"Have you been to the carnival?
I would like to see you
There's a whole lot of people there,
who would like to be you ...
With the white unicorn,
across her shoulder
Makes you think that she might've been,
someone who's older ..."
-Wolfmother, White Unicorn
Halfway through the night our tent collapsed. At first I thought we might suffocate in the nylon coffin but after a short struggle I found the zipper. We were able to get it partially propped up but there was only room for one person. It was Dylan's tent, so I was forced to sleep in the cab of the truck which is even more uncomfortable than it sounds. I settled in with the seat belt clasp digging into my ribs every time I moved. Sleep was impossible. Too tall to straiten my legs I was forced into the fetal position. Just as I began to dose off the sun peeked over the horizon bringing with it morning and the 'preheat' phase. In a few hours it'd be set to 'bake.'
Temperatures were well above 100 degrees during our entire stay. It took it's toll on everyone, forcing us to drink gallons upon gallons of water and grab quick naps wherever temporary shade was available; anything to avoid scorching death from above. On our way back home we heard about two people who had perished. Both made the fatal mistake of falling asleep in their tents during the suns peek hours. They may have thought shade on the inside safe but the tent's material, which is wonderful for keeping rain from getting in, also prevents moister from escaping. Without air flow temps inside are 10-20 degrees warmer than the air outside. They literally cooked themselves to death. All things considered two out of 80,000 ain't bad but don't think it can't happen to you. Friends don't let friends pass out in tents.
I grumbled under my breath on the way to the cooler. The ice cold water gave me chills when I reached for a drink. I hoped chugging two Aquafinas would help my headache. I also wanted to hydrate before I began my daily sweat bath. Talking to the locals, I found out there hadn't been a drop of rain in weeks. As a result the ground was bone dry despite the heavy humidity. The constant scuffle of countless feet on the barren soil created another burden to overcome.
Massive clouds of chocking dust rising anywhere people gathered, which is pretty much everywhere at Bonnaroo. My nose was full of brown boogers for weeks. The filth left a constant film on my skin. The most crucial accessorizes of the trip became bandannas. Not only did they soak up sweat but they also doubled as a mask to cover the mouth and nose. It wasn't 100% affective but it kept us from chocking to death on the soot. Shakedown Street looked like an old spaghetti western at high noon; thousands of banditos running around with their faces covered looking for a gunfight or a bank to rob.
After a quick bologna sandwich and granola bar for breakfast we were already getting our asses in gear. I packed extra water, cash and stashed plenty of weed in an Advil bottle. We wouldn't have time to return to camp later, there was no fucking around on Day 3. It was our busiest of the trip. Unfortunately the busiest for everyone else too. There was a line from the main gate to the first port-a-john station, wrapping around onto itself into Tent City for a mile. Our dispositions (already soured by the heat, dust and hangovers) hit rock bottom. We feared all was lost for the first two blocks of shows until I remembered the auspicious entrance on the opposite side of the venue area.
We began a slow jog back the way we'd come and to the other side. People seemed to think we looked like we knew what we were doing and they began falling in stride behind us. Sure enough, right next to the VIP entrance and Pod 1 we found another way in. Barely having to wait in line at all, I hastily stashed my weed in the waste band of my athletic shorts and submitted my open bag to be searched. He did the usual half-ass pat-down but on a random second pass he felt the bump below my gut but above my crotch.
"What's that?" he asked sizing me up. "Don't lie to me man."
Sure, take my weed. The day had already been shitty, why not make it worse? I took out the pill bottle and showed it to him, explaining it wasn't a bomb, I just kept my drugs in it. He kind of chuckled and asked me to open it.
"No pills or anything like that?" he asked looking inside. I said no and he took a big sniff. "Goddamn! That's some good shit! Sup chief? Want to spread the wealth?"
I broke him off a small bud and he handed the bottle back to me. He told me to be safe, have a good time and to find a better stash spot. Giving a little bit of weed away or getting it all confiscated? I'll take the former. I couldn't believe my luck but we didn't have time to dwell on it. The music was starting ...
**************************************************
Old Crow Medicine Show was very high on both of lists so we decided to hang at Which Stage to make sure we had a good spot once they started. I'd been Roo'ing the year before and Bluegrass acts had rained supreme (read more here). I'd been surprised/disappointed that Crow hadn't been on the bill and was eager for my chance to see them this year. In the mean time we were serenaded by Amos Lee. I'd never listened to anything by Amos but I recognized the name. In seconds his laid back tunes sucked me. The best shows at Bonnaroo aren't always the ones you came to see but the ones you stumbled upon. His fan demographic seemed to be 90% female which was also a plus. A funkier/stonier more soulful version of Jack Jonson. Southern Girl was the crowd favorite. During a break in the show some fun seekers passed by in front of us and asked if we were holding.
"Molly? I'm looking for Molly," one said. "Have you seen her?" We said we weren't selling what they were looking for and they carried on. I overheard a girl standing behind me bitching to her friends about how people had been calling out the narcotic by her name all weekend.
"Stop saying my fucking name," she said. "I don't have any drugs!" Irony in action.
Time looses all meaning at festivals. I don't bother to wear a watch. Just one show fading into the next too quickly for anyone's liking. Amos finished his set, we finished a bowl pack and not long after it was time for O.C.M.S. They came out to a rousing ovation but things went down hill quickly. On the first song Willie Watson's guitar broke and he was forced to jerry-rig a mic pick-up on the spot while we waited. Once he was all the set, they began rocking out to Tell it to Me but the volume was cutting in and out. This was the beginning of the biggest Bonnaroo Blunder of the trip; Which Stage's sound crew. We suffered through and by the end it was sorted out ... kind of. A bummer for sure but there was no reason to dwell. We chugged a few beers to take our minds off of a sub-par performance.
Dylan was adamant about catching some of Bruce Hornsby and The Noise Makers so we decided to sit in for a few songs. His improvisational live show was unique. Nothing seemed rehearsed but it ran smoothly none the less. He built his setlist one request at a time. After taking a few minutes to get situated he'd rocket into another hit that was totally unknown to me. A cross between Bruce Springsteen and Phish with a Jimmy Buffet catchyness; heartland jamband. I was enjoying it but I was more worried about who was on deck at one of the main stages. We left a little early to ensure a money spot for Mumford and Sons.
The mob was double the size I anticipated. We were 45 minutes early and still nowhere near the front. It was the biggest audience I'd seen all day, comprised mostly of college aged kids. I was encouraged to see so many young people embracing Bluegrass music and it's half-brother Newgrass which Mumford made contemporary. The four blokes from Britain looked blown away by the sheer number of people who had come out, saying it was the biggest show they'd done to date. The sun was just beginning it's decent as they picked the iconic single The Cave.
"This is unbelievable, " lead singer Marcus Mumford said during a break. "Thank you all so very much. We're so pleased to be here but damn it's hot! You'll have to forgive me, my brother always called me a sweater ... 'cuse I sweat a lot."
Dripping in perspiration, he stripped down to his white wife-beater undershirt. Fame seemed to have been treating him well. Once a dead ringer for Tim Tebow he had put on quite a few pounds and now resembled a bloated Alec Baldwin. He announced plans for their follow up album to the smash hit Sigh No More. They played a few new tracks they'd been working on and we all danced in approval. The highlight, Little Lion Man, had 20,000 plus people in hysterics. As they finished the encore with an all-star ensemble for Amazing Grace we made haste for the main stage but the crush of everyone heading in the same direction had us running very behind schedule. We found whatever space we could at What Stage for The Black Keys.
The combination of their massively successful album and chief headliner Eminem being up next packed the lawn shoulder to shoulder. In the past there had always been room to spare but not on that night. In all my previous experiences this was the most crowded I had ever seen a performance at the main stage. If Bonnaroo tickets continue to sell-out, expansions must be made. As there set powered on even more people squeezed in. Tighter then I ever thought possible for thousands of square feet in every direction. It was all a shock to me. Just a year before The Black Keys had been performing at This Tent and now they were topping the bill. I couldn't believe how popular these two dudes from Akron had become.
Thickfreakness, Busted and Tighten Up were all amazing but it was the third time I'd seen them live and I would've been confounded if they'd closed with anything but my favorite. They stuck to the script and as Dan Auerbach smashed power chords to I Got Mine the fireworks/sparks flew ... and just in case everyone didn't already know, a curtain dropped and 'The Black Keys' shown like the fourth of July in twenty foot Broadway letters. They jammed it out a little bit but stayed on their standard hour and half show; never more, never less in my experiences. The only complaint I had was that it had to end at all. One day before I was sure My Morning Jacket was the best band ever. After the latest ear-gasm, they were once again in a very close second.
Next up were the living legends Buffalo Springfield. Recently reformed, they were made famous for springboarding the careers of Neil Young, Stephen Stills and later (in collaboration) David Crosby. For only being active three years in the late 60's the band was incredibly influential. Old time rock 'n' rollers who might have never tread foot on The Farm where here for them. I had been a long time Neal Young fan but Dylan was beside himself. He was born in the wrong decade. When we first made plans to go he explained that Buffalo had been the clencher. The deal-maker. His main reason for agreeing to come along. We both knew this was once in a life-time, something we'd be telling our children about.
The problem was we'd only be seeing them, not hearing them. The hall of famers were playing on Which Stage and once again the sound was atrocious. Cutting in and out, the majority of the time we couldn't make out the music at all. Nice work. Words can't express how disappointed we were ... disgusted even. The crowd grew tense and was becoming more agitated by the second. Spontaneous chants of 'turn it up' broke out and grew in volume and intensity. I bailed after three songs for fear of riot but Dylan was determined not miss to out. He pushed up alone towards the front in hopes the sound would be better. We were already meeting Paul by the Giant Bobble Heads so I told him to catch up with us later.
After grabbing a slice of veggie pizza I ran into part of the Sparty Crew and we chatted for a bit over a joint they'd just lite. Shortly after Paul joined us and we caught up on our perspective experiences from the day. Dylan wasn't far behind and he was in high spirits because once he pushed up to the fifth row sound was much better. Reunited we joined the throng egger to see the man of the hour.
Far from a huge Eminem fan, I was truly blown away by his presence/energy on stage. Rap shows are very hit or miss but with an amazing live backing band E lived up to the headline hype. Lil Wayne and other hip-hopers take note; live musicians ALWAYS trump backing track. Performance is everything, even if I don't love the music. I was most impressed with his humbleness and the love he showed to his hardcore fans, thanking them all profusely for sticking with him through rehab. He seemed genuinely thrilled to be there which is more than I can say for some acts.
All that said, the most talented man on stage was probably his lead guitar player. A tall muscular black man who looked more like a pro athlete then a virtuous. Jimi Hendrix inspired licks were on point and never over barring. Instead they were effortlessly weaved into the over-all show. During a break in the action I wandered off to the pee wall at the back of the venue area. In a stroke of genius, the organizers had unofficially designated areas for men to relieve themselves and the burden on bathroom lines. Just as I began draining the main vain a girl walked up beside me and dropped trou.
"I can't wait any longer," she said in a thick Australian accent. She began to urinate a power hose stream that put my average flow to shame. Even with my dick at her eye level I managed to overcome stage fright and began making awkward conversation. I asked her why she'd come from the land down under and she said she was here for The Black Keys, who had canceled their Australian tour earlier in the year. Small world, considering I was also a massive fan.
"I'd pay any price to see them," she elaborated. "Even if it meant flying out here to Tennessee, suffering the heat, having to piss in front of complete strangers and drip dry." I admired her gumption and fanhood but decided not to shake hands considering neither of us had washed.
In the darkness I was unable to find my cohorts so I posted up until Slim Shady was finished. After the encore and even more fireworks, the flood lights came on and I began my search. It was even harder then trying to find a needle in a hay stack because in this case the hay was constantly in motion. A sea of faces blending together into one nondescript composite. After thirty minutes of wandering and hoping I gave up. I'd left my bag with them so I was really on my own; no water, weed or money. I was debating whether or not to just head back to camp when I was struck with the strongest sense of deja vu I'd ever experienced in my life.
She was pretty and petite. Tan skin, braided platinum blond hair. Just the right amount of muscle tone. Her firm breasts were accentuated by her white bikini as was her near perfect body. She also wore white fur boots, matching skirt and a unicorn horned tiara. When she turned her head I saw the now common place white feathers lining her hair. I immediately thought of a girl I'd seen the year before in the same get up but what were the odds? Another lonely mustang lost, alone and a little spooked. I'd wanted to speak to The White Unicorn the year before but bulked. I wasn't going to let a second chance slip away. I approached her to offer any assistance I could.
Her name was Sally and she'd lost her group in the melee as well. We talked for a bit but she spoke in short, clipped sentences often trailing off in mid-thought. She was obviously very high on various substances judging by the redness around her dripping nose and the dilation of her blue eyes. I could she her shaking slightly with anxiety, no doubt on the verge of a freak-out but I assured her I meant no harm. For fear the Roo Crew members would take her in for detox I suggested we try to find her friends together.
We walked by This Tent and watched a little bit of the Scissor Sisters, which was actually fronted by a man and a women. Well I guess technically he might have been a woman. His get-up was ridiculous. Whoever told him the pro-wrestler/superhero look was in should be castrated. I get it. You're extra, extra gay and your trademark blend of glam-rock disco-pop is huge in Great Britain but homosexual or not you look ridiculous. No one is pulling that off. I'm not a bigot, it just wasn't working. Like a male Lady Gaga without the international clout. She seemed to like them but we didn't see her entourage anywhere so we kept moving. On our way to the next stage we saw a large gathering of Bonnaroo Tribesman at a bench. She approached one of the men who had the largest headdress I'd seen all weekend.
"Chief Sun bear!" she yelled as she wrapped her arms around him. "I'm so glad we found you!" She greeted her other friends and I explained how I'd discovered her bewildered after the Eminem show. He thanked me for reuniting her with the tribe and for looking out for her in the interim. It was her first festival and he first time tripping. Apparently she was quit a bit younger then I'd first thought. Disgusted with where my mind had wondered during our walk, I'd taken her for much older ... at least twenty. To show his gratitude he broke out a drug satchel, laid out a massive line on the table and handed me a rolled up dollar bill.
"Help yourself," he said. "Enjoy our Molly, I insist." Familiar with the wonderful white powder I snorted the line and savored an intense burning in my nasal cavity. Instantly buzzed, I chatted compulsively with the group but Sun Bear did most of the talking for them. He wouldn't go into detail about the Neon Indian movement, choosing instead to remain vague and change the subject. Before long I realized they were all kids, probably in High School or recently graduated. Sun Bear was the senior states man at about twenty three. I got the feeling that maybe he didn't know anything either and they were all just winging it.
"It is time," he said cutting the conversation short. The group stood up and began walking single file to the next show. High as a kite and left with little alternative but to follow, I fell in line. It was the point in the evening (past 1 a.m.) when only the hard core were out and about. Most of the milder patrons had called it a night long ago. Now it was the ravers time to shine. A chance for the weirdos to let their freak flags fly. Drawn like moths to a flame, my new found collective joined a massive dance party in the dust bowl that had been called The Other Tent.
The cause for frolic was Omar Souleyman, a massively popular singer from Syria. His crazy hybrid of dance, electronica and synthesized sitars was unlike anything I'd ever heard. The fact he sang every word in Arabic and spoke zero English was also intriguing. He even had the United Arab Emirates look going; long white robe with matching head-cover, gold rope sash, sandals and black rock star shades just for added affect. The energy level was huge. The pace, whirlwind. All the while he enticed us to take things up another level with his hand gestures. Someone had a full-sized body cut-out of Oprah on a pole and they were gyrating her to the rhythm. If it's good enough for the queen of daytime television it's good enough for me. After he was finished, The Chief offered me more drugs. Peyote of some kind. Feeling pretty good already I wasn't sure I could handle anymore but I didn't want to be rude.
"Everything is perfect, no matter what do," he assured me. Who can argue with logic like that? I took piece and swallowed. We walked to Girl Talk and I remember staying for a few songs but mass-up isn't really my thing. If I wanted to see a DJ with ADD I'd start spinning myself. I said good bye to my new friends and made my way back to camp stopping at intervals when anything shinny grabbed my attention, a druggie haze hanging over my mind and clouding my vision all the while.
-J.R.
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