Bonnaroo '09: Day 3

"Oh no there ain't no rest for the wicked, until we close our eyes for good."

-Cage the Elephant, Ain't no Rest for the Wicked





The music was over, and the shrooms were finally starting to wear off. I wasn't drunk or stoned anymore either, just fried. I looked up to see the sun rising. It must have been close to 6 a.m., almost 2o-hours of drugs and shows with only an hour nap. Stumbling down Shakedown Street towards Pod 11 I wonder how I survived this long by myself. I looked to my right and saw a very attractive girl not much younger than me. She was average height, with beautiful blue eyes. Her curly almond-brunette mane was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was wearing a tapestry skirt and a green bikini top. There was a pretty orange flower tattoo, possibly an Orchid of some kind, covering most of her left shoulder blade.

Both of us were walking alone, amongst the departing herd, so we struck up a conversation. Her name was Bethany, and she was a student at Michigan State. Coincidentally, she was sobering up after eating some Magic Mushrooms as well and had also lost her friends. It was her first time, so she peppered me with the usual first-time tripper questions: how long do they last, will I have a hang over, am I going crazy, etc. I assured her that everything would be fine tomorrow. We continued to shoot the shit for the duration of our walk, and I thought about asking her to join me for a beer but decided it best we go our separate ways; both of us had worried friends waiting. I said good night and gave her my card. I returned to camp, thrilled I was ok.

"We thought you were a goner there for a second," Dylan said. "I was afraid you were dead or worse; I'd come back to camp, and you'd be fornicating in our tent. What the hell happened to you?"

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "It was crazy day to say the least," I told my now captive audience. "Let me start from the beginning ..."



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I rose around 8 a.m., feeling as rested as one can after spending the night on the ground with only a blanket as a pillow. It's impossible to really sleep-in once the sun is up and blazing full force, turning your tent into an oven. The group discussed yesterday's festivities over a breakfast of bagels and cream cheese. Janis brought instant coffee which was a life saver, but as many of us know, early morning caffeine brings early morning trips to the powder room.

I'll save you the grizzly details here, but let's just say that the bathroom situation (especially when you have to number two) is most definitely the worst part. Port-a-johns, plus 80,000 heads in 90 plus temperatures equals me almost vomiting several times during my various trips to the Lou. But what are you gonna do? Shit happens, literally.

Anyway, with that bit of unpleasantness behind me, I decided it was time to start drinking. The rest of my group was in a more somber mood so I joined the Massachusetts crew for beer shotguns and bowls. We smoked the rest of Brice's stash and my chillum had that funny opium aftertaste the rest of the trip. At one point I think we even passed around a plastic gallon milk jug full of whiskey.

"It's actually Wild Turkey Rare Breed," one of them said. "Pretty fucking good whiskey." Being very partial to bourbon myself, I wholeheartedly agreed. We had good reason to begin the tailgate so early. It was announced on our trip down that Jimmy Buffett would be joining the Coral Reef All-Stars to start off today's music. Parrot-heads and the rest would be descending on Which Stage by noon.

At this rate I knew I wouldn't make it past 12:30, so I thanked my new friends and headed back to camp. Rummaging through my things stoned, and well on my way to being drunk, I made a devastating discovery. At some point the night before I must have misplaced my notebook, containing detailed notes of my first two days at The Roo. I screamed obscenities aloud, startling my friends, who asked what was wrong. I explained the problem and after they talked me off the ledge, we all sat down and rehashed yesterday's events for the second time, while I scrambled to re-take notes on my spare pad. After a little bit, I calmed down and chalked it up to fate. Getting fucked up all day can be bad when trying to remember where you put something. I hope whoever found it was 1.) able to read my Sanskrit handwriting and 2.) thoroughly enjoyed my take on the shows and additional side comments. Again, shit happens (figuratively).

While we continued to tailgate and grill out for lunch, a wonderful love-child stopped by our tent. She was short and her long auburn brown hair was braided into pigtails. She was wearing John Lennon sun-glasses with ruby colored lenses and a rawhide vest over a tie-dye t-shirt. She also had a book bag slung over her shoulder.

"Would anyone like to buy some Shrooms?" she asked our group. "I have chocolates for $20 and quarters for $50." We all huddled up. Some of us had done them before, but I was definitely the "pro" of the group, having tripped a handful of times in college. After some negotiations amongst ourselves, Steve, Janis, and I split the cost of a quarter (I paid $30, they paid $20). Today was officially looking up. What a difference an hour can make.

By now it was time to head to the concert venue. The security check-point was a bottlenecked clusterfuck. It seemed like everyone was trying to get in at the same time, in order to catch Buffett. The line was colossal and barely moving; the guards were simply too overwhelmed. The band struck up Let's Get Drunk and Screw, and the mob began to get very agitated. Chants of "Let Us In!" spouted off spontaneously. Finally, wanting to avoid a riot, the guards (God bless them) gave us the go ahead, and we all rushed in unchecked.

It was a beautiful and breezy 85 degrees and the sun was shining. Jimmy Buffett was absolutely perfect to start the day. After a vendor beer or two, I was all smiles and totally trashed. I looked over my shoulder and saw the people flocking to the stage from the entrance. It felt like the Florida Keys had been transported to Tennessee, and I was loving life. Multiple beach balls bounced high above the crowd as they played the Caribbean inspired Changes in Latitudes.

"Looks like we brought the weather," Jimmy said after the song. "I get the sense you're just waking up. Let's see if this gets you grooving," he exclaimed as they rocketed into Cheeseburger in Paradise. At this moment I realized it was all about the timing plus the performance. Buffett at noon just seemed so right.

Before the end of the set, the boys (Dylan, Steve, Dave and I) decided to go to This Tent to check out Elvis Perkins in Dearland. The girls would stay, saving a spot with the blanket to serve as today's home base. It was 12:45 p.m. on 06/13/09, and I was completely intoxicated; not just by the alcohol and narcotics, but by the good vibes that radiated from this place. The most outstanding drug I was on all weekend ... the vibes that is.

The best way to describe Elvis Perkins is abstract. Even Bob Dylan esque at times. He came out unaccompanied, playing a large and alluring woodgrain guitar. The rest of the band crept out during the first song. Perkins himself was a bit of a prick. After the first tune, he sarcastically asked the crew if they needed to have the lights so bright.

"I mean it's the day time, right?" he arrogantly asked the crowd.

Despite this, they played some great music. A couple songs in they broke down a marvelous five-part harmony on the apply titled Chains. Everyone in the band also seemed to play multiple instruments. At one point the bass player, drummer, and rhythm guitar player were all holding a brass apparatus; a sax, trombone and trumpet respectively. Perkins played a mean guitar and harmonica himself. For the last song they had nine people bounding around stage like they were possed, all on instruments (including a marching band bass drum). It was quit a sight to see.

By the end of the set my drunk was well on its way to hang-over. The heat takes it out of you, and I was realizing that all day drinking was not a good idea at Bonnaroo. We went back to the girls and home base. I lay down and promptly passed out with the Heartless Bastards singing me lullabies. It honestly gets to that point sometimes; you can actually sleep through a concert, you're that worn out.

After waking from my power nap and chugging three bottled waters (must stay hydrated), I had gathered my second wind. While I was asleep, Dylan had gone back to camp to get his wallet which he had left behind. The rest of us were up in the air about who to see and where to go. Wilco was on everyone's mind, but they didn't take the stage until six and it was only three. I was hungry and running low on funds so I said I would go back to meet Dylan and get some food. I gathered my things and departed. It would be the last time I saw anybody I knew until early the next morning.

Walking along Shakedown Street, I was distracted by an awesome Southern rock style jam band. They had rented a spot, and they were putting on a show just outside of the venue walls. They called themselves Sol Driven Train, and they hailed from Charleston, South Carolina. This was Bonnaroo at a grass roots level. After a couple songs I grabbed one of their cards and continued towards my pod.

Upon arriving at camp I discovered that I had missed Dylan. He was no where to be found. Neither were any of my immediate neighbors. Great, I muttered to myself. I loaded my pack full of water and made a PB and J sandwhich. It was about ten degrees hotter now than it had been. My neck was tender, and I realized that I was sunburned from my beauty sleep earlier. After I finished my snack, I did the only thing I could do and headed back to where my friends were sitting at Which Stage.

When I got there, the unthinkable happened. I couldn't find them! I was able to stay calm at first, wandering the area where I saw them last. An hour passed with no luck. I could feel the thumps in my chest beating to a faster rhythm. I began to panic. I was all alone amongst a sea of strangers. I wasn't lost at the state fair. This was a group rivaling the size of Ohio State's total undergrad population, all in constant motion and in an alltered state of consciousness. I began pacing along the wall protecting the VIPs from the common folk.

"Oh fuck! I'm so fucked!" I said to myself. "What am I going to do? Whom will I hang out with? Where will go? How will I find them?"

I gave up looking, and slowly walked to What Stage. Taking a few deep breaths, I sat down on the grass, but my heart rate was still elevated. Rodrigo Gabriela was playing. He was an amazing guitar player and his instrumental tracks were just what I needed to pacify my worried mind. After a few hits of green and some contemplation, I decide to look at being separated as a positive. I was officially on a solo adventure, free to do whatever I pleased. I didn't have to double check or listen to any suggestions. I was on my own.

After Gabriel finished, having completed my mental pep talk, I decided to plot a course for the rest of my day/night. Gov't Mule at 5, Wilco at 6, catch the end of The Mars Volta until 8:45, Bruce by 9, Nine Inch Nails or Ben Harper at 1 a.m. and MGMT (a must) at 2:15 a.m. Not too shabby. I walked to the appropriate stage to catch the next show.

Gov't Mule was Southern fried rock at its best with just a smidgen of country mixed in for good measure. They had a full-size piano as part of their set and their bass player was truly gifted. One of them, I was later told, was a former member of The Allman Brothers Band. While smoking a pipe and enjoying the music, I was approached by some guy and his girlfriend.

"Man, that shit smells good," he said smiling. "You got any to sell?"

I shared the bowl I had already started and broke him off a joint's worth for $5. Good news since this later paid for my dinner. His name was Mike, and he had a full head of light brown dreads pulled back in a bird's nest of a bun. He and his girlfriend had come down from Kentucky and gotten pulled over Wednesday night, just outside Manchester. No doubt because of his appearance, they searched his car and found half a pound of pot. They had spent Thursday and Friday in jail, just making it to Bonnaroo Saturday afternoon.

"I went from having ounces to having nothing at all," he said bowing his head in anguish. "Thank you so much for the smoke."

We shook hands, and I said my good byes, heading out to get a good spot for Wilco. Along the way I decided it would be a good idea to munch on some of my mushrooms. Why not? I needed to know if they were bogus or not anyway. Psilocybin tasted just like what it grows in: cow shit. I chewed up a cap and stem quickly, retching. I washed them down with a fresh squeezed lemonade I purchased along the way. God damn! They really did taste awful, I thought, gagging.

For the next 45 minutes or so I just sat by What Stage and waited. Waited for Wilco and waited for my shrooms to kick in. I smoked another bowl with a high school age couple. They couldn't believe the potency of my weed (rookies). For $10 I sold them the same amount I sold to Kentucky Dreads for $5; the cost of inexperience. They had both just graduated and were deciding what to do with themselves. I told them I was 25, and I still didn't know what to do with myself, so there wasn't any rush. We all laughed and shared another bowl pack. They were very nice, and we chit-chatted until the start of the show. After that I was back on my own.

I continued to push up, since I no longer had extra people with me taking up extra room. Every time someone stepped back or left for another show and room was created I filled the void. This was pretty much standard operating procedure at Bonnaroo. I ended up 12 rows from center stage next to some raver who was dancing like a mad man. He was wearing a plaid shirt, matching plaid shorts and even a plaid headband. He was most definitely on Ecstasy, based on his behavior and the level of sweat pouring off of him. Between him and the drunk Bruce Springsteen fans who were camping out for their idol, ("Where's the Boss?" "Wilco sucks!" "Bruuuuuce!") many around me seemed less than thrilled.

Moments later I was struck by an amazing body buzz. The shrooms were most certainly not bogus. The euphoria comes in waves of increasing then decreasing strength. Like peaks and valleys. This was my first big peak. I was tingly all over, and it felt like someone was tickling the inside of my stomach, sort of like the feeling you get on the first big hill of a rollar coaster. The music and mood of the show was very mellow, but I would say they had their moments of full on hard rock. Jeff Tweedy and Nels Cline would alternate riotous guitar solos that left me wishing I had a tenth of their skill. They also had an arsenal of guitars on stage with them, easily twentey axes in all. The sun set with Jesus, Ect as theme music: it was fucking beautiful. I was already a huge Wilco guy, but this performance forever changed my perspective of them.

I left to catch the end of The Mars Volta after Tweedy and the fellas finished up. I sprinkled another small portion of shrooms on a plate of cheese covered, ribbon cut fries. Dinner of champions. They were perfect trip music. I sat against the wall, admiring the graffiti art, and totally zoned out. Sitting Indian-style not even 20 feet away, a gorgeous hippie girl soon caught my attention. She had the Ani DiFranco thing going since her long blond hair was dreaded and dyed green in places. She was wearing a red bikini and nothing else. It showed off ever angle of her amazing body. I found myself fantasizing about her, and I wanted to walk over and strike up a conversation, but I was too far gone. I looked to my left. Some guy in a Spaceghost costume had passed out next to me. I had to laugh, this was pure insanity.

Soon I was walking again, en route to see the one, the only Bruce Springsteen and his E Street Band. I stopped to get a drink and met a man in his late 40's from Minnesota. He was also solo. Apparently the rest of his family had planned a trip to Europe, and he was unable to go so he came to Bonnaroo as a consolation. We talked for a bit, and he told me his daughter had just been accepted to Yale and she fancied herself a writer (hopefully she reads this someday). I told him my spiel and how I was also a writer, doing a story about the festival. I gave him my card and continued on my way. I still wonder if he knew I was crushed on mushrooms while we were talking.

I crested the hill leading to What Stage just in time for Hard Times. I kept pushing up until I was even closer than I had been for Wilco. I must say, Bruce was THE showman. At one point I almost touched him as he paraded down the security alley that parted the crowd. There isn't a person on the planet who loves what they do more. This was my second time seeing him, and it was even better than I remembered. I could write an essay about why Bruce Springsteen is exactly what America needs right now, but for the sake of time and space I will just say that his three and half hour set (no joke) was mammoth in its awesomeness. The energy poured from the stage, uplifting the crowd. It felt more like a religious sermon than a rock concert at times.

"We came here to build a house," he told the largest crowd of people I had seen all weekend. "A house of faith, love, and music!" Born to Run almost made me cream in my pants but before that Santa came to town, in June. "It's too fucking hot for that song," The Boss said dripping with sweat. Someone had made a sign requesting his popular Christmas track. "If I'm gonna play it, y'all gotta sing along." So there I was, tripping, in the summer heat, singing Santa Clause is Coming to Town with thousands of jews, christians, buddhist, muslims, and nonbelievers. It was like some twisted made-for-TV Hallmark channel special and I was enjoying every second.

Dancing and singing until I was sore and hoarse, I finally made my way to The Other Tent to catch one of my long time favorites, Ben Harper. He was performing with his new band, The Relentless 7. Imagined or not, I thought I could feel my pupils expanding and contracting. I manged to find a spot and relaxed, looking around at the crowd. The girls were plentiful and appealing but they were in their adolescence; I think 90% of this crowd was under the legal drinking age. I even saw some teeny-boppers camped out with what had to be one of their fathers. It's 1 a.m., do you know where your children are?

After Harper rocked out Led Zeppelin's Good Times, Bad Times on his slide guitar and than informed the crowd (through song) to never trust a woman who loves the Blues, I couldn't help be distracted by the activity on Which Stage. Nine Inch Nails was rocking out so hard, they were drowning out Ben Harper, and I was 30 feet from the stage. Trent Reznor and the gang were easily 500 yards away, but I could still see their amazing light show. The Strobes and lasers were too enticing.

Like a rat or small child following the Pied Piper, I slowly made my way towards the pretty lights. I popped one more cap for good measure. I'm Afraid of Americans was truly tantalizing, but I found myself feeling too worn out to go on. For an instant I wanted to go back to camp. Just than I remembered the 12 oz Red Bull in my bag. I quickly chugged it, and I was back in business. Popeye had found his spinach.

When they finished up, I decided I needed to chill for a bit. I headed towards That Tent, stopping at what I can only describe as a crystal castle. It was made of plaster and covered in glitter, sequins and other shiney material. It was bathed in multicolored flood lights so bright to my dilated pupils that I had to put my sunglasses on. I could hear Moe playing in the back round. I was now tripping fully. The grass and everything I touched seemed more REAL. I was transfixed by anything with a pattern. The walls of my castle seemed to be breathing. If you've tripped before you know exactly what I'm talking about. I sat for what seemed like days, than I asked a fellow acropolis inhabitant what time it was.

"2:15," he said absently. Time to go. After finding a place to stand I looked around at the swarming crowd with growing anticipation. I had been looking forward to this show the most. People were packing themselves in like sardines. Most were very young but still a shade older than Harper's groupies. Almost everyone seemed to have on the standard MGMT uniform: flurescent colored thick frame sunglasses (still worn at night), brightly colored button down shirts or no shirt at all (these examples would be covered in day-glow body paint), linen shorts and 80's style slip-on shoes, usually the Vans checker-board variety. I had seen them out and about all weekend but never in mass like this. I had taken to calling them MGMT Kids, a play on the title of the bands hit song called simply Kids.

I was standing next to three guys in thier 30's. Apparently they had all grown up together, but this was the first time they had seen each other in years. Obviously hammered, they asked to hit my pipe, which I had just lit. One of them, the shorter of the three, about 5"9 with buzzed blond hair, was in from Las Vegas. He hadn't smoked pot in eight years, so I made him take the green hit, on two differnt bowl packs. Needless to say he was totally ripped before the show started. He was the only one of them who knew anything about MGMT.

"Trust me," he told his buddies pointing to the hot female coeds generously sprinkled all around us. "These guys have two or three songs that will make the ladies go wild."

He was not mistaken. After an acceptable wait they took the stage. Their brightly colored suite jackets, cycadelic tunes, and tripy retro light displays all messed perfectly. Everything was throughly enhanced by the drugs pulsing through my blood stream. After playing some of their more melancholy songs like Pieces of What and Of Moons, Birds and Monsters they tore into the song that has become an antheme of sorts for their tidalwave rise to fame, Time to Pretend. To up the ante, they immediately followed with Electric Feel.

The crowd exploded. It was the livest group of spectators I had ever seen (sorry Bruce). I saw one girl so excited she began crying, right there next to me. People were singing along at the top their lungs. I saw several crowd surfers, including some poor Asian girl who totally ate it, face first, four rows ahead of me. Before I knew what was happening, I was dancing with some girl in a neon purple University of South Carolina t-shirt, cheerleader shorts and bright green thickframe sunglasses (total MGMT Kid). She was petite, about 5"2, well under 110 pounds with olive skin and black hair. She was very sexy. We would grind and gyrate against one another, breaking to make-out inbetween songs.

Next thing I knew, she was being pulled away from me by her friends, off into the faceless mob. I saw her look back for a second, like some cheesey romance movie, but then she was gone forever. I never even got her name. They finished the encore with an inspired new song called Congratulations, which will also be the title track for their new album slated for 2010. I took off before the song ended to avoid the rush. I saw that Moe was still playing but decided to keep heading toward the exit, still giddy with excitment from MGMT and my anonymous make-out partner. I took my spot in the line to leave ...

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"And that's pretty much how it all happend," I said, finishing up the story of my solo adventure. My friends assured me that they too had stories, but that could wait for tomorrow. It was 6:45 a.m., 06/14/09 and the sun was almost totally past the horizon. Cage the Elephant was playing in five hours so we all needed to rest. I lay my weak and battered frame down on my blankets. Sleep never felt so good.

J.R.