Conclusion to Bonnaroo 2011

After my third go 'round at this thing called Bonnaroo I have to say that day four will always be my favorite. It signifies an end to the 96 hour marathon of squalor, filth and sweltering heat but that's not why I like it best. It's not because the line-ups are any better or the crowds are any thinner. The crescendo is always my favorite in any adventure. The final flurry of pure awesomeness before it's time to pack it up, head home and call it a night. Your last chance to soak everything in before it's gone and you can only reflect ...

Most of the first-timers bail sometime on day three. The faint of heart and headline pop crowd weren't built for Roo. Despite knowing this, I was still a little sad to see our campsite's population cut by a third with 12 hours of music left. Even the Sparty Crew was packing up when we were shotgunning the last of our beers. We exchanged Facebook information and then they were gone. We wanted to make packing easier for ourselves so we kept drinking. The more you consume the less you have to take home. We snacked on the last of our food and pitched the scraps. I didn't want to get stuck with any weed/hash either so we smoked at a constantly increasing rate through out the day. Fairly drunk and high we waxed intellectual on the finer points of Jim Page's guitar riffs vs. Keith Richards'.

We'd decided to bail before the final show, Wide Spread Panic, to avoid the rush. I know, I know. Feel free to leave a comment telling me how I 'totally blew it' by missing them but they're just a poor man's Phish to me. Neither Dylan or I lived and died by The Jam so it was an easy decision. With the help of PBR we got our camp packed up in just under three hours. As we walked to Centeroo it was obvious that only the diehard remained. Everyone looked like wrung out amusement park caricatures of the people they once were. The drugs, heat and grungy defilement changes everyone ... in some ways forever.

The first show was quite unremarkable. Of everyone I'd seen all weekend (with a good sound crew) Gregg Allman was most disappointing. He came out late then took forever to get his piano mic just right and mailed it in from there. Laissez-faire would be generous. Granted, the man is an aging legend and has earned the right to do whatever he damn well pleases but you hope for more at Bonnaroo. It's the chance for a performer of any success level to appeal to a massive audience that for the most part hasn't heard of them. Because of the delays he ran over and we missed the end of Cold War Kids' set. Thanks Gregg.

Dylan was focused on seeing The Strokes and I on the very hyped Super Jam so we agreed to meet at the truck when both were finished. (I still can't believe the bonehead scheduling conflict). I gave him half the remaining herb and we said adios for the interim. The music was at least 45 minutes away so I pushed to the front of That Tent and parked myself in the second row. While lounging I sparked a bowl laced with my last flake of hash and passed it around my immediate circumference. Super-duper stoned, I chatted with my neighbors and inadvertently met the guy everyone hates to meet. The Super Fan.

Constantly trying to one up your concert stories. Sharing useless (often false) factoids about their fav band. Naming the date and location of every studio album recording. He was telling me about how he'd waited in line for a full day, missing countless other shows, to get front row for The Black Keys. He was obsessed with Dan Auerbach (lead guitar/vocal), who was also leading the Super Jam. We'd be talking music and he'd say things like 'Dan's soooooo fucking amazing' in a weird semi-sexual tone that was so awkward I didn't know weather to laugh or take him seriously. I pictured an Auerbach inspired shrine in his bedroom. Living proof some guys don't need internet porn to get by.

Don't get me wrong I have a pretty big Black Keys boner myself but he made mine look like a baby's dick. I eventually changed the subject but he wouldn't give it up. Every time anyone even approached the mics for sound check he was clapping, cheering and calling out requests. Consistently annoying; like that pop corn kernel that's been stuck in your teeth all day waiting to be flossed. I shifted a couple paces to the right and made nice with a father/son duo. The boy wasn't a day over 15 and they both had That Pass which gave them access to the backstage area. They were nice enough and I was tempted to make an offer for one of the passes when the feed back started to sound.

"Thanks for coming out and spending time with us," Auerbach said. "I'm here with some friends and we're going to celebrate New Orleans."

The stage was a hodge-podge of musicians and singers notably living legend Dr. John, Auerbach, the horn section from Preservation Jazzhall Band and the drummer from My Morning Jacket. They performed old school Dr. John jams and some New Orleans' standers. It was an eclectic output of sounds; hard rock riffs and creole flavored melodies. Packed in tight, it felt like we were grooving on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. The Doc's voice is one in a million. He sounds like a bayou bullfrog with a less-gay Elton John fashion bravado (see his trade mark hats). They closed with Such a Night, doc flying solo, eating it up from the crowd which was clapping along.

"Remember that!" Auerbach said for emphasis after he'd finished. A once in a lifetime performance I will never forget. In retrospect it made the whole trip worth it. They all took a bow and I slowly made my way to the back of the crowd. On the walk to camp I took time to reminisce about everything that was Bonnaroo 2011. I was sad to know the long strange trip was coming to an end but also a little relieved. It's fun to visit the circus but I couldn't live in one. Something that has become a sort of tradition for me now is giving away the Chillum I'd been using weekend to a passer-by. For one thing I didn't want to have it on me if I got searched on the way out and it's also one little way to spread the vibe. He seemed happy about it.

Slipping in and out of solemn meditation I took care to avoid the never ending line of cars stopping and going on their way out. As I crossed in front of one vehicle a girl leaned her head out the window and shouted 'give us that dick!' I stopped in my tracks and almost got run down I was so caught off guard. After snapping out of it I grabbed my crotch with both hands, made the most offensive gesture possible, smiled and kept walking. As the truck and Dylan came into view I thought about the Neon Indians. After spending time with a few I was no closer to understanding what they were all about than I'd been on the ride down from Ohio. Maybe it's all nothing. Just some kids dressing like savages and raging on party drugs for no rhyme or reason. Maybe they really are an underground society funded and nurtured by the curators of Bonnaroo. Probably some combination of the two.

As a seeker of truth, I feel it's my job to get to the bottom of it all. Rest my finger on the pulse of America's youth. See what is what and share my experiences along the way. On the drive home I already started hatching plans for 2012 and who knows, maybe this time next year I'll have it all figured out. Written, presented for your benefit. Well, tt will make for a entertaining read anyway. I do the dirty work so you don't have too but there's no need to thank me just keep coming back.

-J.R.