Roo 2010: Day 2

"Then I saw this girl with the most beautiful hair ...
She had it wrapped around her,
for clothes she did not wear."
-Dispatch, Flying Horses




Nothing is worse than a hangover. Scratch that. Nothing is worse than a hangover in a 90 degree tent. Leaving a window open or the door unzipped over night is a must, otherwise you'd be steamed cooked in your sleep. The humidity is devastating in Tennessee.

It was already a whole new ball game compared to my first year. I felt like a salty veteran, returning for a second tour of duty, seeing familiar places and faces. A new elitist sentiment crept into my conversations, being able to reference "last year." Green and fresh out of boot camp before, I was now well on my way to private first class.

The Captain broke out his skillet and cooked an egg, cheese and sausage mixture for all of us to enjoy. Bob Evens it wasn't, but it would do. I sandwiched my share between two pieces of bread and took a man sized bite, burning my mouth in the process. Burke gave me a drink of his water and I held the cold and soothing swig in my cheeks, wishing I hadn't eaten food 2 seconds removed from a hot pan. We shared all our essential supplies because no matter what you always forget to bring something. It was nice to know we all had one another's backs. It's part of the deal at a festival. For better or worse, our little group was a make-shift family.

Shows started early and they weren't waiting for anyone, so there was no time to dilly-dally. I packed my book bag, liberally applied deodorant, sprinkled Gold Bond where it was needed and was ready to make moves. On the walk to the venue our objective was shrooms. We kept our ears open and our heads on a swivel. At Shake-down Street we split up, increasing our chances of coming across something. I heard talk of boomers but everyone seemed to be looking, no one was selling. Almost an hour later, all of us had come up empty handed.

We made it through security easily and headed straight for The Punch Brothers at That Tent. A few weeks before I had heard them cover a Strokes song on youtube ... impossible without electric instruments but they somehow pulled it off. The five man band is all acoustic: fiddle, mandolin, guitar, banjo, and upright bass. Vocalist Chris Thile is arguably the greatest mandolin player in the world and their progressive bluegrass has helped them achieve crossover success.

For the entire day, That Tent was officially the Bluegrass tent and they'd be recording a live radio show called Tennessee Shines. We were being broadcast from a station in Nashville around the world. I wondered if they could hear me back in Ohio.

They came out, waved, picked up their instruments and started jamming immediately. The pace was break-neck, amazing endurance. Strumming faster and faster, changing chords flawlessly, Chris lived up to his billing. Bobbing his head, making funny faces and dancing around on stage, he played with the swagger of Eddie Van Halen. We all erupted after the first song and the band smiled in appreciation.

"Oh, this is going to be fun!" Chris said looking out onto the crowd. 

Even a couple bowl packs deep, The Captain, Road Dog and Burke were itching for something a bit stronger drug-wise. They were getting antsy so after a few songs they wondered off in search of party favors, leaving David, Chuck and myself behind. We agreed to meet at predetermined spot near the massive mushroom fountain in an hour. Moments later, I'd spaced out to a slow love song called How to Grow a Woman from the Ground. If only it was that easy.

The highlight was their cover of Reptilla, The Strokes song I had heard them do. With the crowd clapping in unison they tore through, making it their own. Every note and lyric were dead on. They translated it into acoustic wonderfully. I even liked Chris' singing more then Julian Casaclancas'. By the end, I had decided The Punch Brothers version was better; blasphemy from a long-time Strokes fan like myself.

David wanted to check out Tokyo Police Club at another stage so we left a little early. They were good but not terribly memorable to me. The lead singer was a poor man's Dave Grohl. Their dark pop-rock was nothing to get worked up about in my opinion. Later I found out The Punch Brothers did a cover of Radiohead's 2 + 2 = 5. Kicking myself for missing it, I felt a subtle but growing disdain for Tokyo Police Club.

I couldn't dwell on it for long, we had to met up with the others. Luckily they scored some Mushys. We munched, swallowed and headed to the next show. Shroom chocolates for The Carolin Chocolate Drops. It was perfect, possibly even destine.

Formed in Durham, North Carolina, the trio is one of the last remaining African American String Bands. Durham is only a stones throw away from Asheville, Burke and Road Dog's hometown. The Captain currently resides there as well and the three of them were huge fans, determined to push up to the front. Unfamiliar with the band, David, Chuck and I decided to hang back and wait on the drugs to kick in ... better to get a grasp on our situation then risk a freak out.

Coming out onto the stage the three sat down and picked up their musical utensil. There was a wide variety to choose from, including: 4-string and 5-string Banjos, guitar, jug, harmonica, kazoo, snare drum, a washboard, fiddle and they even mixed a little beat box by the end. The most demonstrative of the three wore suspenders, coke-bottle glasses, and an old Amish hat. He was like a cartoon character; goofy in a good-natured way, with the facial expressive of a clown. The female banjo player sang with the voice of an angel. Her mocha complexion and long, breaded black hair reminded me of a hippie Halle Berry. She wore a floral sun dress that whirled in tune to her step-dancing. The fiddle player was dark, tall and slender; reserved. Their heartfelt vocal harmony reminded me of a southern Baptist choir.

Sneaking up behind me like an older brother, the drug had landed a sucker punch. With a yawn and a sly giggle, I could feel the adventure starting. I was coming into it slow. Everything seemed brighter; the lights and my mood. There was a growing tickle in the pit of my stomach. Chocolate diluted it a bit so I found I was maintaining perfectly.

"Slip, slap, bring it back," the clown sang in-between blows on his jug. 

They were all over the place. One minute I felt like I was working a chain gang on a Georgia plantation in the 1800's the next I was in a Blues bar somewhere in Mississippi in the late 1920's. My favorite track was Don't get Trouble in Your Mind. Upon further listens I find these wise words indeed.

After they'd finished, we wandered towards The Other Tent for Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros. By this point, I was long gone on my trip. I saw people dressed in nun robes doing cart-wheels, hippie chicks covered in bodypaint with feathers in their hair wearing nothing else but bikini bottoms and plenty of people who were one toke over the line (myself included).

I could feel the heat radiating off every passer-by. The band had already started so we picked up the pace but we couldn't get closer without stepping on hands and toes. Some people sitting, the rest sifting closer to the stage, it was a fucked-up flow. Dangerously packed. Bad vibes. The incredible heat and constant irritation of bumping into people was making me uncomfortable, the shrooms weighing heavier on my psyche by the second. A skinny girl to my right collapsed into her boyfriends arms, the first of many succumbing to heat stroke. As much as I loved the tunes, I hadn't signed up for this. The freak out was starting. We made a B-line to the back of the crowd.

Once free, we lounged in the shade beneath a massive oak, enjoying a bite to eat and enjoying not touching anyone even more. I watched a couple sitting beside us having a snack as well. The man inhaled his food, like a vulture over carrion. Minimal chewing/tasting. Quick, down the gullet. The woman picked at her's slowly like a sparrow, taking swift, economy sized bites, pausing to remove pickle from her cheeseburger. It was a perfect example of the fundamental differences between the genders. David and I shared an Alligator burrito and we all sipped fresh squeezed lemonade, people watching leisurely.

After gorging, we started to drift into naps, totally spent and too beat down to continue. The sun was brutal this year, wringing you out like a sponge. I had no sweat left. Oppressive, heavy heat, filling your lungs. You got the impression anyone could drop at any second. Palpable humidity, like in a swamp. Our only hope was shade and gallons of water. Glad to have both, I drifted out of consciousness with Bluegrass legends Hot Rize playing me a lullaby. Radio Boogie and the chord work on Franks Blues took guitar skills to a new stratosphere.

Recharged, I gathered the troops and we headed out for Dr. Dog. The Philadelphia based psychedelic rockers were one of my most highly anticipated acts. My good friend Dylan swore by them; especially live. Scott McMicken, one of the singers and the lead guitar player had a heavy Bob Dylan sound. He even looked the part, sporting a Dylan-ish fadora and black Ray Bands. The rest had a non-descript look except for matching white, fly-eyed shades. The only band I can can compare them to are The Beatles. Obviously not as prolific but they have that feel. These guys were born in the wrong decade.

They all played customized instruments with day-glow in lays (or was that just the drugs?). Their Indie Rock'n'Roll sounds were the auditory peas to my mind-altered carrots. I was buying what they were selling, without question. I had upped the mushrooms ante, eating another chocolate before they started and I could now feel the second wave trip wash up on my minds shore.  I felt calm and at peace. Good vibes. My near freak out felt like a bad dream that had happend long ago.

Toby Leaman, the other vocalist, was the polar opposite of McMicken's scratchy, soft, sing-songy sound. Leaman had a sorrowful growl that seemed to build as it raised straight from his gut. You could feel his pain in every note. Each being tailored to one or the other, they rarely shared a song (other then harmony). The contrast in their styles worked to the groups advantage. It was hands down my favorite show to that point. I was so far gone at the time, all song titles still elude me, but honestly the ENTIRE set was awesome. The only things I wrote in my note book during the show were "heady tunes" and "filthy body buzz."

After they'd finished I saw a first in all my concert endeavors. The band didn't have roadies. They broke down their own gear, talking to the crowd while winding cables, exchanging high fives with fans. Later I found out how true they really are to their Indie roots, allegedly refusing to stay in the VIP area like most artists. They have a group of friends from Philly they camp out with, roughing it like the rest. They aren't famous enough to be noticed, so I found the urban legend believable. My admiration for them swelled.

Like a runaway freight train, the tunes continued, fast and furiously. Next was Ok Go, who've found moderate fame for their amazing music videos. The treadmill choreography on Here it Goes Again was impressive enough. They one up themselves with the most intense domino rally ever built for This Two Shall Pass (the new video for End Love is also righteous). Other then being internet sensations, I didn't know shit about these guys. I would get an education at The Other Tent.

The four Chicagoans energy was Rolling Stones high from the get-go. Front man Damian Kulash was part hard rocker, part eccentric singer, part heart throb. A cross between Thom York, Gavin Rosdale (of Bush) and a young Damon Albarn (of Blur and the Gorillaz).

"You're all a bunch of dirty sinners," he said after a few fast tracks. 

"But OK Go can save you! This is your time to get clean, it's church time people." They brought out a table full of gold hand bells and did a whole number with perfectly timed rings and singing. It really did have an eerie religious service feel. 

"Mediocre people do exceptional things all the time," he sang.

The guitar player wore a suit borrowed from Lucifer. All red, shoulders to shoes, with a white shirt and matching red tie. It seared my retina. I started to think he was Satan; feared I may go blind ... but the music brought me back. That, and the massive cannon shooting confetti and fog over the crowd. It was a country side ticker-day parade. I was starting to loose my cool but I was no longer afraid; I welcomed it.

"This is a hippie fest," Kulash said halfway through. 

"So I'm going to play some pussy ass music." He crawled into the audience with an acoustic and a mic stand. Everyone shifted to get a better look. He found a cooler or something to stand on and did a slow song in the middle of 500 plus fans, quite the showmen. He climbed back on stage after he finished and they launched into another anthem, raising our roar to defying decibels.

They closed out with This To Shall pass much to everyone's enjoyment. Yet another explosion of red, white, blue, yellow and orange paper, four times the volume of the previous loads. It filled the air like a blizzard. By the end they were all body surfing the crowd. These guys were champs. Despite their gimmicks, they were playing good music and over-all it was a bigger production then Dr. Dog. Glitz and shtick verse bare bones grittiness. Dr. Dog were better musicians but Ok Go was a spectacle.

Barely able to catch our breathes, we made haste to That Tent for Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. The Rangers are already a successful Bluegrass band in their own right, so Steve (a growing star in Bluegrass) had commandeered them for a record and subsequent tour. The legend came out in his signature white Seersucker jacket, matching his milk colored hair. The spotlight made him shimmer. He waved to the crowd, cracked some jokes in his dry sarcastic way and then they got to the task at hand. I heard he could play but this was more then I bargained for. He was absolutely shredding.

"The reason I have so many Banjos?," he said after the first number, gesturing to the six that littered the stage. "It's because I have a huge ego." He did a bit about how he was so full of himself he even had an iPad set list (which we later found out was true). We chuckled at all the right times, like the rest of the audience, he still had it.

For one ditty he took out an especially beautiful 24-karat gold plated banjo. It sparkled in the light like a kings crown. He informed us it was worth more than most of our lives and then did a song solo in the bizarre looking Clawhammer discipline (this guy really was a filthy musician). Smiling and grooving, his fingers danced across the strings like spider's legs on a web.

Next The Rangers did a four-part a cappella religious style hymn. The only catch was it's title; Atheist Don't Have No Songs. In vintage Steve Martin fashion, it was a satire of similar christian hymns. Very tongue and cheek, it must have been difficult for them all to keep straight faces. They appeared to be taking the song seriously, only cracking smiles when Steve would butt in, loud and out of tune. They closed out with King Tut (from his SNL days), all of them doing the ridiculous dance. One of the more memorable acts without a doubt.

With the chemicals in our brains leveling out and our bellies empty we decided to head back to camp for some food and frosty brews. It had already been an unbelievable day and the night promised to be even better; Kings of Leon, The Black Keys and The Flaming Lips. Not too bad, considering this time on a Friday I'd normally be waist deep in drink orders behind the bar at work. We made the long journey back, giddy with talk of the day that had been and the night that would be.

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I had just finished shotgunning a PBR when I heard KOL take the stage. Even though we were all the way back at camp, the sound was crystal clear. We were pretty much wasted by then, after multiple beers and pulls of whiskey. I tried to gather the others, pissed about missing the first song, but it was hopeless. It was the phase of the evening when everyone was a total mess.

The only one on the same page with me was The Captain so we grabbed our bags and took off at a semi-jog. I had seen The Kings a few months ago in Columbus and been fairly disappointed. They said they were "sick" and my seats sucked but regardless the show left something to be desired. I was a huge fan of their music (especially anything before Only by the Night) so I was hoping they would redeem themselves.

During the walk we heard them launch into Sex on Fire and I was honestly glad I missed it, having heard it played to death on the radio for months. By the time we breezed through check in they were heavy into Notion, with 50,000 people singing along. It was my first show of the year at the main stage and I forgot how massive the crowd could be. It was a rowdy group, mostly drunk college kids jumping around and pumping their fists furiously.

I must say I was disappointed, yet again. Caleb Followill has destroyed his voice. Possibly too much touring, too much partying and not enough voice coaching but whatever the cause his scream-queen screech is not what it used to be. It cracked and died on the high notes, sounded gruff and painful in the lulls. I was waiting for blood to shoot out his mouth, his vocal chords exploding from the strain. Another throat singer who had shot his wad. Slamming shots of whiskey and chugging beers in-between songs probably wasn't helping.

"This is a dream come true," he said. "We grew up just a little down the road from here and we'd never thought we'd make it this far. So thanks for having us Bonnaroo. Now let's get drunk!"

Another shot down the hatch. They closed with Manhattan, one of the songs on the new album I actually like, so it wasn't all bad. I hope they take time off and give the man a chance to save his voice. It had been a weak set, too much new stuff if you ask me (this has become a KOL fan cliche but the old stuff really is MUCH better). Not an awful show but not a good one either. No one was more bummed out than me.

As the crowd dispersed, two rivers of people formed. One heading to Which Stage for The Flaming Lips, the other towards That Tent for The Black Keys. In an utter act of stupidity, Bonnaroo had put both bands on at the same time. You always have to pick and choose at Roo. It happens every year. You wind up missing someone you like but why they thought Keys fans wouldn't dig the Lips and vice-versa is beyond me. We made our choice; the Keys it would be. Arriving early to secure a spot, we packed bowls, got friendly with some of our neighbors and finishing off the special chocolates.

Beside myself with anticipation, I chain smoked Marlboro 27s. These guys were my number one must see of the festival. I had been a big fan for years but hadn't seen them perform live, so I was more than ready to pop my cherry.

I struck up conversation with a pretty girl in front of me. She had a cute smile and her flowing, curly brown hair was held back with a bandanna. It was very long; so long she could have used it for clothing. I tried not to picture her naked, wrapped in it like a toga while we were talking but it was difficult. She was a student at North Texas and fairly intoxicated. Totally unfamiliar with The Black Keys, she was more eager to see Kid Cudi who played the same stage next.

"When Cudi comes on I'm running," she explained with a slur. "I don't give a fuck who I have to push out of the way." 

A girl who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to go get it. I like that. She put her e-mail address in my notebook and we chatted until it was go time. Cheers began to erupt, the lights cut off. 

"If you even kind of like rock 'n' roll, you're in for a real treat," I told her as singer Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney walked onto stage.

"Hi, we're The Black Keys from Akron, Ohio," Dan said. 

After a three count, he started finger picking his guitar, the sound raw and vibrant, and Patrick set the pace. It was Girl is On my Mind. I shared a smile with North Texas. I couldn't believe the sound they put out. Only a two man band but easily louder than anyone I had heard yet. Both of them were front and center, as opposed to the drums being hidden in the back. I could feel their reverberation in my chest.

Dan plays like Jimi Hendrix and sings like Stevie Ray Vaughan. His wailing but polished singing is perfect for his simple blues lyrics. He plays a signature white, vintage, Ibanes SG guitar, a collage of pedals at his feet. Everything on it was custom including the three gold pick-ups. I had wet dreams about if for weeks.

"10 a.m. automatic," he sang. "You've got pain, like an addict, I'm leaving you."

Patrick was beating his drums like they owed him money. He'd break a stick, toss it and grab another with out missing a beat. He is very tall and his wing span helps as he moves up and down his massive kit including a six-foot bass drum that was set up behind him. They finished a short set of old songs, without stopping once, then paused for a bit.

"If it's alright with you we're going to bring out some friends," Dan said. 

The keyboard player and bass player they recruited for their newest album Brothers came onto stage to cheers and ruckus chatter. They did some new songs including Howling For You which had the crowd in hysterics. Feeling the familiar tingle in my stomach I was jumping around and dancing with North Texas in total euphoria. The Keys were living up to the hype.

After another short break, they sent off the others and closed the show out just the two of them, starting with Your Touch. I was stoked that they were staying true to their old sound. There were whispers before hand that they did the entire tour as a four-man band and their days as a two-man rock machine were through. Obviously someone had been miss informed. My skull felt as if it would melt. I have seen the light, and it signs from Akron, with or without LeBron James. All hail the Black Keys.

They closed out with my favorite song, I Got Mine, but during the chaos I had lost track of North Texas. At the last second I saw her seven rows in front of me looking over her shoulder and beckoning with her finger for me to follow. I was well into yet another trip and I wasn't sure about bailing on The Captain. The indecision would be costly. Just when I decided to take the risk, she was gone ... another unfamiliar face in the gyrating mob. I could have went after her but feeling lazy and high, I took a pass. Looks like I would NOT be getting mine.

The Captain and I exchanged multiple high-fives and chattered like school children until we heard the bass line from Pink Floyd's Money coming from Which Stage. In a full sprint we bolted in the appropriate direction to catch the end of the Flaming Lips.

They were covering Darkside of The Moon in its' entirety and they had the Floyd-esq light show to back it up. The glow stick warriors had congregated here. Flying neon objects, heavy fog and 50 foot swaths of laser light filled the air. It was the most intense visual display I'd ever witnessed. A disco ball sixty feet in diameter hung above them on stage with a three dimensional, 4 story belly dancer keeping tune in front of it. A tripped out Batman was bobbing his head next to me, the ravers ragging all the while.

I was pissed to have missed so much of their performance but The Black Keys were well worth the sacrifice. I cursed Bonnaroo for making me choose but was happy to get both shows in my life, on any scale. After they finished the masses demanded more. Mark Coyne (lead singer) came onto stage and informed us that they couldn't go on, the powers that be would have their heads ... or maybe their lips.

Coming down yet again, we decided to head back. Day 2 was nearly finished but the festival was just getting revved up. Tomorrow promised to bring more mayhem and I couldn't wait. Later, laying down to sleep, North Texas invaded my dreams. I saw her dancing like the hologram from Flaming lips, as tall as a skyscraper. I hoped she had fun at Cudi and wondered what could have been if I had followed her. It would be my one and only Roo regret.


-J.R.