The man in the orange protective jumpsuit spoke up for a third time: “This is going to be 10,000 gallons of propane fuel exploding. It’s not going to be over quickly. For 26 seconds, you are going to feel a continuous burn, like holding your hand over a bic lighter. Do not try to run away; there are lots of people and bicycles behind you. If you need to, stand and slowly turn your body, like a rotisserie cooker. At no time are you to run towards the flame!” I glanced around at my neighbors in the crowd; no one looked particularly eager to test the boundaries after that lengthy warning.
The final days of the Burning Man Festival were progressing in dramatic fashion, as usual. Tens of thousands had gathered this evening into a massive ring surrounding a hundred-foot wooden oil derrick, lured by the promise of a thousand-foot mushroom cloud. The art installation was entitled “Crude Awakening” and featured eight giant steel figures bowing in supplication to their beloved oil rig. For four nights, the hearts, eyes and hands of the thirty-foot sculptures pulsed with living fire, and from the platform atop the derrick one could gaze down upon schools of glowstick-lit bicycles and neon art cars as they streamed across the darkness of the playa, traversing between the distant night clubs of Black Rock City. But now the pyrotechnics were shut down, and from the safety perimeter, people waited impatiently for the biggest explosion ever attempted at Burning Man.
In my front row seat, I found myself contemplating scenes from nuclear warfare movies, where the closest bystanders to the explosion have their flesh melted from their very bones. A neighbor spoke of the 125-degree temperatures that emanated from the last large-scale sculpture to burn out on the playa, which I didn’t find very comforting. I recalled the nuclear bomb tests that occurred in similar Nevada deserts during the 1950s, and the apocalyptic images in my mind were reinforced when an air raid siren began to howl balefully, hushing the crowd.
Tension grew as trucks drove by, laden with smoke machines, which shrouded the sculptures in a dense fog. A barrage of fireworks broke the stressful atmosphere at last, and when the sparks from the final rocket winked out of existence, my situation didn’t feel quite so suicidal. Then the explosion happened. Four propane cannons unleashed their contents into the interior of the oil derrick at once, generating an immediate firestorm with a billowing mushroom cloud that ballooned high into the night sky. The blinding white light of the ignited propane struck our eyes first, and then the searing heat hit our skin, instantly vaporizing any moisture on our bodies. The sensation was heart-stopping, but over within mere seconds. The danger had been overstated, and from that point on we were able to relax and enjoy the spectacle of the tower as it was consumed by flames and toppled to the ground.
After a long night of dancing and a few hours of precious sleep, the desert sun drove me from my tent, and I ventured back out onto the playa to view the charred remains of the previous night’s demolition event. A massive tree was being hauled away from the site of “Crude Awakening” as I arrived. The artists had meant for it to be erected amongst the ashes of the oil derrick, but apparently the use of green vegetation hadn’t been cleared with all the members of the festival administration.
The steel human sculptures, in their various devotional poses, still remained, and I joined a few daring souls in climbing up their giant backsides. There was no lack of handholds within their recycled metal skin, but not many of the hoops and cables could be completely trusted. While I perched on a mohawked statue’s shoulder like some misplaced parrot, one of the original welders came up and warned me that the exoskeleton was not soldered on very strongly. But he never once tried to talk me down. Only in Nevada could we get away with publicly risking our lives without someone having a conniption over liability.
Black Rock City, the temporary civilization built over seven days, was rife with unsafe situations and structures… a hundred different things to climb and fall from. Just the desert itself constituted a hazardous environment, with its perils of sunstroke and dehydration. But the festival thrives because of the freedoms given to its participants, both artistically and experientially. And on signs scattered throughout the city, one can always find the tongue-in-cheek motto: “Safety Third!”
I never had a richer Burning Man moment than when I wandered away from the metal sculptures and found a circle of platform towers, from which hung an assortment of broken musical instruments. In a rectangular box leaning against one of the towers, I noticed the coiled strings of an upright piano and quickly discovered that when hammered like the skin of an African drum, they made a sound like a timpani crossed with an entire orchestral string section. My hands felt infused with the energy of the desert, and I felt like I was unleashing a storm-tossed symphony into the surrounding air. The powerful reverberations shook the perimeter of the enclave, compelling spectators to gather and dance atop the ring of towers.
Tips of ill-placed metal screws lacerated my hands and arms as I played, but I was having too much fun to care. With great reluctance, I ended the song and stepped away from the instrument. My hands were covered in blood, oil, ashes, dust, and bicycle chain grease, but I wasn’t too repulsive to receive a kiss of gratitude from a beautiful onlooker. Even the instruments here are dangerous, but if one can accept the risks, the music that spills off the rough and jagged edges can be as potent and magical as the desert itself.