I Slept in a Car for My First Music Festival. I was 11.

I Slept in a Car for My First Music Festival. I was 11.

BATON ROUGE, La. — Memory doesn’t always return in order. Sometimes, it comes in bass lines. I’m driving alone through Louisiana, the heat leaking through my open windows, my Mini Cooper’s disco ball swinging gently from the rearview mirror. I’m on my way to Shreveport —  I woke up nostalgic and queued up my “born in the ’90s” playlist. My tattooed fingers are tapping the steering wheel, and suddenly — as if on cue — My Chemical Romance’s “Welco…