Only at Bonnaroo

    I know you all have wondered what it might be like to inhabit a town run entirely by those who just can’t seem to get enough of rambling guitars and minimal vocals, those who hold green as the most important color, those who feel that tie-dye, home-sewn pants, and the “unwashed look” can really stick it to the man. Well I am here to tell you that five days in the middle of Tennessee with 80,000 hippies was phenomenal.

 

    Back in March, I put the Bonnaroo lineup on my profile asking if anyone was interested in going, with the glimmer of hope someone might take it seriously. Next thing I knew, Boze (Rachel Bozeman) was calling me saying “Let’s do this.” She bought her ticket, I coordinated the trip with a family trip to Saluda, NC. We sorted out the practicalities, and soon I was with the padre and step mom in the soporific Saluda, population: next to nothing. We spent most of the days hiking in the NC mountains with my little cousins, and I did my morning runs through near impenetrable forests down Pearson’s Falls Road.

    Thursday morning, the padre and my uncle Bill took me into Hendersonville to catch the bus. Let me tell you that it’s very comforting to pull up to a bus station in a Suburban in the middle of nowhere, North Carolina and find a man passed out, drooling against the door. Following that, my relatives decided it best to wait with me until the bus arrived. Ten hours, a bus change, and a cab ride later, Rachel’s flight arrived in Nashville and we boarded another bus—a shuttle that would take us directly to the 700 acres of music and camping glory. Boze and I started hiking from the drop off site to meet up with some of her friends from Dayton, and by hiking I mean walking 2 miles to their campsite, in the back corner of “Camp Rusty Griswald.” I elected to pull my suitcase/backpack on its wheels rather than carry it…because you know food is freaking heavy. This earned me stares and comments from some trust-afarians and maybe some legitimate hippies like “are you headed to the airport?” No, and I have showered today unlike you, thank you very much. We pitched our Camel tent—Made in Korea, complete with broken zipper—changed, and hiked the mile and a half with Joel and Gau to go check out polka-esque Denver natives Devotchka. Travel fatigue led me to call some songs the very technical term as “too bar mitzvah-y,” but all in all the show was well done, but more entertaining were the stoners dancing with their newly purchased glow sticks.

    The next morning, I awoke at 5:30 to multiple sound checks. Over a mile away from the show, and we could hear perfectly. That is sound equipment you might want to invest in. By 7:30 the temperature in our tent had officially reached a 1000°, so Boze and I breakfasted sunscreened up, watered, and bug sprayed. At 11:00 or so it was time to journey to see Andrew Bird at That Tent. That’s another thing those cunning hippies did to confuse those who were maybe not so coherent—Abbott and Costello style.

  Main Stages: What Stage and Which Stage

Tents: This Tent, That Tent, and The Other Tent

 
    Andrew Bird was great, and then Rachel and I made the superb decision to cool off in the fountain at the middle of Centeroo. Successful, and then we looked at the not-so-clear water coming out of the top. We then worked our way to the side barricade near the front for Ben Folds. His show, according to some uber-fans, was pretty typical with piano-pounding and crowd participation directed by the man himself. He played staples like “Annie Waits,” “Zak and Sara,” “One Angry Dwarf,” and “Brick” as well as new ones like “Jesusland” and “Bastard.”

    It was then time to wait, thirsty but with completely full bladders, for my favorite boy from Omaha. During set change it became apparent that his current love interest, Maria Taylor, would be playing drums, Mike Mogis would be accompanying him on guitar, and he had wrangled in a bassist and a violinist. After opening with “Train Under Water,” Conor played a great combination of old, new, and unreleased material including a few old tracks I’ve never heard live like “Lover I Don’t Have to Love.” A few songs into the set—in incestuous indie style—Conor brought out some friends (Jim James, Gillian Welch, David Rawlings, and Gruff Rhys who played a Super Furry Animals song solo onstage. Only at Bonnaroo.

He eventually ran out of songs on his set list, and told the audience that he had no idea what he was going to do. Naturally, the audience started yelling songs, and I chimed in when I felt it was appropriate, asking for my favorite oldie involving a trip to see a girl in San Diego. Finally, in true Conor tradition, and—as I will think forever—in response to my requests, the rest of the band left the stage, and Conor played “June on the West Coast” which maybe 1% of the audience knew then walked off the stage. It was perfect.

    Ignoring our full bladders and exceptionally dry mouths, Boze and I waited out the set change for the clear view from the barricade for the next set. Ben Gibbard & co. emerged and delighted with a perfect amalgamation of old and new including songs from This Photo Album as well as a good chunk of Plans. Low point, however, was when the couple next to us grossly made out throughout “What Sarah Said,” turning a poignant song into cheap porn. Ben even played a drum duet. Following the set, we fed and watered ourselves in preparation for the set of the night

    After an hour of relatively unknown 50’s songs eschewed by the tie-dyers and reveled by Boze and myself, Mr. Tom Petty wandered onstage. He opened with “You Don’t Know How It Feels” and kept going through his hits. Midway through the set, Petty introduced the Heartbreakers as well as the “little sister” that had been following the band around for thirty years, asking her to sing a few songs. Little sister = Stevie Nicks. Wow. After a finale of “You Wreck Me” and “American Girl” it was time to herd back over to This Tent. We spent two hours talking seated at the back of the tent as Jim James bridged the gap between hippies and hipsters. Around 2am we went to see Common, and it turns out sound coming from the side of the tent is awful. Who’d ‘a thunk?

Exhausted and 15 hours after we left our campsite, the two of us walked back and crashed. The next morning was very similar to the day before, and we left—this time with Joel and Gau in tow—for the show. I split with them and worked my way up to the front just in time for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. There were some stupid girls who thought their hips and asses could prevent me from getting to the front of a show. To them I said, “Nay,” and made my way up front.  The show started, and the boys from NY/Philly launched into all the songs from their self-titled/self-produced/self-marketed debut with the traditional newbie additions of a few b-sides and a few new songs. I clapped my hands the whole time until they ended with about 25 min left in their set. I wandered around Centeroo, caught a bit of Damien Marley, Rusted Root, and Gomez before meeting up again with Boze.

We worked our way through the crowd, definitely feeling the heat and lack of complete meals, and eventually gave up hope of moving closer as Beck came onstage. His set was full of puppets (marionettes in effigy), and exceptionally large stereo, a random dancer who looked like he should be wearing a bike helmet and carrying the Book of Mormon, and dinner for the band while Beck played a Lips cover (“Do You Realize”), the beginnings of “Creep,” and “Lost Cause.” Oh and the puppets made a Bonnaroo mockumentary. Only at Bonnaroo.

Boze set out after that to reunite with the boys, and I did my best to fend for myself for 90 min prior to Thom’s appearance with only a Power Bar. No water. No energy for me. Finally as the set began I was able to make my way to about 75 feet from the stage surrounded by tall uber-fans who were able to detail each upcoming song by the instruments that were brought onstage, and even knew all the specs on the unreleased material. Colin, Johnny, Thom, Ed, and Phil played everything I could have ever asked them to including “Kid A,” “Idioteque,” “2+2=5,” and a song for my wedding—“Paranoid Android.”

Following the 150 minutes of bliss—despite my desire to see the Dresden Dolls again, even at 2am—the four of us returned to the campsite and feasted on beef jerky, trail mix, E-Z cheese, and Pringles (loaded baked potato, mind you) before passing out in the tents. Sunday provided us with a welcome break from the heat, and we packed things up, opting to hitch a ride to the airport that night with Joel and Gau rather than pay $30-$50 for a shuttle ticket. My only regret of the day was deciding to skip out on The Streets, but I did want to spend time with the guys and Boze. Bela Fleck was phenomenally talented, but by the time we hit Moe, Rachel and I done with sprawling jams, and hiked back to the campsite to finish packing. The boys returned, and we left as Phil Lesh and his green-loving fans began an adventure together.

On the ride to the airport, Gau and I—the only ones awake—somehow heard two different covers of “Baby I Love Your Way” (“Is this Peter Frampton?”). Just our luck. Rachel and I “showered” in the airport bathroom, changed our clothes, and made beds near the baggage claim. We were awakened at 4:30 by Security Guard #1 telling us we would miss our flights. Thanks, jerk. Soon after, we tried to check in, but I was unable to check my bags thanks to a 4 hour policy. Stupid United. We found some nice carpet across from the Capitol Grille, and Rachel took another nap while I read and listened to The Boy Least Likely To. Around 6:30, Security Guard #2 came, and after acknowledging me, proceeded to kick Rachel’s feet as if she were a drunk or a bum or you know, a dirty Bonnaroo hippie. “Wakey, wakey. Ya see, we’re fixin’ to do bizness here, and we can’t have y’all sleepin here.” Fine. Jerk. We’ll go buy breakfast. Finally, 8 hours later, I was passed out on a plane—where I had been upgraded to first class—periodically awoken by the drunk business couple across the aisle. 

    All in all, the trip was one of the best concert experiences of my life, and was worth every penny. Unlike most other music festivals, at Bonnaroo, each act plays a full set, not just 55 minutes (Coachella, SXSW) or 30 minutes (Warped Tour). Even with the extremely lax/non-existent security, there were no major problems with the crowd that I heard of other than some heat exhaustion. The set-up completely trumped that of Coachella where every bit of each person was carefully examined, resulting in long lines and frustrated fans. Also, the security concerning the 21+ crowd was non-existent, so fans did not have to worry about missing their favorite acts because they were in line to get their ID’s checked, so they could get into the beer garden. Festival organizers should take some tips from those at Bonnaroo.

Keep rockin,
Christie