Bonnaroo '09: Day 4

"Jane says ... I'm gonna start tomorrow, I'm gonna kick tomorrow ... gonna kick tomorrow."

-Jane's Addiction, Jane Says





Vivid dreams filled my sleep. Kaleidoscoped images of the last three jam-packed days played on my closed eyelids like a movie screen. I saw a midget on stilts. A massive steel stove pipe, shaped like a clown, spouting fire. Belly dancers, hula-hoopers, naked women painted like butterflies and leopards, and a seven foot bearded hippie holding a sign claiming he was a spiritual shaman. Visions of the concerts played back as if on fastforword. It was sensory overload and then blackness as I left REM and entered Delta Sleep.

I didn't wake up until after 1 p.m., 06/14/09 and neither did anyone else in my group. We had most certainly missed Cage the Elephant. Lame. I was sore all over from sleeping on the ground the entire weekend and from walking the miles upon miles we had criss-crossed on our endeavors. I crawled out of the tent and stretched for a good 20 minutes to get my blood circulating. Slowly, the rest awoke and over a meager breakfast of whatever was left, they told me of their escapades. Dylan's, Steve's and Janis' story was the funniest.

"We were on our way to Wilco," Dylan said, smoking cigarettes like a freight train. "There was this large work truck parked, still running, next to some food stand. Out of nowhere, this kid, no older then 17, comes tearing through with three security guards in tow. He hops into the cab of the truck, chugs the rest of his beer, crossess himself, puts the vehicle in gear, and takes off onto one of the back access roads. The guards just look at each other like dumbasses. The leader began squawking into his walkie talkie as they gave chase. All of it happend right in front of us. Fucking classic!"

I had to agree. Let's hope the joyrider got away. I'd been hyping The Boss the whole ride down, so I asked Steve his thoughts on the show.

"Huge," he said candidly.

While we exchanged laughs and remembered anecdotes, my thoughts became privately reflective. I wasn't in over my head anymore; I was just starting to feel at home, but this was our last day in paradise. Someone wiser than I, once said, "experience is something you don't get until just after you need it." Now, I knew exactly what they meant. Finding myself dreading our return to the real world (of jobs, bills, and obligations), I poured a stiff Bacardi and Sprite. Despite the late start, today was going to be a blow-out no matter what!

Everyone was pretty much spent from yesterday, but I was ready to go, wanting to get to a show. Citizen Cope played Which Stage at 2:15, and he was one of my top-5 must-sees. No one else was as keen on seeing him as I was so we agreed to meet at This Tent at 3:30. I packed my things for the day and took off, on my own again. As I made my way along Shakedown, one of my favorite Rolling Stones' songs, Give Me Shelter, was blaring from an anonymous stereo. It was a truly retro-moment, as I imagined the energy of Woodstock and other festivals past being channeled through me.

Citizen Cope was just how I pictured him, laid back and smooth. He came out in a charcoal gray suit with no tie, playing a standard, powder blue Fender Stratocaster. His voice reminded me of a more soulful John Mayer, and he seemed a little bit shy on stage, talking very little or not at all between songs. I credited his aloofness to the mellow tunes and the large crowd. He broke into my favorite track, Bullet & A Target early, with the crowd clapping along to the beat. Later he brought out a truly gifted female vocalist who was part Beyonce and part Mary J. Blige. I walked to meet my friends with Let the Drummer Kick reverberating behind me.

After a short wait, I saw them walking towards me. I was happy to be part of the group again but still couldn't help feeling a small bit of regret that I wouldn't be solo today. It took an adjustment, after a nearly a full 24-hrs alone yesterday. Since we were already at the proper place, we decided to watch Robert Earl Keen, one of the great American story tellers of all-time. He was large, as most everything from Texas is, and he was wearing a 12-gallon cowboy hat. In his Southwest accent he wove yarns of Leaving Tennessee and living off money from tip jars. It was like a country-western Jimmy Buffett had taken the stage.

Not a huge fan of country music, Dylan was itching to check out Andrew Bird across the way. Always in the spirit to try new things and hear new music I decided to join him. Firsts is what Bonnaroo is all about. Bird's stage had the most bizarre set up yet. It was an organized clutter of instruments, phonographs, and various other musical machines. He played his violin beautifully. Its pretty and peaceful melodies, looped via his various contraptions were a pleasure to my ear. He seemed at ease with his guitar, too. I would brand it pot-smoking, mood music. Apparently it was his drummer's birthday as well and during a break in the music he led the crowd in an a cappella version of Happy Birthday.

"You're all like one big person," he said after we had finished. "One really cool person."

We left before the end to catch yet another living legend, Merle Haggard. Now I wouldn't classify myself as a country music fan by today's standards, but I have grown to love the legends of the genre. Names like Johnny Cash, Townes Van Zandt, and Willie Nelson come to mind. Merle's name also belongs on this list. Their breed of Outlaw Country will forever remain timeless. He came out in an off-white cowboy hat and jet black sun-glasses. Before introducing himself and his band, The Strangers, he led a stirring version of Mr.Cash's Folsom Prison Blues.

At some points in the show, ten people cluttered the stage, all of whom played second fiddle to Merle's fiddler. He seemed like a man possessed, bounding around with his bow waving at incredible velocity, all hercky-jerky. It was in total contrast to Andrew Bird's controlled, methodical approach to playing. Momma Tried, followed by Going to Jackson (his back up female guitar player sang June Carter's part) were the other highlights. That, and the man himself, who was smooth as silk, sweet talking the crowd the whole time.

All at once it hit me. Bonnaroo was like some giant zoo, but for music. The acts were the animals, the stages acting as the cages. The inhabitants of this music zoo were just as varied and exotic as the creatures that dwell in any wildlife park around the country. They had handlers, spectators, and specifically timed appearances, just like the animals. Sometimes I don't even know where I came up with this shit, blame it on the alcohol and drugs.

Before making one the hardest decisions of the trip, we watched Haggard finish up with Proud to be an Okie from Muskogee. Next came the dilemma. Snoop Dogg was on What Stage at 6 and Band of Horses was playing at Which Stage at 6:30. I had loved Snoop and his music for a long time, but had never seen him perform. I had just recently gotten hip to BOH and had never seen them in person either. A river of people was flowing to the main stage to catch the Dogfather, plus it was already 6:15, and he hadn't started. We pow-wowed and made the executive decision that we would get a better view and show from Band of Horses.

I never wanted to be two places at once more but settled on staying with my friends, for a change. We set up shop and waited for them to start. A surprisingly large crowd had gathered despite the loud bass infused beats thumping from the main stage. The band came out looking like the classic 70's Southern rock 'n' roll cliche'; tight vintage pants, embroidered button down shirts and designer shades. Three of them were sporting full beards as well. I was not yet impressed. I would soon be blown away.

The sun was setting in the West, casting an amber orange and yellow light on the stage adding to the ambiance. Where we were standing, it was to our back but unfortunately for the guys in the band, it was glaring right at eye level.

"We need that to go away," the lead singer said pointing to the sun. "I can't hardly see anything!" He was tall and rail thin. He played a slide guitar and his vocal was surprising strong and eerily haunting, especially on Is There a Ghost. The reverb they used draws comparisons to My Morning Jacket. If they toured together (how sick would that be) you'd be dead pressed to tell the lead singers apart blindfolded.

On several songs they broke down wonderful vocal harmonies with little or no instrumental accompaniment. Great Salt Lake was amazing, but they brought the house down with The Funeral. It was already my favorite song but when the heavy guitar came in, and they all went nuts, chills ran down my spine. These guys were very serious. By the end of their encore I had officially eclipsed mild fascination and become a hardcore fan. I was still upset I missed Snoop, but I already knew I loved his stuff. If I hadn't stayed I might never have grown to fully appreciate Band of Horses. Besides, the D-O double gizzle tours all over, and I wouldn't pass him up a second time, at any price.

After the show we ate more carnival fare for dinner and made our way to What Stage for the last shows of the trip. Phish was closing it out with two full concerts, and I was mildly excited for no other reason than I heard they were great to trip to, and I had a handful of Shrooms left. Janis and Steve had saved theirs specifically for this show (hardcore fans, closet hippies) so together we gobbled down the rest of the hallucinogens. We were off, and there was no turning back. We sat down, securing our spot. Not even 10 minutes passed before someone, obviously twisted on LSD, walked by babbling some nonsense.

"Does anyone have any chicken wings?" he asked. "Earlier I was looking exclusively for pigeon wings, but now I must have chicken wings." He walked on repeating this to whomever would listen. Only at The Roo.

Before I even get to the show, I have to explain some things about Phish, their sub-culture of fans, and festivals in general. Jam bands are the bread and butter of festivals and festival people, aka people who travel the country all season long going from event to event. Phish is the jam band to end all jam bands, and their cult following pursues them wherever they go. It just makes sense that Bonnaroo, Trey Anastasio, his boys, their fans, and all the fest-peps get together. Elements have come together (Trey solo one year) but the entire group hadn't done a festival this size in a long, long time. Even wtih a Friday show, the followers wanted more.

That brings me to this. True Phish-heads are a breed onto themselves. They are not the poser hippies of Ohio University or liberal arts colleges across the country. They are the real fucking deal, gypsy hippies, who live out of their camper pick-up trucks or vans, traveling the country following their deities at the drop of dime. They are dreaded, unshaven, and unbathed. Patchouli drenched vagabonds who have no home and no motivation other than to spread love and peace ... and see Phish, of course. They are also some of the nicest, most down-to-earth people I have ever met. They have truly adopted the Hippie mantras of love everyone and take care of your neighbor, giving away food or drugs to complete strangers for the sake of a good time and opening minds. They were my favorite group of of fans far and away.

Since we ate the Mushrooms all at once (instead of small bits, over a long period of time) our trip came quicker and was more intense. Three songs and I was totally gone, tripping twice as hard as I had the day before. The wise tale that you can't trip two days in a row is bullshit if you ask me. The sun had set. People broke out crazy laser pens, casting patterns of light onto the ground that would expand and contract like fish nets. The stage lights were amazing too, choreographed perfectly to the music. And glow sticks were everywhere. They were flying over head constantly, leaving trippy trails of light as they went. People would take it upon themselves to gather as many as they could, put them in a blanket, and with the help of 3-4 others pull the blanket taut, sending all the sticks high, high into the air. This would happen through out the massive crowd in beat to the songs. It was a fucking awesome effect. Taking Shrooms for this was my best idea all weekend.

It was the biggest gathering of people I had ever seen. Bigger then any other show and trumping my previous record, Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras. The songs were about eight minutes long each, and the Phish-heads never stopped dancing (if you can call it that) even for a second. They appeared to be having seizures at times, swaying and gyrating to the beat. I like to call it "the hippie dance." Every once in awhile one would totally lose it and begin flailing even more wildly than before. After freaking out, they took a minute to recompose themselves and only then did they get back in rhythm.

After finding myself unable to help but get into the groove for a bit, I had to sit down. I was simply tripping too hard. I alternated watching the dazzling lights and the synchronized convulsive spasms of the dancers. I didn't stay down for long. Towards the end of the first set Trey stopped the music.

"Thanks guys, you've been great," he told a fever pitched crowd. "Sorry to slow it down but I wanted to talk for just a second. When I was 12-year-old kid in Jersey, my dad took me to my first concert. I was blown away! I thought every concert from then on would be three hours of pure energy and entertainment. I was wrong. Ladies and gentlemen it is my great pleasure to introduce my idol, Bruce Springsteen."

No ... fucking ... way! Dylan and I looked at one another, jaws dropping to the ground. The crowd erupted as The Boss took the stage with Phish. After a short group huddle they launched into the most memorable song of my entire trip, a jammed out version of Mustang Sally. Bruce went lick for lick with Trey and I was totally blown away. I knew he was an entertainer, but I never knew he maintained the skills on guitar he was showcasing right before my eyes. They played three songs, dueling it out guitar solo style. Unbelievable. Phish fans left with a whole new appreciation for Bruce and no doubt all the Springsteen fans who packed up and left early (since he played the night before) would hate themselves when they heard the news.

After a short break, they played a full second show (minus Bruce) which kicked things up another notch. People were letting off fire works behind us in the camp sites, the light show came from the stage in front of us, and the glow sticks were still flying everywhere. After smoking countless bowls Dylan was more stoned than he had ever been. With all the action going on around us, he almost lost it. Some guy walked by totally naked. That was the last straw.

"bwaahhahahhaaa," Dylan gushed, unable to hold in his laughter. He fell to the ground clutching his ribs.

The fanfare ended, and we walked with the rest to the exit. As we all bunched together, randoms behind us started calling out "butt scratcher" in 1920s style accents. Others picked up on this and for most of the walk back to camp, people repeated the phrase, spreading it through the herd like a virus. A high school age kid came running out of the RV area and screamed out to the exiting revelers in his nasaly voice.

"I had a great time! I'm so glad I came!"

Almost everyone laughed but I couldn't have said it better myself. I was stoic; my journey was ending, but I was happy I had taken it just the same. Once we got back, I poured Old Crow (only alcohol left) over coke and sipped it slowly, chatting with the rest. It was over. Tomorrow the long ride home and the cold shock of the lives we'd left behind. After I finished my drink I lay down in my makeshift weekend home and watched the stars through the open door until I fell asleep.


J.R.