Roo 2010: Day 4

"Where'd all the time go? It's starting to fly, see how the hands go, waving goodbye."
-Dr. Dog, Where Has the Time Gone




All the serotonin in my body was spent. Our brains' pleasure receptors were over worked and under paid, living on a diet of beer, bottled water, carnival food and hard drugs. My mouth tasted like cat litter smells. I felt like a prisoner of war; a dead man walking. Day 4 greeted me like a 10-cent whore.

Bologna and bagels were all we had left, so I made a sandwich and nibbled, hopeful the blacksmith in my head would stop pounding on his anvil. There would be no more drugs and alcohol for me today. I didn't NEED them to enjoy myself (right?). Besides, there was still plenty more ahead of us and I was going to get my moneys worth. Quite impossible if I continued my substance abuse.

Picking myself up one more time, feeling weak and frail I noticed I wasn't the only one coming down hard after a 3-day binge. Road Dog would not be joining the rest of us for the final day. He said he was feeling "under the weather." Pale, washed out, gaunt ... a ghost of the man who had been ragging with us since Thursday. Apparently he had just a little too much fun with Molly the day before. Stick a fork in 'em, done-zo.

The rest of us gathered with a few hundred others at the main stage lazily. It seemed everyone was equally fatigued. The sun was brutal yet again, resting at high noon; a heat lamp shinning down, cooking us. Temperatures would rise above 100, worst day by far. The John Butler Trio hail from Australia where they are rock gods, topping every music chart the nation prints. They have a moderate following in the states, myself included, digging their root rock/jam band sounds. John Butler is also a hard core new wave hippie who just recently cut off his mane of ginger dreadlocks. In typical hippie musician fashion he hopped on his soap box before starting.

"Good afternoon," he said. "Let us give thanks for today and let us give thanks to the Native Americans who's land we occupy right now." He continued on in this train of thought but I was distracted by two top-less girls next to me, who were wolfing down bright blue pills. One of them had pulled a drug baggie out of her fanny pack containing easily 100 hits of Ecstasy. She offered us some, I declined but I couldn't stop staring at her chest. She was a small A-cup, which isn't a cause for pause (anymore than a handful is a waste). It was her nips. Although the circle of her aerola was small, the actual nipples were thick, round and long. They protruded from her meager breast like Vienna sausages. Quite put off, I focused on the performance instead.

They were playing Treat Yo Mama, a song I recognized well. John was an amazing guitar player who finger picked exclusively. He was truly a virtuoso; acoustic 12-string, banjo, electric (with and without a finger slide) and even a lap guitar. The best all-around guitar guru I'd seen. The only one close was the lead player for Hot Rize. Although many of the skills needed for Bluegrass picking are at expert difficulty, I doubted any Bluegrass picker could do the things John Butler was doing on such a wide variety of instruments. The over-grown nails on his right hand reminded me of Dracula films, four inches long each, the thumb filed to a sharp point. It was obvious he lived for his music, most people with day jobs don't sport claws.

"You're all legends," he said. "After being out here for 3 days, in this heat? I'm very impressed." After a second rant about the Gulf Oil Spill, he did an amazing instrumental song (Oceans). It was a perfect afternoon show, mellow with building energy. Aussie flags were plentiful. I was amazed so many had come so far, possibly just for this show. After Zebra they apologized for only doing a sixty minute set. "Just an hour, I know, 'What the fuck' right?" I got the feeling they could have gone for another three. Closing out, they played a series of tribal drums. Choreographed and timed to perfection, they even juggled the sticks between each other in rhythm. Very intense.

The Captain and Burke were the next to bite the dust. They headed back to camp to check on Road Dog and pack up, work waiting for them early Monday morning. Chuck had his car but was meeting his family in Gatlinberg and David was heading back to Columbus with me, so after saying good bye the three of us decided to soldier on.

At my request, we sat in on Kris Kristofferson's show. My good friend Charlie is a HUGE fan and I promised him I would report back. The 70s songwriting legend looked like he was doing an impression of himself on the stage; it couldn't possible be the same guy from A Star is Born. The years of tough living showed on his face. He did his best but was sure to never win any singing competitions, his voice reduced to a smokey rasp. No one seemed to care. Like Bob Dylan, it was all about the lyrics, not the voice. The words to Jesus was a Capricorn or Bobby McGee are what I remember. I wasn't worried about how he sounded, so long as I could see, even be near the legend.

"You'll have to forgive me, I am a bit rusty," he said with a chuckle."I'm old enough to be a grandfather to most of you." He got his rhythm and continued, alone on stage, an echo of a long gone but never forgotten time. I was thrilled, being able to say I saw the Rhodes Scholar live, no matter what state he was in. Surely once in a lifetime.

We wandered to What Stage for Ween, more amped for Phoenix who was on next. I had never heard the former in my life but was enjoying them well enough until some drunk pig fucker in a Red Sox hat struck up a conversation. He was probably 20 years old but stuck in the grade school mentality, eager to show off or pick a fight.

"See her over there," he said, pointing to an attractive brunette. "She's my girl. I seen you checking her out. Watch me dance wit 'er." He walked over and began groping brunettes' ass, making kissy faces, turning to see if I was looking. It made me want to puke. Who the fuck did this kid think he was? Matt Damon? As an avid Yankee fan, I didn't need another reason to hate Boston but now I had one. We left to fill our water bottles, leaving him and his arm candy to their own devices.

We returned just in time to push up for Phoenix, staying to the left of the stage where it's easier to wiggle your way closer. With the festival winding down, peoples options were limited. As a result the crowd was very large. The fact that the band was still ridding high on the charts only helped. It was definitely a younger crowd; high school seniors and college freshman.

The french pop-rockers were all smiles coming out onto stage, blowing kisses and waving. It was obvious they were quite taken aback. I'd seen them play one of the smaller stages in '09 and they absolutely nailed it. I was excited to see how they would do this go round. Now they were dancing with the big boys on one of the main stages. They would have to take it up another notch or risk rousting the mob.

"Mercy, mercy." Thomas Mars (singer) said in a very thick french accent. "Last year we were in a tent, this year you are so many!" They started with Lisztomania, one of their hit singles and we were all immediately zeroed in. As soon as the the music started the audience doubled. I looked over my shoulder to see the army converging on the our location, probably all coming from recently ending shows. Beach balls danced over head. A flock of 500 red and black balloons seemed to materialize out of thin air, sailing here and there in the wind. Roo employees walked through the crowd spraying us down with water to prevent over heating. A girl who was no older than fourteen was standing in front of us with her dad. It was obvious where they'd been staying, judging on how clean they were; VIPs for sure. Clean cloths/shoes, no filth caked onto their skin ... I could tell they'd really been roughing it. I watched a cloud of pot smoke waft infront of their faces, the girl coughing, father grimacing, me laughing to myself.

As the sun set, they played Love is Like a Sunset, the acid-jazz/rock instrumental marking the halfway point of the set. After an apparent nap, Mars bounded up from where he'd been laying on stage, and they picked up the pace with Rome. For such pop music, I'm still surprised how much I like these guys. The biggest selling point is their live performance which was even better than the year before. It was obvious that a number one album and a year of touring had done them some good. The set list was essentially their newest album (out of order), with an old song or two mixed in but something was still missing. The riff to 1901 started and everyone screamed.

"I want to see your hands!" he shouted. We bounced and jived, arms raised to the sky, singing along to every word. Even the dad and daughter seemed to finally catch the vibe. During the last break down, the singer climbed the scaffolding to the right of the stage with his long red mic chord dangling behind him. He was easily 2 stories above the stage, enticing us to take the energy up to meet him. "Come on! ... Folded, folded, folded, foldeeeed" They jammed it out for a solid 10 minutes then took their bows and said good night. I had been blown away, yet again. Chuck and David were equally floored.

We walked with the herd to the Which Stage for Dave Mathews Band who would be the last act. As far as I was concerned, Phoenix had just capped a fantastic Bonnaroo. I stopped caring about Dave my sophomore year of college. Too many guitar bros at too many parties playing #41. Don't get me wrong, all through high school I was obsessed. It was all I listened to my senior year (little O.A.R mixed in). I saw him 4 times before I turned 20 but the show I was seeing now was a far cry from the days of my youth. The past is always brighter and no band is as good as you remember usually ... but this was just lame.

It wasn't until five songs in that I even recognized (or liked) something. He's incorporated electric guitar into the band, which is exactly what Dave is not if you ask me. They will forever be an acoustic jam band in my mind ... not hard rockers. Sorry guys, stick to what you know. All artists evolve, but this new direction was not my cup of tea. You can't tell this to his die hard fans, who swear by him. As far as they're concerned all music starts and stops at Dave's whim. The entire weekend I had heard murmurs of "I can't wait for Dave" and "These guys are ok but they're no DMB." This is what they were waiting for? Gross.

Despite what I think, they knew every word to every song, old or new. Ninety percent were under the legal drinking age ... I guess somethings never change. Most of my demographic was long gone, since before Phoenix. David and Chuck weren't really into it either so we decided to head out. On the walk back drug dealers were everywhere offering the last of their product at ridiculously low rates. Molly $20 a gram, Coke $10. Even $5 for a hit of acid! Tempting but no thanks, I needed every cent I had left for gas anyway. Chuck said so long and made haste for his car while David and I broke down the last of our gear, no easy task at night, thank god for head lamps. All packed up, we headed out hoping to beat the rush of people that were just leaving the venue.

We followed the flow of cars out of the campgrounds and hit the open road after about 30 minutes of stop and go. Outside Nashville we breaked for Redbull and fuel. It was 1 a.m. The next seven hours were brutal, even hazardous. The two of us drove in shifts, fighting off the sleep that crept up behind our eyes. Even when it was my turn to rest I couldn't really relax. I was too nervous my partner would fall asleep at the wheel. I trusted him, but images of the truck crashing and the two of us perishing in a fiery blaze kept sleep at bay.

"I'll drive for awhile," I said. Not objecting for a second, David seemed to sleep well enough. After what felt like an eternity we were home. I dropped him off at his place on campus and got back to my apartment in record time. Past my limits, I unpacked my things and walked up stairs, ready for the longest, hottest shower of my life. Finally clean, I laid down on my bed and was comatose while the rest of the city was heading to work. I wouldn't rise until early the next morning, sleeping like the dead.


-J.R.

Roo 2010: Day 3

"You know the day destroys the night,
night divides the day
Try to run, try to hide
Break on through to the other side."
-The Doors, Break on Through (to the other side)




Watching the sunrise always puts things in perspective. We hadn't slept in almost 24 hours and were much worse for the ware. Thighs chaffed, feet swollen, bodies aching, we had indeed broken through to the other side, and it was not pretty. I had never danced so much, for so long and my body was letting me know. The lactic acid in my thigh muscles burned and the blister on my heal was probably infected but I would gladly do it again. Despite my current state, there was nowhere I'd rather be; I lived for this.

We shuffled like zombies towards home base, the Disco Biscuits still playing, taunting us in the background and there was no sign of them stopping anytime soon. Crazy bastards. We hydrated, brushed our teeth, and crawled into our tents. I'd been taken down by a Roo submission hold ... time to tap out.

Only one day left in paradise. I couldn't believe how fast time was flying by (maybe it was all the Molly). Soon it would be over, packed up and forgotten for another year, much to my dismay. But before the swan song came sleep and I had never needed it more. As my eyes closed I reviewed the days escapades ...


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Tensions rose. Nerves frayed. I was riveted ... for a soccer match.

Over a 1,000 fest-heads had gathered in the frying afternoon sun to watch England vs. The United States being broadcast live on a five-story jumbotron. The group C Trans-Atlantic grudge match had been billed as the U.S.'s chance to the show the other competing countries how far we'd come. Over the past four years (since the last World Cup) I'd watched soccer's popularity grow, but this was a shocker. The festival was wise not to schedule anything big until after the game ... most of the crowd was here.

We had tailgated pretty hard. In the college/pro football tradition, we decided to pound the rest of our Old Crow liter (and beers) shortly after waking. All of us were feeling whiskey bent by the 10 minute mark of play and it was well over 90 degrees. Not our wisest decision ever. The United States had gone down early 1-0 and everyone watching was on pins and needles. Granted we weren't supposed to win, but with the margin still small we had the feeling anything was still possible. Futbol is a completely different viewing experience than football. In soccer it's always fourth and one, for an hour and a half. You can't turn away for a second. It's also very hard to come from behind. The tension builds, often unclimatically, but just when you think all is lost, victory is snatched from the clutches of defeat in extra time.

This match wouldn't come to that. Just before the half, in a moment that will live on for eternity especially across the pond, England's goal keeper (Robert Green) shit the bed. A ball off American Clint Dempsy's foot that was all but stopped, miraculously managed to trickle into the back of the net. It felt like everything was happening in slow motion. The shot. The block. Then the ball bobbled, still rolling, Green crawling after it and finally "1-1" on the score board.

After an initial sign, (in reaction to the block), we all exploded (in reaction to the goal). You would have thought the U.S. had just won the World Cup trophy. Everyone was jumping around, slapping hands, blowing vuvuzelas. Star Spangled Banners waved as growing chants of "U-S-A!" filled the air. I was amazed at the level of joy and fanhood being displayed, especially amongst supposedly passive concert goers. Apparently everyone was just as drunk as we were. I even started an off-beat "oh lay" cheer, feeling myself catch the soccer bug.

The rest of the game was even more nerve racking, full of near misses and timely saves. The best player on the pitch was U.S. Goalie Tim Howard, who secured man of the match honors. It ended in a draw but considering we were 3 goal underdogs I felt we showed out. The rest of the world would have to take notice. U.S.A soccer was not the lap dog it had been for decades before, no longer rolling over for anyone.

On our way to That Tent for Dave Rawlings Machine I chugged my fifth bottle of water, sweating out the alcohol and trying to fight the hangover that was sure to come. I was taken aback by the surrealness of watching the match at Bonnaroo. It was like everyone put the music on hold, just for 90 minutes, to embrace something that was more important. A common cause we all rallied around other than tunes. I could feel a nugget of patriotism growing in my chest. I can honestly say I was proud to be American that day, which is something I can't always say when I watch the nightly news.

Dave Rawlings is a professional studio musician and songwriter who has recently left the recording booths to showcase his contemporary folk/country sound. His "machine" was Gillian Welch (a wonderful singer/songwriter herself) and scattered members of The Old Crow Medicine Show. Welch sings like a red-haired reincarnation of Patsy Cline. Rawling's voice is gruff and accented, more country western then southern but he has a signature sound, thanks to the only guitar he plays, a 1935 Epiphone Olympic. It's size (easily half that of a normal acoustic) and his flatpick across the guitar's arched top make it resonate unlike any other.

Even though I didn't know any of the songs, watching artists do what they loved with such passion, and hearing fans sing along to every word, I could appreciate what was happening. At other shows I was the one singing along and someone else was the one just getting turned on to the band for the first time. That's the beauty of Roo. Not only do you see the bands you love but you find new favorites along the way.

"This next number is a song I wrote with a friend of mine in Nashville," Dave said adjusting his cowboy hat. He rocked out To Be Young ... by Ryan Adams, one of my most beloved songs by one of my all-time favorite artists. I had no idea they co-wrote it. Dave and his Machine closed out with another cover, The Weight, by The Band. The familiar lyrics made me feel home hundreds of miles from my actual home. "Take a load off fannie, take a load for free," they all sang in unison, bopping on stage. "Take a load off Fannie and (annnnddd) you can put the load right on me."

After a bathroom break we were ready for the Avett Brothers at Which Stage. Seth and Scott Avett formed the band in Concrod North Carolina and the quartet had a roots rock/folk/punk/Bluegrass jumbalaya cooking. Basically their sound was constantly bouncing around. They had a great turn out, well over 2,000 people. It was pretty much everyone who wasn't going to The Dead Weather, which started around the same time. I was surprised so many people showed up, considering The Bros were rarely on the radio until their latest (I and Love and You) was released. When I got back to Columbus, I found out The Dead Weather had obliterated their set but I find it hard to believe it could have been even as good as what I saw ... I shit you not.

The crowd was incredibly hyped, thunderous applause after each song that lasted until the start of the next. At any mention of their home state a very large group towards the front of the stage, all wearing UNC baby blue, burst into screams and cheers. The band matched their intensity and volume; all their instruments were loud but never over-barring, just like their signing. They'd switch places on stage, sometimes in mid-song, like some crazy family talent show at a state fair. Scott was on keyboard, then he'd dash around to the back and grab his banjo, never missing a count. Seth would be belting out a punk ballad, strumming his acoustic, then when Scott was singing the hook he'd strap on his fender and start shredding, all in tune. I liked their music but I wouldn't call myself a huge fan, unacquainted with most of the material, but now I was on the band wagon for life.

In my signature moment of the festival, Scott slowed it down for The Perfect Space. As the stench and humidity gave way to the only rain we felt all weekend, he sang timeless words that moved something inside of me I still can't explain. As the thin drops fell, and a mist rose above the crowd like a pasture during the early morning, the temperature dipped below 89 for the first time in days. Finally, some relief. We were speechless, serene and spellbound, all devotees to the church of Avett.

"I wanna have friends I can trust," he said with conviction. "(friends) that love me for the man I've become, not the man that I was ... And I wanna grow old without the pain, give my body back to the earth and not complain." The heavy part came in and we were dancing again like madmen, tingles of pleasure shooting up our spins. Just thinking about it still gives me gooseflesh.

They informed us that they "weren't going to play the encore game," and rocked out two more tracks. There were so humble, profusely thanking us after every song, grins on all their faces. They seemed to be having more fun than we were. It was as good or better than anything I'd seen and I wasn't the only one who thought so. I overheard some freshman from the University of Tennessee talking after the show.

"Who the hell were those guys!," one kid said. "That was the best show I have ever seen in my life! I'm buying everything they have on iTunes as soon as we get back." Like Dave Rawlings for me only a few hours before, a new find and another satisfied customer.

Our crew walked to the food huts where a middle-aged hippie prepared the best falafel I'd ever tasted. While munching I talked to Stacey, the newest addition to our gang. Burke and her had become fast friends Friday and she had met up with us, bored with her group. During one of the shows I over heard Burke ask her to be his festival girlfriend. At first I laughed but as the hours wore on I become slightly jealous, wishing I had asked some pretty young thing the same. It must have been nice to share it all with a girlfriend, however temporary. Well that and the making out of course. Certainly nothing wrong with a slap and tickle here and there either.

On the way to our next stop we saw the unmistakable members of Gwar roll by on golf carts, chugging beers, and dragging their over-sized rubber genitals behind them. They were costumed monsters from a galaxy far, far away ... it was Halloween in June. Insane Clown Posse meets Pantera. The next day we saw some of their fans near our campsite. They had been "Gwared," or bathed in fake blood and other unmentionable secretions. They told us after the rowdy shock metal ended the band and hundreds of fans marched to the famous shroom fountain and dyed it red. Disgusting and despicable. I'm sure they wouldn't have had it any other way.

After the freaks passed, we got a spot for Weezer. The band and specifically Rivers Cuomo (lead singer) sucked a fat one and I'm not talking about a spliff either. The entire show had a Disney teen heartthrob feel (see Justin Bieber). Very contrite, Rivers rarely even played his guitar. Instead opting to prance around stage, asking the crowd to clap/sing along to Beverly Hills, Troublemaker, and other pop babble. To be kind, it was childish and lackluster. The sound quality was poor, the stage moves were rehearsed. I stopped paying attention after Pinkerton and I was now remembering why. It was so lame I'm not even going to waste anymore space talking about it.

On the way to see THE headliner we paused for refreshment. I sat and rested while the others got in line to fill their thermsos at the packed water station. Everyone looked like new born puppies, blindly clawing and climbing over one another in search of their mothers teet, only to find it had gone dry. Quick, try the next spout over. Easy, back of the line pal.

There was a man to my left in his late forties. Filthy, same as everyone else, he seemed somehow more comfortable being unclean, like it was his natural state. He was from Oklahoma, drunk and in need of a pipe. I let him use mine and we chatted, sharing the weed he had packed. It really is all about the feeling of community, of sharing, helping someone out just for the sake of helping, hoping they would do the same for you.

Sitting Indian style, he straitened his legs to stretch. My eyes drifted to tattoos on the outside of his right leg. Skulls with swastikas for eyes. I doubted he had the same ideas of "community" as I did. The tattoos were so un-Roo and so blatantly Neo-Nazi I didn't know how to react or think. As if reading my mind, he rattled off a Jew joke, oblivious to the fact he had just shared a bowl with a Heb.

"So why do Jews like to watch their porno in reverse?" he asked with a blackened, methhead smile. I was regretting sharing my bowl. "They like the part when the girl gives the money back!" As this point I almost told him I was Jewish, just to get a reaction but I decided that might lead to an ugly scene, which above all else must be avoided at any massive gathering. I swallowed my pride. I took the high road. I told him a Jew joke of my own. He slapped his knee in appreciation, unaware he had just befriended his sworn enemy. I laughed at the irony for fear I might become engulfed with rage otherwise. Trading anti-Semitic wise-cracks with a Nazi; definitely a first and hopefully a last.

A drunk and bearded Conan O'brien was MCing the main stage. He talked briefly and than introduced the man of the hour. As the sun set on the main stage, we saw him helicoptered in over head, chants of "Stevie! Stevie! Stevie!" spontaneously springing up. The flood lights cut off and he slowly walked from backstage, cameras rolling (with someone at his side guiding). During the grand entrance, he was crushing a lick on his keyboard/guitar hybrid. He got to his mark on stage, the cheers at fever pitch, and the helpers ducked off stage. He finished his solo introduction, sat at his piano and spoke into the mic.

"Hey Bonnarooooooooo!" he said, smiling, camera flashes reflecting off his shades, head swaying side to side in trademark fashion. "Are we gonna turn it out? Lemme hear ya say yeah!"

"YEAHHHHH!" everyone screamed.

"Well alright ... and it goes like this."

His fingers tip-toed across the keys and the stage lights came on revealing two drum kits, a full brass section, guitars, back-up singers and more. A massive conglomerate on stage, over twenty people ... some signing, some playing, others just dancing. Jam city, the best substitute for the Phish-head, full-time fest/carnival people. We couldn't help ourselves, falling in line like the rest. Hippie dancing had ensued.

After taking out a Peter Frampton style voice box for Higher Ground he broke down a blues-groove version of Heard it Through the Grapevine. His voice was perfect. I guess his incredible weight gain (the only negative thing I'll ever say about the man) hadn't altered it at all. He was the best performer I'd seen since Bruce Springsteen. After my personal favorite, Superstitious, he had his barrings and was walking around stage addressing the crowd without the help of spotters, much to their shagrin I'm sure. His million dollar grin was infections. The man was electrifying from start to finish.

"Now sing along with me," he said pacing. "Just the ladies ... la, la, la, lalala." The ladies repeat. "Ok now the fellas, you do it ... la, la, la lalala ... Ooooo, fellas the ladies are killin' ya! Let's try again." They closed out with a ten minute version of We Got the Funk that brought the house down. By than my Bonna-blisters were barking furiously. I need to head back to camp to change shocks or risk jungle rotting my feet off. The others were beat as well so we headed out, planing to return to What Stage for Jay-z at 11:30.


***************************************************


After changing and freshening up the best we could, we formulated a game plan. Most of the group were not huge Hip-Hop fans, so they could take or leave Hova. On the other hand, The Captain, Chuck, David and I were in it to win it. We gathered a few things and made the journey back. By Day 2 they had opened a side entrance, which cut 20 minutes off our walk, thankfully.

Personally, I grew up with Rap music. All my friends had a favorite member of The Wu-Tang Clan (me ... Mr. Meth). BlackStar taught me to think deep. Redman was like the raunchy older brother I never had. Jay-Z was also a constant, but it wouldn't be easy for him to rock Roo. The hip hop shows are always hit or miss, just ask Kanye. I'd enjoyed the Beastie Boys the year before but there were three of them and they also played instruments. Tonight Jay was flying solo with only a DJ to back him up.

On the walk, The Captain and I took a hit each of the Molly we'd purchased earlier in the day. The show had already started so our strides were brisk, chugging our beers in time, looking quite clumsy. Once inside, we kept pushing closer and closer, wanting to feel the woosh of the bass in our faces. We'd unknowingly lost David and Chuck, off on their own private adventure until the next day.

Before long we'd gotten close enough to see the diamonds shimmer on his Rock-a-Fella medallion. He spite his verses nonchalant; like he wasn't even really trying but every syllable was clear and punctuated. The massive stage display behind him was a collage of light and images, constantly changing with the music.

He blazed through the set, only doing a verse or two from each song, breaking down a capella freestyles after a few. It was basically a greatest hits parade. I was disappointed he didn't do much of anything from his first two albums. He even brought a teenage girl onstage to do the whole "crowd sings her happy birthday" cliche but it was still a great show. He was truly an entertainer and he worked the audience well.

"I see you, with the Canadian flag," he said pointing to members of mob. "I see you, in the Bob Marley t-shirt, I see you, smoking that blunt, I see all those Yankee caps out there!" I had to wave mine in the air like the rest. The break down to Empire State of Mind came in and the massive screens behind him played 3d aerial images of NYC. With the crowd singing the hook, we made our way to the Lemonade stand, dying of thirst.

This batch of Molly was twice the strength of the previous. We were rolling hard but not hard enough. We sat down by a tree and decided to try snorting the stuff. We broke out bumps on our Bonnaroo program and huffed. It had the familiar burn of cocaine but then it grew hotter. My eyes watered, snot poured like a faucet, it felt like I had a wasabi pea lodge in my nose. I chugged my beverage and felt the blood rush to my head. I was going to be more than good for awhile.

We wandered around in a drug induced trance, no real destination, game plan out the window. I wanted to see someone but I'd forgotten who. Suddenly, something bitch slapped us out of our stupor. Crazy, rhythmic music emitted from That Tent. It was Thievery Corporation. I'd heard the name but had never really given them a listen. Didn't matter, they had reeled us in like a tractor beam.

It's impossible to categorize their sound. Five, maybe six singers, male, female, but never all on stage at the same time. Each had their own style with a DJ and rag tag rock band to back them up. One minute Rude Boy reggae rappers, the next a beautiful Brazilian Callisto and then electronica. No matter the flavor, the reaction was the same. You danced. Everyone in the crowd was a tangled, sweaty mesh, breaking it down, lost in his or her own world. I was the highest I'd been all weekend, full of energy and life, ready to spill it on the floor. We were all bouncing around like rabid animals, frothing at the mouth, dripping with sweat from the drugs and heat. Every song was better than the last, all fast and upbeat. They stayed on way past their time, simply refusing to stop playing. The scene was insane.

"Come on Bonnaroooooooooo!!!" one of them said, before immediately launching into another banger. "1, 2, 3 ...." the bass hit was deafening, the Jamaican rhymes, filthy. I felt like I was in some Caribbean disco tech. By the end we'd pushed to the very front. People had climbed on stage, I slapped five with the long dreaded one. It was pure chaos. Someone was sure be trampled to death. No sense trying to help, it was every man for himself.

Finally they shut it down. We wandered off to find a place to sit down and collect. We shared a freshly packed bowl with the guy sitting next to us. He was tall, and thin, his long brown hair was pulled into a pony tail. He'd come from Virgina and was studying to become a chef. We offered but he declined, so The Captain and I finished off the rest of our powder.

"Yea, it's my fifth year," he said. "I couldn't find anyone to go, so I just came alone. It's been great, coming and going as I please without having to check-in with a group. Definitely recommend it. Hey, if you guys are on Molly you should be drinking more water." He handed us his jug and we both took swigs, grateful. I can't remember what we talked about but I know I enjoyed the conversation. I do remember wondering what it would be like to be solo the whole time, no one to hold you back ... or back you up. It could be dangerous but I already knew I would have to try it before I retired from the festival circuit.

We picked ourselves up, said good bye and headed back to the dance pit to watch the electro jam band, Disco Biscuits. They didn't even start until 3 am (pushed back by Thievery) but wasted no time breaking out the funk. We began bobbing and weaving yet again, running into some of The Captain's friends from North Carolina along the way. They had a shit load of Franzia, so we slapped the bag and chugged, spilling the purple liquid all over ourselves. We grooved for three more hours, the rowdy crowd of candy flippers grinding on each other non stop. I'm pretty sure I saw a couple people fucking but I could be mistaken. Hard to tell in the dark, especially when the men are shirtless and most of the women are just wearing bathing suites.

It was past 6 am and we had hit the wall, totally drained of endorphins. We were even too tired to hit on a couple of hipster chicks who were checking us out. Disco Biscuits had won this round but I would be back to fight another day. Damn you Disco, and your 20 minute jams masquerading as songs! We began walking back slowly with the music still rolling right along. It was too much. Squinting, I could just see a faint red/orange light creeping over the horizon ...


-J.R.

Poem

Ode to John


Awake, up and at 'em
Nature calls but I can't fathom,
what awaits in the port-a-loo
The morning humidity, and fresh baked poo

But what am I to do?
When it's that time we all must drop a dime
Relieving yourself is no picnic at Bonnaroo

I take my place in line, TP in hand
Crossing my legs, doing the best I can
Just a few more ahead of me,
let's hope they pee
It'll all be over soon
My own private hell,
in a tiny plastic room

A young man makes an exit,
his smile is less then pleasant
I wave on the next person
All I hear are angry groans and cursin'

Finally I can wait no longer
If I do, I'm a goner
It makes my task no fonder
I sit and ponder
Holding my breath,
resisting stench from down yonder

Tears swell in my eyes
At any moment I'll cry
Buzzing over head,
a massive horse fly
The lack of hygiene makes me want to die

Sweat drips,
the temperature is rising
I tear three strips
I need no more,
quite surprising

I'd finished what I came to do,
pitying the next to come through
Relieving yourself is no picnic at Bonnaroo

-J.R.

Roo 2010: Day 2

"Then I saw this girl with the most beautiful hair ...
She had it wrapped around her,
for clothes she did not wear."
-Dispatch, Flying Horses




Nothing is worse than a hangover. Scratch that. Nothing is worse than a hangover in a 90 degree tent. Leaving a window open or the door unzipped over night is a must, otherwise you'd be steamed cooked in your sleep. The humidity is devastating in Tennessee.

It was already a whole new ball game compared to my first year. I felt like a salty veteran, returning for a second tour of duty, seeing familiar places and faces. A new elitist sentiment crept into my conversations, being able to reference "last year." Green and fresh out of boot camp before, I was now well on my way to private first class.

The Captain broke out his skillet and cooked an egg, cheese and sausage mixture for all of us to enjoy. Bob Evens it wasn't, but it would do. I sandwiched my share between two pieces of bread and took a man sized bite, burning my mouth in the process. Burke gave me a drink of his water and I held the cold and soothing swig in my cheeks, wishing I hadn't eaten food 2 seconds removed from a hot pan. We shared all our essential supplies because no matter what you always forget to bring something. It was nice to know we all had one another's backs. It's part of the deal at a festival. For better or worse, our little group was a make-shift family.

Shows started early and they weren't waiting for anyone, so there was no time to dilly-dally. I packed my book bag, liberally applied deodorant, sprinkled Gold Bond where it was needed and was ready to make moves. On the walk to the venue our objective was shrooms. We kept our ears open and our heads on a swivel. At Shake-down Street we split up, increasing our chances of coming across something. I heard talk of boomers but everyone seemed to be looking, no one was selling. Almost an hour later, all of us had come up empty handed.

We made it through security easily and headed straight for The Punch Brothers at That Tent. A few weeks before I had heard them cover a Strokes song on youtube ... impossible without electric instruments but they somehow pulled it off. The five man band is all acoustic: fiddle, mandolin, guitar, banjo, and upright bass. Vocalist Chris Thile is arguably the greatest mandolin player in the world and their progressive bluegrass has helped them achieve crossover success.

For the entire day, That Tent was officially the Bluegrass tent and they'd be recording a live radio show called Tennessee Shines. We were being broadcast from a station in Nashville around the world. I wondered if they could hear me back in Ohio.

They came out, waved, picked up their instruments and started jamming immediately. The pace was break-neck, amazing endurance. Strumming faster and faster, changing chords flawlessly, Chris lived up to his billing. Bobbing his head, making funny faces and dancing around on stage, he played with the swagger of Eddie Van Halen. We all erupted after the first song and the band smiled in appreciation.

"Oh, this is going to be fun!" Chris said looking out onto the crowd. 

Even a couple bowl packs deep, The Captain, Road Dog and Burke were itching for something a bit stronger drug-wise. They were getting antsy so after a few songs they wondered off in search of party favors, leaving David, Chuck and myself behind. We agreed to meet at predetermined spot near the massive mushroom fountain in an hour. Moments later, I'd spaced out to a slow love song called How to Grow a Woman from the Ground. If only it was that easy.

The highlight was their cover of Reptilla, The Strokes song I had heard them do. With the crowd clapping in unison they tore through, making it their own. Every note and lyric were dead on. They translated it into acoustic wonderfully. I even liked Chris' singing more then Julian Casaclancas'. By the end, I had decided The Punch Brothers version was better; blasphemy from a long-time Strokes fan like myself.

David wanted to check out Tokyo Police Club at another stage so we left a little early. They were good but not terribly memorable to me. The lead singer was a poor man's Dave Grohl. Their dark pop-rock was nothing to get worked up about in my opinion. Later I found out The Punch Brothers did a cover of Radiohead's 2 + 2 = 5. Kicking myself for missing it, I felt a subtle but growing disdain for Tokyo Police Club.

I couldn't dwell on it for long, we had to met up with the others. Luckily they scored some Mushys. We munched, swallowed and headed to the next show. Shroom chocolates for The Carolin Chocolate Drops. It was perfect, possibly even destine.

Formed in Durham, North Carolina, the trio is one of the last remaining African American String Bands. Durham is only a stones throw away from Asheville, Burke and Road Dog's hometown. The Captain currently resides there as well and the three of them were huge fans, determined to push up to the front. Unfamiliar with the band, David, Chuck and I decided to hang back and wait on the drugs to kick in ... better to get a grasp on our situation then risk a freak out.

Coming out onto the stage the three sat down and picked up their musical utensil. There was a wide variety to choose from, including: 4-string and 5-string Banjos, guitar, jug, harmonica, kazoo, snare drum, a washboard, fiddle and they even mixed a little beat box by the end. The most demonstrative of the three wore suspenders, coke-bottle glasses, and an old Amish hat. He was like a cartoon character; goofy in a good-natured way, with the facial expressive of a clown. The female banjo player sang with the voice of an angel. Her mocha complexion and long, breaded black hair reminded me of a hippie Halle Berry. She wore a floral sun dress that whirled in tune to her step-dancing. The fiddle player was dark, tall and slender; reserved. Their heartfelt vocal harmony reminded me of a southern Baptist choir.

Sneaking up behind me like an older brother, the drug had landed a sucker punch. With a yawn and a sly giggle, I could feel the adventure starting. I was coming into it slow. Everything seemed brighter; the lights and my mood. There was a growing tickle in the pit of my stomach. Chocolate diluted it a bit so I found I was maintaining perfectly.

"Slip, slap, bring it back," the clown sang in-between blows on his jug. 

They were all over the place. One minute I felt like I was working a chain gang on a Georgia plantation in the 1800's the next I was in a Blues bar somewhere in Mississippi in the late 1920's. My favorite track was Don't get Trouble in Your Mind. Upon further listens I find these wise words indeed.

After they'd finished, we wandered towards The Other Tent for Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros. By this point, I was long gone on my trip. I saw people dressed in nun robes doing cart-wheels, hippie chicks covered in bodypaint with feathers in their hair wearing nothing else but bikini bottoms and plenty of people who were one toke over the line (myself included).

I could feel the heat radiating off every passer-by. The band had already started so we picked up the pace but we couldn't get closer without stepping on hands and toes. Some people sitting, the rest sifting closer to the stage, it was a fucked-up flow. Dangerously packed. Bad vibes. The incredible heat and constant irritation of bumping into people was making me uncomfortable, the shrooms weighing heavier on my psyche by the second. A skinny girl to my right collapsed into her boyfriends arms, the first of many succumbing to heat stroke. As much as I loved the tunes, I hadn't signed up for this. The freak out was starting. We made a B-line to the back of the crowd.

Once free, we lounged in the shade beneath a massive oak, enjoying a bite to eat and enjoying not touching anyone even more. I watched a couple sitting beside us having a snack as well. The man inhaled his food, like a vulture over carrion. Minimal chewing/tasting. Quick, down the gullet. The woman picked at her's slowly like a sparrow, taking swift, economy sized bites, pausing to remove pickle from her cheeseburger. It was a perfect example of the fundamental differences between the genders. David and I shared an Alligator burrito and we all sipped fresh squeezed lemonade, people watching leisurely.

After gorging, we started to drift into naps, totally spent and too beat down to continue. The sun was brutal this year, wringing you out like a sponge. I had no sweat left. Oppressive, heavy heat, filling your lungs. You got the impression anyone could drop at any second. Palpable humidity, like in a swamp. Our only hope was shade and gallons of water. Glad to have both, I drifted out of consciousness with Bluegrass legends Hot Rize playing me a lullaby. Radio Boogie and the chord work on Franks Blues took guitar skills to a new stratosphere.

Recharged, I gathered the troops and we headed out for Dr. Dog. The Philadelphia based psychedelic rockers were one of my most highly anticipated acts. My good friend Dylan swore by them; especially live. Scott McMicken, one of the singers and the lead guitar player had a heavy Bob Dylan sound. He even looked the part, sporting a Dylan-ish fadora and black Ray Bands. The rest had a non-descript look except for matching white, fly-eyed shades. The only band I can can compare them to are The Beatles. Obviously not as prolific but they have that feel. These guys were born in the wrong decade.

They all played customized instruments with day-glow in lays (or was that just the drugs?). Their Indie Rock'n'Roll sounds were the auditory peas to my mind-altered carrots. I was buying what they were selling, without question. I had upped the mushrooms ante, eating another chocolate before they started and I could now feel the second wave trip wash up on my minds shore.  I felt calm and at peace. Good vibes. My near freak out felt like a bad dream that had happend long ago.

Toby Leaman, the other vocalist, was the polar opposite of McMicken's scratchy, soft, sing-songy sound. Leaman had a sorrowful growl that seemed to build as it raised straight from his gut. You could feel his pain in every note. Each being tailored to one or the other, they rarely shared a song (other then harmony). The contrast in their styles worked to the groups advantage. It was hands down my favorite show to that point. I was so far gone at the time, all song titles still elude me, but honestly the ENTIRE set was awesome. The only things I wrote in my note book during the show were "heady tunes" and "filthy body buzz."

After they'd finished I saw a first in all my concert endeavors. The band didn't have roadies. They broke down their own gear, talking to the crowd while winding cables, exchanging high fives with fans. Later I found out how true they really are to their Indie roots, allegedly refusing to stay in the VIP area like most artists. They have a group of friends from Philly they camp out with, roughing it like the rest. They aren't famous enough to be noticed, so I found the urban legend believable. My admiration for them swelled.

Like a runaway freight train, the tunes continued, fast and furiously. Next was Ok Go, who've found moderate fame for their amazing music videos. The treadmill choreography on Here it Goes Again was impressive enough. They one up themselves with the most intense domino rally ever built for This Two Shall Pass (the new video for End Love is also righteous). Other then being internet sensations, I didn't know shit about these guys. I would get an education at The Other Tent.

The four Chicagoans energy was Rolling Stones high from the get-go. Front man Damian Kulash was part hard rocker, part eccentric singer, part heart throb. A cross between Thom York, Gavin Rosdale (of Bush) and a young Damon Albarn (of Blur and the Gorillaz).

"You're all a bunch of dirty sinners," he said after a few fast tracks. 

"But OK Go can save you! This is your time to get clean, it's church time people." They brought out a table full of gold hand bells and did a whole number with perfectly timed rings and singing. It really did have an eerie religious service feel. 

"Mediocre people do exceptional things all the time," he sang.

The guitar player wore a suit borrowed from Lucifer. All red, shoulders to shoes, with a white shirt and matching red tie. It seared my retina. I started to think he was Satan; feared I may go blind ... but the music brought me back. That, and the massive cannon shooting confetti and fog over the crowd. It was a country side ticker-day parade. I was starting to loose my cool but I was no longer afraid; I welcomed it.

"This is a hippie fest," Kulash said halfway through. 

"So I'm going to play some pussy ass music." He crawled into the audience with an acoustic and a mic stand. Everyone shifted to get a better look. He found a cooler or something to stand on and did a slow song in the middle of 500 plus fans, quite the showmen. He climbed back on stage after he finished and they launched into another anthem, raising our roar to defying decibels.

They closed out with This To Shall pass much to everyone's enjoyment. Yet another explosion of red, white, blue, yellow and orange paper, four times the volume of the previous loads. It filled the air like a blizzard. By the end they were all body surfing the crowd. These guys were champs. Despite their gimmicks, they were playing good music and over-all it was a bigger production then Dr. Dog. Glitz and shtick verse bare bones grittiness. Dr. Dog were better musicians but Ok Go was a spectacle.

Barely able to catch our breathes, we made haste to That Tent for Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. The Rangers are already a successful Bluegrass band in their own right, so Steve (a growing star in Bluegrass) had commandeered them for a record and subsequent tour. The legend came out in his signature white Seersucker jacket, matching his milk colored hair. The spotlight made him shimmer. He waved to the crowd, cracked some jokes in his dry sarcastic way and then they got to the task at hand. I heard he could play but this was more then I bargained for. He was absolutely shredding.

"The reason I have so many Banjos?," he said after the first number, gesturing to the six that littered the stage. "It's because I have a huge ego." He did a bit about how he was so full of himself he even had an iPad set list (which we later found out was true). We chuckled at all the right times, like the rest of the audience, he still had it.

For one ditty he took out an especially beautiful 24-karat gold plated banjo. It sparkled in the light like a kings crown. He informed us it was worth more than most of our lives and then did a song solo in the bizarre looking Clawhammer discipline (this guy really was a filthy musician). Smiling and grooving, his fingers danced across the strings like spider's legs on a web.

Next The Rangers did a four-part a cappella religious style hymn. The only catch was it's title; Atheist Don't Have No Songs. In vintage Steve Martin fashion, it was a satire of similar christian hymns. Very tongue and cheek, it must have been difficult for them all to keep straight faces. They appeared to be taking the song seriously, only cracking smiles when Steve would butt in, loud and out of tune. They closed out with King Tut (from his SNL days), all of them doing the ridiculous dance. One of the more memorable acts without a doubt.

With the chemicals in our brains leveling out and our bellies empty we decided to head back to camp for some food and frosty brews. It had already been an unbelievable day and the night promised to be even better; Kings of Leon, The Black Keys and The Flaming Lips. Not too bad, considering this time on a Friday I'd normally be waist deep in drink orders behind the bar at work. We made the long journey back, giddy with talk of the day that had been and the night that would be.

**************************************************

I had just finished shotgunning a PBR when I heard KOL take the stage. Even though we were all the way back at camp, the sound was crystal clear. We were pretty much wasted by then, after multiple beers and pulls of whiskey. I tried to gather the others, pissed about missing the first song, but it was hopeless. It was the phase of the evening when everyone was a total mess.

The only one on the same page with me was The Captain so we grabbed our bags and took off at a semi-jog. I had seen The Kings a few months ago in Columbus and been fairly disappointed. They said they were "sick" and my seats sucked but regardless the show left something to be desired. I was a huge fan of their music (especially anything before Only by the Night) so I was hoping they would redeem themselves.

During the walk we heard them launch into Sex on Fire and I was honestly glad I missed it, having heard it played to death on the radio for months. By the time we breezed through check in they were heavy into Notion, with 50,000 people singing along. It was my first show of the year at the main stage and I forgot how massive the crowd could be. It was a rowdy group, mostly drunk college kids jumping around and pumping their fists furiously.

I must say I was disappointed, yet again. Caleb Followill has destroyed his voice. Possibly too much touring, too much partying and not enough voice coaching but whatever the cause his scream-queen screech is not what it used to be. It cracked and died on the high notes, sounded gruff and painful in the lulls. I was waiting for blood to shoot out his mouth, his vocal chords exploding from the strain. Another throat singer who had shot his wad. Slamming shots of whiskey and chugging beers in-between songs probably wasn't helping.

"This is a dream come true," he said. "We grew up just a little down the road from here and we'd never thought we'd make it this far. So thanks for having us Bonnaroo. Now let's get drunk!"

Another shot down the hatch. They closed with Manhattan, one of the songs on the new album I actually like, so it wasn't all bad. I hope they take time off and give the man a chance to save his voice. It had been a weak set, too much new stuff if you ask me (this has become a KOL fan cliche but the old stuff really is MUCH better). Not an awful show but not a good one either. No one was more bummed out than me.

As the crowd dispersed, two rivers of people formed. One heading to Which Stage for The Flaming Lips, the other towards That Tent for The Black Keys. In an utter act of stupidity, Bonnaroo had put both bands on at the same time. You always have to pick and choose at Roo. It happens every year. You wind up missing someone you like but why they thought Keys fans wouldn't dig the Lips and vice-versa is beyond me. We made our choice; the Keys it would be. Arriving early to secure a spot, we packed bowls, got friendly with some of our neighbors and finishing off the special chocolates.

Beside myself with anticipation, I chain smoked Marlboro 27s. These guys were my number one must see of the festival. I had been a big fan for years but hadn't seen them perform live, so I was more than ready to pop my cherry.

I struck up conversation with a pretty girl in front of me. She had a cute smile and her flowing, curly brown hair was held back with a bandanna. It was very long; so long she could have used it for clothing. I tried not to picture her naked, wrapped in it like a toga while we were talking but it was difficult. She was a student at North Texas and fairly intoxicated. Totally unfamiliar with The Black Keys, she was more eager to see Kid Cudi who played the same stage next.

"When Cudi comes on I'm running," she explained with a slur. "I don't give a fuck who I have to push out of the way." 

A girl who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to go get it. I like that. She put her e-mail address in my notebook and we chatted until it was go time. Cheers began to erupt, the lights cut off. 

"If you even kind of like rock 'n' roll, you're in for a real treat," I told her as singer Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney walked onto stage.

"Hi, we're The Black Keys from Akron, Ohio," Dan said. 

After a three count, he started finger picking his guitar, the sound raw and vibrant, and Patrick set the pace. It was Girl is On my Mind. I shared a smile with North Texas. I couldn't believe the sound they put out. Only a two man band but easily louder than anyone I had heard yet. Both of them were front and center, as opposed to the drums being hidden in the back. I could feel their reverberation in my chest.

Dan plays like Jimi Hendrix and sings like Stevie Ray Vaughan. His wailing but polished singing is perfect for his simple blues lyrics. He plays a signature white, vintage, Ibanes SG guitar, a collage of pedals at his feet. Everything on it was custom including the three gold pick-ups. I had wet dreams about if for weeks.

"10 a.m. automatic," he sang. "You've got pain, like an addict, I'm leaving you."

Patrick was beating his drums like they owed him money. He'd break a stick, toss it and grab another with out missing a beat. He is very tall and his wing span helps as he moves up and down his massive kit including a six-foot bass drum that was set up behind him. They finished a short set of old songs, without stopping once, then paused for a bit.

"If it's alright with you we're going to bring out some friends," Dan said. 

The keyboard player and bass player they recruited for their newest album Brothers came onto stage to cheers and ruckus chatter. They did some new songs including Howling For You which had the crowd in hysterics. Feeling the familiar tingle in my stomach I was jumping around and dancing with North Texas in total euphoria. The Keys were living up to the hype.

After another short break, they sent off the others and closed the show out just the two of them, starting with Your Touch. I was stoked that they were staying true to their old sound. There were whispers before hand that they did the entire tour as a four-man band and their days as a two-man rock machine were through. Obviously someone had been miss informed. My skull felt as if it would melt. I have seen the light, and it signs from Akron, with or without LeBron James. All hail the Black Keys.

They closed out with my favorite song, I Got Mine, but during the chaos I had lost track of North Texas. At the last second I saw her seven rows in front of me looking over her shoulder and beckoning with her finger for me to follow. I was well into yet another trip and I wasn't sure about bailing on The Captain. The indecision would be costly. Just when I decided to take the risk, she was gone ... another unfamiliar face in the gyrating mob. I could have went after her but feeling lazy and high, I took a pass. Looks like I would NOT be getting mine.

The Captain and I exchanged multiple high-fives and chattered like school children until we heard the bass line from Pink Floyd's Money coming from Which Stage. In a full sprint we bolted in the appropriate direction to catch the end of the Flaming Lips.

They were covering Darkside of The Moon in its' entirety and they had the Floyd-esq light show to back it up. The glow stick warriors had congregated here. Flying neon objects, heavy fog and 50 foot swaths of laser light filled the air. It was the most intense visual display I'd ever witnessed. A disco ball sixty feet in diameter hung above them on stage with a three dimensional, 4 story belly dancer keeping tune in front of it. A tripped out Batman was bobbing his head next to me, the ravers ragging all the while.

I was pissed to have missed so much of their performance but The Black Keys were well worth the sacrifice. I cursed Bonnaroo for making me choose but was happy to get both shows in my life, on any scale. After they finished the masses demanded more. Mark Coyne (lead singer) came onto stage and informed us that they couldn't go on, the powers that be would have their heads ... or maybe their lips.

Coming down yet again, we decided to head back. Day 2 was nearly finished but the festival was just getting revved up. Tomorrow promised to bring more mayhem and I couldn't wait. Later, laying down to sleep, North Texas invaded my dreams. I saw her dancing like the hologram from Flaming lips, as tall as a skyscraper. I hoped she had fun at Cudi and wondered what could have been if I had followed her. It would be my one and only Roo regret.


-J.R.