Roo 2011; Part 2

"I'm a perfect piece of ass,
like every Californian
So tall I take up the street
I'm a festival
I'm a parade ...
I'm sorry,the motorcade will have to go around me this time
Cuse God is on my side."

-The National, All The Wine




We were half-way through Arcade Fire's Set when I started to freak out. Four bowls laced with hash does that. We hadn't said a word in hours and I was terrified we'd forgotten how to speak. I'd completely zone out for 30 minute stretches. Forget who/where I was but then a guitar solo would snap me out of it. There was a familiar tickle in my stomach normally associated with roller coasters or shrooms. My head and hands tingled. The synapses in my mind began to fire in strange new sequences at speeds I'd never imagined possible. Sound waves pumping from the four story speaker towers seemed to shimmer with life in the rainbow colored lights. The people around me who had seemed harmless minutes before were now strange and freighting. My only constant; the music. I would have lost control without it.

The band was silhouetted by a swimming pool sized jumbo-tron. It was playing some sort of emo-hipster art school slide show. Footage taken from a car window while driving down the highway. Still shots of models with awful haircuts dangling their limbs in 'ironic' ways. A sail boat. Guitars aflame. Cliche avant-garde but it didn't diminish my appreciation. There were eight to ten of the fuckers running around on stage dripping in sweat playing too many instruments to mention. Each of them had at least three to his or her credit. It was incredible. I'd heard of them in passing and really liked their latest (Suburbs) but after this I'd be digging much deeper into the catalog.

Hitting another peak, the rapid flashing images began to make me feel uneasy so I laid down on the grass to loose myself in the night sky. That's when shit started to get really, really weird. At first I thought I was watching a meteor shower or thousands of shooting stars but what were the odds either would happen just as one of the headliners were kicking it into high gear? My questions were answered when I saw the parachuters gliding through the air releasing countless miniature multicolored LED lights. Each of them was wrapped in soft plastic and connected to a tiny personal chute. A batch landed a few hundred feet behind us and bedlam ensued. Freaks descended on the plunder like war torn peasants fighting over rice. I imagined people out of their minds on drugs back at the various camp sites laughing lack lunatics as it began to rain Christmas lights in June.

Between the music, the slide show, the LEDs and the hash I felt like I was tripping. I'd smoked hash before and not gotten this fucked up. Was my stash laced with something I wasn't ready for? Was this all actually happening? Or had my mind exited through the gift shop at some point? Dylan was laying beside me, incoherent between childish giggles. Whipping the tears of pure joy from his eyes he shook his head 'yes,' he was indeed noticing it all as well. I slapped Paul's arm to make sure he was still alive.

"Are you seeing this shit," I shouted. "What the fuck is going on man??!!" The only response was a low grunt and then he was back on whatever planet his mind had been stationed since the last bowl pack. He wasn't much of a pot smoker so the hash was probably hitting him twice as hard. He'd been laying flat on his back since halfway through My Morning Jacket, three hours prior. He closed his eyes for a long stretch, appearing to be dead but his chest continued to raise with breath. I took a few deep ones myself, finished my bottle of water and managed to avoid losing my cool. Waiting in line for the bathroom I went over my day from the beginning.


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

The sun woke us around 9:00 am. The heat lays on you like a blanket until you're saturated. Outside of the tent there's the semblance of relief in the form of a breeze. It was going to be extra hot this year. For breakfast we had an egg, cheese and sausage mixture scrambled on a skillet. Add hot sauce, slid into a tortilla, crack a cold beer and enjoy.

After finishing I walked to a nearby washing station with a traveler's bar of soap to wash off day one's filth. I soaked my head under the facet. The fridge water made me gasp. I washed my face, neck and arms. It doesn't seem like much but when you're covered in grime for four days straight it makes all the difference in the world. I'd never felt so refreshed. It's the little things, like showers, that we take for granted in our everyday 'normal' lives.

All around me on the walk back to camp various groups of people were huddled together listening to music, doing drugs and eating camp food. Good cheer was in the air, you could feel it, like some people claim they do during the holidays. Every passer-by shown with excitement and happiness. Hearing bits of random conversations made me laugh but as I passed a tent closer to my group I heard the best quote of the trip. Apparently someone wasn't quick to rise and his compadres were not pleased.

"Get the fuck up Donny," one shouted. "It's a Goddamn festival!" It still makes me laugh. I sat down, opened a fresh PBR and we began the standard chat around camp about the day to come and the night that had been. This custom always makes me feel at home in some strange way. My mood was slightly dampened when listening to Dylan talk about The Walkmen show I'd missed the night before. I was disgusted with myself for bailing early. It'd been my suggestion to see them on recommendation from a good friend and according to Dylan it would be my biggest regret of the trip. Shit happens but it still stinks.

The Sparty Crew, our co-inhabitants of 'Camp Roger Podacter,' lite a joint of government grade chronic that had come from a newly opened Michigan dispensary and after one puff I knew it was twice as potent as any I'd had in a long time. Dylan and myself were stupid high for hours, lackadaisically getting ourselves ready for the day. They had different itinerary so we agreed to meet up later for My Morning Jacket. We were too ripped to do much of anything but sip beer for awhile, so we chatted with the UofM neighbors and the three guys from Jersey. They were all big hip hop fans and were most excited about Eminem. More day one stories were exchanged and a pipe was passed around but we were ready for our first full day of tunes, so we graciously declined.

During the walk we stopped by Bayou Billy's Homebrew soda fountain for a $1 refill. The low price was guaranteed for life as long as you hung onto your hobo style tin mug with Billy's logo. Present said mug and fill your cup for a buck. I recommend the cherry cola. The only thing the two of us had to do before heading into Centeroo was meet up with our friend Paul who had rolled in with his mom (seriously), her friend, his sister and his sister's boyfriend. As much as he loved his family, he wanted some time to hang out with the boys before it was all said and done.

We hung at their camp and chatted with his mom for a bit. I was amazed at how into current music she was. The two of us were most stoked for The Black Keys. This made her possibly the coolest mom ever. I could see where Paul got his soft-spoken and easy going demeanor from. The three of us grabbed a beer for the walk making haste. On our way to Shakedown Street we ran into the same drug dealer I'd seen the day before.

"Hey man I got some great ..."

"Hash?" I said, finishing his sentence.

He seemed surprised but I assured him I wasn't a narc. Taking the second chance encounter as a sign from the Roo Gods, I did the only thing prudent and purchased some of his wonderful narcotics. I slipped the gram sized drug baggy into the Advil pill bottle I was stashing my weed in and we slowly made our way through the masses, people watching the entire time. Denizens from the tent cities were coming out to play. There were load bass hits and 70's guitar licks pumping from car stereo speakers, giving us our own personal soundtrack as we trudged on. Things were getting cranked up to Woodstock levels and all the freaks seemed to be loose on Shakedown Street.

We saw someone dressed in a full-body zebra spandex complete with mane, tail and inflatable jockey (picture a black/white stripped Greenman get up). Countless Hippies hula hooping and beating bongos in drum circles. One chain in particular was over fifty people strong. Hipsters were pacing around looking extra uncomfortable in their skinny jean cut-off shorts, which were no doubt sticking to every crevice in the sweltering Tennessee humidity. A shirtless man in bib-overalls stared upward on a latter with a can of blue paint, making large brush strokes into thin air; attempting to paint the sky. Some guy in cheesy 80's sunglasses was wearing a Speedo under an oriental silk robe that barely covered his ass. He wondered around holding a martini glass and cigarette holder.

There were Buddhist monks peddling thick volumes of their teachings. Jesus freaks telling us how we're all going to hell for practicing forms of hedonism. Creative signs asking for all types of substances and services. Oh, and girls. Beautiful, young, (sometimes topless) hard bodied coeds in every shape, size and variety imaginable. By far the best looking batch I'd seen in my two previous tours of duty. Most were just past teeny bobbing status and no doubt eager for a shirtless Lil Wayne.

First on our list was Alberta Cross. The Brooklyn-based Brits put an English twist on southern rock, accented by 90s grudge guitar licks. If a young Blind Mellon or Nirvana formed in the UK this is what they might have sounded like. They don't try to reinvent the wheel, opting to just smash through power chords on fuzzy pedals while singing damn catchy songs. My 8th grade Soundgarden loving self was back from the abyss, headbanging again. Lead Singer Petter Ericson Stakee could hit the highest notes without losing his creepy but likable resonance. It even lingered in his speaking voice as he addressed the crowd.

"Thank you Bonnarooooooooo," he said in a whisper that reminded me of a wild bird call. A murmured hushed tone, barely made audible by his microphone. This was a stark contrast to the typical practice of bands shouting 'BONNAROO!' as loud as possible and hoping for an equally boisterous response from the crowd. No one seemed to know how to respond to his greeting so an eerie hush fell over everyone as they transitioned into a slow one. All three of us were intrigued by the way he had about him and made his version of the Roo Chant our own.

As they were finishing up Dylan got a text from his friend Aaron who plays in a damn good band himself called The Madison Square Gardners. They weren't preforming but he did carry the holy grail of Bonnaroo. An artist pass, giving him access to back stage and VIP. Dylan hoped in some crazy twist of fate we all might be able to sneak back but it would be for naught. Aaron said he'd been hanging out with performers and important nobodys since arriving, including someone he played with back in NYC. Justin Townes Earle was next and Aaron couldn't wait for us to see the get-up he was wearing.

"Pure class," he said. "Let's just say if you'd like to hit the malt shop with your best gal in 1952 and ordered yourself a soda pop, he might be able to help you out."

When JTE came onto stage he certainly look the part. For starters, he was wearing a straw fedora and thick framed tortoiseshell eye glasses that looked legitimate, not the over played false lenses. His brown and blue plaid coat was my favorite. The matching tie, pressed khakis and brown wingtips weren't too shabby either. In an ocean of massive looks, it's hard to go against someone voted top-25 best dressed by GQ magazine. He strummed his hand-made acoustic like a madman, a sly playful smile on his face the entire time. The son of Americana troubadour Steve Earle, he has charm to spear. Simple songs with upfront lyrics and a sparse (all female) backing band. His gruff and twangy voice is the mouthpiece for the alt-country movement spawned in Nashville but starting to spread it's seed in The Big Apple.

"God damn it's hot!" he said in his thick southern drawl. "Thanks for having us. Hope you're enjoying yourselves. This ones off the new record." Whipping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, he started tapping his feet and got right back down to business with Working for the MTA.

Figuring it was as good a time as any to try out the hash, I packed some weed then used the edge of my pocket knife to scrape a good sized flake of tar onto the top of the bowl. It isn't easy to work with. Imagine pine sap or maple syrup only it reeks like pot and is twice as difficult to get off your hands once it hardens. We each took a turn sparking the pipe, listening to the tar cook into oil, coating the weed packed underneath. It had a funny but not unpleasant smell similar to a barnyard. It tasted a bit like burnt olive oil. We didn't have to wait long to know if it was legit. The effects were quick hitting and intense. A dopey high, making smiles come easily. Any source of even mild entertainment was amplified ten fold. Work, school or other responsibility requiring serious effort would have been impossible.

After he closed with his version of Can't Hardly Wait we had a few hours to kill before the next 'must see' so we wondered. I grabbed a chicken and black bean burrito with a generous portion of homemade spicy salsa and inspected the official merch tent. I settled on a Black Keys/Roo '11 poster and managed to roll it into a protective cardboard tube without getting sauce all over it. I found Dylan and Paul digging through t-shirts. Everything was vastly over priced but that wasn't going to stop anyone. God bless capitalism. After their purchases we passed up and down the walkways inspecting travel hammocks, original art prints, all variety of hats, leather guitar straps and on the spot tapestry weaving. We were just debating on where to park it when we heard some of the filthiest and the funniest stage banter in the history of stage banter.

"It's important to practice healthy camping hygiene," Kim Schifino of the dance punk, indie pop duo Matt and Kim informed us over the PA. "Ladies be sure to bring your vagina cream and guys, please, please ... powder your balls." Very classy.

"Gold bond is a must," Matt added.

Kim went on to encourage several ladies in the front row to show her their tits which seemed to be fine with everyone in attendance. I couldn't see from where we were standing but judging by the chants and cheers, I'm pretty sure they obliged. The synthpop keyboards and deafening drums had everyone worked into frenzy. I saw Neon Indians everywhere bounding around like crazy people. We joined the dance party and grooved to songs I'd never heard in my life. I loved every minute of it, like these two had been on my party mixes for years. At one point Kim walked out onto the upturned hands of crowd members. Once she caught her balance she started doing the booty shaking dance synonymous with apple bottomed strippers. Everyone ate it up. Just before the only song I recognized, Matt took a minute to give us further instructions.

"The fact that you're all here and going so hard has made our experience so amazing!" He said. "Let's take it up another notch. Let's get hot and sweaty together. Let's make the next three minutes the best three minutes of our fucking lives!"

They blasted into Daylight and cheers of joy were raised in unison. The Indians commenced even greater whooping and hollering. They were a blur of whirling feathers and dust. Losing ourselves in the moment, we danced along with them as best we could. After such an intense show it was time to hydrate so we filled our bottles at the station. Dying of thirst I greedily slugged my down in record time and filled it again since the line wasn't unbearable yet.

Ray LaMontagne was already halfway finished but we made it for the last four songs. Words fail when it comes to this guys voice. You've probably heard it on the radio or on that annoying insurance commercial with that dog and his bone but you can't believe for a second it translates well live. It was spot on. Smoky, raspy, but not off key; never cracking.

It commanded your attention in it's share uniqueness. A 30 something year old man channeling a much older black blues singer who chain smoked three packs a day. Making it even more interesting was the contrast in his speaking voice which was quite, unconfident and unremarkable. He was also quirky on stage, even weird, like he was never comfortable with all of us. Not until he could close his eyes and sing. We got there just in time for Trouble but my favorite was his closer. A cover of Down by The River that still gives me chills.

We were determined to get a good spot for My Morning Jacket so we made our way to the main stage as quickly as possible. We tried to contact The Sparty Crew but cell reception was bad so we said fuck it. They knew where we lived, we'd run into them again. I grabbed a surprisingly good iced coffee from a nearby vendor and we smoked more hash/weed. I'm a big believer in smoking less, continually, as apposed to smoking mass amounts all at once. I've tried both and the former works better for me in a festival setting. Too much of a good thing can really fuck your world up at a place like Bonnaroo.

We sat around and waited for the music, minds totally baked after the drugs and a day of intense heat. A large group of the Roo Tribe (probably coming from Matt and Kim as well) sat down beside us in a circle. As the sunset their day-glow body paint began to shimmer with life. Nothing was said between any of them, one of the males just put on a latex glove, held the sheet of acid and administer hits to each member one at a time. I wanted to introduce myself, ask them some questions, possibly bum a hit, but I couldn't move.

It felt like a scene from an old private eye movie where he walks into the Chinatown opium den and everyone's in a coma. My mind was working but my body was not. Maybe that was a sign LSD was a bad idea at that point. Before I knew what happen they all stood up in unison without saying a word and started walking towards the front of the stage in a single file line, weaving through the crowd like a long sneak in the grass.

"Why are we letting him lead?" I heard the last in line ask.

"Relax," another replied. "He's almost a chef and besides, he's got a good pace going."

Fascinating. The mystery I'd hoped to solve only seemed to thicken. Seconds later they faded into the mob and the lights went low. The familiar trumpet tooting of Victory Dance permeated our ears. It was my second favorite song on the new album and a perfect way to kick things off. Frontman Jim James was wearing his infamous black cloak and white Chewbacca fur uggs. His luxurious Jew fro swayed in the breeze. Mr. James; just doing his damn thing.

Picking my favorite between MMJ and The Black Keys is very difficult, nearly impossible. It usually depends on who've I've seen most recently. That night they made a strong case themselves, showing out and earning their headliner status. The country boys from Louisville, Kentucky seemed genuinely thrilled for the opportunity and in between space cadet ramblings by Jim, they blazed through their amazing catalog. They played almost non-stop. The live jam version of Mahgeeta is always epic but after awhile we noticed they'd neglected to play their latest single. Dylan had been hyping it in the car the whole way down and was bursting at the seems to hear it live.

"If they play Holding Onto Black Metal next I'm going to scream like a little girl," he said.

Sure enough, they brought out the entire Jazz Hall Preservation Band 12 piece and rocked into Black Metal. 50,000 fans sang along to the hook and as promised, Dylan was screaming like a 5th grader in a rated R movie the entire time. Paul lost it completely and laid down rolling around in fits of laughter. I tried to record it all with my camera but the battery died. Two nearly grown men acting like children and loving it. A 20 minute version of One Big Holiday was their coup de grace and nothing over the weekend topped their show in my book. We smoked one more laced bowl and that's when things got hazy for awhile ...

After Arcade Fire, when we'd all come down a little bit, we caught some of Lil Weezy and I have to say I wasn't impressed. Not that I was ever a huge Lil Wayne fan but millions of people who have all his shit couldn't be wrong, right? He wasn't awful but when half your songs feature other artists who aren't in attendance you might be in trouble. Throw in a backing vocal track on EVERY song and you have a sub-par show but the ladies love him. Oohing and ahhing with every flex of his pecks. Cheering and encouraging every sex laced lyric ("suck your pussy like a vampire"). I'm all for crassness but I'm not too interested in a song about cunnilingus.

We left after a few more tracks and were immediately sucked in by the non-stop Dubstep/mass-up dance party that is a Bassnectar show. It was almost 2 a.m. but things were in full swing. I'm not in the scene but was shocked by the number of people in attendance and the energy they brought. Their moves were a cross between moshing and techno gyration. No one stood still for a second and the music NEVER stopped. Not even For the DJ to speak (not once!). Over 50% of the horde were the now common place Neon Indians: drenched in sweat, eyes rolling back in their heads and clenched jaws grinding their teeth into powder. They owned the late night rave scene at Bonnaroo.

Did these kids ever stop? Maybe for a piss break or to sip water in between hits of pot, molly, and LSD? The crowd seemed to be growing every minute. People were hanging on support cables, climbing trees, anything for a better view of the light show. Dylan and Paul were ready to head back but I wanted to get closer to the action so after they took off I pushed up, ready to feel the pulse of this new genre of electronica.

Later I walked back to camp a hot, sweaty and thigh chaffed wreck. My water was long gone and I was starving to death. The usual heavy or fried fare sounded awful to me so I kept my eyes peeled for something new. A food truck selling authentic fish tacos fit the bill. I got two and chugged my lemonade while they were prepared. The Tilapia was marinated in a sweet fruit glaze and served with cilantro, fresh white onion and tomato. They were heaven in a tortilla. Portable food is a must when you're always on the go. When I got back to camp everyone was already out cold and it didn't take long for me to follow suite. Bassnectar had been too intense. My senses were working over time. I could still hear the bass in my ears and see the squaws dancing in my dreams.


-J.R.