Short North Observation

Lately at night I've seen a man around town. There's a reason it's always after dark and he's memorable. A rare disorder has caused boils to sprout all-over his skin. I'm not talking about a cluster of 10 or 20. Literally, every square inch of exposed skin is covered by small to large dangling sacks of liquid. His face looks like a giant raspberry with eyes and lips ... you can't even make out hair or ears. His head is usually covered by a fisherman's hat. He wears gloves and pulls his collar up, anything to help hide his terrible curse, playing the lead in a real life horror movie.

I'll never forget the first time we crossed paths. On my way home from work I'd stopped at the Dairy Mart for a pack of smokes. He was at the counter chatting with the clerk. As I walked in we made eye contact for a split second. Startled, shocked, afraid, a gasp my have even escaped my lips. I looked away and darted to the back of the store, feeling like a child who had just seen the boogeyman. No one could blame me. Nothing can prepare you for that. A visual sucker punch. I never saw it coming.

Despite my unintentional and unavoidable reaction, I was ashamed. I knew that everyday of his life he saw "that look" ... the one that had been on my face. The look of terror, than disgust and finally pity. My response was yet another drop in a depressingly full bucket. Who knows, maybe he enjoys scaring the shit out of people; a small level of payback for the awful hand God has dealt him. It's plausible he doesn't even notice anymore. At the places he frequents most are no doubt used to his condition but in his private moments, when he has time to reflect, he probably hates us all equally. Hates us because we complain about bills and girlfriends. Oblivious to real problems and deep anguish. Hates us because we're normal looking and he's not. He has every right to be the most bitter person that ever lived.

After sliding back into my car I watched him munch on his Cheetos and sip his fountain drink while waiting at a crosswalk. I didn't want to feel sorry for him but did ... deeply. Once the initial shock was gone it was plain to see he wasn't a monster at all. Just another human being roaming the earth. Enjoying a snack from the corner store. As the light changed a motorcycle stopped just in front of him. He was inspecting the bike as he passed through the intersection, an obvious admirer. Before turning his head and walking out of sight I'll be damned if I didn't see him smile. A few seconds later he was gone. I Turned the key and my car's engine roared to life. Shifting into gear, I'd forgotten whatever personal injustice I was worried about when I pulled up.


-J.R.

The Black Keys: Built in Akron, Ohio

"A sinister kid ... runs to meet his maker ... and that's me ... the boy with the broken halo, that's me, the devil won't let me be."
-The Black Keys, Sinister Kid




There's no cheating. You can only pick one. Name your favorite band. I'm only giving you 5 seconds. Go.

Maybe a handful of you could do it. Most can narrow it down to a select few, but it's nearly impossible the more you think about it. I've always struggled with this question. What genre are we talking? What era? I could say Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, or Wu-Tang Clan, even Radiohead based on these criteria. The question is much too vague. I could never give a straight answer ... well until very recently, when the solution inexplicably presented itself.

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

Walking to the Lifestyle Communities Pavilion, we sank into our trip slowly, the song of the summer cicadas clicking in our ears. The trek seemed to be taking forever. Traveling south on Neil Ave. the five of us merged into a gang with other anonymous concert goers. Everything felt like it was happening in slow motion. The shrooms and about six or seven beers (in an hour and a half) might explain that. All of us (but one) were big fans. The odd man out had never heard The Black Keys in his life and had no idea what he'd signed up for. I thought of what questions to ask later, intrigued to hear a first time listeners opinion.

I'd been into The Black Keys for over a year but I was still getting caught up with their massive catalog (10 releases since 2001, counting side projects). From the very start they grabbed my attention. The first time I heard Your Touch I knew they were very serious. Curious, I talked to Shooter, my roommate at the time, and asked if he was hip. He immediately burned me Magic Potion and Rubber Factory and I devoured them. Both albums played for a solid month during my drive to and from work. Another friend lent me Attack and Release, which I also enjoyed (all be it slightly less than the other two). I even got their newest, Brothers the day it came out.

All of this happened before I saw them at Bonnaroo, where they tied for my Best of Show honors. Live performance is the most important thing I look for when deciding how much I like a band. They were officially in my top-5 all-time after that. I scored tickets to their Columbus gig the day I got back. Headlining on Friday the 13th, in front of a hometown crowd ... it had psychedelics written all over.

We'd made it in without incident after a short wait ... or so we thought. Once past the initial frenzy, we were down a man. Our gaze darted from face to face but they began to run together. Trying to focus on multiple moving objects is very difficult on serious drugs. The minutes began to accumulate. We grew anxious, the evil mushrooms slowly rotting our brains. The warm up band had finished. It was time to make an executive decision. Finally he answered his cell.

"I freaked out when we walked in and turned around," he said. "Too many bodies, too many staring eyes." In his defense, he's not a big hallucinogen user. Poor bastard never stood a chance really. I'm an experienced user and I was on the edge of a melt down too. Strong batch. Later, after we'd returned from the concert, we found him outside the apartment in the dark, wrapped in a blanket, still wearing sunglasses, writing his "Gospel" in a notebook. Some of it was hilarious but must was undecipherable chicken scratch. We would never let him live it down.

Obligatory phone call finished, we got beers and made our way to the lawn. The show had sold out and was even more packed than the last time I'd been to LC for My Morning Jacket. Drugs almost at their peak, everything made me giggle. This free and easy feeling wouldn't last long. We lodged ourselves next to an alley way, fairly cramped but not unbearable. Apparently some die hard Keys fans had camped out, arriving before the gates even opened. One couple had laid out a blanket beside us, claiming the small piece of real estate for themselves. We weren't encroaching but the woman was starting to get bent out of shape by the people who were congregating in front of her. Occasionally one would step on her blanket, thus invading the personal bubble she was trying to keep sterile.

"This is just ridiculous, you all standing in front of us like that," she said. "We've been waiting in these spots for hours!"

"Pa-leeeease lady," the drunkest of the three said. "It's a sold out show. Standing room only. As soon as the music starts everyone's going to get up anyway."

I could see both sides. She had been there first, they should honor her spot, like we had ... but at the same time she needs to understand that at a sell out, standing room only event you are going to be close. You are going to be sweaty. You are going to be touching people all around you who are totally drunk, stoned or both. That little blanket's worth of grass isn't included with the price of admission.

"If you don't move I'm going to start spitting on people!" she screamed. Arguing began and talk of the cops getting involved arouse. Ugly vibes. We wouldn't make good character witnesses in our current state, so we bolted to the restroom. While grabbing a last minute brew on our way back, we ran into some friends and managed to weasel our way into their spot. It was dead center of the lawn and much closer than where the lady had flipped out earlier. I didn't even want to know what happened to her and the drunks.

Multicolored stage lights clicked on and the two dweebs from Akron walked out to deafening cheers. The gangly one, all arms and legs, crawled behind the drums. The guy with a beard, in the awful plaid shirt, picked up a guitar and quietly said hello into the mic. He started tapping his foot and than smashed a power chord and held it till my ears popped.

The next two hours were probably the most memorable of any concert I've seen to date, easily better than their Bonnaroo performance. The two were in perfect harmony and pushed each others intensity over the top. I've said it before, but the level of sound and energy they put out, for just two men, is mind blowing. You keep looking around for another derelict on a musical instrument of some kind helping to create such racket. With each stomp of the peddle Dan Auerbach's guitar bounced back and forth from heavy Blues to smash mouth Rock 'n' Roll. Every note wailed, the auditory equivalent of getting slapped in the face. However, as a preform he was very introverted. Comfortable on stage with his instrument, but not with the crowd. He spoke very little in-between, his voice soft and sheepish. This was a stark contrast to his soulful and powerful singing. This dichotomy worked much to his advantage. The fact that he's an incredible guitar player helps too. Everything about them is loud and in-your-face. Fast and concussive were the drums. I could feel the reverberations in my chest. Patrick Carney made seizure faces, soaked in perspiration, smashing his sticks to the rhythm. He'd mic'ed his kit perfectly. My hearing was muffled for days.

Halfway through, they brought out the keyboard player and bassist who helped them out with the new album. After some tracks they sent them off and closed out as a duo, just like Bonnaroo (see Day 2 post). Unlike Roo, they came out for an encore after everyone in the crowd refused to leave, chanting "one more song" until blue in the face.

"Ohio," Dan said with a large grin. "Damn it does feel good to be home!" They smashed two more and called it a night.

On the walk back I was dripping with sweat from dancing and carrying on. We'd all been blown away and began talking over one another incessantly, naming our favorite song or an unfulfilled requests. Our Key's virgin was silent, totally shell shocked. He didn't go to many shows and had nearly wet his pants in all the excitement.

"That was the best fucking concert I have ever been to!" He shouted. "I fucking love those guys! I'm down loading all their shit as soon as I get home. They are now my favorite band." I couldn't agree more, and I purchased everything I didn't already own the next day. That's when it hit me. After seeing them twice I still craved more. The show had only gotten better. They were officially number one on my list ... no doubt about it. I had my answer to the impossible question. It was more of a realization than a conclusion. Like it had always been that way, I wasn't making any new discovery, just excepting an obvious truth.

After hanging out for a bit and digesting the night's events, I could feel a incredible headache starting. The type that builds in pressure behind your eyes, later spreading out through the entire brain like octopus tentacles before squeezing the life out of you. I'd made the fatal mistake of drinking alcohol while tripping, without ingesting any water. Both severely dehydrate and I was now paying the price. I hurried home and chugged a gallon of H2O while laying on the couch, a cold wash cloth draped across my forehead. I had once again pushed my luck a little too far, had a little too much fun. Continued abuse of such substances would lead me to meet my maker sooner than later. But they awaken things inside of me and I can't simply let such things be. The pulsing pain was dull and constant. I drank more water. My skull had melted. Drifting off to sleep with feedback still ringing in my ears, I wasn't sure if the drugs or The Black Keys were to blame.


-J.R.

Worth More Than a Passing Glance ...

"It was not your fault but mine ...
I really fucked it up this time
didn't I my dear?"
-Mumford and Sons, Little Lion Man




The decrepit building is something out of Amityville horror, hidden on Summit St. amongst slum lord apartments and minute marts. The dingy hardwoood floors, crumbling finish, and black mold infestation are probably grounds for foreclosure. I had even heard tales that it was haunted by some former residents. Despite this, the front patio is inviting and when passing through the heavy wooden front door the first thing you notice is a life-size stop light set up behind the bar alternating between go, yield and stop. Chotskies hang from the ceiling and walls, covered with a decades worth of dust. Ruby Tuesday is a health inspector's worst nightmare at best but I have a soft spot for anything with miles, and this dive had its' share. It's also cash only. My first trip there I was the asshole waving his card around wondering why the bar tender wouldn't make eye contact. No one had warned me. He pointed to the ATM and I got the message. Luckily I'd remembered cash this time ...

I was there to see my buddy Mike's band. They called themselves The Glance and he played banjo in the six man ensemble. A $5 cover got you a copy of their new EP Matchmaker. The sound is assorted, mixing in acoustic/electric guitar and mandolin as well. They had a Cold War Kids vibe layered with the string instruments, giving it a Bluegrass after taste.

As I ordered a cold beverage there was a comedian on stage doing a bit about tripping, part of the nights entertainment. He had two stand-up spots, in-between set up for the bands. I'd seen him around town but never realized he was an aspiring artist. Sipping my beer I stood at the bar giving him a listen.

"So I ate a handful of mushrooms the other day ," he said. "I walked out my front door (starts humming the Super Mario Brothers music), crossed the street to get some cigs and fell down a manhole, dooo, dooo, dooo, dooo," (imitating the video game character squatting into a giant green pipe). I chuckled. He wasn't bad.

After a few more jokes I went outside for a smoke, where I ran into my friend Brett. We'd gone to high school together (same one as Mike ) and we were both there to root on our friend. Brett is one of the funniest people I know, manly because we share a similar sense of humor and because he's Jewish ... funnier to me as a people than gentiles. Obviously I'm biased, being half Jew myself but who's keeping track. We were discussing the dating scene and the pressure our mothers were putting on us to "met a girl and settle down", ( a Jewish mom ragging on her son, imagine that).

"It's terrible out there I tell ya," Brett said exhaling tobacco smoke. "The last date I went on was so bad, I almost sent her a bill." I laughed out loud. Now that's fucking funny. We went in and toasted with the house shot called a Trailer Park. Don't ask me how they get away with calling Kentucky Tavern and an RC cola chaser a house shot. I was familiar with KT and didn't mind but Brett was not a fan, tears swelling in his eyes after swallowing. He cursed me under his breath, so I order him a Tall Pibber to make amends.

They came onto stage with a sparse but growing crowd. It was the official release show so they played the EP top to bottom. I loved the build-up in Preen and Mike's Banjo work on Quiet and Poor but Happiness in Pills struck the loudest chord with me, ("In an age of pain ... we're hurting everyday ... consume our happiness in pills"). It had a disturbing but relevant message sung eloquently. They also mixed in an excellent cover of Hang Me Out to Dry. Lead singer Travis Bunner sounded just like Nathan Willett of CW Kids. He pranced around, barely taller than me with the help of the stage, not just hitting the notes, but giving them presence ... CRUCIAL for any front-man. A bow, and much applause.

They closed with another cover, Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons, a fast paced romp, perfect for their eclectic sound. I had never heard the song before but I was enthralled. By the end Mike was on his knees raking his hand across the banjo strings so fast I thought I saw smoke. I spun a lady on the dance floor as the crowd got loose to the rhythm. A few days later, after I downloaded Mumford's whole album, I was amazed how dead on his solo was. With just over twelve months on the instrument, Mike was a regular savant.

Afterwards, we all had a few more and stayed for the last act, Matt Monta and The Hot Coal Band. Monta reminded me of a much larger Anton Newcombe from Brian Jonestown Massacre ... similar voice and look. The band had a twist though ... cello. The player was beautiful, blond with quite large and perky tits. She played maracas and sang back-up as well. With ever shake and wail her wonderfully perfect breasts giggled just right. Definitely not implants. She was my dream woman. I was in love, if only for the night. One line they sang really caught my attention ... "Every man has his price and we're always for sale." I wonder if she had a price as well. I finished off my Tallboy and made a trip to the basement bathroom.

Stifling odors of mildew and piss. Crypt-like; a very large, dimly lite room with junk piled up against one wall, and two red doors. The only signs of life were faint voices and footsteps from above. Ducking through the one with a little man, I realized I was the only person down there. The temperature seemed to instantly drop five degrees. Looking around at the aged wooden walls it began to feel like I was in the belly of a pirate ship, a slow trickle from the urinal sounding like seawater leaking through the hull. I was starting to believe the joint really was haunted. How many people had lived, drank, even died inside its' walls, possibly in this very room? If something happened, could anyone hear me scream? Zipping my fly, I hurried upstairs to join my friends, looking over my shoulder along the way, a feeling of someone watching raising the hair on the back of my neck.


-J.R.

Profile: Brody Ryan

"The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast...
As the present now
Will later be past ...
For the times they are a-changin'."

-Bob Dylan, Times They are a Changin'



Brody Ryan unpacks his bags for the second time in less than a year, wondering how long it will be until he just fills them up again. His only constant is change, traveling over 3,000 miles in less than 12 months, settling in Arizona for a bit before returning to Ohio. He should be through rushing around, he should be worn out and ready to relax ... but an opportunity has presented itself and there's no time to hesitate. He's just started making moves.

A few weeks later we sat in the living room of his new condo. Well actually, it's a new "old" condo. It was his grandfathers (who recently moved to assisted living) and he is staying there with his girlfriend Samantha until his family can sell it. She is an aspiring model/writer herself and the two make a perfect pair. The place has a very heavy 70s vibe; the small rounded sectional couch with crazy floral pattern, palm tree lamp, and shag carpet. There are even some knick knacks in a display case. I had a flashback to my Grandmother's Boca time-share. But rent was free and it was still a very nice place, all new appliances, clean, even if the decor was dated. They had moved from Tempe (Samantha's home town) and were eager to save some money and pursue their dreams together in a new environment.

"Being a huge fan of music, one day I decided to not just be a fan but to create my own," he said over a few brews. "It wasn’t until I shared my music with a close friend and his enthusiastic response ignited a hope and the decision that others might enjoy my music as well." He goes by the name Shy F.A.M.E but he doesn't just sing and rap, he's a one man army, doing all his own lyrics, most of the beats and production ... while maintaining his own graphic design/photography website (http://shyfame.com/) as well. "Steez-O is my producer," he says, not wanting to take all the credit. "He mixes it all down."

Ryan's days usually start early. Around 8 a.m. he makes breakfast, has some coffee and a smoke, collecting his thoughts on the second floor balcony. He'll write a little or rehearse lines in his head. Then it's straight to recording and he won't stop until he has a substantial base to work with. He spends the evenings tweaking, adding loops, effects, and planing the next days session. If he's up late he works on the website or his photos. Building your rep is a full-time job, if you want it to be.

The master bedroom closet has been converted into a recording booth. Sound proof insulation and a studio quality mic and two laptops to store the takes. "I just come back here and get in the zone," he said smiling. "In my own little world." He grew up outside Columbus, a middle-classer. The public school, varsity basketball type until college at Bowling Green where he found his interests were in fashion, photography, design and of course music ... he still dabbles in all freely. It's obvious from the start that he is very passionate about WHATEVER he is doing.

However, there's a bit of that boyish wonder in his eyes when he mentions his under construction mix tape New Dawn New Day, or any other artist's work he is feeling at the particular moment for that matter. We talked for hours about the finer points of The Black Keys and Kid Cudi (Shy F.A.M.E. and Cudi ran with the same crowd in Cleveland before Kanye brought Cudi up to the major leagues). He even introduced me to some music I'd never heard before.

"You like the Keys? Then you have to check these guys out," he said, jumping out of his seat. He played a couple tracks by a band called The Sugar Thieves. I was digging it. We sipped on our Red Stripes and got back to the topic. He played me a party song he'd just finished up that day. It had swag.

"Haters creepin' in acting like they love us, eatin' all the peaches out the hairy buff tubes, but it's all love, let them live it up it's the weekend." The beat was original and the hook was quite catchy. It was easily better then Soldier Boy and that slop is on the radio all the time. He has been working extensively on the New Dawn New Day for the last 4 weeks and hopes to have it available for download later this fall.

It's not Brody Ryan's first attempt at putting out a record. Under his alias, Shy F.A.M.E he's already released Dawn of the X-Ordinary with help form his sponsor T.I.T.S. clothing (http://www.shoptits.com/) earlier this year. Check out Body So Cold and the Tom's Diner remix. Both will be stuck in your head for the next 3 days. The EP is getting heavy buzz on the internet thanks to the outer space rock/hip-hop/club infused cuts which are un-classifiable, constantly changing ... Radiohead meets Kool Kids with a Daft Punk backdrop and other elements that aren't on the periodic table. Truly extraordinary ... but as I've said he's wasting no time, not ready to simply ride a small wave of success. He want's bigger and better.

"I only have this situation (no rent, minimal bills) for so long, so I'm not really working other than on my music so I want to make as much as possible." He feels like he is on the clock, living on savings until he either breaks through or has to get a day job. There's also a video for his Starry Eyed remix set to shoot the following week and so fine tuning the concept is weighing on his thoughts as well.

"My soul is rising up," he explained. "The sun is shinning through me and I can see the tears in everyone's eyes shine like diamonds ... starry eyes. It will be on the new tape as well. I'm trying to continue innovating. Definitely more soulful, some dupstep, electronica, maybe some guitar riffs ... more experimenting." He has input or a hand in every aspect of his work, from the songs, to the photos, to the logos and so on ... something most established artists wished they could say. Anyway, it's nice to know nobody can make you look like an ass. Stay up to date at http://iamgogone.com/, his website for all news Brody Ryan related.

Of course music is abundant ... everywhere these days. So how do you separate the quality from the sub-par when making download choices? Why believe me when I say cop that new mix tape? Everything is constantly changing, evolving, cross-breeding ... so wriggly it's impossible to pin down a genre on anyone. Like many, Brody Ryan is a budding artist who is just finding his voice and his audience in a sea of noise but the difference between him and the worms peddling shit is simple. He's up before the early bird and he burns the midnight oil, putting in the time and energy necessary to make his dreams a reality. His brand and his reputation are growing ... he's no doubt working on both as I type this. Drive, vision, and talent will get you far in life. The only question now is how far? The clock is ticking ...


-J.R.

Roo 2010: Conclusion

"I ain't wanting to sling no mud,
I came to clean it up."
-Dr. Dog, The Rabbit, the Bat and the Reindeer




Another year in the books. A new notch in my belt. More posted proof of my depravity for you all to enjoy. I'm sure it was evreything you dreamed of and more. Right, well thanks for reading anyway. I have a ton of stuff I'm working on so I'm just going to get right to it. The best and the worst of Bonnaroo 2010 ...

Best Show: Always a tough call ... tie between Avett Brothers and The Black Keys. The Keys for their rawness and incredible sound output (just two bums from Akron). The Avett Brothers for crushing my expectations. I went in thinking sing-songy twang and got an in your face, balls to the wall punk rock 'n' roll explosion. Honorable Mention: Dr. Dog

Best Performer: This was easy ... Stevie Wonder. The man is a living legend and he was the biggest name on the line-up.

Best Find: A couple come to mind, Steve Martin and The Rangers, Dave Rawlings, but I'm going with Ok Go, a band I knew nothing about who put on a hell of a show with more confetti then Mardi Gras. I felt like I was in one of their nutty music videos, thoroughly amazed.

Best Cover: Reptilla performed by The Punch Brothers ... To Be Young performed by Dave Rawlings was also sweet but he helped write the song so technically it's an original.

Best Guitar Player: Despite the abundance of amazing Bluegrass pickers, I'm going with John Butler of John Butler Trio. Not a one trick pony, he had more all-around talent and showcased it.

Best Stage Show: I only saw it for about 40 minutes but it's still The Flaming Lips. They put Phishes light show (from '09) to shame. It reminded me of Avatar 3D, on hallucinogens.

Biggest Surprise: Has to be Steve Martin's banjo skills. Very, very, very impressive. I had to keep asking myself if it was really him.

Best Crowd: The dance party at Thievery Corporation was some of the craziest shit I have seen ... anywhere ... ever. PLEASE GO SEE THEM! (bring some Molly)

Best Stage Banter: The obvious choice would be Steve Martin, who "bantered" for a living as a stand-up comedian ... so I'm picking Frank Turner. I really felt like he was somebody I could enjoy a beer and a laugh with. Like an old drinking buddy you haven't seen in years, full of stories and jokes. A smidge narcissistic but humble and honest at the same time.

Best Way to Finish a Show: Dave Rawlings Machine covering The Weight by The Band. Perfect sound for them and the perfect way to end their set. That song is the best closer in the game.

Band I've Been Listening to the Most: Since returning I haven't been able to get off Dr. Dog. The more I listen to them the more I appreciate what they are doing. They write fantastic songs and their live performance was epic.

Most bummed I missed: I would have given anything to catch all of The Flaming Lips (doing Pink Floyd's Darkside of the Moon) without missing The Black Keys but shit happens. I also saw The Dead Weather's set on You Tube. They would have been fun too.

Biggest Come Up: Rising from the ashes of their '09 set, Phoenix showed everyone they deserved to be on a main stage. They were the only band I had seen the year before and they were even better owning it this year with the largest crowd they had probably ever seen.


... and now some hate. If it's in your heart, you have to let it out.


Worst Show: It pains me to say it, but Kings of Leon. I have to say Weezer was a close second but I didn't have high expectations for them. I want to like KOL live but alas, after two tries, it has not come to pass. There is still a bad taste in my mouth about it.

Biggest Jerk: Rivers Cuomo of Weezer. His hip-kid strut, pathetically simple song structure and beyond lack-luster performance made me ill. I would rather punch him in the face than ever buy any of his music ever again. Even his name is awful. What a douchebag.

Worst Fans: The Hardcore DMBers. They swear blind allegience, contending that Dave can do no wrong, even when old fans (like me) are dropping him like a bad habit. I respect what he's done but seriously people, shut the fuck up. No one cares how many times you've seen him and no one is paying attention to his new albums.

Biggest Cliche: The hippie couple, for example... "Oh Moonbeam, I love the earth and the sky above, my entire being is whole with you by my side ... " as he strokes her dreads, and she caresses his massive ear gauges. They'll rub down their children in patchouli instead of baby oil ... poor little guy will never have a chance.

Worst Line-Up: Same deal as last year, Day 1. I get it, no one shows up until Day 2 but at least act like you give a damn Bonnaroo. Give us one big name, or a great DJ, something. (Frank Turner and Sarah Jarosz saved the day)

Worst Blunder: Sharing a time slot for the The Black Keys and The Flaming Lips. Total bullshit, and I'm not the only person who thought so. I heard much grumbling about it. Why two of the headlining acts were on simultaneously will forever escape me.

Worst Encounter: Water station conversation with a Neo-Nazi. Still creeps me out. What the hell was he doing at a gathering promoting peace and unity anyway?

Worst Cameo: Heat and The Sun. You'd sweat your cloths wet, they'd dry and the salt (from the perspiration) would cake up in patches. Everything smelled like a locker room. It was terrible.


And that's that. I'm counting the days until February when the line-up for 2011 will be released. Stay tuned. These entries have been my best effort to put all of you right there with me but no one can truly know until they've been for themselves. So if you even remotely think it's for you, stop being a pussy, stop talking about it and just go!

Obviously Roo is "the" fest for me. However, it's also the only big one I've ever attended, so I am always down to put this notion to the test. Any suggestions are welcomed. I would also love to hear why you think it sucks or why such and such is better. Feedback is always welcome. Trying some new things in the near future with the Blog too, so I hope to see you all back here very soon. Take care fiends.


-J.R.

Roo 2010: Day 4

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-J.R.

Roo 2010: Day 3

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




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

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

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


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


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.