The band Chicago was playing one of its biggest hits when it hit me just how long I’ve been coming here.
I was standing at the BMO Pavilion at Summerfest last summer, listening to “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is,” looking out over the crowd along the lakefront. I’d heard the band play it at Summerfest before – probably more than once.
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As I listened to the lyrics about time slipping by, I realized how much of my life has revolved around Summerfest for more than half a century. I was there at the first one in 1968 and have missed only two years since. My life – family, friendships, even parenthood – has unfolded around this festival on the Milwaukee lakefront.
When I think back on those early years, I see my mother beside me at the old Miller Jazz Oasis, soaking in the sun and music.
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It was the early 1970s, a bit before my teenage years. The days were hot and humid, with barely a breeze off the lake. A jazz ensemble would play on a stage decorated like a New Orleans Canal Street storefront, flower boxes in the windows. My mom – Dolores, though many of her friends called her Dolly – would sit back in her chair wearing a flowing scarf, oversized dark sunglasses and a blouse that sparkled in the sun, sipping a Miller High Life and occasionally puffing a Belair menthol.
Every so often she’d hand me a Choward’s Violet mint – the strange little purple candy she used to mask the smell of cigarettes before she quit. To this day, that sharp, perfumed taste brings the music rushing back: saxophones wailing, cymbals shimmering, people swaying with paper cups of beer and plates of greasy festival food.
I was a kid who otherwise might have been racing my Schwinn – with its high-rise handlebars and sparkly purple banana seat – through South Side alleys with my friends. But I loved sitting there with my mom, watching the crowd and listening to the bands.
She seemed to know everyone.
When a sharply dressed older woman walked by with a handsome man on her arm, my mom would nod and say, “Look at that. She’s got herself a live one.” When some poor guy danced awkwardly in front of the stage, she’d mutter, loud enough for nearby strangers to hear, “He’s a horse’s ass.” She had commentary for everything.
When the band finished a set, the speakers would play the Miller beer jingle – “If you’ve got the time, we’ve got the beer … Miller Beer!” – and my mom would lead me to the side of the stage, where she’d introduce me to the musicians.
Many she knew from the old days, when she and my dad owned a Walker’s Point bar called Kodric’s, a neighborhood place that hosted jazz in the 1950s. At Summerfest, she greeted pianists, guitarists and horn players like old friends, swapping stories and reminiscing about clubs and gigs.
What I didn’t realize then was how unusual it might have looked: my mom, a divorced Polish woman in her 40s, chatting easily with a diverse group of jazz musicians just a few years after Milwaukee’s racial tensions and civil rights marches of the late 1960s.
To me, it felt completely normal.
I didn’t know it then, but those afternoons were shaping how I would see Milwaukee – and, in many ways, the world.
The Early Years
SUMMERFAST BEGAN, in part, as a way to bring people together after the turbulent years of protests and unrest earlier in the decade. At first, before its permanent home was built in the early ’70s on a former Nike missile base, it consisted of events scattered around the city. Admission at the lakefront activities was 50 cents if you brought three 7-Up bottle caps. I was mostly interested in the carnival games and giveaways.
My older brother won patches from a racing game sponsored by American Motors; I had to settle for free stickers of AMX and Javelin sports cars. At the new festival grounds, Mayor Henry W. Maier, playing off Milwaukee’s German heritage and beer industry, would address the crowd, invoking a spirit of good cheer and fun sometimes called Gemütlichkeit. I remember him breaking into song a few times, belting out the “Summerfest Polka.” “Milwaukee, Milwaukee, Milwaukee … a happy place to be!”
My mom, of course, loved polkas – she was Polish, after all – and always stopped at the Pabst International Folk Festival Stage. But the Miller Jazz Oasis was where Dolores thrived. We saw big names like Woody Herman, Buddy Rich and her absolute favorite, pianist Ramsey Lewis. His hit “The ‘In’ Crowd” was, in many ways, her life’s soundtrack. She loved fancy restaurants, lively taverns and shows. Her adventurous spirit is definitely in my DNA.
When we stayed late, my mom and I would walk a couple of miles back to our home near the Allen-Bradley factory with its famous four-sided clock tower, the “Polish Moon.” We’d pass a slaughterhouse beneath the train bridges, and I’d peer in at cows that, I swear, had tears in their eyes.
My dad, Tony, who ran the bar, didn’t have the time or inclination to make Summerfest a habit. But I do remember going once with him and my stepmom, Mary. I talked them into buying me a weird, beret-like Pabst hat that I wore only a time or two before realizing it made me look like a dork. Tony often had to cut things short to get back to the tavern, but I look back on that day with affection – and a tinge of sadness.
It’s All About the Music
AS A KID, the music barely registered with me. That would change soon enough.
By the time I was a teenager roaming the grounds with friends, Summerfest had become something else entirely, a place where independence began, where music started to matter, and where Milwaukee summers felt full of promise.
A headlining Steve Miller concert at the old main stage in 1977 awakened me to the power of live music. I was 17 and went by myself, wandering through the chaotic, drug- and alcohol-soaked scene while Miller ripped through hit after hit: “The Joker,” “Fly Like an Eagle,” “Jet Airliner.” When Leslie West of the band Mountain joined him onstage for a few songs, the crowd went wild. Just like my mom at her jazz shows a few years earlier, I knew I had found my element.
- Hozier (2025): A two-hour-plus, sold-out set showcasing Hozier’s distinctive voice and songwriting – plus a few loose moments (joking about playing the wrong song, forgetting a belt). He also delivered a five-minute message on Palestine and Israel and thanked roughly 100 crew members at the show’s end.
- Halsey (2022): The show where I really felt my age, with fans screaming nonstop in my ear.
- The Killers (2019): A standout performance with huge sound – and a memorable moment when “Hannah from Milwaukee” was pulled onstage to play bass on “For Reasons Unknown.” And yes, she killed it.
- Jennifer Lopez (2019): Not my go-to musically, but she owned the stage with her energetic dance moves at age 50. Too bad that smoke from the nearby fireworks show briefly clouded the sight lines to the stage.
- Pink (2017): Spectacular. She sang while flying over the crowd in full acrobatic glory after a three-year touring break.
- Vance Joy (2015): My kids climbed onto a ledge to catch a glimpse of him singing “Riptide” at a packed U.S. Cellular Connection stage.
- Midnight Oil (2002): A ferocious set at the Potawatomi Stage. Frontman Peter Garrett – 6’4”, bald and relentless – bounded across the stage and into the crowd during “Beds Are Burning.”
- Spyro Gyra (early ’80s): A staple of our college radio crew’s Summerfest pilgrimages to the Jazz Oasis. We wore out their vinyl back at the station.
- Sigmund Snopek (’70s and beyond): A Summerfest fixture. I remember him from my teens singing “I Am the Walrus” – and many years later playing an alpenhorn for a group of seniors near a brat stand.
That same year, I saw Judas Priest with a high school metalhead buddy. I wasn’t a metal fan then or ever, but they were the hardest-rocking band I’d ever seen. I also caught the entire Atlanta Rhythm Section concert and still love their hit “So Into You.” It was an eclectic mix of styles during a beautiful summer of music and love. That year cemented my love of Summerfest, and there was no turning back.
Since then, I’ve had so many memorable Summerfest moments. I was in the front row when John Mayer joined Buddy Guy onstage in a rainstorm in 2007. I’ve seen injuries, too – Kelly Clarkson breaking her foot during her final song in 2012, and Barns Courtney shattering his foot in 2017 after leaping off the stage onto concrete. One year, my longtime Summerfest friend Dr. Ernie and I walked past a stage where the now-famous Milwaukee couple Lightning & Thunder – the subject of the recent Hollywood movie Song Sung Blue – were performing to a nearly empty venue while seeming to have a major argument in the middle of their set.
over the years. They’ve been attending Summerfest together for at least a few days every year since the early 1980s.
Then came 2015, when I saw what I still consider the greatest band ever to perform at Summerfest: the Rolling Stones. A buddy, John, and I mostly hung out on the walkway at the top of the amphitheater, enjoying our beer buzz while watching the Stones do their thing. We were old-timers by then, but still younger than Mick, Keith and much of the audience.
Anytime songs by the Stones or hundreds of other bands play on the radio, I’m quick to proclaim to friends and family: “Oh, I saw this group at Summerfest!” The usual reply? “We know, we know!”
But for all the acts I’ve seen, I still regret a few I missed. I should have gone to see Imagine Dragons at the Miller Lite Oasis in 2013, just as they were breaking big with “Radioactive.” And what the hell was I thinking when I skipped Prince – twice! – at Summerfest, in both 2001 and 2004? In 2008, a young Taylor Swift opened for Rascal Flatts. I wish I’d been there, if only so my daughters would be even more in awe when I list all the musicians I’ve heard over the years.
I also missed a few of the infamous moments. In 1970, Sly and the Family Stone played a chaotic show in front of more than 100,000 people that overwhelmed the new festival. I wasn’t there. I was 10. And no, I wasn’t at George Carlin’s 1972 show, when Milwaukee police arrested him for obscenity after his “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television” routine. Nor was I at the Humble Pie concert the following year, when a riot broke out, beer tents were stormed, bonfires were lit and 300 people were arrested. My older brother Karl, who was 17 in 1973, was there and mysteriously came home with an ice cream scooper from one of the overrun vendors. No questions were asked.
College Days
IN HIGH SCHOOL, as I gained independence and forged friendships, Summerfest helped define my musical tastes. Later, during my college years at UW–La Crosse, I planned group road trips around it, and everyone would stay at my mom’s house. Dolores would laugh at my weird friends, including the one who slept on the kitchen floor wrapped in a small rug in front of the refrigerator.
Those were fun years. At one fest, my college friends and I walked around with giant towers of empty beer cups balanced on our heads. For a few summers, we sneaked into amphitheater shows with fake hand stamps drawn by one of our artistic friends – that ended when bar-coded wristbands arrived. Then there was the year beers hit 90 cents and we all walked around with pockets full of dimes.
The old manhole cover at the Miller Oasis was our meeting place. There was the rowdy group of nurses my buddy Dr. Ernie introduced me to. And, of course, there were years of dancing with strangers on picnic tables and bleacher seats, the music blaring, the lake breeze cutting through the heat.
One of my prized possessions is a well-worn Summerfest T-shirt with the lines “Find a stage. Grab a beer. Dance on a table.” on the back. I sometimes wonder if Summerfest stopped selling those for liability reasons. The old “Smile On” shirts are definitely the safer choice.
I think of past girlfriends I took to Summerfest, mostly with regret. One year, I was dating a woman from Florida who came with me and delivered this verdict: “What’s the big deal? It’s just a big festival with music and beer.” That relationship didn’t last.
Some memories are just plain bizarre. I think of the two young New Jersey women, complete with big hair, whom I met at a concert in New York. I invited them to Summerfest to see the BoDeans, and they actually showed up. I didn’t even know their last names. When they weren’t on the flight they said they’d be on, I went back to the airport to check a later arrival – and there they were. It all worked out, although Dr. Ernie’s wife, who let us all stay at their house, still teases me about inviting big-haired Jersey girls I barely knew to spend the weekend there.
After college, my journalism career took me to daily newspapers in Wisconsin and Florida. I kept studying, too, earning an M.A. in journalism from Ohio State and a Ph.D. in mass communication from Indiana University. But no matter where I lived, I planned my summers around Summerfest.
Raising Summerfest Kids
THIS YEAR, Summerfest celebrates its 58th anniversary, and I’ll mark my 56th visit. I missed one while traveling in China and Vietnam, and another while doing research in Nicaragua, where I met Yadira, the woman who would become my wife.
Yadira and I have two daughters: Kalia, born in Nicaragua in 2001, and Bianka, born in Colorado in 2005. In 1999, I accepted a position as a professor at Colorado State University (a job I still hold) in part because an academic calendar allowed for summer flexibility – and road trips to Milwaukee for Summerfest.
Some of my most meaningful Summerfest memories come from sharing this experience across generations. As a kid, I watched Ron Fable the Magician at the children’s stage. Decades later, I found myself there again with my own daughters, watching essentially the same show. There’s something unexpectedly profound about that kind of overlap, as if time folds in on itself for a moment.
In 2004, when Kalia was 3, I took her to see the Australian band Jet. They had a hit at the time, “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” that I used to crank up on the radio and sing to her. The Briggs & Stratton stage was packed, so I put her on my shoulders and she sang along.
Thirteen years later, in 2017, she and I went to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers on opening night of Summerfest’s 50th anniversary. We danced on the lawn near the top of the amphitheater in a torrential rainstorm while lightning flashed overhead. That may have been Kalia’s own Steve Miller moment. Since then, she’s returned on her own and with friends to see bands like Bon Iver and Mt. Joy. Mission accomplished.
When my younger daughter Bianka was 11 in 2016, we had our own memorable moment. It was another rainy evening. As a student violist, she wanted to see Black Violin. But we also wanted to see Passion Pit at the Miller Lite Oasis. And I wanted to catch Joe Jackson at the Uline Warehouse stage and The Record Company. Black Violin and The Record Company were both under the covered Johnson Controls Stage, so we could have stayed put.
But we didn’t, and we got drenched moving from stage to stage. At one point, I saw that maintenance workers had just emptied a garbage can and put in a clean, dry liner. I grabbed it and draped it over Bianka, ignoring her protests. She still talks about the “traumatic” moment when I made her wear a trash bag. Yet like Kalia, she now makes road trips to Summerfest with friends to see bands like Smash Mouth.
We’ve attended lots of shows as a family, but the standout might be Katy Perry’s “California Dreams” show during Summerfest 2011. Giant lollipops and cupcakes, and Perry’s bawdy, bubbly princess persona, had the girls – and Yadira and me – jumping and screaming out of our seats. It was one of the most fun family shows we ever shared.
After more than a quarter-century with me, Yadira still isn’t much of a Summerfest fan. She complains about the crowds and the endless walking from stage to stage. These days, she rarely goes unless it’s for a major concert by somebody familiar. And I’m OK with that. I’ve come to appreciate the freedom.
The Meaning of Life (at Summerfest)
AS THE YEARS WENT BY and my mom grew older, I became the one taking her to Summerfest. The last pilgrimage we made together was around 2009, when Dolores was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. My wife, daughters and I brought her along.
At one point, she told us she was going to get a beer, and I watched her head toward the nearest stand. Since it wasn’t far, I figured she’d be fine. But after a few minutes, I couldn’t see her. Fortunately, a nice couple sitting next to us had kept an eye on her and pointed her out as she wandered through the crowd, sipping her beer. I sent the kids to bring her back and thanked the couple.
Once she settled in, looking a little bemused, she told us she knew where she was going and we didn’t need to worry. Maybe I’d told her the same thing at that first Summerfest in 1968, when I was testing out my own independence. Now I was the one restraining hers. Life comes full circle, doesn’t it?
Now, nearing retirement, I’m still making the trip back every summer, inviting friends along for the ride. When I was young, I never wanted to become one of those older people I saw wandering around Summerfest. Yet here I am.
Summerfest has always been a place of chance encounters. Over the years, I’ve shared tables, conversations and makeshift thunderstorm shelters with people I’d never met before and would never see again. That was part of the appeal – the sense that anything could happen on a given night. Sometimes it led to friendships, sometimes to stories that made sense only in the moment, and sometimes just to a good laugh with a stranger standing nearby, like the guy a couple years ago wearing the exact same pink flamingo shirt as me. Of course we had to embrace and take a selfie.
The festival has changed – just as I have. There were the early years of muddy grounds and sudden summer downpours, when everyone scrambled for cover. Later came polished walkways, bigger stages and new formats. There were years of crowded restrooms, rowdy crowds and spectacular opening-night fireworks. There were quieter moments, too: sitting on a bench, watching the crowd pass, listening to music drift from one stage to another.
The longer I’ve been going to Summerfest, the more I realize what it has really given me – a way to mark time. Not in years or milestones, but in memories, some loud and chaotic, others quiet and fleeting. When Bianka was about 8, a slightly drunk woman stopped us in the crowd and told her how lucky she was. “My mom used to take me every year,” she said. It was a small, passing interaction, but it stayed with me. That’s how Summerfest works – moments like that surface and linger.
And then there are the people you notice but never quite meet, like the frail woman in a purple jacket I saw wandering the grounds year after year, always looking for something on the ground. I never asked what she was searching for. One year, she simply wasn’t there anymore.
The music is always the draw, of course. But it’s everything around it – the people, the rituals, the randomness – that has made Summerfest more than just a festival to me.
It feels like a life.
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Five Tips for Summerfest
Just go. Go with your parents, your friends, your kids. Even if the music doesn’t grab you yet, it will. These are the moments you’ll remember – and they go by faster than you think.
Have a plan. Then ignore it. Schedule a few bands, sure. But leave room to wander. Follow the music drifting across the grounds or the lake breeze pulling you in a new direction. The best discoveries are unplanned.
Trust that it will be there. No matter where life takes you, Summerfest will be waiting back home – familiar, a little different every year, and full of possibility.
Take it all in. The crowds, the chaos, the quiet moments by the water. Watch people. Talk to strangers. Let the mix of cultures, music and energy shape how you see the world.
Stay young at it. Don’t rush past this part of life. Summerfest gives you something to look forward to every year – a reason to return, to remember and to feel, even for a night, like you’re experiencing it all for the first time.
