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.