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 ...


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


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.

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.