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.

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

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.

Roo 2010: Day 1

"May your thoughts be kind,
May your knots unwind.
May your dogs drink wine,
May your days kill time.

And may your fears go blind,
As your regret rewinds.
A little peace of mind.
May you wake to find,
It's just that time of the year
That holds you dear."

Dr. Dog, The Way The Lazy Do




I awoke with child like wonder, a lost boy in Never-Never Land. Finally, after months of waiting, it was that time of year again. I didn't want to waste a second. I had already started a new notebook and immediately began jotting down more random thoughts as they circulated through my brain. How can you describe feelings of long anticipated joy/excitement/stimulation coming to fruition? If I was bipolar I would have jump started a manic phase.

We fried bologna on a portable propane grill and made sandwiches for breakfast while pounding beer. After our meal I climbed on the Caravan's roof to survey the landscape. There were tent circles and canopies littered between trucks, vans and sedans. Even a 10 foot Tee-Pee in the true Native American style; canvas sheeting in-place of buckskin and tree limbs for support. It was easily 20 feet in diameter at it's base, larger then an average tent. Very cool.

In hindsight, leaving a day early is the way to go. At this time last year I was still in line. Unpacking felt very frantic. We rushed to the first shows and were never really settled until the following day. This year we were 6 beers deep by noon, intoxicated and ready to go with hours to spare. With the night time set-up we had a full first day, instead of a half day.

While strengthening our buzz and listening to Radio Roo we were approached by our first drug peddler. He was in his early twenties, wearing nothing but a black Speedo, aviators, and a blue bandanna. Molly was his merchandise, and he had obviously been sampling his own product judging by his amazing level of perspiration. Never get high on your own supply; famous and wise words. I offered him a water, freighted he might pass out at any second.

Molly is basically powdered Ecstasy. A purer form than the pills most are familiar with. I'm sure there is more to it than that, but I'm not a chemist. We bought a half gram for $5o and split it up 4 ways to sample. Licking my finger, I dabbed up my cut and rubbed the white powder on my gums and tongue, the taste bitter like a crushed up aspirin. I immediately started to feel a slight tingle in my mouth. The high is fast acting but mellow. Slow and steady build ups to mild euphoria, combined with speed-like increased energy. I felt a tinge all over and a toothy smile was plastered on my face.

"Damn these oranges are good," Burke kept saying. Everything is intensified when on a mind altering substance. I giggled and stared off into space, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros blasting in the background. A hard bodied platinum blond walked by in a white bikini adorned with white fur and tail. She had on a mask and a unicorn horn. If chased and then captured, I wondered if she could grant a wish.

It was my first time doing Molly but the rest had tried it before. Familiar with the drug, Road Dog had bought extra and popped a second hit into his mouth. He began blathering about politics, taboo at Roo. We kept eye-contact and interjected absentmindedly. Within an hour he was totally gone on a heavy trip, lost in his own world, lounging in a chair on the van's roof. Before we knew it, it was time to get ourselves in order. We decided to use the massive Indian Hut as our landmark. If lost, we would look for it when heading back to camp. Meet me at the Tee-Pee. Indeed.

One draw back to getting in early; our camp site (Pussy Galore) was ridiculously far from the venue. They filled the campsites back to front. Long treks through treacherous, densely populated, golf-cart taxi littered streets would be standard. It was The Captain's and I's second time but Burke and Road Dog were Bonnaroo virgins. Still seasoned festival goers in their own right, they thought they knew what to expect. They had no idea. We walked around Shake-Down Street so they could catch the vibe. They had a look on their faces that I remembered well from last year. The look of someone who's wildest expectations have been greatly surpassed.

While we meandered, I purchased a chillum to make smoking easier once inside. I heckled the vendor down from $20 to $10, feeling my inner Jew shine through. We got past the check point with no hassle and parked our butts at This Tent for Here We Go Magic. I had heard the Brooklyn band's name tossed around, mostly on the best radio station in Columbus (CD 101), but was still unfamiliar with them. I was very impressed. They had excellent build ups to their trance-rock songs. The drummer was my favorite, keeping steady beat and blasting the shit out of his kit at the same time. We didn't stay long, the crew wanted to check out a Banjo player at True Roo Music Lounge.

I would come to realize it was the year for Bluegrass. Fine by me. I didn't mind at all. I had grown some Bluegrass roots during my time in Kentucky. Sarah Jarosz would be our first of many soirees into the genre over the next four days.

She hailed from Austin, Texas and played a mean banjo. It was the prettiest I had ever seen. Antique and worn. Hard wood neck and a pearl rimmed drum head. Her long caramel colored hair was breaded into pigtails and she was attractive in a band-geek sort of way, however her voice made her sexy. She strummed and finger picked vigorously, the wonderful wailing vocal ethereal. Check out Left Home and Broussard's Lament (a song about Hurricane Katrina), which are both beautiful. I have a lot of respect for anyone who goes solo. She captivated the audience, just her and her banjo on stage, bleeding out their heart and soul.

After her set we wandered with no place to go until 10 pm. We caught the second half of Miike Snow at That Tent. Four of them were on stage in white Michael Myers masks, bashing away on their keyboards and synthesizers. So Miike Snow is actually a group of people, who knew? They had an Animal Collective feel; part Indie rock, part techno. Heavily altered vocals and crazy sound affects. The crowd was loving it, the girls shaking their shit. Guess I didn't get the memo. I think their stuff is ok, but I wasn't really feeling it, even on Molly. Conclusion; Miike Snow sucks. Just your narrators humble opinion.We packed bowls and got chefed out. Just when you think the Moly has peaked and your high is wearing off you take a toke and you're perched back on cloud nine.

After we had our fill of Miike Blows (I mean Snow) we returned to True Roo Music Lounge for Frank Turner, a singer-song writer from Meonstoke Winchester in England. His sound is labeled punk/folk, a blatant contradiction it would seem. This is epitomized by the title of his EP Campfire Punkrock. That's just what we got. His persona was cocky at times, his stage banter braggadocios but I found him hilarious. He was sporting a tight plaid shirt, jeans, a devilish grin and an over sized acoustic guitar. Another solo performer, no frills. Music in its purest form.

"I want everyone to know this is the first time in my life I have ever used a beer 'Koozie,'" he said into the mic, holding up his frosty brew. "I guess, if nothing else, it's good for hiding the fact I'm drinking Miller Lite. I'll stop talking bollocks now and play some music."

Speaking to the crowd in-between, he smashed through a few tracks. It was like some drunken version of VH1's Story Tellers, with him explaining how he came up with a song or giving a little anecdote about playing it on the road somewhere. Always charismatic, he had a way with the crowd that can't be taught.

"I need a volunteer," he said after awhile. A hundred hands shot up into the air. "Now wait a bloody minute, you don't even know what you're volunteering for. Him, your hand was first." A High Schooler in a filthy tie-dye shirt, trucker hat and gas station shades bounded onto stage. "Can you play harmonica?" Frank asked. The kid shook his head no. "Bollocks! Anyone can play harmonica. It's easy. You just blow in and out like this and move it across your mouth. When I give you the sign, your going to play a solo for this next song."

The kid looked rigid, nervous. Frank began strumming furiously, singing with a Sid Vicious-like vehemence. He paused at the appropriate time, giving his new bandmate an exaggerated nod. Trucker Hat launched into his ad-libbed solo, which was surprisingly good. He managed to get the rhythm and was killing it by the end. "He's a regular Bobby Dylan," Frank said chuckling. After the song he gave him the harp and the kid in turn gave Frank his hat, which he rocked for the remainder.

"Damn! This beer is still really cold," he remarked, swallowing a healthy mouthful. Obviously impressed, Burke remarked on his "realness." He was a very passionate performer, especially with his vocals, which were almost screams at times. Next was my favorite song, titled Nashville Tennessee; very appropriate for the lo-cal. Before starting the last verse he asked if anyone in the crowd was from Texas. Several people cheered, one wearing a Rangers Baseball cap.

"I just want you to know, I love you all very much," he said before singing the lines "I've been to Texas state, I didn't think it was all that fucking great!" After the song he told a yarn about getting wasted in Austin after a show with some fans. Feeling bad for bashing his new friends homeland he got the outline of Texas tattooed on his left bicep as a sign of concession. "We're fucking even," he said pointing to the tat.

On the next one he broke a string and had to stop. The stage crew sprang into action, all the while Frank kept the crowd loose, but no one had a spare E-string. In a moment of musician brotherhood, the guitar player for The Constellations (the next band to perform) lent him his Gibson. "Electric guitar is a foreign object to me," Frank mumbled while tuning. He played one more and then did an a cappella version of an old English drinking song. Quite Cheeky.

On our way out, we stopped for a bit of The XX. With the Molly long gone and our drunk wearing off, the slow, melodic tunes were not right for our frame of mind. "It's good for when your making out with a chick on your couch at home," The Captain said. "Live, when burnt out, not so much." We made the voyage back to camp slowly, privately digesting the days events. Three of us thought Frank Turner was the best so far, but Road Dog wasn't feeling him. He found him too arrogant and pretentious, which I can totally see. I was a huge fan regardless; different strokes for different folks.

Once at camp we met up with the Captain's little brother David and his buddy Chuck. Both were students at Ohio State and had a final Thursday, causing them to miss Day 1. Bummer. They parked at a variant site and had hiked to our spot, setting-up sometime while we were away. Thank God for the Tee-Pee. We talked shop, had a beer and then said good night. I laid down in my massive six person tent. It was excessively large. I dubbed it The Penthouse and hoped I might be sharing it with someone in the future, preferably a female. I closed my eyes and sleep came easily.


-J.R.

Roo 2010: intro

Note from the author: The following series of posts are dedicated to Thomas and Brittany Cox, who's wedding I had to miss to attend Bonnaroo. I still feel awful about bailing and figured this is the least I can do. I wish them the best on their new journey together. Miss you guys and hope to see you soon!

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

It was a very merry Christmas, especially for a Jew. Well actually a half Jew. My father is a Episcopalian and the only stipulation he had to his children being raised Jewish; we would still celebrate X-Mas. It is his most beloved (and only) Christian tradition. As a result I get the best of both worlds; Christmas and Hanukkah. We aren't a terribly religious family so no one gets their toes stepped on. The actual meaning of both is pretty much irrelevant to us, like most American's who celebrate either. It's all about the pageantry, spending time together ... and presents of course. I know, bite me, you would take both too if they were given to you.

The cause for extra celebration was receiving my ticket to Bonnaroo 2010 from my old man. Hands down the best gift I had gotten in years, for any reason. He is an old school Rock 'n' Roller who likes to live vicariously through his son. Growing up, some peoples dads take them to ball games or out hunting. Maybe they work on cars together. Not mine. He took me to shows. Before I was 16 I had seen Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, AC/DC, Tom Petty and Soundgarden just to name a few.

By February I was already in the planing stages of my trip when a "save the date" arrived at my apartment. My good friend Thomas was marrying his long time girlfriend Brittany, right smack dab in the middle of the festival. My heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach. Beside myself with anxiety, I called our mutual friend Charlie. He suggested trying to attend both (skipping out on the first half of Roo). I decide it was one or the other. Why pay full price for only two days? If I was going to miss any of it, I'd just sell my ticket. He was a groomsmen so he would certainly be at the ceremony, come hell or high water. The discussion was helpful but ultimately it was going to be my call.

I pretty much ignored the problem until the last minute. Maybe I wouldn't get invited. Maybe my invitation would get lost in the mail. I would be off the hook. But it finally came and after toiling and writhing over it for a week I sent my "regretfully decline" notice. Even now, I feel like an ass but Bonnaroo is my one big thing. My break from the mundane. My chance to do something I truly love; see live music. Four full days of it, once in a lifetime shows. Obviously I'm just trying to rationalize my decision. Marriage is a huge deal, and everyone involved hoped it would also be once in a lifetime. I had never wanted to be in two places at the same time more in my life. It was never meant as a slight to them, whom I hold dear, but I would understand if any size grudge was held.

With the necessary unpleasantness behind me, (only a total dick would not respond all together), I got my final plans in order. I had a brand new tent and a small armies worth of food/gear ready. I packed up my pop's truck on the afternoon of Wednesday the 10th. A light rain was falling. I hoped it wouldn't follow me to Tennessee.

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

Driving solo seven hours is a bitch but I had music to keep me company. Dylan, one of the crew from last year, had given me a massive care package to get me Roo ready. Basically a bunch of tunes from people I would be seeing. I started off with The Black Keys' Rubber Factory. The Akron based blues rock duo was bar-none my top must-see. I had been a fan from the first time I heard them but hadn't seen them live. Dan Auerbach's howling vocal, Patrick Carney's powerful, abrasive drumming mixed with simple yet profound lyrics is mesmerizing. It's fun to root for the home team too.

After the Keys I blasted through most of Dr. Dog's catalog. Their psychedelic-indie rock sound is an acquired taste and I dug it, but I found myself skipping tracks often, unfamiliar with most of it. Giving them at least a once through was a must considering they were also towards the top of my list. My Morning Jacket, Black Joe Lewis, Frank Turner, KOL and Fleet Foxes got heavy play as well. All of them wouldn't be performing but they seemed to fit the various moods I was in on my long journey. It was a peaceful drive but also very boring. Other then the sunset leaving Cincinnati, I was driving at night. The scenery was rendered moot.

After grabbing a burger outside Nashville, I met up with my crew at a Walmart. It was a buddy of mine from college and two of his friends from his current place of residence, Asheville North Carolina. He has demanded to be called The Captain for the duration of these posts. One of his friends asked to be called Road Dog, and the last member of our group simply by his last name Burke. Who am I to argue?

With the last few things checked off our supply list we were ready to head out. The Captain hopped in with me and the other two followed in Road Dog's Dodge Caravan. We entered Coffee County Tennessee around 4 a.m., ignoring the massive and unmoving line facing the opposite direction. Continuing east bound, we took exit 127, same as the year before, but it was broad daylight last time. Now it was pitch black. We were the only people on the back roads and many times we thought to turn around and join the freeway line but we carried on, following "event" signs. Finally we caught up to some others.

Check in was a little hairy since the line was sparse. The cops were walking up to vehicles to look around. They seemed to be targeting large groups, randomly asking a vehicle to pull-over for a search. Other then a joint we'd already smoked and a stash hid in my shampoo bottle, we were clean. We had almost made it through when one crew cut, muscle bound, gun packing freak approached us.

"I just saw this new, beautiful Ford F150 and had to check it out," he said, resting his arm on my open window ledge. We bullshitted with him for a few minutes. I told him it was my dad's, our family was a Ford family and blah, blah, blah. He shined his flash light in the truck bed then back in our faces, pausing ever so slightly. Did he sense we had dope? Was he seeing a decade's worth of drug use in my redden eyes? Could he smell our fear? After what felt like a lifetime, he waved us on. Disaster averted.

We were huddled into the campsite, intentionally parking far apart to steal any extra bit of space we could. Springing into action with the grace and speed of gazelle, we unpacked and set-up our tents with only head lamps as our guides. Our neighbors, who were already finished, turned their headlights on to help us out. Very Roo of them. We began drinking Kentucky Tavern and PBRs by 6 a.m. and watched the sunrise. All in all, counting the time we were in line and set-up, it had only taken about 3 hours. That's half the time I spent doing the same tasks a year before.

Continuous, growing cheers sprung up amongst the revelers. Bud Lights were scattered about freely as if they had been dropped by a passerby; the Johnny Apple Seed of beer. Pulling out his guitar, Burke began playing Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound. After a pull on the handle of booze he paused.

"Woo hoo! Might be too early for that one," he said in his subtle but ever present North Carolina drawl. He settled on one of his originals Part-Time with Benefits, clever and catchy with a Rockabilly flavor. "Working part-time, in the mean time getting tore up," he sang. The Captain played a mean harp lick in tune. Spirits were high, but we were all exhausted after the drive. As I lay my head down to sleep I could hear the first whispers of, "Molly ... Headies." Drug dealers never sleep at Bonnaroo.


-J.R.

Getting Weird with It ... Yet Again

"Always the last, to see the moment has passed, and I need to admit my defeat ... Try as I might, I can't stop, until I've squeezed out every last Drop."

-Frank Turner, I Really Don't Care What you Did on Your Gap Year




Sipping a Mojito at 2 am, watching people break dance to house music, I couldn't help but wonder what I could be doing at that instant infinitely more productive. Something meaningful like writing, curing cancer or even sleeping. I never drink trendy cocktails with exotic names. I'm usually a Bourbon and beer kind of guy but Matt, my bar tender, assured me they were his specialty. I can't lie, they were fucking outstanding. The concoction was 80% rum but smooth with little or no burn. Four down, plus beers and I was knocking on Mr. Blackout's door.

Inebriated or not, Bristol Bar isn't usually my scene. Well, not unless I'm on some serious drugs. Luckily on that fine evening I was and very much into the trance, electro, dub step spirit. Acid is probably my favorite drug to do on rare occasions. When feeling frivolous, some people break out a fine single malt scotch or a Tawny Port that's been aging longer then I've been alive. Not me. I just place a piece of blotter paper on my tongue and kiss reality good bye for awhile. Maybe to some people this makes me a bad person; a drug addled flunky. They probably aren't the people I would want to spend a Tuesday night carrying on with anyway.

The evening had started normal enough, with the usual suspects. Janis, Georgina, Shea and I had planed on heading to Bristol for a few drinks. But before the bar, we stopped by Oldfields parking lot to score four hits of LSD. A friend of Janis' had extra and was looking to get ride of it cheap. I'm an opportunistic drug user. I rarely seek out the hard stuff but never shy away from it either. With Bonnaroo coming up, I considered my shenanigans "Drug Camp" training.

We procured the narcotics and ate them immediately. It was the second time in a week I had taken heavy drugs in that parking lot (see Weird With It post). A month ago I didn't know this place existed. Now I was popping pills and taking doses there on the reg. I couldn't help but laugh to myself. Many will ask: Why do mind altering substances? To which I reply: Why do people climb Mt. Everest? Because it's there.

With the black paper dissolving on our tongues, we headed to our destination. Road to Nowhere by The Talking Heads was playing on the radio. Very apt. Bristol is part club, part bar and ultra trendy but not in a negative or unoriginal sense. It takes up the first floor of a very old apartment building. However, the inside has been totally remodeled. New hardwood floors, walls covered in sheets of bamboo, clever lighting, high ceilings with exposed air-ducts and framing. Stainless steel bar tops, chairs and tables fill the first entryway as you walk in. As you turn to the left you enter the club portion; a very large open area with a square of cushioned seats in the middle, a few places to sit around the perimeter, an expansive DJ booth to the rear and floor to ceiling windows facing the street. The decor screams modern with a obvious LA overtone.

Not surprisingly the crowd was small. This spot is relatively under the radar of most. Average Joe isn't ready for the raver, hipster, cyclist, candyflipper demographic. One wirer kid was in tight cut-off green denim jorts, a brown wife beater and fatigue colored baggy slouch. He was bounding around, hips gyrating frantically, his reddish brown hair matted to his forehead with sweat. When he bent over we could see the faintest hint of lace connected to a pair of woman's underwear. He was a characture of the stereotypical effeminate gay male. We decided that his attire, mannerisms and boyish face reminded us of Peter Pan.

An hour in the drugs started to take hold. Acid is a different beast then it's club-drug cousin Ecstasy. Much more intense, the high coming to you in waves. X is a more ever present, pulsating with each pump of the heart. Both give a heavy body buzz but LSD also has the added advantage of visuals. I've never seen little green men or pink elephants but any light, pattern, or random occurrence gives the tripper an out-of-body like experience. Are those bricks trading places? Is there a halo around those purple lights? Did that chick really just take her tit out to show her date a tattoo? At least that's how it was for me ... Both are great when a DJ is involved. You can feel ever bass hit, ever tweaky high note, every word, as if they came from inside of you.

DJ Moxy Martinez was tearing through her set while we danced and pounded drinks. Her transitions were flawless, easily the best of any DJ I had ever seen in real life. She played 50-Cents In Da Club before splicing it into Dub Step infused version of Feel the Noise without anyone even realizing what the hell had happened. She combined songs perfectly, never missing a beat. This was not your kid brother dicking around with turn tables and a mixer in your parents basement. She was a professional and had earned major respect in my book. I was a former hater, now converted lover of house music.

The words I had been writing seemed to wriggle and worm across the bar napkins. I began feeling very excited and anxious, like when your climbing the lift hill of a roller coaster in anticipation of the drop to come. I went out back to regroup. The cool night air felt good on moistened skin. Peter Pan was out there too and obviously rolling even harder. He kept approaching me and telling me how beautiful I was. He aggressively tried to lick my face. It took most of my strength to keep him from coming in for the kill. The butterflys in my stomach were flapping their wings faster. I felt nauseous. I was starting to loose my cool.

"Ummm I wouldn't do that," Shea said, coming to my rescue. "He's not gay and he's tripping"

Peaking and drunk (you have the drinking ability of 10 men when dosing) we decided it was time to leave. We walked to Georgina's apartment and crept to the basement, trying our best not to wake her roommates. Safe at last. No more crazy ravers to worry about. Mr. Blue Skies was playing and we were all giddy with laughter like school kids staying up past their bed times on the first night of summer. "This is my selection," Shea said. "I hope you like it, but I don't care of you don't." She was making crazy designs on a laptop art program. It looked like vomit. "This isn't for you," she said. "You don't understand. Your not abstract enough."

At the drop of dime the drug can turn on you. One second everything was perfect sitting inside. The next we craved action and the outdoors. We were too confined in the basement. We were inmates in a prison of our choosing. We dashed back outside as if we were being chased by the devil himself. Wide open spaces; safe once again. Splashing in parking lot puddles we were beside ourselves with good vibes. Out of nowhere Georgina and Janis took off.

"Fuck it, we'll go skiing!" they said as they wondered off. Shea and I followed, beginning or three hour outdoor LSD odyssey. We wandered around Victorian Village. Each large tree that lined the cul-de-sacs seemed to have a lifetime of stories to tell. Shrubs were lost souls who longed for life outside the city. Old vacant estates beckoned to us, begging to be explored but they were all locked. It was past 5 am by this point and the newspaper delivery people were out, hard at work. Shea become convinced they were following us and up to no good. Bad, ugly vibes. The acid had turned on us yet again.

We ended up at the Gothic church on King Ave. It's massive oak doors and five story bell tower reminded me of Medieval Times. We explored the court yard awhile longer before heading back. The girls sat on the bed, eating bananas and I was gripped by an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. Me laughing made them laugh and we were all a total mess, rolling around on the floor and clutching our bellies.

Laying on the soft shag carpet, the last thing I remembered before drifting off was Janis dancing above me to Wipe Out. She looked like the bouffant B 52s lady, hanging ten on an imaginary surf board. One moment I wanted to laugh, the next I wanted to sleep. I couldn't do both at the same time. The moment was passing, the drugs waning but I didn't want my adventure to end. Eventually, exhaustion won and I passed out. Another evening of getting weird with it. Dancing green fairies and castle like churches filled my dreams.


-J.R.

Short North Observation

There's a used Trojan on my street. Looking down at the dead latex litter, smoking my cigarette, I can't help but wonder how it got there. Did they fuck outside, right here? Did they fuck in a car and simply discard said condom when they were finished?

Like an unlucky lotto ticket that hadn't won anything, it was now trash, after giving some level of enjoyment if only for a brief moment. The love glove stuck to the pavement like a fish carcass washed up on the sand. Dead now, it served no further purpose. At least someone was getting laid. I put out the butt of my smoke and went inside, plotting on how to spread used prophylactic around my fair city as well. A lone wolf in a sheep skin contraceptive.


-J.R.

MMJ: Prouducts of Kentucky

"It's a mystery I guess ... just the way that he sings, not the words that he says."
My Morning Jacket, The Way That He Sings




A sunny day always shines brighter on your day off. Not that I need the sun to shine. It was a glorious day despite the poor weather forecast. I had been a My Morning Jacket fan for a long time, and tonight I had tickets. During my entire four year stretch at the University of Kentucky I had failed to catch the Louisville based rockers. Inexcusable I know, especially since I was 77 miles from ground zero during their slow but steady rise to notoriety.

But no more. A source who shall remain nameless gave me a fifth of Bullet Bourbon and by 5 pm the whiskey was running warm in my blood. My friend Gus came over with a blunt rolled. We had been friends since grade school. Tonight was going to get very serious in the best way possible. We smoked and played It Still Moves top to bottom.

Joining our fellowship, Dave and a friend came by and pounded shots to catch up. I had met him through Stacey, a girl I worked with at the Cafe. They were engaged and had just had their first child together. Being a new dad, he never got out of the house. I could tell already that he was ready to tie one on. No fiance or child to worry about for the evening, he was a man on a mission.

After a quick Wendy's run we were en route to the show. Rain had already started to fall but we didn't give a shit. It was going to be an epic night no matter what. All-terrain rain jackets are a must for outdoor venues. Mine would manage to keep me dry.

We piled out of Shooter's car, thanking him for being our sober chauffeur. Taking our spot in line I realized Dave was still eating his Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Before he was half finished we had reached the ticket taker. In one quick motion that can only be described as elegant he crammed the remainder into his face, chewed and swallowed.

Once we entered we immediately got in line for beer. I'm not sure why, but I was feeling the need to pound heavily. Dave's wanton joy was the fuel to my fire. Besides, I hadn't had a day off in far too long. Might as well make the most of my freedom. Beverages procured, we found a nice spot on the lawn. It was an out door amphitheater with standing room only lawn seating and a concrete "floor" area for seats. The grassy knoll was at the perfect increasing incline so no one had a bad view.

They opened with One Big Holiday. The familiar high-hat and guitar riff sent chills down my spine. Drunken high-fives were exchanged and satisfied grins filled the crowd. Jim James came out wailing on his signature Gibson Flying V. He wore a red flannel with tie under a blue crush velvet vest. He had a six shooter holstered on his hip and the bravado to match. They followed up with Off the Record, Gideon and then I'm Amazed. They closed each with a prolonged jam that never seemed force, but necessary. Four for four and just getting started. As the rain fell Jim sang ...

"Sitting here with me and mine all wrapped up in a bottle of wine, little we can do, we gonna see it through somehow."

Joints were lit and passed. We talked to our neighbors who were in from Cincinnati. They had seen the fellas over twenty times and they said it got better every time. Dave was beside himself with excitement. At one point he began spastically dancing through the crowd, bobbing then weaving by people like Mohammad Ali.

Georgina stopped by with her mom and hung out for a song or two. Her mother was a hip, hip lady to be at MMJ. She had kind eyes and Georgina's smile; or was it the other way around? After The Way That He Sings the two of them pushed up to the front for the rowdy Lay Low. The guitars were heavy and deliberate. I never wanted to be a rock 'n' roll star more.

They were blending slow and fast tracks beautifully, it was the best set list I had ever heard. The sun had set, the lights shut off. We enticed them back on stage with lighter waving and chants of "One more song." For the encore, Jim came out in a cape that matched his vest. He pranced around stage during Wordless Chorus with six large eye balls staring at us from screens behind the band.

We missed the opening act, The Preservation Hall Jazz Band, but luckily Jim brought them out to finish their set with a New Orleans inspired cover. It ended up being a ten minute session culminating with vehement dueling guitar solos and a Jazz Band member smashing his acoustic on stage. A final release of enthused passion. The heat and chemistry between everyone on stage was palpable.

At this point Gus had taken a very wide stance on the hill to keep his drunken frame upright. He was holding a half empty beer that was piss warm. He'd been clutching it for the last five songs and hadn't taken a sip; it was more a prop at this point then anything. He was in a bad way but still kicking despite his inebriation.

On the way out I talked to a kid in UK gear that I happened to be standing next to. He was up from Lexington for the show. On a whim we started a "C-A-T-S" cheer, Kentucky's equivalent to "O-H ... I-O". Randomly 20-30 people in the crowd joined us. It felt good to have my alma mater repping in my home town. Wildcat love was in the air. We cabbed it back to my place and went our separate ways, able to check another quality band of our bucket lists.


-J.R.

... Weird With It

"I was looking for some action, but all I found was cigarettes and alcohol."

-Oasis, Cigarettes and Alcohol




The Ecstasy was rolling Strong. I could feel it's basement engineered chemicals rushing to my head. Important questions floated in and out of my consciousness. When did I have to be at work? What time is it? What's the meaning of life? I couldn't focus on much of anything for longer then a minute or two, so I just I sipped my beer listening to the birds chirp on an apartment roof. The first yellow/orange rays of sun light were peaking over the horizon.

Until this point it had been a rather uneventful night. I guess if I wasn't on a Class A narcotic it would have still been relatively uneventful but I was having a good time getting weird with it. This was a term being thrown around lately, propagated by my new friends Brian and Matt in honor of their bands new EP Summer of Weird. The George Elliot Underground's sound is a mess of southern rock 'n' roll, blues and a dash of KOL pop rock.

They really are one of the better groups in the local scene. The Floorwalkers and Spikedrivers also come to mind for those of you taking notes. I recommend them all very highly. I digress, back on track.

I started my night at Garage bar in the arena district. I have to give it credit, for being located in the "Bro" hotbed of Columbus it really wasn't that bad. They had PBR talls, so I fit right in. Janis, Shea and I were there to see GEU, who was opening for Chelsea Automatic, yet another local group who had been getting good pub as of late.

Unfortunately we had missed Brian and Matt's set. When it comes to Chelsea Automatic let me tell you, don't believe the hype. They weren't anything to write home about. The show wasn't awful but certainly not good. Their best song was an Arctic Monkeys cover I was only half paying attention to. They did have nice representation though. Local kids who probably went to high school with the guys in the band. We hadn't, so we weren't feeling it.

I had a great conversation about the finer points of Ryan Adams with Matt and Brian over a cigarette. Although we all had a different favorite track, we all agreed his version of Wonderwall blew Oasis' out of the water.

"I love Oasis," Brain explained. "But it's no longer their song." I couldn't agree more. Even Noel Gallagher has acknowledged that Ryan's version gives the song it's soul .

They both looked their parts. Brian, the drummer, was a cross between Animal from the Muppets and the guy with the hair from Mars Volta. Matt, the singer, had an Irish Caleb Followill vibe. They both wore tight shirts and filthy jeans. Regardless, I was enjoying talking to people so into music.

The bartenders made last call. Janis and Shea started to say their goodbyes but I was beginning to catch my buzz and had the urge to prolong it. I tagged along with my two new compadres to an after hours bar on North Campus.

We walked down High, chattering loudly. Once we got to Outfields we veered left into an alley. There was a beat-up plywood door on the side of the building. Some shady characters were hanging outside. They were a cross between country and ghetto. You know the type. They densely populate areas like Pataskala or other out cropping counties still close enough to infiltrate Columbus' decent drinking society.

"This is it," Matt said as he handed one of them his ID and a twenty dollar bill. Apparently cover is taxed after hours. We walked into the crudely fashioned door and up some steps to the second floor of Oldfeilds. It was an intense check-in process. We were all frisked and patted down. We gave our IDs to a third bouncer who wrote our names on a sheet of paper. Next, a number was etched on our hand in sharpie. I felt like a lab rat in a maze, being tagged for an upcoming experiment.

A couple names for the place had been tossed around on our long walk. Afterhours, World Peace Bar but it should have been called the Rave Cave. Glow stick twirling and intense house music was the fare of the evening/morning. Digiraatii was on the mix and a lot of people were doing what appeared to be dancing on the raised floor.

The crowd was a bizarre mix of scene kids, homeless looking drunks, college aged coeds and high rollers. We had all come together, united under one cause, a few drinks more then last call usually aloud. One guy in a three piece suite was seated next to what had to be am escort, judging on her intense make-up and skin tight lime green mini-skirt. He probably had two wives and a girlfriend as well. I could see the sleaze beading up on his forehead like sweat.

Since it was past 2 a.m. and no one was aloud to "serve" alcohol, the bar at the rear was excepting donations. Basically you paid $5 for a ridiculously small vodka and Hawaiian Punch and didn't bitch about it. We posted up and people watched. Some guy with a mullet walked up and said, "hi" to Brian. He had on a black cut-off NWO (of wrestling fame) tee. I took to calling him Whackgyver the rest of the night.

Attractive women were sprinkled throughout the crowd. One hipster chick caught my attention especially. She was very thin and attractive in a Kate Moss ugly model way. I tried to dance with her but she gave my house music moves one look and wasn't having any of it. I was out of my element for sure, what had we gotten ourselves into?

Many over priced drinks later, we decided it was time to go. We stepped outside into a surprisingly large crowd which had gathered in the alley. Pot smoke was in the air and we mooched on a bowl or two. We struck up a conversation with some random guy who offered to sell us Ecstasy at $10 a hit. He took a large drug baggie out of his pocket. The multi-colored pills looked like a sack of smarties in his hand. None of us wanted to pony up the dough and were about to walk away when his inner salesman came out.

"Take a hit each and if you like it give me a call sometime." Matt declined but feeling drunk and adventurous, Brian and I took the offer. I noticed it was in the shape of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle head just before I popped it into my mouth.

We cabbed it back to Brian's apartment, chain smoking Marlboros and listened to tunes on his roof as we watched the sunrise. The X was definitely good shit. It was a mellow body buzz with a cocain-ish upper sensation. Our new supplier would most certainly be receiving a call in the future.

Totally wired we decided we hadn't had enough. We went to Mike's Bar in the Short North looking for some action. It opened at 7 a.m. and the three of us were slamming shots of Kentucky Tavern by 7:30. I was now in a very bad way. I had to have nourishment. Breakfast happened at Vic's Cafe, some mesh of corn beef hash and scrambled eggs I scarfed down with out thinking twice or tasting it. Strong coffee brought me back to reality.

Out of no where, Janis and Shea busted in as Brian was playing a acoustic guitar set up for open mic at the cafe. Things were officially starting to freak me out. It felt surreal to see them after being out on the town with them earlier in the night/morning. I was starting to realize how absurd my behavior was. I began questioning my morals and life choices. The drugs were wearing off.

Before I could dwell on it, I was on my feet and out the door. I walked out on my check, which I never do. I was beyond fucked up. I stumbled back to my place and peeked into my parked car. There was a half eaten birthday cake in the back seat and I had no idea how it got there. Shit had definitely gotten too weird for me. My bed never felt so good.


-J.R.

Bone Thugs: It's an Ohio Thing

"Boy with a coin he crammed in his jeans, then making a wish, and tossed in the sea."
-Iron and Wine, Boy with a Coin




I had been seeing Mary Jane on a fairly regular basis for the past month. The two of us had been friends for almost a year but after loosing touch for a bit, we had recently reconnected. We'd go out for a drink or a movie. There were kisses on occasion and daily correspondence via text, so I guess we were qusi-dating, although we never got to the title stage. I was into her on a romantic level but the feeling would NOT grow to be mutual.

One night after work, I went over to her place to hang out. I'd had a very shitty couple of days for reasons I won't get into for the sake of time. We always seemed to enjoy each others company and I was hoping to take my mind of things for awhile. It was a typical night for us: wine, weed and tunes. I was starting to cheer up, until she brought up our foggy at best situation.

"I enjoy your company," she said. Uh oh, I didn't like her tone. "I feel a connection but I don't want to press feelings that aren't prominent." Sweeeet. These are the kind of phrases any guy with a crush hopes to never hear.

We talked about it for awhile and I had the feeling she thought I wanted more from her then I really did. Maybe she felt pressured. She shouldn't have. I was totally satisfied with being stranded on first base. I was in no hurry. We had just started to share the bed, after about three weeks of me sleeping on the couch. I felt some sort of progress had been made and I was content. The strange part was I didn't even mind being relegated to the living room. For the first time in awhile, I was in no rush to sleep with a girl I was into.

Regardless, from that night on we would be just friends. My feelings were hurt but I was cool with it. Nothing had gotten serious and we'd only been an "item" for a short while. We had made plans to go see Bone Thugs-n-Harmony the following Thursday. Since I already had tickets, we decided to go anyway. Could be awkward but I was willing to try. After all we had been friends first and I wished to return to our previous form.

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The day of the show everything was planned. After work she would come over to pregame, we'd get PODed and then head out. She had packed an overnight bag so she could crash at my apartment and shower in the morning before heading back in to work. I had cold beer in the fridge, a few blunts rolled and a killer Bone mix ready to go. I even gave the bathroom a quick scrub down so she wouldn't have to bathe in man filth. But at the last minute she bailed.

It wasn't her fault, she had gotten sick at work. Bad burrito or something of the sort. She tried but wouldn't be able to shake it off in time for the concert. In addition, she had forgotten her over-night bag, which I found somewhat suspect but it didn't matter at that point. She wouldn't be going. Bummer.

Irritated and slightly pissed while still trying to be understanding, I frantically started making phone calls to find a pinch-ragger. I only had 2 hrs before the doors opened so I had to work quickly. After four no's from friends that claimed to be Bone fans, I called Janis who is always down for whatever. She wasn't working and had no plans so my search had ended. I went over to her place to get my buzz on.

Six PBR Tallboys and a blunt later we were walking to Newport. It was a sold out show and the line was massive. Janis stashed the rest of the weed in her bra and we got through with no problems. 99 Problems by Jay-Z was bumping through the speakers as we ordered our first Labbat Blue pints. The song seemed appropriate to my current situation.

Warm up, after warm up performed. At least four total, pretty normal for a Hip-Hop show, but still annyoing. We got drunker and we grew more agitated by the minute. Get to the meat and potatoes already! I don't give a fuck about so and so's boys from Akron trying to act gangster and rhyme shitty raps. They were all trying to be Bone Thugs, unsuccessfully.

Just before the headliners took the stage, Janis and I crept our way to the rail on the ground level. The lights cut out. The subs barked to life. East 1999. The crowd exploded. They were all in gray or red, in honor of Columbus and OSU. Krayzie Bone was even wearing a James Laurinaitis jersey. Their rhymes were lighting quick and sharper than broken glass. The sound man was on point. Dayz of Our Livez was also cd perfect and then they addressed the crowd.

"It's personal," Layzie Bone said into his mic. "It's an Ohio thing!" They launched into Thuggish Ruggish Bone next and I felt euphoric. I had always liked Krayzie the best growing up, but I found that Layzie was the best live. He strode around stage and interacted with the crowd more then the others. They were all there minus Bizzy and Flesh who had some legal troubles keeping them from traveling with the rest.

We sparked an L during 1st of tha Month and made friends with a couple standing next to us. The girl was a pretty blond and the boyfriend was the whitest black man I had ever met. We passed them the blunt and grooved to the music. By the end of the show the boyfriend and I were high-fiving and hugging. We both knew every word to every song and became temporary best friends.

They did Easy E's Still Cruisin' and Notorious Thugs with the crowd rapping every word of Biggie's and Easy's verses in unison. Prolific amounts of pot smoke filled the air. Bone was smoking on the stage as was nearly everyone in the crowd. Weed was everywhere; in line for the bathroom, while waiting for beer, even the security guys were blazing.

After a new song that was absolutely awful (we thought it was an April Fools joke, the show was on April 1st) they did some freestyling and a short encore featuring Thug Love. They closed with an old 70s Motown song I recognized but couldn't name.

We made the short walk back to my place and Janis immediately passed out on the couch. I was lucky to call her my friend. She had saved the day for sure and I was thrilled to see one of my favorite groups from my childhood. However, laying in bed I couldn't help but wonder how things would have gone if Mary Jane had come. Despite the amazing night I had hanging out with Janis, I found myself asking the obvious questions about MJ, wishing for what could have been. I wished for a lot of things when it came to her but they wouldn't come pass.

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In hind sight, I've decided Mary Jane and I are better and more comfortable as friends. We don't talk as often but still hang out on occasion. Sometimes I long for how things were before we had "the talk" but life doesn't work like that. It keeps moving forward in a predetermined direction we can't navigate ahead of time. What is meant to be will be. Maybe someday things will be different for me and her. I doubt it, but no one can predict the future.


-J.R.