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Violent misfits or harmless horrorcore fiends? One writer delves deep into Juggalo territory for the answer.
Like a lot of people, back in July my friend Derek and I stumbled upon a 15-minute YouTube video advertising this year’s Gathering of the Juggalos, the annual outdoor music festival organized by the Detroit-based “horrorcore” rap group Insane Clown Posse in downstate Illinois. It looked as if the Juggalos were pulling out all the stops. It wasn’t just that the ad promised 120 musical acts over four days. Or that it boasted a late-night comedy lineup featuring Pauly Shore and Jimmie “J.J.” Walker. Oh, no. What blew our minds were the side attractions.
“Dudes on stilts!” the video promised. “Ninjas juggling fire! Crazy helicopter rides! A human cannonball! Magicians and hypnotists walking around that bitch!” We were almost convinced. And then, a voice on the video boomed, “GROW SOME MOTHERFUCKING BALLS AND GET THERE!”
So we got out a map. The Gathering was taking place at Cave-in-Rock, Illinois, right on the Ohio River. We could drive there in less than six hours. Next, we called ICP’s record label, Psychopathic Records. Yes, of course they’d be happy to give us press passes. Finally, as luck would have it, Derek and I were both unemployed. Which is how it came to pass that we grew some motherfucking balls and went to the Gathering.
Who are the Juggalos? They exist all over the world, but most of them are kids from economically depressed Midwestern towns. They’re predominantly working class, limited in their education and fully aware they were born holding the short end of the stick. Twenty-five years ago they might have been really into Black Flag. Having missed that golden cultural moment, they’ve instead immersed themselves in a nihilistic subculture combining all the worst elements of hip-hop, metal and slasher movies. They wear lots of clown makeup. And every summer, thousands of them converge on some secluded, unfortunate township to pound liquor and fuck each other. In the words of ICP cofounder Violent J, “It’s sort of what I imagine it’s like for Muslims to visit the holy land of Mecca.”
I’ve never been to Mecca, but I have been to the Gathering and therefore feel comfortable suggesting a few distinctions between the two. First, I don’t think most Muslims will show you their tits or their junk in exchange for, say, a cigarette. I also doubt there’s ever been a Muslim who completed the hajj while dressed in a T-shirt that says IT AIN’T RAPE IF IT’S DEAD. And I can’t imagine Mecca is the sort of place where a carny will sell you a jumbo turkey leg he calls the Bitch Beater because “it’s so big, if you hit a bitch with it, she ain’t gettin’ back up.”
That doesn’t mean Juggalos are bad people. Sure, more than a few are assholes (such as the Juggalo who told me, unprovoked, that he’d just finished fucking my mother in a toilet), but by and large, they’re actually kind of sweet. Nerdy, even. One Juggalo at this year’s Gathering, an amateur wrestler from Ohio, was incredibly stoked to find out that the Predator—“the real Predator from the movie!”—was going to appear onstage during Ice Cube’s opening-night set. Another, from outside Joliet, had a whole routine of Juggalo jokes: “What do you swim with when you go swimming in the lake-a-lo? The fish-a-los!”
But when Juggalos get together—and this year’s Gathering attracted an estimated 20,000—they’re a handful. Cave-in-Rock is one of only two locations in the Gathering’s ten-year history willing to host it more than once (Nelson Ledges in Ohio is the other). One longtime attendee explained why the Juggalos weren’t invited back to Peoria after the 2002 Gathering: “This ’lette was showing her titties. And this cop was like, ‘Nah, stop showing your titties,’ and she didn’t. So this cop pinned her up against the wall with a nightstick, and all the Juggalos that were there surrounded the cop, beat the shit out of him. They called in the riot squad, shot tear gas, rubber bullets—a couple Juggalos lost eyes.”
Juggalos are a self-policing bunch, but they swear across the board that at least at the Gathering, beef is nonexistent. “It’s all about the family,” we were told over and over again. “You could come here with no money,” one guy suggested, “ask 150 Juggalos for a dollar and put together enough for a ticket.” Basically, if you’re down, you’re down, and if you’re not, you’re irrelevant. To Juggalos, “Fuck the World” isn’t just the name of an ICP song, it’s a creed.
We spent a grand total of six hours over two days among the Juggalos before we finally cried uncle. On our way out, we asked a Juggalette from Hell, Michigan—a town with a population of less than 300—if she felt like an outcast back home. “Oh, no,” she said. “There must be 30 or 40 Juggalos in Hell.”
Based on our experience, I’d say there’s a lot more than that.
