It all comes down to otherworldly adjectives. Witchy. Ethereal. Pixie-like. Call it what you want, but if the high number of weeping, dancing, and otherwise hysterical females in attendance at Monday night’s Florence and the Machine show at The Hollywood Bowl was any indication, one thing’s for certain—frontwoman Florence Welch does have some kind of power.

Being at a Dan Deacon concert is like being at a kid’s birthday party made for adults. Only instead of a clown making balloon animals, the crowd is treated to a bearded man with oversized glasses screaming voice modulated squeals into a microphone while shaking his hand in front of him like he’s flicking water into someone’s face.

“Sorry I had to have you seated,” said chamber pop visionary Patrick Wolf to Wednesday night’s packed-out crowd at The Old Vic Theatre in London. “I didn’t want anyone to fall over from boredom.”

Øya, day four. The best way to avoid jet lag is to never sleep—but by this point I was experiencing a new sensation: festival lag. On the way to the day’s events, I passed a man in the hotel lobby, sleeping soundly in a small nest of beanbag chairs. He is my spirit animal.

On day three of Øya my logical side took over. Sure, the festival grounds still felt like the Mecca of rock (and pop), but why was I so ready to swap my American passport for a Norwegian one?

I had a thought while eating dinner last night: it’s nice to cover a festival with food options that involve something other than eating a pile of grease. Among other such deep revelations I also saw Philco Fiction, Baroness, John Maus, Frank Ocean, St. Vincent, Ane Brun, and Björk.

Welcome to the first official day of the Øya Festival—or as I like to call it: shock the American. Check out reviews from the day including: Sondre Lerche, Willis Earl Beal, Oberhofer, Thurston Moore, Friends, Florence and The Machine, Feist, Stone Roses, and Purity Ring.

Greetings from Norway where—swaddled in a cozy/confusing fog of jetlag—I’ll be spending the next five days taking in Olso’s fourteenth annual Øya Festival. Today I caught: Making Marks, Einar Stray, and Disaster in the Universe.

There’s something about being able to walk through the familiar streets of a town you live in, the final destination a music festival. Parking in the same lot you do each day for work, walking toward the Ohio River, but knowing the familiar Waterfront Park will be transformed, decked out in a music lover’s heavenly village. Five stages, a bourbon lounge (this is Kentucky, after all), and a slew of really ridiculous fish floats on sticks that a strange army of festival volunteers carries around throughout the day.