presented an updated take on the world of techno a la the 1990s. His aptly titled recent work “Future Techno From The Past” 
describes it best.
Cancellation next door and a mostly empty tent. Sat a while to watch the folks who make it all happen tear down and rebuild.
Late afternoon and the sale of Saturday tickets brought the weekend’s largest crowds. Between the Very Important viewing areas a sea of arms swayed.
Managed to finally see another long time favorite, Minnesota hip hop taking charge. Atmosphere laid down hits and tracks unknown during an energetic, crowd oriented set. While caucasian rhymeslayers have grown in the back alleys of hip hop in recent years this pair’s longevity in industry is praiseworthy.
Attempting to spit longer than his allotted segment Slug found the mic cut mid word. Electricity’s a bitch. Fought to escape the press.
Hydration and a crazy british Rednek fill in self promoting while the prefab tracks clacked away on a macbook. Relentless womps for a hour.
Merrily rolling toward conclusion, sunset graced the backdrop one more time.
Awash in Big Gigantic waiting for the dreadlocked man to queue up. Darkening skies as the crowd gathered endlessly before its’ altar. A saxophone finale and time to go, roar growing as the man many had waited to see powered up.
Taping something stupid to a stick with duct tape and waving it around was at the height of popularity as mr. nectar’s set commenced. Bringing the conglomeration that’s continued to sell out concert halls, popular music new & old converged with original musick and well timed womps, producing spectacular.
Twenty minutes in sound cut out suddenly, blamed on a wonky mixer. For one of the largest names in electronica Bassnectar has a disproportionately high amount of technical difficulties. For the second time in three years things ground to a halt, crowd milling uncomfortably. Eyes welled after three days of waiting at friends’ request to get away as problems continued. Mystically correcting itself after numerous attempts, the set spiralled onward unchecked. Apparently handed the mixer to a kid in the crowd afterward.
A final set by the house band and a crammed tent for Dillon Francis dropping some L.A. on the new york shcene.
Managed to retain conciousness through A-Trak, but finally said the end before Simian Mobile Disco took over. No one likes a quitter, but after three ceaseless days exhaustion is reality.
All in all another successful summoning despite a well publicized death (when 20,000+ come together someone expiring becomes a statistical inevitability, time to move on). A little younger and tamer as dubstep firmly took over, another music scene rapidly morphs along with the rest of a nation in flux. Once protecting itself through secrecy and handshake hugs, the future of a formerly underground subset grapples with the issues created by a rapid burst into the mainstream.
Woke up to find the car wouldn’t start. Packed and watched exodus. Waited four hours for the tow to show surrounded by a sea of refuse and intact gear abandoned by children wealthy enough to simply buy more.
bass drops
Managed to survive the second largest event of this calendar’s year again. A few days respite as a guest lodger before reassignment to abide in a rented room as a digging machine in hell jersey. A few more days and the volume crept up on the world at large once more.
Four months later winter waxes adjacent to another summer’s moments racing away, still trying to take part in every moment’s possibility.
