Roo 2010: Day 1

"May your thoughts be kind,
May your knots unwind.
May your dogs drink wine,
May your days kill time.

And may your fears go blind,
As your regret rewinds.
A little peace of mind.
May you wake to find,
It's just that time of the year
That holds you dear."

Dr. Dog, The Way The Lazy Do




I awoke with child like wonder, a lost boy in Never-Never Land. Finally, after months of waiting, it was that time of year again. I didn't want to waste a second. I had already started a new notebook and immediately began jotting down more random thoughts as they circulated through my brain. How can you describe feelings of long anticipated joy/excitement/stimulation coming to fruition? If I was bipolar I would have jump started a manic phase.

We fried bologna on a portable propane grill and made sandwiches for breakfast while pounding beer. After our meal I climbed on the Caravan's roof to survey the landscape. There were tent circles and canopies littered between trucks, vans and sedans. Even a 10 foot Tee-Pee in the true Native American style; canvas sheeting in-place of buckskin and tree limbs for support. It was easily 20 feet in diameter at it's base, larger then an average tent. Very cool.

In hindsight, leaving a day early is the way to go. At this time last year I was still in line. Unpacking felt very frantic. We rushed to the first shows and were never really settled until the following day. This year we were 6 beers deep by noon, intoxicated and ready to go with hours to spare. With the night time set-up we had a full first day, instead of a half day.

While strengthening our buzz and listening to Radio Roo we were approached by our first drug peddler. He was in his early twenties, wearing nothing but a black Speedo, aviators, and a blue bandanna. Molly was his merchandise, and he had obviously been sampling his own product judging by his amazing level of perspiration. Never get high on your own supply; famous and wise words. I offered him a water, freighted he might pass out at any second.

Molly is basically powdered Ecstasy. A purer form than the pills most are familiar with. I'm sure there is more to it than that, but I'm not a chemist. We bought a half gram for $5o and split it up 4 ways to sample. Licking my finger, I dabbed up my cut and rubbed the white powder on my gums and tongue, the taste bitter like a crushed up aspirin. I immediately started to feel a slight tingle in my mouth. The high is fast acting but mellow. Slow and steady build ups to mild euphoria, combined with speed-like increased energy. I felt a tinge all over and a toothy smile was plastered on my face.

"Damn these oranges are good," Burke kept saying. Everything is intensified when on a mind altering substance. I giggled and stared off into space, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros blasting in the background. A hard bodied platinum blond walked by in a white bikini adorned with white fur and tail. She had on a mask and a unicorn horn. If chased and then captured, I wondered if she could grant a wish.

It was my first time doing Molly but the rest had tried it before. Familiar with the drug, Road Dog had bought extra and popped a second hit into his mouth. He began blathering about politics, taboo at Roo. We kept eye-contact and interjected absentmindedly. Within an hour he was totally gone on a heavy trip, lost in his own world, lounging in a chair on the van's roof. Before we knew it, it was time to get ourselves in order. We decided to use the massive Indian Hut as our landmark. If lost, we would look for it when heading back to camp. Meet me at the Tee-Pee. Indeed.

One draw back to getting in early; our camp site (Pussy Galore) was ridiculously far from the venue. They filled the campsites back to front. Long treks through treacherous, densely populated, golf-cart taxi littered streets would be standard. It was The Captain's and I's second time but Burke and Road Dog were Bonnaroo virgins. Still seasoned festival goers in their own right, they thought they knew what to expect. They had no idea. We walked around Shake-Down Street so they could catch the vibe. They had a look on their faces that I remembered well from last year. The look of someone who's wildest expectations have been greatly surpassed.

While we meandered, I purchased a chillum to make smoking easier once inside. I heckled the vendor down from $20 to $10, feeling my inner Jew shine through. We got past the check point with no hassle and parked our butts at This Tent for Here We Go Magic. I had heard the Brooklyn band's name tossed around, mostly on the best radio station in Columbus (CD 101), but was still unfamiliar with them. I was very impressed. They had excellent build ups to their trance-rock songs. The drummer was my favorite, keeping steady beat and blasting the shit out of his kit at the same time. We didn't stay long, the crew wanted to check out a Banjo player at True Roo Music Lounge.

I would come to realize it was the year for Bluegrass. Fine by me. I didn't mind at all. I had grown some Bluegrass roots during my time in Kentucky. Sarah Jarosz would be our first of many soirees into the genre over the next four days.

She hailed from Austin, Texas and played a mean banjo. It was the prettiest I had ever seen. Antique and worn. Hard wood neck and a pearl rimmed drum head. Her long caramel colored hair was breaded into pigtails and she was attractive in a band-geek sort of way, however her voice made her sexy. She strummed and finger picked vigorously, the wonderful wailing vocal ethereal. Check out Left Home and Broussard's Lament (a song about Hurricane Katrina), which are both beautiful. I have a lot of respect for anyone who goes solo. She captivated the audience, just her and her banjo on stage, bleeding out their heart and soul.

After her set we wandered with no place to go until 10 pm. We caught the second half of Miike Snow at That Tent. Four of them were on stage in white Michael Myers masks, bashing away on their keyboards and synthesizers. So Miike Snow is actually a group of people, who knew? They had an Animal Collective feel; part Indie rock, part techno. Heavily altered vocals and crazy sound affects. The crowd was loving it, the girls shaking their shit. Guess I didn't get the memo. I think their stuff is ok, but I wasn't really feeling it, even on Molly. Conclusion; Miike Snow sucks. Just your narrators humble opinion.We packed bowls and got chefed out. Just when you think the Moly has peaked and your high is wearing off you take a toke and you're perched back on cloud nine.

After we had our fill of Miike Blows (I mean Snow) we returned to True Roo Music Lounge for Frank Turner, a singer-song writer from Meonstoke Winchester in England. His sound is labeled punk/folk, a blatant contradiction it would seem. This is epitomized by the title of his EP Campfire Punkrock. That's just what we got. His persona was cocky at times, his stage banter braggadocios but I found him hilarious. He was sporting a tight plaid shirt, jeans, a devilish grin and an over sized acoustic guitar. Another solo performer, no frills. Music in its purest form.

"I want everyone to know this is the first time in my life I have ever used a beer 'Koozie,'" he said into the mic, holding up his frosty brew. "I guess, if nothing else, it's good for hiding the fact I'm drinking Miller Lite. I'll stop talking bollocks now and play some music."

Speaking to the crowd in-between, he smashed through a few tracks. It was like some drunken version of VH1's Story Tellers, with him explaining how he came up with a song or giving a little anecdote about playing it on the road somewhere. Always charismatic, he had a way with the crowd that can't be taught.

"I need a volunteer," he said after awhile. A hundred hands shot up into the air. "Now wait a bloody minute, you don't even know what you're volunteering for. Him, your hand was first." A High Schooler in a filthy tie-dye shirt, trucker hat and gas station shades bounded onto stage. "Can you play harmonica?" Frank asked. The kid shook his head no. "Bollocks! Anyone can play harmonica. It's easy. You just blow in and out like this and move it across your mouth. When I give you the sign, your going to play a solo for this next song."

The kid looked rigid, nervous. Frank began strumming furiously, singing with a Sid Vicious-like vehemence. He paused at the appropriate time, giving his new bandmate an exaggerated nod. Trucker Hat launched into his ad-libbed solo, which was surprisingly good. He managed to get the rhythm and was killing it by the end. "He's a regular Bobby Dylan," Frank said chuckling. After the song he gave him the harp and the kid in turn gave Frank his hat, which he rocked for the remainder.

"Damn! This beer is still really cold," he remarked, swallowing a healthy mouthful. Obviously impressed, Burke remarked on his "realness." He was a very passionate performer, especially with his vocals, which were almost screams at times. Next was my favorite song, titled Nashville Tennessee; very appropriate for the lo-cal. Before starting the last verse he asked if anyone in the crowd was from Texas. Several people cheered, one wearing a Rangers Baseball cap.

"I just want you to know, I love you all very much," he said before singing the lines "I've been to Texas state, I didn't think it was all that fucking great!" After the song he told a yarn about getting wasted in Austin after a show with some fans. Feeling bad for bashing his new friends homeland he got the outline of Texas tattooed on his left bicep as a sign of concession. "We're fucking even," he said pointing to the tat.

On the next one he broke a string and had to stop. The stage crew sprang into action, all the while Frank kept the crowd loose, but no one had a spare E-string. In a moment of musician brotherhood, the guitar player for The Constellations (the next band to perform) lent him his Gibson. "Electric guitar is a foreign object to me," Frank mumbled while tuning. He played one more and then did an a cappella version of an old English drinking song. Quite Cheeky.

On our way out, we stopped for a bit of The XX. With the Molly long gone and our drunk wearing off, the slow, melodic tunes were not right for our frame of mind. "It's good for when your making out with a chick on your couch at home," The Captain said. "Live, when burnt out, not so much." We made the voyage back to camp slowly, privately digesting the days events. Three of us thought Frank Turner was the best so far, but Road Dog wasn't feeling him. He found him too arrogant and pretentious, which I can totally see. I was a huge fan regardless; different strokes for different folks.

Once at camp we met up with the Captain's little brother David and his buddy Chuck. Both were students at Ohio State and had a final Thursday, causing them to miss Day 1. Bummer. They parked at a variant site and had hiked to our spot, setting-up sometime while we were away. Thank God for the Tee-Pee. We talked shop, had a beer and then said good night. I laid down in my massive six person tent. It was excessively large. I dubbed it The Penthouse and hoped I might be sharing it with someone in the future, preferably a female. I closed my eyes and sleep came easily.


-J.R.