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.


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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.