Short North Missed Connections

Mother Hen

I saw you last weekend, on the corner of 4th and High, next to the patio at Goody Boy. You were in a tight white tank top, black leggings and belly button high jean shorts. You were bending over, whipping puke of your friends face. She was belly down in a gutter and the volume of liquid shooting out of her mouth would have been enough to make anyone toss their cookies as well but you stayed strong. Even when the vomit splashed your hair and onto your cloths. I admire your tenacity. 

When the cops came and they called the paramedics to take her away you cried your eyes out and begged them to let you both go. With each heavy sob I watched the wonderful jiggle of your exquisite breasts. The way your mascara ran really made me hot. I was guy on the patio in a baseball cap and blue graphic tee, smoking a cigarette and trying not to laughing. I felt a connection but I'm very shy with a good sense of humor. I hope your friend's not dead. I'll be waiting for your response.

I am a man looking for a woman (m4w)

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

Part of the Flock

We were both sitting outside of Bodega. I was in a flora sundress and wide brimmed floppy hat. I have long strawberry blond hair and been told I have a cute smile. I met my friend there later but when I saw you I was alone. Every time I noticed you checking me out, I'd turn to look and you'd break eye contact.

You were in skinny jeans and Red Wing boots. You had a beard, shaggy dirty blond hair and black thick frame glasses. Or was it a mustache, mullet and baggy slouch? Maybe aviators? I think you WERE the one with a beard actually. Wait, it wasn't Red Wings. They were Chuck Taylor's. Well it was definitely skinny jeans. 

You and your four similarly dressed friends were hanging out, talking about craft beer, smoking American Spirits and shooting shots of Jamison. Before I could muster the nerve to approach you, the whole gang hopped on their track bikes and took off. Your probably not the type to read these things but I had to try. WHO ARE YOU?!

I am a woman looking for a man (w4m)

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

Gay Karaoke

It was Karaoke night at Union. I was there with some friends chatting about this or that when I heard the voice of an angle. You were signing "Arms Wide Open" by Creed ... 100 times better than Scott Stapp ever dreamed of! I'm not usually into things like Christian soft rock but you gave me goosebumps that night (lord help me)! The DJ said your name was Brian but I saw you were with someone so I didn't introduce myself. I pray it wasn't your boyfriend!

If you read this and you're interested I'll take it that your single. I'm looking for someone fun who isn't afraid to try new things! Willing to commit if the person is right. I'm 5"9 medium build, short brown hair with frosted tips and blue eyes. Look for me next Karaoke night. I never miss it! I'll be wearing a red Ed Hardy T-shirt, khaki shorts and boat shoes. The first three drinks are on me! Hope to see you there!

I am a man looking for a man (m4m)

-J.R.

Cleveland Vacation with Ryan Adams

"Come on down,

To Cleveland town everyone,

Come and look,

at both of our buildings ...

Here's the place,

Where there used to be industry ...

We lead the nation in drifters."

-Hastily Made Cleveland Tourism Video





During doldrums in the ugly, grey, sunless Ohio winter, one of my favorite things to do is absolutely nothing. I minimize my level of exertion, lounge on the couch for hours, and (most importantly) I plan ahead. A fresh sack of weed, stock piled shows or movies on DVR, double XP on COD, or a previously recorded game to enjoy commercial free at my leisure. Like Orthodox Jews on the Sabbath, no form of 'work' will be done what so ever. Showering is optional and cooking is definitely out, so a variety of delivery menus are a must. Walking down stairs to answer the door is a hassle but acceptable, considering I get the instant gratification of arty clogging take-out swill.

One such day I was doing my usual thing, getting caught up on Conan--surfing the web during weak monolog--when I stumbled upon something too good to be true. Ryan Adams had announced a tour in support of his latest album Ashes and Fire. Most of the gigs were at small venues and had the added appeal of very limited seating. Even more enticing, his first stops were in Ohio. He'd posted a link on his Twitter feed offering discounted tiks to the Cleveland show at the Ohio Theater and I knew instantly I had to be there.

The man has been a God send to me for reasons I won't get into right now (see future posts). Let's just say his music helped me through a very tough time in my life, like all of his die hard fans.  There's just something about his words that are therapeutic when you're in a bad way. Prodominatley sad lyrics, dealing with nice and fluffy topics like heartbreak, drug addiction, and  suicide. Bob Dylan-esq character development but often darker, and like all great artists he speaks from real-live experience. When you're sad and obsessing over personal struggles it's always encouraging to know someone's had it way worse and made it through. My burdens always seem to lighten with each song.

Of course not all of his music is sad. A lot of it is actually very up beat, full of vigor ... happy even! But for whatever reason his reputation is predicated on the depressing stuff, and the fact he's been labeled temperamental by the media only perpetuates the 'downer' myth. That's not to say he shies away from the typecast. At the show he greeted us with a wave and asked if everyone was ready to get bummed out, which pretty much sums up what people expect from his shows. His stage banter is also the stuff of legend. He's never afraid to be himself, much to the detriment of the crowd at times. He has no problem calling people out for staring into their LCD phone screens instead of watching the performance, or refusing to play shouted-out requests. People go as far to lecture you about it when you say you're a first timer.

Despite my friends warnings and the bullshit Rolling Stone feeds us I bought a ticket and planned my excursion. Now I know what your thinking. Drive to Cleveland for a few days in the middle of January? Some road trip, but the man had been on my short-list to see for a long time. I couldn't pass it up. Sometimes he falls off the map for years on end so you have to jump at any opportunity. I figured while I was there I might as well check out the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame too. Hell, I'd make a weekend out of it. A solo vacation. It's certainly wasn't Vegas, but the saying goes 'buy the ticket, take the ride' even if you have to get off in Cleveland.

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

One double bed, a ten channel tube TV, modest desk and a bathroom so small I had to put one leg in the shower to sit comfortably on the commode.When it comes to hotels you usually get what you pay for, and The Downtown Comfort Inn was no exception. I laid on the bed, kicked off my shoes and tried not to think about how many prostitutes had spread their spunk onto the sheets. At least it didn't smell like whore and I was walking distance from the venue. In hind sight I wished I'd talked someone into going with me. Sitting alone in a hotel room and staring into a wall size mirror can start to make you go crazy. Within minutes you start picking apart every physical anomaly on your face and body, until only shreds of self-esteem remain. I smoked a bowl and tried not to dwell on it.

After a catnap I went out for pizza at a bar down the street and made nice with two suits in town from Boston. They were pleasant enough, and we talked safe topics at first (music/sports) but over many, many beers the conversation gravitated towards my writing. At first they seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, but after a few minutes I could tell they were just waiting for their turn to talk. The dull lifeless expression in their eyes let me know my words weren't sinking in at all. People my age who make three times as much money as me always come off a bit smug. Please keep your life coaching strategies to yourself bro. That cure all business model you're both hyping isn't going to work for something creative,  but thanks anyway. I can't blame them for trying to help. I guess I kind of do look like a bum in comparison to them, and their facey designer labels.

"Oh he's just a poor, destitute bartender," I pictured them saying to one another while I was taking a leak. "Another starving artist type. Let's help him out. He's vacationing in Cleveland for Christ sake. His life must suck!" I made sure to pay my tab as soon as I got back just in case a similar conversation had actually happened in my absence.

Maybe I'm just jealous. Financial stability, health insurance, six figure bonuses, big house full of kids?... Sounds pretty damn good, but would I turn into a faceless cubical clone like them? Would I spend more time in airports than with friends and family? Would I keel over at forty-seven, over worked, over stressed and under sexed? Well, it couldn't be any worse than bartending ... right? I suppressed any other deep thoughts with a mouthful of beer and another top-10 play from the television.

Early the next morning I awoke to a runny nose and biting cold. I'd forgotten to close the vent to my window after the bar. Cursing myself, I walked around slowly feeling for obstacles like a blind man. Once my eyes adjusted to the low light I closed the vent and looked around the room. They couldn't even give me a goddam coffee maker? I put on sweat pants and walked to the lobby for my complementary pastry and hot beverage. Back in my room the steam rose from the cup in plums until it was cool enough to drink. The heater kicked into high gear and I went to the bathroom for a shower. Taking my time, I let the hot water warm me until it ran cold. There was no rush. The Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame didn't open for another two hours.

The Hall was impressive from the very start. A five story glass and steel pyramid parked on the shore of Lake Eire. It looked like something out of an architecture text book; the Post Modern chapter. Quite a contrast to the more traditional looking Cleveland Brown Stadium flanked behind it. Admission is pretty steep at twenty-two bucks but well worth it. The main entryway is dominated by various stage props from bands and their famous tours. Most notably was a portion of the wall from Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' complete with creepy blue professor puppet lungeing over the top.

Following the small flow of people I found the real museum on the bottom floor. Countless guitars from ever player who ever mattered in the slightest, including Les Paul's original prototype for the solid body guitar. Stage get-ups from Mic Jagger, James Brown, George Clinton, David Bowie and Michale Jackson. The Sargent Pepper uniforms, Lennon's Piano, Ringo's drums, Paul's lyric book. Janis Joplin's '65 convertible Porsche with an original psychedelic paint job. Jim Morrison's diploma from UCLA. Jimi Hendrix's childhood refrigerator art. Even macabre paraphernalia ... like Kurt Cobain's death certificate.

Ever artifact's plaque had a healthy paragraph and each wing had multiple videos. Together they were weaving a decisive and complete narrative for the art form. The first ten minute documentary I watched about Sun Records was just the tip of the ice berg. Soon I realized the two and half hours I'd deposited in the parking meter would never be enough at the pace I was going. Plus I had a show to see, and a buzz to catch. If anyone really wanted to do The Hall justice, an entire day was needed. I sped through the rest pausing at the Rolling Stone exhibit to read an open letter to the magazine from Charles Manson. It made Hunter Thompson's correspondence displayed next to it seem tame. Later I saw that even Ryan Adams had an acoustic guitar (covered in Star Wars stickers) displayed. I took it as a sign, and made it out to my car with three minutes left on the meter.

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

A few hours later I was walking to the Historic Ohio Theater on Euclid Ave with a decent shine going. Four beers, a shot or two of whiskey, and a joint would be a good enough base. The city looked, felt, and smelled just about how I thought it would. Cold, tough, gritty, downtrodden; Cleveland has definitely seen better days. Somehow the people still have immense pride in themselves and their city, even if they take cheap shots at it whenever possible. The night before I'd asked the bartender where all the action was down town and he just shrugged.

"You're looking at it man," he'd said. "The only time people are ever down town really is for a Browns game and even then people are pissed because we've probably lost." At the time I wanted to press him, ask why he sticks around, if it’s so dull, but decided against it.

The mid-sized lobby of the theatre was set up with a bar at the rear, which forced all kinds of interesting people to mingle and inhabit the same space. Thirty-somethings with white collars and pressed cardigans. Lots of college aged girls holding hands with their boyfriends. Some washed-up Phish Heads bragging about how many Cardinals bootlegs they had, and which album got them hip to Ryan Adams. I walked to the bar before the 'I liked him before you' pissing contests started. Suddenly I realized how odd and alone I looked without anyone to talk to. Just in case people were starting to stare, I took out my notepad, scribbled some rantings and tried to look official. Just a journalist on assignment. Not some half drunk friendless creep.

I was getting anxious after a few LaBatt's and decided to head to my seat. I sat down and looked around wide-eyed with wonder like a child seeing shapes in the clouds. Beautiful ornate red and teal ceilings, with gold leaf molding. Victorian style opera boxes. The acoustics were so good I felt like I was hearing everyone's conversation all at once. Before I could take it all in the lights dimmed and the two-story velvet curtains parted to reveal a very modest stage divided into three stations. The first a piano with bench. The second a chair next to two vintage Buck Owens' acoustics (red, white, blue striped) and a standing mic stand.

He came out in a black leather jacket, a grungy Danzig tee and holey jeans. The tangled mess of reddish-brown hair that hung into his eyes was longer then I'd thought it'd be, nearly reaching his shoulders. Typical struggling musician looking, even if he's sold thousands and thousands of records. He smirked, waved to the crowd, said a few words, and got down to the business of tuning up. He had a sound man but no guitar tech, so there was a lot of down time in-between songs, which he filled with his mentioned trade mark banter. Lucky for everyone (I guess?) it was never aggressive, more playful and lighthearted. The mood seemed to encourage crowd interaction. The only ribbing he did was good-natured. After Firecracker he took awhile to take off his harmonica harness, and to get the piano mic just the way he wanted. Someone called out 'why don't you have a tech?'

"Well I think I'm doing just fine by myself, right guys?" he asked. We responded with a wave of cheers. "Thanks for having me," he added.

"Thanks for coming to Cleveland," someone else yelled with conviction from the balcony.

Of the whole trip, that was the moment that stuck out most. No question his music, and the completely solo performance were great, but that man's statement said it all. In an instant it taught me more about the city and it's people than I could have ever been told. Sure Cleveland can be lame ... suck even, I'm sure. Some people call it the new Detroit, which has been consider the asscrack of America for a long time now. But people still live here. People are still from here, and proud of it. These same people enjoy fine drink, good music, just like the rest of us, and they just might appreciate both more, once they come around, since not much else is going on.

"You're welcome," he said and continued the show.

For the rest of the evening he took his time bouncing around between the three stations, and he played everything I wanted to hear, including most of the new record, English Girls Approximately, Wonderwall, Winding Wheel, Rescue Blues and Crossed Out Name. He did his customary little diddys about Mr. Cat and 'mommy' (wife Mandy Moore), and closed with arguably his saddest song ever Come Pick Me Up, much to everyone's depressed delight. It was a very unique show. He was the only person performing for the full ninety minutes and other then his music, it was quiet as a grave. Every note, and vocal resonance could be stretched to the max with little or no interference from the audience. The room itself became an instrument, built to amply and increase the intensity. I had a tickle up and down my spine from start to finish. It wasn't just another show; it'd been an musically inspired experience I'd enjoyed alone yet simultaneously shared with a few hundred like-minded strangers.

On the drive home the next morning I thought about my weekend, The Hall of Fame and the unique talent that Ryan Adams really is. He can write the saddest fucking songs you've ever heard, and crack jokes about them just before singing each with such heart wrenching sincerity that it almost makes you want to cry. He hand picks the perfect venues, is always determined to get everything done just right with his sound, but won't bother to comb his hair. A Heavy Metal fan who writes love songs. A walking contradiction ... or just plain human. 

I can't help but feel a little bit sorry for him (other then the piles of cash). There's no doubt that when he sings his songs, on some level he relives the periods of his life that produced them. Periods of his life he'd probably like to forget. His pain picked on strings, and pounded out on keys for our entertainment, but more importantly our remedy; helping us carry on through personal struggle. I only hope the medicine works both ways. 

-J.R.

Short North Observations

A homeless lady has been hanging around my block for about a year now. There are a lot of homeless people in downtown Columbus but she sticks out. She's nothing special really. Just your typical bag lady: toothless, frail and malnourished. Strung out with fresh pock makers and lesions on her face, the calling card of hard drug abuse (see meth head). Even the a-typical shopping cart full of junk. It's her disposition that is quite memorable.

Aggressive, combative, mean ... and she most certainly does not give a fuck. One evening, in the time it took my roommate to run upstairs and grab beers, she dropped trow right next to our trash cans not five feet from where I was parked. A river of urine flowed from her to the gutter under my car. She stared me down the whole time, a twisted gummy smile on her face. After an awkward few minutes that felt like an eternity she pulled up her pants and was on her way. Before she was out of my sight Tony was walking out our door, one misstep away from ruining his new kicks.

I'm told the homeless are very territorial, so other vagrants have bled or died so she could claim and maintain this as her turf. With the mentioned disposition, it's easy to see how she acquired it. As time went on I felt I'd gotten to know her in some weird way. I felt sorry for her because statics say that in addition to being an obvious drug addict she is also certifiably crazy. Schizophrenic or something equally as tragic. However, any sympathies I held for were quickly used up. Her nuisance level has only grown in intensity. We had to call the cops on her twice for defecating in our street during daylight hours. She'd screech late into the nights and scare the bejesus out of friends who went out for smokes.

This past summer I was at my wits ends. Leaving for work on a Friday in July I accidentally hit her with the door trying to get out of my building. A soft thud and then countless curses in a language I'd never heard before. I stepped outside and she took an aggressive posture with me like she wanted to swing. I told her to 'fuck off' in my best wise-guy tone.

"Find a new place to sleep," I said. "People live here. Keep moving on."

I mean really? We pay to stay on this block and your welcome to share it but stay the hell off my (rented) property. I stewed about it all night at work, bitching to whoever would listen on my cigarette breaks. After the shift a group of us went out for drinks and I hoped she had indeed moved on. I wanted to erase the image of her scarred pathetic face from my mind as quickly as possible. By the third round she was the last thing I was thinking about. It was summertime and the women were out in force, looking ripe for mating in their scandalous seasonal attire. But when I got home (twelve hours later) the bitch was still there, fast asleep where I'd left her on my stoop.

It'd been over a year of this non-sense and enough was enough. This shit could not stand. I lost it. My friends said to let it go but they hadn't been dealing with it day in and day out. I got in my car, which was parked on the curb next to where she was passed out and rolled down the windows. At the highest volume factory speakers can go, I played the most abrasive Rock 'n' Roll I had handy. After a song or two she started tossing and turning and by the fifth song I think she got the point, getting up and making a beeline down the nearest alley. She was in such a hurry she left her mangy blanket behind. My friends had long since gone inside with my roommate but I wanted to rub in my morale victory even more.

It was a filthy thing. Some sort of bed comforter that was blue or white at one point but years of grime and excrement gave it that brown/tan soiled look. It was worthless anyway but I was going to take this opportunity to really show her I meant business. I pulled out my dick and emptied the contents of bladder all over the blanket until it was fully saturated, singing God Bless America as loud as I could. Once back inside I'd never been more proud of myself. Take that you mother fucker! Hope you like my contribution to the misery that is your existence.

Today I can say it is NOT one of my proudest moments. I'd take it back if I could but being drunk and pissed off is always a strange place to be. Sometimes you do things you regret. I'm not justifying my behavior which was pretty much unexcusable but it happened. All I can do now is reflect. In my narcissistic mind this post is some sort of penance but it could never be enough; for her or any homeless person. They are the forgotten in society and nothing we do to spite them could ever compare to the things they endure on a regular basis. Some of them have checked out of the world by choice, via terrible decisions, but most are simply lost souls. Adrift in a leaky vessel, disappearing in the sea of civilization that hates and loathes them.

Sometimes, mostly during the cold drizzle of December before the snow comes, I can still hear shrieking at night. I haven't seen her lately so I think she got the hint but I have a feeling it's still her. Even writing about it gives me the chills. I want to reach out to her but the time for that has passed. I don't pretend to have any cures to the woes of men and women like her but I know I will never look at them the same way. Now, laying awake in my warm bed listening to the sounds of the city around me, I think of her and hope tomorrow is just a little bit better than the day before.


-J.R.

Cage the Elephant; Rage on Display

"I don't watch TV cause it's just a box of lies.
It makes me want to stick a tooth pick in my mind.
While the world goes down the drain I eat my popcorn from the bag.
Some people say that I've gone mad."

-Cage the Elephant, Indie Kids




Things were shaping up nicely for a hump day. Fall starts the slow season at my job so my days off, Monday-Wednesday, were at their peak. The three-day weekends sound sweet but they aren't all they're cracked up to be. I already don't make shit for money and losing Wednesdays means even less hours on my anemic paychecks. Bartending at a golf course in Ohio is seasonal work at best. At worst you sell plasma to make ends meet (you also get drunker faster) but all that is besides the point. There was a Low Dough Show hosted by CD 101 and we had tickets. Even better, there were four bands for the price of one. Like I sad, shaping up nicely for mid week.

In unplanned cemetery, there were also four members to the evenings crew. My close friend Shea two of her friends (Sara and Melony) and your's truly. I can assure you there are far worse things to do on a week night then hang out with three attractive single women even if you're all just friends. Girls make the best wingmen and I'll tell you why. Women are always fascinated by a man surrounded by chicks ... if they don't think you're gay that is and I don't get that a whole lot. It's probably the fact my beard and shaggy bed-head make me look homeless. I also still wear cloths from five seasons ago. Why donate cargo shorts to Good Will when they'll be back in style three summers from now? If you wait long enough, everything comes back around.

With a fifth of Jamison split between the four of us, a couple beers and some pharms down the hatch on the cab ride over we got to the LC Indoors adequately buzzed. The pills were uppers but I forget what they were called. The names change so often I don't really see the point in keeping up; I just need to know what they are going to do to me. Some type of amphetamine salt judging by the level of teeth grinding as the night wore on. I've never been a big pharm guy but free drugs are always the best drugs. This much I knew for sure, the little white tablets had us all feeling mighty fine.

While waiting in line for the bar we watched the first act, Grouplove, on the jumbo-tron. The Los Angeles based alternative rockers had started to make it big thanks to their smash hit Colours. Lead singer Christian Zucconi was sporting his signature Kurt Cobain cardigan and hair style to match. I enjoyed their energy and the sappy pop hooks are just tolerable enough to enjoy them being stuck in ones head. We made it to the floor in time for the mentioned song everyone was waiting to hear. You have to give the people what they want.

After their set we made haste to the smokers area on the opposite side of the venue. In a logistic debacle, people have to fight through the bathroom lines to get outside. Pushing through, bladder bursting patrons gave us dirty looks until we held up cigs signaling our intent. As Ive mentioned before (see CWK post) I hate everything about the inside portion of that place and this was not helping the LC's cause. We decided to smoke two each in hopes the nicotine fix would last twice as long.

Once we came back in the next band on the docket (Sleeper Agent) had just begun. We found the best spot we could which was still a shitty view, especially for my friends who are a good five inches shorter than me. The songs were forgettable but very spunky and high energy. My thing is if you're going to have a female lead singer she better bring it. These days every girl standing in front of a mic wants to be Karen O (of Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs fame) but the problem is Karen is actually talented. Half-way through their set I was still quite unimpressed.

By now the place was really starting to fill up and I could actually believe it was sold out as advertised. They were packing us in tighter and tighter; like cows waiting to be slaughtered. Crowds don't bother me but I couldn't say the same for one of my compadres. Sara was starting to freak out. Apparently she is pron to panic attacks and she was showing signs of an onset. The tremors were mild at first but grew in intensity until she could take it no longer. Shaking more than Michale J. Fox in an ice box, she bolted for the door with Melony in tow. Shea and I weren't going to miss the headliners for anything so we wished them well and said good-bye.

Company of Thieves, a band I'd heard of who isn't a one hit wonder, was next and their female lead singer was everything Sleeper Agents wasn't. For starters she was incredibly attractive, clapping out the beat with her tambourine and wailing in tune to the crisp guitar riffs. A tight petite package squeezed into a short disco-ball dress that shimmered in the light. Her mess of short dirty blond ringlets shook violently side to side when the mood was right. Her ass and the band held my attention from open to the close. They played my favorite song, Oscar Wild, last.

"We are all our own devils," she sang. "And we make this world our hell."

Pretty prolific for an 'indie-pop' band. Pause to let the poignant meaning of those words soak in.

Six beam and cokes, a few smokes and a drag on a strangers joint later ... it was time for the main event. I'd been a big fan of Cage the Elephant since I'd caught the end of their set at Bonnaroo '09. The music is good but their incredible mojo live was something to behold. People say bands are better live all the time but these guys truly embody the cliche. They also hold a special place in my heart, hailing from Bowling Green Kentucky, home of my fathers alma mater (Western Kentucky University) and just a couple hours away from my old stomping grounds at the University of Kentucky.

They were all flailing arms and headbanging mane from the get go. 'Wow' was the only thing Shea or I could say to one another the whole show. Way more punk than the indie fair of Grouplove, Sleeper Agent and Company of Thieves, they had twice the stage presence of the other acts combined. I soon realized that their songs CD 101 played on the radio were not indicative of their true sound. I imagined this was as close as I ever wanted to get to a show like the Misfits or Bad Brains. People began stage diving/crowd surfing on the second song and didn't let up for the next two hours. During Ain't No Rest for the Wicked I sparked my spliff and tried not to catch a sneaker to the face.

Soon the mob mentality had taken over and I was fighting for my safety. We pushed to the far right side of the stage which turned out to be the best seats in the house. Directly on the outer rim of the now fully formed mosh pit, Shea almost got pulled in so I did my best to position myself between the maniacs and her. At several points I had to shove surly looking mother fuckers away before they could catch either of us with an incidental right hook. It was pure unadulterated rage on display ... but not necessarily in a bad way. The lyrics weren't hard core. There wasn't inaudible screaming (for the most part) just implausibly high energy. No one was angry, they'd just all gone mad. No fighting, rather blowing off mass steam to heavy tunes.

Happy, exuberant zeal masquerading as a pit. I had to admire everyone's stamina. By this point I was running on empty and all I could think about was chugging water to make my dehydration headache go away. They closed with a cover song by some punk band I'd never heard of. After a stage dive himself, lead singer Matthew Shultz did some crowd surfing as well, ridding the masses from the front of the stage all the way to the back in an impressive display of singer/fan corporation. Opting for belly down, several lucky revelers undoubtedly got a fist full of his junk.

It took everything we had to get out and to Woodlands Tavern for a pitcher of water and couple pieces of Late Night Slice. Spicy Ass Pepperoni was my savor and I managed a rally, drinking until the wee hours of the night. Just another Wednesday for a degenerate drunk and another 'must see' crossed off my list. The rage of Cage was something I'd never experienced before in the countless gigs I'd witnessed. When I woke up on Thursday I was so sore I felt like I'd played ten games of pick-up basketball. Next time I'll know to bring a mouth piece and some Gatorade. Maybe an ice pack. Cage the Elephant shows are most definitely a contact sport.


-J.R.

Keeping on the Grind ...

Walking up from the street it looks like any other house in middle class suburbia. Freshly painted aluminum siding, red window shutters, a well landscaped yard and a cement goose lawn ornament guarding the front stoop. Most of us grew up in houses very similar. There are millions just like it all over the United States; nearly identical in every way except one. The house I was about to enter has a fully functioning recording studio. Music is created/perfected here almost daily. Local Ohio music growing grass-roots and germinating in the burbs.

A few years back, up and coming Columbus music producer Steezo convinced his parents to convert part of their home into Steezo Productions. With a lot of hard work and money he put up all himself he got things off the ground. The un-spectacular, quite average looking home in the northeast suburb of Gahanna is actually on par with anything else going in Franklin County.

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

Brody Ryan steps into the booth to lay some backing vocals, the finishing touches on his latest self-released record Farawaygone. It's the second he's done with Steezo and it builds on the foundation the team laid with an EP last winter. Both are a wonderful hodge-podge of sounds, influences and song samples that Ryan weaves into potential radio gold. Remixes of Biggie Smalls, Miike Snow, Basement Jaxx and Sigur Rose to name a few. The 20 track new release also has extensive originals and very little filler.

"It's about establishing a unique sound," he explained after finishing his takes. "I don't want to be classified as any specific type or artist. I want the freedom to explore."

When Steezo finishes the final mixing, we burn some Strawberry Kush and listen to the album top to bottom. After warding off haters in the intro he opens with a remix of Susanne Vega's Tom's Dinner that will stick in your head for the next three weeks. Waiter, one of the more light-hearted songs, is about Ryan's day job, waiting tables at a burger joint. Anyone who's spent any time in food service (myself included) will appreciate it. He digs a little deeper on Kool Beanz which is a new version of an old song he did with a friend who has since been locked up. Little else but the song can be salvaged between the two.

"He made some very bad decisions, even hurt some people," Ryan said. "I just had to move on and do things on my own. It was the only choice I had really. I try to just focus on the positives in my life."

His good vibes are never stronger then on the club banger Body So Cold which has generated some local buzz and gotten hits on the website SoundCloud. His party song Friends and Weekends reminds me of a simpler time in college when drinking was pretty much all we did. ("Eatin' all the peaches out the hairy buff tubes/ it's the weekend and I'll be with all my friends/ we'll party and get drunk/ we'll live it up and have some fun/ the party ain't over until we're all sober"). When all is said and done his Dubstep inspired remix of Bombay Bicycle Clubs' Always Like This was my favorite. He's able to blend his voice and the original vocals almost seamlessly. The haunting echo and the very in vogue wobble-bass will be sure to grab people's attention.

With each effort, he continues to improve as an artist and Farawaygone is no exception. The latest in an evolution of his ever expanding sound. He's proof that it doesn't take much to get your dreams off the ground. Set goals, put in the hard work and be persistent; keep on the grind. There are diamonds in the rough, like Steezo Productions, everywhere. You just have to look. Lucky for everyone Brody Ryan found his and it's just begun to shine.

-J.R.

Bluegrass Night

"Now I sniff cocaine,
I sniff it in the wind
The doc, he says it’ll kill me
but he can’t say when ...
Won't you tell it to me,
tell it to me
Drink the corn liquor
let the cocaine be."

-Old Crow Medicine Show, Tell It To Me




With no AC the musty stench of alcohol laced sweat can be overpowering in the summer. There's only one rickety ceiling fan to help with air flow. The smokers 'patio' is little more then a fenced off alley. Crowd sizes vary from week to week but you always feel cramped in the cracker box that is Dick's Den. Decades of beer has soaked into the hardwood floors, a visible dinge lingers on every surface. There's only one small urine perfumed bathroom with an old looped cloth towel for hand drying (also smelling slightly of urine). Quintessential dive bar. You either love them or hate them. Local joints that just feel comfortable. A place where everyone would know your name if they weren't blacked out on $2 wells.

Of course I don't go for the aesthetics. It's the cover-free music, the mentioned bar prices and the people watching. Never will you find a better and more unexpected mix. The term Bluegrass Music probably brings a very specific composite to mind. Maybe cowboy boots, large belt buckles, big hair or a country-boy crust-stache. On the contrary, this group any random Tuesday night has a little bit of everything. Hipsters coeds, neo-hippies, knotty dreads, professors, out-of-towners, old timers, drunk locals and party kids on too much acid. A free show is a free show and music lovers are an eclectic bunch.

The idea "Bluegrass music is country music" is a common over simplification. They are not synonyms. In reality Bluegrass (BG) gave birth to country which later spawned rock 'n' roll. In terms of uniquely American music it was one of the very first by far. The great, great grandfather to most of the music we listen to today. Roots music. With out BG to pave the way nothing would have ever been quite the same. It was originally played by an array of immigrant's decedents, who all brought vastly different influences. They came from England, Germany, Ireland and Africa. A melting pot of sounds that has lent elements to everything from jazz to jam band.

At least that's my best attempt to sum it up in a paragraph. During my stay as a student in Lexington, Kentucky I became very familiar with all things BG. That region of Appalachia is arguably the birth place of the art form, so I think they might know what they're talking about. Mandolin and banjo players are a dime a dozen in that town. You can catch a decent band picking nearly seven nights a week. Of course when something is readily available it's easy to take it for granted. After moving back to Ohio I've grown to miss those shows. Finding Columbus' only weekly Bluegrass Jam was ... well, music to my ears.


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


The stage is always a cluster fuck. Ten people or more packed into an area designed for maybe half that number but anyone who steps up is aloud to join. I've seen peddle steel guitar, harmonica, spoons, and even clarinet players accompany standards like dobro, acoustic guitar, mandolin, banjo, fiddle and upright bass. Anything but heavy percussion, electric guitar or things that would drown out the string instruments are welcome. There's no sign up list or formality of any kind. If you can play and you bring your instrument you can join the jam. The line-ups change week to week but a core group of guys have kept it going for five years now. What started as just a few dudes dicking around has becoming the busiest night of the week for the bar.

It was early so Aaron Snyder (guitar) and Jake Young (banjo) were the only ones performing. They were doing some old hillbilly standard I didn't recognize. Pulling some singles out of my pocket as I stepped up to the bar I ordered my first Old Crow and Coke. Sipping my drink I made the rounds but didn't see anyone I recognized so I went out back for a smoke. I enjoy going out to the bar alone occasionally if the scene is right. Even then, sometimes you feel like that creepy guy hanging out solo pretending to receive text messages so people don't stare. Lucky for me it's not hard to make friends at Dick's Den. The sense of community there is infectious. It's always easy to strike up conversation and there's never any shortage of joints floating around the patio. If I've got extra at home I bring it but no one seems to mind mooching.

Outside I ran into Patty, also a Tuesday night regular. She lives in the neighborhood too and we seemed to always cross paths at Dick's. Petite, pretty with long following dirty blond hair and a quick smile; There are definitely worst people to have recognize you. We chatted and exchanged our customary joke which has become a tradition for us.

"So what's long, green and smells like bacon?" I asked.

"No idea," she said.

"Kermit's finger!" Good enough for a chuckle.

We smoked her spliff, finished our drinks and went back inside. It was starting to get crowded so I decided to get two adult beverages while the getting was good. My childhood friend Joey Gardina (whom I lost contact with for years until seeing him randomly at BG night) said hello before getting ready to take the stage himself with his mandolin. We quickly ripped a shot of Bullet Bourbon and agreed to meet at the same spot during the next break in the music. Once he got tuned things really started cooking. They'd also added Steve on bass and Fiddlin' Robert so there were now five guys on stage. They were furiously covering The Deads' Friend of the Devil and the growing crowd was grooving in approval.

During the next song some kid I didn't recognized stepped up on banjo in addition to Jake. Nervous, he fumbled with his picking until he got the rhythm. Two minutes into the song he seemed to have his sea legs under him. After Joey shredded a solo the group encouraged the new guy to take a stab at it. While keeping the song going they gently gestured for him to take the lead. After some hesitation he stepped up to the mic and picked a banjo solo of his own.

"Keep it going man!," someone yelled in encouragement. Later I found out it was his first time playing for a large audience. Upon reflection it was really cool to see a performer of any skill set cut their teeth.

"It's like church," Joey said once. "No matter how your week's been going you know you can come here on Tuesday, jam with some buds, have a few beers, let loose and unload. There's never any pressure. It's not about who's better or any sense of competition. Everyone's just here to have fun."

After stretching their hands which had been strumming/picking furiously for over an hour, they stepped down to make way for The Relentless Mules. Daniel Phelps (guitar), Caleb Powers (mandolin), Chris Stevens (bass) and Stephen Moller (resonator guitar) are an official BG band who perform together locally. Unlike the other performs, they do practice together and have written their own material. Whether long time Bluegrass Jam fans like it or not, Tuesdays have become a platform for them to promote themselves. Of course most are cool with them being showcased even if that was never the original intent of the jam. Sometimes things take on a life of their own and you just go with it, a common theme at Dick's Den. Why not?

While listening to The Mules Joey, Jake and myself talked about the Bluegrass Ramble, a local NPR radio show Jake co-hosts Saturday and Sundays at 6. It's one of the longest running shows of it's kind in the nation and Jake's pride in it shines whenever he talks shop. If you're even a mild fan of BG music it's worth checking out. We ripped yet another shot of Bullet (I usually loose count after four) and the two of them went back to work.

The last set is usually some combination of The Mules and the performers from earlier. Twelve of them were packed in tight masterfully coordinating their instruments to not bump one another. When a vocal harmony came they all slide to the proper mic without missing a beat or cleaning anyone's clock. When you've played together as long as they have you don't need rehearsals to be on the same page. They never use a set list. Relying instead on none verbal ques and an occasional pow-wow in-between ditties. When someone doesn't know a song he or she simply fakes it until they can pick up the rhythm. Impressive indeed.

By now everyone in the crowd was dancing, stomping and clapping to the beat. I only planed to stay for a few hours, so I could get home and write, but as I've said before nights take on a life of their own at Dick's. I was just along for the ride at this point. I laughed to myself when I saw Robert, the fiddle player from earlier, square dancing with Patty. He was old enough to be her grandfather but both didn't seem to notice. You're never to old to dance with a pretty girl. As they finished the song, the ugly lights came on to signify last call. Starving to death, I knew I'd be hitting whatever food truck was parked outside before walking home. As I made my way to the door I heard Joey picking one last song solo.

"Drink em up, drink em up, go on and finish your cup," he sang. "You gotta gooooo, you gotta go."

The night always seemed to end with his last call anthem. The perfect way to close out a great evening of music. I waited by the exit until he had finished and then I did as I was told, chugging the last of my Crow and Coke before hitting the road. Some nights are better than other but this time they hit it out of the park. See for yourself next Tuesday. One thing is for sure, the pickers will be there and so will I. Hope to see you friendly fiends. I've got a $1.50 PBR and a shot of Bullet with your name on it ... unless I've already forgotten your name and chances are I have at Dick's Den.

-J.R.

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.

Roo 2011; Part 3

"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.

Bonnaroo makes strange bathroom-fellows.

"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.