Bonnaroo '09: Day 1

"I see trouble on the way, I see earthquakes and lightnin', I see bad times today."

-Creedence Clearwater Revival, Bad Moon Rising





After quickly loading my things into the car, I left to pick up Dylan. I decided to throw in my Bruce Springsteen mix, very trip appropriate since he was one of the headliners. Dylan was waiting outside his apartment, bags ready, sporting an ear-to-ear grin. He was about 5"10 with a mop of very curly brown hair and a full beard (slighty mangy), very funny, constantly cracking jokes and easy to get along with. This was the first Bonnaroo for both of us, as well as our first major road trip together. He was wearing slip-ons, khaki shorts, a blue t-shirt and an Elvis Costello-ish fedora. After throwing his things into the trunk he sat down shotgun.

"What do you think of my Bonnaroo hat?" he asked. "I think this is a serious look for me."

"Totaly cool," I said. "You look like the lead singer of My Morning Jacket with that beard. It would be dead on if it were fuller. What, did you just glue pubic hair to your face?"

"Shut your mouth, clown," he responded. "This took me weeks to grow!"

We arrived in Piqua around 11 p.m., 06/10/09, with Born to Run blaring. Both of us were absolutely giddy with excitement. Janis (Steve's girlfriend) and Steve came out to greet us. Janis was around 5"8, with sandy blond hair and large, pretty blue eyes. She was also a natural hostess, outgoing and constantly smiling; a real pleasure to be around from the get-go. Steve was the same height as Dylan, with short brown hair and a persistent five o'clock shadow. He was somewhat more reserved than the rest of us, content to let others carry the conversation, only chiming in on occasional with quality comments or insight. Both were slighty older than Dylan and me and had "real" jobs. They were engaged to be married next August. Both were closet hippies and huge Phish fans. This was their third Roo.

"You find it alright," Janis asked with a warm, welcoming smile.

"Yea, Google had us driving all over this one cow town but we figured it out," Dylan replied, shaking Steve's hand.

After finishing introductions we discussed the game plan. Dylan, Janis and I were totally wired, and we saw little or no sleep happening. After some debate, we decided to leave sooner than later. We packed up Steve's mom's Dodge Caravan to capacity. It looked like a scene from Oregon Trail; a modern-day covered wagon, stuffed to the gills with sleeping bags, tents, food and water. We were meeting Melissa (Steve and Janis' pal) and her boyfriend Dave outside Cincinnati, making six of us total, in two vehicles. After coordinating a meeting point at Buttermilk Parkway, (or "Buttermilk Biscuit" Parkway according to Dylan) we were off.

The trip was running incredibly smoothly, with much laughter and high spirits. Coming into Louisville things took a turn for the worse. Torrential down pours, forced us to a crawl at 30 MPH. The rain came in waves, slowing occasionally before picking up again and belting us with sheet after sheet of water. The lighting was also fierce, seeming to strike just miles ahead or to the side of us. This leg of the drive was miserable to say the least. We drove as long as we could, but it got so bad we decided to stop at a Travel America in Munfordville, Kentucky.

An hour and half later we were back on the road and the rain had finally let up for good, or so we thought. We drove an hour east of Nashville, entering Coffee County Tennessee. Once we hit Manchester we saw the line. Cars were pulled over onto the median, and they were endless. Miles and miles of sedans, SUVs, Minivans, Jeeps and the occasional old school VW Bus.

We followed signs telling us to get off on Exit 127 and took our spot in line. The slow moving, mass caravan was a party unto itself. People were walking up and down the road side, poking their heads into neighboring cars, passing joints, bottled water, or snacks. A large group of college age kids were tossing a frisbee in a nearby field. A distraught looking soul walked by with a sign saying, "I need a ticket". We saw him triumphantly sprinting by later beaming with a freshly scalped ticket in hand. Others were sneaking in and out of the woods to take long held pees. Locals were lining the street, waving. We tuned our dial to Bonnaroo Radio, a nearby station commandeered for the four-day weekend, playing tunes that we would soon see and hear live. Then more rain. We watched it roll in from the West as we climbed back into the van.

The storm quickly passed. We opened the sliding door to let some fresh air in. Walking to the right of the vehicle was one of Manchester Tennessee's finest. To call this man a redneck would be a compliment. He wore a cut off t-shirt that said, "I killed a 12 pack just to watch it die," and stoned washed jeans from 1985. He had the rebel battle flag tattooed on both shoulders, four teeth total in his mouth, and track marks up and down his arms. It was 1 p.m. Central Time and he was piss drunk. Of course, he decided to walk up to our van to say "Hi".

"Bonnaroooooo!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Name's Jeff Walden. I live in Manchester. I'm related to half this town, but they don't know me."

He sat down next to Dylan in the van and took his shirt off. All four of us were visibly nervous. He rattled off stories about "kinfolk" and his childhood; burning down houses, beating, and raping women. I'm dead fucking serious, he actually told us these things.

"I'm Bipolar ya see," he elaborated. "but that don't forgive tha things I done." We ignored him as best we could, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Eventually we bored him enough that he left but not before he extended his hand to shake. As I reached out and made contact, I noticed a large scabbed-over wound, probably drug related, in the webbing between his thumb and index finger, right where grips meet for handshakes. He hopped out of the van and was off hassling his next batch of incoming concert goers.

"Does anyone have hand sanitizer?" I asked with growing concern. "I think he just gave me leprosy."

The massive line dumped into a check point. Note to all, stay at least four rows away from the cops here because they randomly ask people to pull over for searches. If there are five rows of cars between you and them, odds are you are safe. We were. We looked around the check point. Plates from California, Alabama, Minnesota, Ohio, Florida, the Carolinas, Oklahoma, Texas, and New Jersey filled the lines. We had our tickets out and ready to show to the attendants and made it through with no problems. They gave us our wrist bands which would allow us in and out of the venue area, and than we were herded into our campsite. It was a mad dash to claim a spot so we quickly spilled out of the still moving van, laying out our tarps as wide as possible, in order to insure we'd have plenty of room.

After we set our campsite up, we began to drink heavily. It was 3 p.m. 06/11/09. Our plan was to see Delta Spirit at seven. We met one of our neighbors, Trent, who worked for a small newspaper outside Nashville. He had been to every Bonnaroo since its inception in 2002 and he lived, literally, right down the street.

"Yup," he said in his quiet Southern drawl. "I set up camp, I check out the music, and usually head home to sleep. Works out nice." His brother and his girl friend were meeting him tomorrow.

He gave Dylan and me some pointers and let everyone in on some inside information. Delta Spirit was running late, and they would now be performing at 12:30. This was a real bummer, considering they were the only band I really wanted to see Day 1. Deciding to make the most of our new timeline, I proceeded to get even more drunk. I pulled the small flask of Grand Marnier out of my bag, mixed it with sprite, dubbed it my victory drink (celebrating my safe arrival) and smoked my victory cigar.

Many beers/mixed drinks later, we stumbled to the main gate. I looked up at the gathered masses and it hit me. Holyshit, I'm fucking here! The security searched everyone's bag pretty thoroughly and then let us in. Walking into the main venue area I inspected my surroundings, eyes the size of half dollars. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. Vendors selling carnival food and other trinkets lined the paths. There were five different stages, a Ferris Wheel, a giant mushroom shaped fountain, various tents with unknown contents and people. People were everywhere, ranging in age from 6 to 60. There were high schoolers, frat boys, hippies, punks, hipsters, yuppies, court jesters, and various other costumed revelers all about. It was honestly too much for my drunk mind to comprehend.

We stopped at the nearest stage and watched my first show of the trip, a group called Hockey. They had some good toe tapping tunes, a mesh of pop rock and light punk that had people dancing. Something like Arcade Fire. The lead singer was dramatically effeminate and a good showman. Although I was eight beers and four mixed drinks deep, I remembered liking their set.

When the music was over, my buzz had started wearing off so I picked my way through the crowds to get to the nearest beer vendor and bought a $6, 12 oz Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in a plastic cup (no glass what-so-ever at Bonnaroo). At Melissa's request we walked to a smaller stage and watched our next show, a trio of girls calling themselves Those Darlins. Apparently, they were all related, and their last name was Darlin. How clever! The lead guitar and vocalist was a very pretty and petite brunette. She played an F-hole style guitar bigger than she was. To her right was another brunette (her sister I guess) playing an electric ukulele. They both had impressive bushes of armpit hair, mmmmmm, sexy. Pithair-less and blond, the bass player was the most talented of the three. They were a cross between country, heavy punk and grunge. The Dixie Chicks meet Rancid.

"How are all the dicks and pussies out there?" the little lead singer asked a shocked crowd. "Getting fucked up I hope!"

They launched into a cover of some punk song called You Bring the Dick and I'll Bring the Pussy. After their set the long hours of no sleep started to take their toll. I hadn't had a wink since Tuesday night, roughly 46 hours awake. On our way out Bob Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone was blasting overhead. It seemed perfect for that exact moment in time. We made our way back to camp as the skies opened up yet again! Halfway through our walk I was soaked to the bone. Drunk and angry I held my arms to the sky and cursed God for trying to ruin my good time. We got back to camp where I stripped naked, put on some basketball shorts and promptly passed the fuck out.I awoke in the early morning, before dawn, to high winds and more rain. I honestly thought our tent would blow away. Scared, cold, and drunk, I tried to fall back asleep, praying this would not be how I spent the remainder of the trip. After the wind died down I finally fell back into a dreamless sleep, ready for a new and brighter day.

J.R.