Roo 2011; Part 2

"I'm a perfect piece of ass,
like every Californian
So tall I take up the street
I'm a festival
I'm a parade ...
I'm sorry,the motorcade will have to go around me this time
Cuse God is on my side."

-The National, All The Wine




We were half-way through Arcade Fire's Set when I started to freak out. Four bowls laced with hash does that. We hadn't said a word in hours and I was terrified we'd forgotten how to speak. I'd completely zone out for 30 minute stretches. Forget who/where I was but then a guitar solo would snap me out of it. There was a familiar tickle in my stomach normally associated with roller coasters or shrooms. My head and hands tingled. The synapses in my mind began to fire in strange new sequences at speeds I'd never imagined possible. Sound waves pumping from the four story speaker towers seemed to shimmer with life in the rainbow colored lights. The people around me who had seemed harmless minutes before were now strange and freighting. My only constant; the music. I would have lost control without it.

The band was silhouetted by a swimming pool sized jumbo-tron. It was playing some sort of emo-hipster art school slide show. Footage taken from a car window while driving down the highway. Still shots of models with awful haircuts dangling their limbs in 'ironic' ways. A sail boat. Guitars aflame. Cliche avant-garde but it didn't diminish my appreciation. There were eight to ten of the fuckers running around on stage dripping in sweat playing too many instruments to mention. Each of them had at least three to his or her credit. It was incredible. I'd heard of them in passing and really liked their latest (Suburbs) but after this I'd be digging much deeper into the catalog.

Hitting another peak, the rapid flashing images began to make me feel uneasy so I laid down on the grass to loose myself in the night sky. That's when shit started to get really, really weird. At first I thought I was watching a meteor shower or thousands of shooting stars but what were the odds either would happen just as one of the headliners were kicking it into high gear? My questions were answered when I saw the parachuters gliding through the air releasing countless miniature multicolored LED lights. Each of them was wrapped in soft plastic and connected to a tiny personal chute. A batch landed a few hundred feet behind us and bedlam ensued. Freaks descended on the plunder like war torn peasants fighting over rice. I imagined people out of their minds on drugs back at the various camp sites laughing lack lunatics as it began to rain Christmas lights in June.

Between the music, the slide show, the LEDs and the hash I felt like I was tripping. I'd smoked hash before and not gotten this fucked up. Was my stash laced with something I wasn't ready for? Was this all actually happening? Or had my mind exited through the gift shop at some point? Dylan was laying beside me, incoherent between childish giggles. Whipping the tears of pure joy from his eyes he shook his head 'yes,' he was indeed noticing it all as well. I slapped Paul's arm to make sure he was still alive.

"Are you seeing this shit," I shouted. "What the fuck is going on man??!!" The only response was a low grunt and then he was back on whatever planet his mind had been stationed since the last bowl pack. He wasn't much of a pot smoker so the hash was probably hitting him twice as hard. He'd been laying flat on his back since halfway through My Morning Jacket, three hours prior. He closed his eyes for a long stretch, appearing to be dead but his chest continued to raise with breath. I took a few deep ones myself, finished my bottle of water and managed to avoid losing my cool. Waiting in line for the bathroom I went over my day from the beginning.


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

The sun woke us around 9:00 am. The heat lays on you like a blanket until you're saturated. Outside of the tent there's the semblance of relief in the form of a breeze. It was going to be extra hot this year. For breakfast we had an egg, cheese and sausage mixture scrambled on a skillet. Add hot sauce, slid into a tortilla, crack a cold beer and enjoy.

After finishing I walked to a nearby washing station with a traveler's bar of soap to wash off day one's filth. I soaked my head under the facet. The fridge water made me gasp. I washed my face, neck and arms. It doesn't seem like much but when you're covered in grime for four days straight it makes all the difference in the world. I'd never felt so refreshed. It's the little things, like showers, that we take for granted in our everyday 'normal' lives.

All around me on the walk back to camp various groups of people were huddled together listening to music, doing drugs and eating camp food. Good cheer was in the air, you could feel it, like some people claim they do during the holidays. Every passer-by shown with excitement and happiness. Hearing bits of random conversations made me laugh but as I passed a tent closer to my group I heard the best quote of the trip. Apparently someone wasn't quick to rise and his compadres were not pleased.

"Get the fuck up Donny," one shouted. "It's a Goddamn festival!" It still makes me laugh. I sat down, opened a fresh PBR and we began the standard chat around camp about the day to come and the night that had been. This custom always makes me feel at home in some strange way. My mood was slightly dampened when listening to Dylan talk about The Walkmen show I'd missed the night before. I was disgusted with myself for bailing early. It'd been my suggestion to see them on recommendation from a good friend and according to Dylan it would be my biggest regret of the trip. Shit happens but it still stinks.

The Sparty Crew, our co-inhabitants of 'Camp Roger Podacter,' lite a joint of government grade chronic that had come from a newly opened Michigan dispensary and after one puff I knew it was twice as potent as any I'd had in a long time. Dylan and myself were stupid high for hours, lackadaisically getting ourselves ready for the day. They had different itinerary so we agreed to meet up later for My Morning Jacket. We were too ripped to do much of anything but sip beer for awhile, so we chatted with the UofM neighbors and the three guys from Jersey. They were all big hip hop fans and were most excited about Eminem. More day one stories were exchanged and a pipe was passed around but we were ready for our first full day of tunes, so we graciously declined.

During the walk we stopped by Bayou Billy's Homebrew soda fountain for a $1 refill. The low price was guaranteed for life as long as you hung onto your hobo style tin mug with Billy's logo. Present said mug and fill your cup for a buck. I recommend the cherry cola. The only thing the two of us had to do before heading into Centeroo was meet up with our friend Paul who had rolled in with his mom (seriously), her friend, his sister and his sister's boyfriend. As much as he loved his family, he wanted some time to hang out with the boys before it was all said and done.

We hung at their camp and chatted with his mom for a bit. I was amazed at how into current music she was. The two of us were most stoked for The Black Keys. This made her possibly the coolest mom ever. I could see where Paul got his soft-spoken and easy going demeanor from. The three of us grabbed a beer for the walk making haste. On our way to Shakedown Street we ran into the same drug dealer I'd seen the day before.

"Hey man I got some great ..."

"Hash?" I said, finishing his sentence.

He seemed surprised but I assured him I wasn't a narc. Taking the second chance encounter as a sign from the Roo Gods, I did the only thing prudent and purchased some of his wonderful narcotics. I slipped the gram sized drug baggy into the Advil pill bottle I was stashing my weed in and we slowly made our way through the masses, people watching the entire time. Denizens from the tent cities were coming out to play. There were load bass hits and 70's guitar licks pumping from car stereo speakers, giving us our own personal soundtrack as we trudged on. Things were getting cranked up to Woodstock levels and all the freaks seemed to be loose on Shakedown Street.

We saw someone dressed in a full-body zebra spandex complete with mane, tail and inflatable jockey (picture a black/white stripped Greenman get up). Countless Hippies hula hooping and beating bongos in drum circles. One chain in particular was over fifty people strong. Hipsters were pacing around looking extra uncomfortable in their skinny jean cut-off shorts, which were no doubt sticking to every crevice in the sweltering Tennessee humidity. A shirtless man in bib-overalls stared upward on a latter with a can of blue paint, making large brush strokes into thin air; attempting to paint the sky. Some guy in cheesy 80's sunglasses was wearing a Speedo under an oriental silk robe that barely covered his ass. He wondered around holding a martini glass and cigarette holder.

There were Buddhist monks peddling thick volumes of their teachings. Jesus freaks telling us how we're all going to hell for practicing forms of hedonism. Creative signs asking for all types of substances and services. Oh, and girls. Beautiful, young, (sometimes topless) hard bodied coeds in every shape, size and variety imaginable. By far the best looking batch I'd seen in my two previous tours of duty. Most were just past teeny bobbing status and no doubt eager for a shirtless Lil Wayne.

First on our list was Alberta Cross. The Brooklyn-based Brits put an English twist on southern rock, accented by 90s grudge guitar licks. If a young Blind Mellon or Nirvana formed in the UK this is what they might have sounded like. They don't try to reinvent the wheel, opting to just smash through power chords on fuzzy pedals while singing damn catchy songs. My 8th grade Soundgarden loving self was back from the abyss, headbanging again. Lead Singer Petter Ericson Stakee could hit the highest notes without losing his creepy but likable resonance. It even lingered in his speaking voice as he addressed the crowd.

"Thank you Bonnarooooooooo," he said in a whisper that reminded me of a wild bird call. A murmured hushed tone, barely made audible by his microphone. This was a stark contrast to the typical practice of bands shouting 'BONNAROO!' as loud as possible and hoping for an equally boisterous response from the crowd. No one seemed to know how to respond to his greeting so an eerie hush fell over everyone as they transitioned into a slow one. All three of us were intrigued by the way he had about him and made his version of the Roo Chant our own.

As they were finishing up Dylan got a text from his friend Aaron who plays in a damn good band himself called The Madison Square Gardners. They weren't preforming but he did carry the holy grail of Bonnaroo. An artist pass, giving him access to back stage and VIP. Dylan hoped in some crazy twist of fate we all might be able to sneak back but it would be for naught. Aaron said he'd been hanging out with performers and important nobodys since arriving, including someone he played with back in NYC. Justin Townes Earle was next and Aaron couldn't wait for us to see the get-up he was wearing.

"Pure class," he said. "Let's just say if you'd like to hit the malt shop with your best gal in 1952 and ordered yourself a soda pop, he might be able to help you out."

When JTE came onto stage he certainly look the part. For starters, he was wearing a straw fedora and thick framed tortoiseshell eye glasses that looked legitimate, not the over played false lenses. His brown and blue plaid coat was my favorite. The matching tie, pressed khakis and brown wingtips weren't too shabby either. In an ocean of massive looks, it's hard to go against someone voted top-25 best dressed by GQ magazine. He strummed his hand-made acoustic like a madman, a sly playful smile on his face the entire time. The son of Americana troubadour Steve Earle, he has charm to spear. Simple songs with upfront lyrics and a sparse (all female) backing band. His gruff and twangy voice is the mouthpiece for the alt-country movement spawned in Nashville but starting to spread it's seed in The Big Apple.

"God damn it's hot!" he said in his thick southern drawl. "Thanks for having us. Hope you're enjoying yourselves. This ones off the new record." Whipping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, he started tapping his feet and got right back down to business with Working for the MTA.

Figuring it was as good a time as any to try out the hash, I packed some weed then used the edge of my pocket knife to scrape a good sized flake of tar onto the top of the bowl. It isn't easy to work with. Imagine pine sap or maple syrup only it reeks like pot and is twice as difficult to get off your hands once it hardens. We each took a turn sparking the pipe, listening to the tar cook into oil, coating the weed packed underneath. It had a funny but not unpleasant smell similar to a barnyard. It tasted a bit like burnt olive oil. We didn't have to wait long to know if it was legit. The effects were quick hitting and intense. A dopey high, making smiles come easily. Any source of even mild entertainment was amplified ten fold. Work, school or other responsibility requiring serious effort would have been impossible.

After he closed with his version of Can't Hardly Wait we had a few hours to kill before the next 'must see' so we wondered. I grabbed a chicken and black bean burrito with a generous portion of homemade spicy salsa and inspected the official merch tent. I settled on a Black Keys/Roo '11 poster and managed to roll it into a protective cardboard tube without getting sauce all over it. I found Dylan and Paul digging through t-shirts. Everything was vastly over priced but that wasn't going to stop anyone. God bless capitalism. After their purchases we passed up and down the walkways inspecting travel hammocks, original art prints, all variety of hats, leather guitar straps and on the spot tapestry weaving. We were just debating on where to park it when we heard some of the filthiest and the funniest stage banter in the history of stage banter.

"It's important to practice healthy camping hygiene," Kim Schifino of the dance punk, indie pop duo Matt and Kim informed us over the PA. "Ladies be sure to bring your vagina cream and guys, please, please ... powder your balls." Very classy.

"Gold bond is a must," Matt added.

Kim went on to encourage several ladies in the front row to show her their tits which seemed to be fine with everyone in attendance. I couldn't see from where we were standing but judging by the chants and cheers, I'm pretty sure they obliged. The synthpop keyboards and deafening drums had everyone worked into frenzy. I saw Neon Indians everywhere bounding around like crazy people. We joined the dance party and grooved to songs I'd never heard in my life. I loved every minute of it, like these two had been on my party mixes for years. At one point Kim walked out onto the upturned hands of crowd members. Once she caught her balance she started doing the booty shaking dance synonymous with apple bottomed strippers. Everyone ate it up. Just before the only song I recognized, Matt took a minute to give us further instructions.

"The fact that you're all here and going so hard has made our experience so amazing!" He said. "Let's take it up another notch. Let's get hot and sweaty together. Let's make the next three minutes the best three minutes of our fucking lives!"

They blasted into Daylight and cheers of joy were raised in unison. The Indians commenced even greater whooping and hollering. They were a blur of whirling feathers and dust. Losing ourselves in the moment, we danced along with them as best we could. After such an intense show it was time to hydrate so we filled our bottles at the station. Dying of thirst I greedily slugged my down in record time and filled it again since the line wasn't unbearable yet.

Ray LaMontagne was already halfway finished but we made it for the last four songs. Words fail when it comes to this guys voice. You've probably heard it on the radio or on that annoying insurance commercial with that dog and his bone but you can't believe for a second it translates well live. It was spot on. Smoky, raspy, but not off key; never cracking.

It commanded your attention in it's share uniqueness. A 30 something year old man channeling a much older black blues singer who chain smoked three packs a day. Making it even more interesting was the contrast in his speaking voice which was quite, unconfident and unremarkable. He was also quirky on stage, even weird, like he was never comfortable with all of us. Not until he could close his eyes and sing. We got there just in time for Trouble but my favorite was his closer. A cover of Down by The River that still gives me chills.

We were determined to get a good spot for My Morning Jacket so we made our way to the main stage as quickly as possible. We tried to contact The Sparty Crew but cell reception was bad so we said fuck it. They knew where we lived, we'd run into them again. I grabbed a surprisingly good iced coffee from a nearby vendor and we smoked more hash/weed. I'm a big believer in smoking less, continually, as apposed to smoking mass amounts all at once. I've tried both and the former works better for me in a festival setting. Too much of a good thing can really fuck your world up at a place like Bonnaroo.

We sat around and waited for the music, minds totally baked after the drugs and a day of intense heat. A large group of the Roo Tribe (probably coming from Matt and Kim as well) sat down beside us in a circle. As the sunset their day-glow body paint began to shimmer with life. Nothing was said between any of them, one of the males just put on a latex glove, held the sheet of acid and administer hits to each member one at a time. I wanted to introduce myself, ask them some questions, possibly bum a hit, but I couldn't move.

It felt like a scene from an old private eye movie where he walks into the Chinatown opium den and everyone's in a coma. My mind was working but my body was not. Maybe that was a sign LSD was a bad idea at that point. Before I knew what happen they all stood up in unison without saying a word and started walking towards the front of the stage in a single file line, weaving through the crowd like a long sneak in the grass.

"Why are we letting him lead?" I heard the last in line ask.

"Relax," another replied. "He's almost a chef and besides, he's got a good pace going."

Fascinating. The mystery I'd hoped to solve only seemed to thicken. Seconds later they faded into the mob and the lights went low. The familiar trumpet tooting of Victory Dance permeated our ears. It was my second favorite song on the new album and a perfect way to kick things off. Frontman Jim James was wearing his infamous black cloak and white Chewbacca fur uggs. His luxurious Jew fro swayed in the breeze. Mr. James; just doing his damn thing.

Picking my favorite between MMJ and The Black Keys is very difficult, nearly impossible. It usually depends on who've I've seen most recently. That night they made a strong case themselves, showing out and earning their headliner status. The country boys from Louisville, Kentucky seemed genuinely thrilled for the opportunity and in between space cadet ramblings by Jim, they blazed through their amazing catalog. They played almost non-stop. The live jam version of Mahgeeta is always epic but after awhile we noticed they'd neglected to play their latest single. Dylan had been hyping it in the car the whole way down and was bursting at the seems to hear it live.

"If they play Holding Onto Black Metal next I'm going to scream like a little girl," he said.

Sure enough, they brought out the entire Jazz Hall Preservation Band 12 piece and rocked into Black Metal. 50,000 fans sang along to the hook and as promised, Dylan was screaming like a 5th grader in a rated R movie the entire time. Paul lost it completely and laid down rolling around in fits of laughter. I tried to record it all with my camera but the battery died. Two nearly grown men acting like children and loving it. A 20 minute version of One Big Holiday was their coup de grace and nothing over the weekend topped their show in my book. We smoked one more laced bowl and that's when things got hazy for awhile ...

After Arcade Fire, when we'd all come down a little bit, we caught some of Lil Weezy and I have to say I wasn't impressed. Not that I was ever a huge Lil Wayne fan but millions of people who have all his shit couldn't be wrong, right? He wasn't awful but when half your songs feature other artists who aren't in attendance you might be in trouble. Throw in a backing vocal track on EVERY song and you have a sub-par show but the ladies love him. Oohing and ahhing with every flex of his pecks. Cheering and encouraging every sex laced lyric ("suck your pussy like a vampire"). I'm all for crassness but I'm not too interested in a song about cunnilingus.

We left after a few more tracks and were immediately sucked in by the non-stop Dubstep/mass-up dance party that is a Bassnectar show. It was almost 2 a.m. but things were in full swing. I'm not in the scene but was shocked by the number of people in attendance and the energy they brought. Their moves were a cross between moshing and techno gyration. No one stood still for a second and the music NEVER stopped. Not even For the DJ to speak (not once!). Over 50% of the horde were the now common place Neon Indians: drenched in sweat, eyes rolling back in their heads and clenched jaws grinding their teeth into powder. They owned the late night rave scene at Bonnaroo.

Did these kids ever stop? Maybe for a piss break or to sip water in between hits of pot, molly, and LSD? The crowd seemed to be growing every minute. People were hanging on support cables, climbing trees, anything for a better view of the light show. Dylan and Paul were ready to head back but I wanted to get closer to the action so after they took off I pushed up, ready to feel the pulse of this new genre of electronica.

Later I walked back to camp a hot, sweaty and thigh chaffed wreck. My water was long gone and I was starving to death. The usual heavy or fried fare sounded awful to me so I kept my eyes peeled for something new. A food truck selling authentic fish tacos fit the bill. I got two and chugged my lemonade while they were prepared. The Tilapia was marinated in a sweet fruit glaze and served with cilantro, fresh white onion and tomato. They were heaven in a tortilla. Portable food is a must when you're always on the go. When I got back to camp everyone was already out cold and it didn't take long for me to follow suite. Bassnectar had been too intense. My senses were working over time. I could still hear the bass in my ears and see the squaws dancing in my dreams.


-J.R.

Roo 2011; Part 1

"I'm going where there ain't no fear ...
I'm going where the living is easy,
and the people are kind.
A new state of mind.

I'm going where there ain't no need,
to escape from what is.
Only spirits at ease."

-My Morning Jacket, Wonderful (the way I feel)




Technology is the worst. Without fail, the occasions it chooses to let us down are atrocious. The internet signal goes out just before you can send the most important e-mail of your life. Your car breaks down on a deserted highway and your cell phone is dead. Twenty minutes into a long road trip the iPod freezes. We've all been there; cursing, screaming, sometimes punching. Murphy's Law strikes at random but is unavoidable none the less.

Don't get me wrong, I recognize the advancement and integration of technology is part of our daily lives. You can't get very far without the convenience of a cell phone. Who wants to lug around hundreds of CDs when they can all fit in the palm of your hand? However in some instance I refuse to budge. The latest piece of new age shit to be added to my "waste of time list" are car GPS systems. I've given them a fair shake. Even to places I frequent I've used digital turn by turn instructions. Nine out of ten times they take me off my usual course on a detour longer than the old route. For places I've never been, printed MapQuest directions have never steered me too far of course so I'm sticking with them. Maybe you swear by the annoying computer voice telling you to turn left into a lake by my latest GPS blunder (on the way to Bonnaroo) was the straw that broke the camels back ...

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

It was the second tour of duty for Dylan and I. Back in '09 we'd gone together and loved every second of it. Opting in for the Tenth Year Aniversiy seemed like a no-brainer. Last time we'd traveled through Nashville en-route to Manchester, TN home of The Arts and Music Festival. Unfortunately this time the computer had us going through Knoxville, which turned out to be a huge mistake. The unfamiliar directions had us winding along scenic backwood state routes, through tight mountain passes and traversing abrupt 15 MPH curves. The colorful screen that looks cool when it works was really sticking it to us at the moment; bending us over it's knee, burying its' metaphorical phallic deep inside, laughing the whole time without asking us how we were feeling about the whole experience. After denying it for at least 20 miles I finally acknowledged the obvious. We were lost.

Why the hell hadn't we printed directions before we left? That much was our fault but the rest was the bullshit equipment. Automatic updates aren't a given when you're in BFE Tennessee, far from a wifi signal. Alternate routes weren't coming up until we'd already missed the mentioned turn. The ladies voice coming through the car speakers made me want to break things. Shut up you bitch! You didn't know what the hell your talking about! This is why I will NEVER use/trust a GPS ever again.

We stopped at a gas station to get situated and ran into a Roo bound crew all the way from Quebec. Despite being stoned out of their minds they seemed like an interesting group of people. They were most stoked about Arcade Fire, who hailed from Montreal. A bit baked myself from earlier in the trip, their french accented English made me chuckle under my breath. Back in some semblance of society our directions finally caught up and we were in business. The Canucks followed us until we came to the procession ... an endless snaking line parked on the berm of highway 24. The police presence was heavier than I remembered and more than a little bit intimidating. I became nervous about the weed I'd stashed in my shampoo bottle but projected confidence anyway.

After the longest two hours of our lives we'd made it to check in. A cluster of pigs with their police dogs were telling people to turn off on the right. They were going through four vehicles with a fine tooth comb. White latex gloves on their hands and shit eating smirks on their faces, they were eager to find any bookable offense. I instinctively stayed to the left and was glad to be driving my dad's pick-up truck which was easier to search and less suspicious. I felt a little more at ease about my drug mule status. The more I studied the various Roo Crew member searches on our side the less comfortable I became. They seemed to be digging just as deep as the Police. We saw beer bongs, glass bottles, cases of Natural Light, firecrackers and most surprisingly glow sticks confiscated at an alarming rate.

Glow sticks had been a stable of almost every show held after sundown the last two years. Why take them now and simply throw them away? There's no way an environmentally conscious festival would do that. The only conclusion we came to was that maybe the higher ups were using the sticks to buy favor of The Bonnaroo Tribe Indians. Paying for their allegiance in confiscated glowing plastic. This would ensure the tribe knew their roll; crowd control and recon. A set of eyes on the inside ... a non-violent new wave Gestapo there to make sure everything ran smoothly, people stayed safe and most importantly they continued to spend money.

The bright orange VW love bus ahead of us was irritating me. There was no doubt in my mind they'd be searched extra hard. Before I'd finished cursing out hippies to Dylan I was shocked to see them get waved through without being scrutinized at all. We hoped luck would be on our side too. We were approached by staff members in their early twenties who asked the usual questions; no glass, drugs, or fire works. We had the allotted amount of beer (a case per person), no glass/explosives and stated the bold face lie of NO narcotics. They appeared to believe us and without so much as a peek into the bed of the truck they let us through. Splendid.

We parked and sprang into action. Tarps and tent poles flying we got things in order surprisingly fast. After the frenzy that is erecting camp we relaxed and made nice with our co-inhabitants. One of the best things about the whole experience is the new friends you make around homebase. Strangers would quickly became neighbors in the days to come. As always, it was a diverse group. The kids from Jersey right next door, a young couple from Ann Arbor a few tents down and a group of five college students from Michigan State University behind us. Michigan was representing extra hard. The fact that Detroit native Eminem was headlining wasn't lost on anyone. Of all our neighbors the kids from MSU were my favorite. Over burgers, bowls and beers we talked about the finer points of everything. Dylan and I took to calling them the Spartys. Unaware of the ultra-intense rivalry between the two schools, I made the mistake of asking why they picked State over UofM.

"It's hard to get into UofM," one of the girls explained. "They favor Asians and people from the sands ... they're un-American." I didn't peg her as a racist, judging by the fact that she was white and had already mentioned she was most excited to see Lil Wayne. Being a Buckeye by birth I wasn't arguing with her. Either way we all snickered over of the offhand comment. Before long we heard another instant classic. A small group of guys drinking on the footpath nearby were catcalling passing vixens.

"Ladies come join us," one said. "We have honey roasted peanuts." He was so nonchalant and deadpan it was startling. None of us could control our laughter. While cleaning up our tailgate grilling station we were approached by our first drug peddler of the weekend. He had some hash tar and was offering his product at a fair price. It smelled very legit but I wanted to wait it out and see what else came my way first. No reason to blow your wad on day one. Before I knew it, I could hear the faint whine of electric guitars permeating from Center-Roo. The music was starting. After our long chill session with former perfect strangers the familiar vibe of peace, love and excitement was in the air. It was time to head in.

Dylan, The Spartys and me didn't have much of an agenda so we wondered about for an hour or so. The only show I was really digging were the Freelance Whales but we didn't stay long enough for me to get a real strong feel for what they were all about. One of the guys wanted to see Band of Skulls so we stopped by for a song or two. Sorry to say I don't see what all the fuse was about. They weren't bad but the girls were NOT feeling it. One of them suggested an up and coming rapper named J. Cole. He's a protegee of Jay-Z and the first to be signed to the mogul's new Roc Nation record label. I didn't know any of his songs but was drawn in immediately. His rare combination of polish and clear carrying vocals made his punch lines easy to catch. The high quality production value was icing on the cake. We stayed for the entire set. He was by far the best on Day One.

By the next show, rolling on 36 hours with no sleep had begun to take its' toll. I hadn't laid down since Tuesday night. Now it was past midnight on Thursday. I wanted to fully enjoy my first night in paradise but every minute that passed made it more difficult. When The Walkmen took the stage at That Tent I was running on fumes. Sleep would close in on me swiftly whether I liked it or not. I Pictured myself going down hard face first. A broken nose would ruin my trip for sure. Unable to fight it any longer, I high tailed it back to camp at a half jog. Eventually we all have to answer to a higher power. The curtain was closing fast. Within seconds of returning to my tent I was out for the count, sleeping the sleep of the dead.

-J.R.

Intro to Bonnaroo 2011

Who can say they've witnessed the birth of a movement? Whether you're aware of it or not they're spawning everyday. Right beneath our noses counter-cultures collide and then fuse together forming a new more impressive collective. Often scene kids snatch up the next big thing like so many barriers from a bush, assimilating them into their new wave pie, ripe for us (average Joe/Jane) to eat or spite out.

Sometimes movements are easy to spot. They soar into the main stream without warning until we're all saturated to the point of nausea. Most sparkle and fade in the blink of an eye. Others still simmer; generating steam and momentum until you turn around one day and say 'where the hell did all this come from?' It's easy to hop on board once the boat has raised anchor but watching the genesis is a beautiful thing indeed.

For three years now I've seen strange and wonderful things happen just south of Nashville at the Bonnaroo Arts and Music Festival. With crowds of over 80,000 the gathering is larger then some towns. There is a sort of unspoken language between denizens of the temporary city. Arguably the biggest and best fest in all the land has become a staple but I'm more interested in the scene within a scene. Anyone can go to Bonnaroo but who among us can quantify what 'The Roo' really is? It can not be summed up in a single thought, song or blog post. You just have to attend in order to comprehend what I'm hinting at but if you can't (or you choose not to) look no further then it's indigenous people. In them you'll find an answer.

I speak of a new group of the young and dreaming. Large swaths of Generation Y or the Millennial Generation; a demographic without much description, direction or purpose. Lost souls searching for answers in the information age. Flailing for a foothold in a increasingly changing world. They are a hungry group of people eager to cash the bonus checks written by their forefathers. Some of these adrift vagabonds have come together in the pursuit of a common goal. They travel the countryside in search of kicks, good times and crunchy tunes that give this haphazard life meaning. They long for the peace and equality that was advertised by their parents but never delivered.

Armed only with a mission to help and love everyone regardless of race, creed, religion or sexual orientation, they are part of the Bonnaroo Tribe. Just a branch of the Neon Indian army and their numbers are growing. Outsiders choose whether help comes in the form of a drink, a morsel of food, some sound advice or a hit of LSD. No matter your needs, they have you covered. They can be seen wander The Farm in Manchester, Tennessee spreading positive vibes and good cheer. Simply put, they want to make sure everyone and everything is in perfect harmony, if only for a few days every June.

Part Rainbow Family, part fest head with a hint of raver, they are the future and they are already among us whether we like it or not. They aren't hard to spot. At gatherings the men often wear elaborate headdress with beautiful ornate eagle feathers. The women sport a single feather in their headband and both wear intricate Native American beaded jewelry and day-glow war paint. The only conflict any of them ever see are heated drum circles and hula hoop spin offs.

Of course there are the wannabes. Frat boys wearing dyed, dollar store seagull feathers with their un-buttoned button ups, J. Crew khaki shorts mid-thigh in length and boat shoes. Part-time hippie college girls in raw hide skirts and moccasins. Poser imitating the latest trend. Don't be fooled. You'll know the real deal when you see it.

Think of Roo Tribesmen as spiritual guides during the festival experience. If your looking for the best late night show, follow them. If you've been separated from your group and you need fast friends consider the natives a safe bet. If you can't find mushrooms anywhere, odds are they'll have your back. Like children behind the Pied Piper, good times follow everywhere they go. I've seen their tepees in the campgrounds. Sat in on an opium peace pipe session but they are highly secretive and intentionally vague. Much of their ways are still a mystery to me.

Who are these people? How do you join? Who's the spokesperson? Are they affiliated with Bonnaroo brass? What's the hierarchy (if any)? Odds are they're just normal slubs like you and me. College students, bartenders, nurses or cubicle workers who have to return to the 'real world' at some point. Back home to a gig they hate but is necessary none the less. Life happens. There are bills to pay and bar tabs to run up, but part of me still dreams ... imagines them picking up camp after the music is over and heading on down the road to the next fest. A nomadic tribe in constant motion while remaining true to their mission statement. A group of noble, peace loving savages spreading their message and leading by example. Who wouldn't want to run away and join the tribe which happens to be following the circus?

For now I am left with more questions then answers but fear not faithful readers! I'm going to get to the bottom of it all if it's the last thing I do. Along the way I'll document my adventures for your enjoyment, so stick around. Consider this and all my work a declaration ... better yet an invitation; to this movement and all the new ones waiting to be born. I'm on the ball so you don't have to be. In return I ask only that you lend me your ear and keep your mind open. I promise to give both back when I'm finished.


-J.R.