Live from Bonnaroo

Fourth (FINAL) Dispatch from the field at Bonnaroo:

“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby,
And takes of fair Cashmere,
Wild tales to cheat thee of a sign,
Or charm thee to a tear.
And dreams of delight shall on thee break,
And rainbow visions rise,
And my soul shall strive to wake
Sweet wonder in thine eyes ……

We are all the little lost boy in James Joyce’s “Araby,” distracted by a fantasmagorical street fair with all its promise of worldly and otherworldly distractions from our dreary lives.

One can wander the gigantic campus of Bonnaroo for the duration and never see it all or even see the same things twice. Or see things you wish you hadn’t. But through the hassles and occasional misery, I declare here that no matter how hard and frustrating things go some days, one thing has been a constant for me in the three years I’ve been attending this massive music festival. And, doing so at an age, and with health conditions that might ought to suggest avoiding this kind of experience. And that thing is this: Every year on the farm lanes that take me back out to the main road home, I am already looking forward to next year’s Bonnaroo.

As if the surprise of running into new and old friends weren’t an hourly phenomenon at Bonnaroo already, two ghosts from my old career in mainstream newspapers turned up this year. While madly hunched over my laptop, trying to file yesterday’s report before the battery drained, a guy walks up and says “don’t I know you?” It turns out to be Chris Berkey, a photographer I knew from my days at the Knoxville Journal during its final years. I couldn’t possibly have seen him since 1992 and, anxious as I am about my predicament with the computer, we catch up a bit on the handful of old Journal pals. He’s off to shoot Aimee Mann. “Ask her if she still thinks about me,” I tell Chris.

Far weirder was encountering a lean bespectacled gentleman my age or so who comes up from a swirl of passersby along one of the gravel walkways between facilities. It’s Leon Alligood, someone I hadn’t seen since the late ‘80s. Leon and I were both at the Clinton Courier-News in that decade, he leaving for a brilliant career at the Tennessean where he has long been called “senior writer.” Deservedly, since a finer example of a human in journalist’s clothes I’ve never met. And, as might be imagined because this is the way things go at Bonnaroo, he is heading up a little encampment of staffers from the Tennessean set up cheek to jowl with Ian Blackburn and his merry Monkeyroo gang. At whose airy pavilion I would enjoy many a sip of fine liquors over the long weekend.

It was, atypically, a boozy Bonnaroo for me this year. I mean, really? Liquor? In this heat? All day long? Well, yes, at least in comparison to the amounts and varieties of less societally acceptable experience-enhancing ingredients that are known to flavor the atmosphere at a music festival. And, hell, you sweat it out quicker than you can drink it.

Sunday, getting to watch soul legend Solomon Burke with my brother in the cushy media viewing area of That Tent gave me a chance to emotionally rally from the potential disaster of losing the laptop’s cord. As with the Dap Kings the day before, this is my brother’s kind of music. Backed by a full, tuxedoed rhythm and blues revue, the dangerously obese Burke was wheeled out on stage by a cadre of women who then helped him into a velvet and bling-bedecked throne mounted at stage center. Burke, a contemporary of Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett and Joe South, showed the kids how it’s done, even if he could barely move his elephantine body. A backup singer occasionally reached over with a towel to swab sweat off Burke’s bulbous, bald head while he ran through a classic repertoire of hits like “Dock of the Bay” and worked in a few country standards like “I Want to Go Home (Detroit City)” and “Put Your Sweet Lips a Little Closer to the Phone,” all while a busload of young ladies pulled from the audience danced on stage.

After Burke’s set, as we drifted over to catch Death Cab for Cutie, there was the unexpected pleasure of stumbling onto the finale of the Lee Boys’ set at the little Sonic Stage. Unhampered by the brutal, full-on glare of the setting sun, the Lee Boys proved there is at least one other artist besides Robert Randolph reviving the pedal steel’s place in contemporary black music. As for Death Cab for Cutie, well, I’ll just be nice and say their music is very pretty.

Sunday’s big finale was Widespread Panic, which closed down at least one recent Bonnaroo but without me in attendance. I always kind of subscribed to Susan Lee’s dismissal of them as “Whitebread” Panic. But, I gotta admit, I loved it, endlessly indulgent instrumentals and percussion interludes notwithstanding. It didn’t hurt that one interminable guitar duel included Robert Randolph whose own set I’d missed. Those boys may be the best cover band ever, but all they had to do to get me to say that was do a righteous version of War’s classic “Slippin’ into Darkness” and Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money.”

And then there was the bourbon laced with about half a bottle of some kind of energy drink that you’re only supposed to spritz under your tongue. Which kept me up and at it, unlike the previous night at Phil Lesh’s show when I reeled back to camp sideways. Kimberly—you don’t know how close you came to having to carry me home.

It was a great Bonnaroo, all the more so because I got to spend so much time with my brother, Jeff. Like I said in my first dispatch, it is a transitional time in my life and rediscovering old lost genetic circuits can help a boy get back home through all the flashing lights and crazy people along the way.

That Bonnaroo not only exists at all but succeeds year after year on a scale unheard of by any festival in history refutes a notion that persists lately. That we’re in some sort of inexorable downward spiral that seems predestined. I expected this near-panicky national mood to be reflected in this year’s Bonnaroo. But the event was as teeming as ever in spite of gas prices that make driving your own car somewhere about as costly as taking a cab.

I think it is because this kind of peaceful, communal event is a rallying sign for people. I think this temporary city that springs up in a field outside of Manchester, Tennessee every year is a hopeful expression that we will make it through these years of horrifically awful leadership at the national and local level. It’s true, though, that we may all have to learn how to live all over again. If a broken down old horse like me can live in a car without air conditioning in June for five days and if we could just remember that our ancestors dealt with far worse conditions than$4 a gallon gasoline, we will be all right.

Hey, wait! ENCORES!—

FOOTNOTE ON PEARL JAM: watching with fascination as Eddie Vedder repeats endlessly the “two riders were approaching” line to Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower.” It is either a brilliant improvisation or an ingenious cover for forgetting the final line: “and the wind began to howl.” Regardless, the hour was indeed “getting late,” not only for Pearl Jam’s long set (trying to tweak Mr. West’s pompous nose out of joint a bit?) but for the revival of the nation. For the rest of the weekend, my brother can’t quit doing the Eddie Vedder all-consonantal yowl: “Nnnrrrgghhhh…..”

FOOTNOTE ON LEVON HELM: my frail hero of The Band played seated the whole time but his mandolin was strong and his hickory smoked voice as tough as ever. Gaunt but clearly thrilled to be at Bonnaroo, Helm seemed braced by the familial love of his daughter, Amy Helm, singer Teresa Williams, and multi-instrumentalist Larry Campbell. After having just seen Iron and Wine with Sam Beam’s band including sister Sarah, those hours that Saturday afternoon had a sweet familial glow.

There were many angry words on the Bonnaroo streets yesterday, and all of them were directed at Kanye West.

From what I heard, West didn’t come onstage until 4:45 a.m. What was supposed to be a 90-minute show was reduced to less than one hour. What was supposed to be awesome glow-in-the-dark technology didn’t work so well in the morning light.
The good news? I’m not sad I slept through that mess.

The bad news? West managed to piss off 80,000 people, many of whom were fans before his performance. “Fuck Kanye” was written on many surfaces by Sunday morning and several of Sunday’s performers mentioned his inconsiderateness. Zach Schwartz, lead singer of Rogue Wave, said, “I heard Kanye didn’t come on until 4:45. I want you guys to know that I would never keep  you waiting like that.”

And they didn’t; they came on around 1:04 p.m. for their scheduled 1 o’clock performance on Which Stage. They played several songs from their most recent album, Asleep at Heaven’s Gate, but some older ones, too. It was a quiet show, in terms of attendance (most were probably still in bed), but a good one.

Exhaustion set in sometime after Rogue Wave. A large part of the afternoon is something of a blur. I know I saw Ladytron and Broken Social Scene, but remember almost nothing from either show. Sitting down during a show is totally not punk rock, but it’s an occasional necessity when you’re seeing 6 or 7 shows in a day. It does take something away from the experience, though, or at least I feel that way about my experiences. Always better to be in the middle of everything.

Between those two shows, we took a break from the sun in the Comedy Tent to hear Jim Norton, Brian Posehn and Michelle Buteau. Posehn amused the full tent with slow, rambling stories of home life, metal shows and inappropriate dogs. Buteau was the anti-funny.

My favorite show from yesterday’s batch was the 7 p.m. Death Cab for Cutie on Which Stage. They opened with the first track (”Bixby Canyon Bridge”) off their new album (Narrow Stairs) and closed with a long and powerful rendition of “Transatlanticism,” from Transatlanticism. “As the sun sets on Bonnaroo, so does it for Death Cab,” Ben Gibbard said before the final song. As they played, a middle-aged couple mud wrestled behind me and a man dressed as a marijuana leaf waved his green-clad arms.

We left the farm around 9 p.m. Drove 10 miles. Wanted to make a phone call. Realized I’d left my cell phone on the trunk of my car. Drove back. RSB found cell phone in the grass near our campsite. Left the farm for the second time around 9:45 p.m. Almost fell asleep driving. Downed several energy drinks. Collapsed into bed around 2:30 a.m. Woke up. Showered.

And that’s about it. Readjustment is a little rough, but, overall, it was a great weekend.

RSB chatted with a campsite neighbor yesterday morning. They discussed famous shows from the past, excellent shows from the weekend and music history in general. “This is a living museum,” the neighbor said, and I think that about sums it up. So many different genres and generations, and so much history being made in one place, over four days. If you haven’t been, you really should.

But I would suggest that you not work the Monday after the festival.

I didn’t go to the Kanye West show but it is the talk of the town today. After witnessing Phil Lesh having to cut his after midnight show short to accommodate West (something about West wanting lights that might interfere with his show eliminated), I wasn’t inclined to check out West’s “Glow in the Dark” tour. By all accounts, West’s one-man opera was so late getting started, the sun may have ended up being the one light he could not command. Brother Jeff stormed back into camp, outraged by West’s tardiness (two hours late–starting around 4:30 a.m.) and his use of pre-recording material instead of his hiphop orchestra. There are other reports you can go to first hand commentaries on what seems to be the final proof that West is as immature and pompous as he is over-rated.

What I did do Saturday was catch one incredible performance after another. My campmate, the Yoda of Bonnaroo, Dave Nichols, says planning your Bonnaroo is like driving from Seattle to Miami. There are dozens of ways to pick the highways to do it on and each is radically different and you can’t take ‘em all. Bonnaroo is interlocking sonic fields projected by an imcomprehensible array of musicians from around the world, playing basically every imaginable genre. It is overwhelming unless one mercdiallessly edits down the list of posible shows to those that are logistically feasible. For instance, yesterday (Saturday), I wrote that I wanted to check out Gogol Bordello and Ozomatli, not remembering their slots coincided somewhat and at greater distance than my poor legs can keep up at times.

As for Gogol Bordello, let’s just say that the “gypsy punk revolution” has begun. I doubt I’ve ever seen a more animated band. These guys could, as Eddie Vedder would remind his crowd later that night, be the people to change the world.

 After a break at camp, I headed out to catch Iron and Wine’s moving blend of pop and groove and Levon Helm with his “Dirt Farmer” show and then those country pop charmers from Knoxville, the Everybodyfields.

Another break for food, rest and cheap camp beers ($6 Buds are a thing to minimize in one’s life), I joined friends for Pearl Jam. Now, to be sure, I am just a mite old to have been an original fan of this seminal grunge outfit from the ’90s Seattle scene. But passion is a universal component of great art and the Eddie Vedder-fronted group played that in spades. A vast crowd at What Stage (the Roo’s largest, single venue–imagine an arena the size of 10 football fields) gave the show a terrific  singalong quotient. Eddie and the boys clearly were having the time of their lives. Vedder’s extemporaneous political harangues were a muddled, mumbled mess but they came from the heart: “we can’t let things get any worse!”

A bit more about Levon Helm’s performance later (if I can find my AC adapter cord for this wireless laptop I’m reporting with). I will footnote the Everybodyfield’s show by adding that the band received the terpsichorean endorsement of professional scenester “Beatle Bob” who also MC’d for the ‘fields. I didn’t realize he could actually talk as his usual shtick is to show up in a ’60s Carnaby street type suit and do his annoying dance at the front of the stage. Last year, he did these same honors for Angel and the Lovemongers at the same stage (the Troo Lounge).

 Right now, I need to get out and enjoy some of today’s lineup of Aimee Mann, Robert Randolph, Bombadil and maybe Death Cab for Cutie and, in the comedy tent, the very disturbed geek misfit, Jim Norton.  Even as I write these words, I have Senegal’s Orchestra Baobab’s crazy vibe coming at me from one direction and a bluegrass band in my other ear.

 Pray that I find that adapter cord.

I don’t like crowds. I don’t like heat, hippies, camping, not showering or (sometimes) live music.

All that being said, I’m having a phenomenally good time. It makes me wonder how much fun people who love all that stuff are having.

I’m going to show my age (lack thereof?) by saying that I was stupidly excited before last night’s Pearl Jam show. See, Pearl Jam was a rather formative band for me, back when I was a kid/nine years ago.

And Eddie Vedder and crew pretty much lived up to my greatest expectations with a monster three-hour show packed with old hits and newer songs. (Which, I admit, I didn’t know many of as the last Pearl Jam album I purchased was probably Vitalogy.) The What Stage field was packed from front to back. Even though I was parked in the middle, I found the perfect spot to stand - atop a group of trash barrels covered with a piece of plywood. From my trashcan pedestal, I could see everything, including the sea of lighters that emerged during “Better Man” and “Black.”

“That’s fucking beautiful,” Vedder said, before finishing “Better Man.”

Aside from one small political tangent about Bush and fuel prices (the man behind me yelled, “Shut up! Play rock music!”), Vedder spent most of his speaking time thanking the enormous crowd and introducing other band members. “When I said thank you before, I didn’t realize how far back people are standing,” he said. “This thank you is for the rest of you back there.”

Unfortunately, that long Pearl Jam show helped contribute to Saturday’s biggest bummer - sleeping through the 2:45 a.m. Kanye West show. When RSB and I went back to the tent after Pearl Jam’s show, I set my cell phone alarm for 2:15. The alarm sounded. I sleepily turned it off. The next thing I saw was daylight. I haven’t talked to anyone about the greatness of the glow-in-the-dark madness. I’m not sure I want to.

But yesterday was jam-packed with excellent music, and though Pearl Jam was my personal highlight,  The Avett Brothers were a blast (as always), as was Iron and Wine (the first time I’d seen them in person). We stopped by Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings for a few minutes. Jones is dancing, singing, yelling tornado of awesome.

Johnson City’s everybodyfields played a crowded Troo Music Lounge yesterday at 8 p.m. They sounded pretty much like they always do, and that is not a bad thing. They’re always energetic, playful and just soulful enough.

Spent some time hanging out in the press tent. Looked over a the table next to ours at one point. “Hey,” I said, “That guy looks really familiar. Do you know who he is?”

RSB boyfriend looked over. “Oh yeah,” he said. “That’s Ben Folds.”

Sweet.

Also realized that we did see Mary Kate and Ashley Olson, on Friday. While sitting in the VIP bleachers for Drive-By Truckers, two (nearly identical) women walked up the stairs. They were both dressed absurdly, in long, flowing skirts, huge suede boots, long-sleeved shirts, jackets and too much make-up, and they were escorted by a few, large men. RSB pointed them out. “Ew,” I said. “They must be really hot. Maybe they’re trying to lose weight or something.”

Which, in retrospect, is a pretty ironic comment.

RSB ran into those same girls (and large men) during his morning walk yesterday. He took a closer look and realized that, yep, it was MK and Ashley.

It’s now Sunday, the last day. I’m actually sad about that. It’s already hot. Another trip through the mushroom fountain is likely a necessity.

Fortunately, today’s schedule is full of musical goodness. First, a trip to the Troo Music Lounge for Tennessee Schmaltz, a Knoxville klezmer band.  Then, Rogue Wave, Broken Social Scene, Aimee Man, Robert Plant and Alison Krauss and Death Cab for Cutie. We’re heading out before Widespread Panic.

Our tent is already packed. My next correspondence will be from my office on Monday. Sad times, friends, sad times.

So many bands to hear, it’s ridiculous: Gogol Bordello, Ozomatli this afternoon if I can get out of the press room in time.  The Everybodyfields this evening — just so I can get my Knoxville on — then close out the night (hopefully with Icelandic wonder Sigur Ros.

My brother is having a ball, right now attending the “soul revival” show at Which Tent (nearest stage to our campground) by “Miss” Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. This is exactly his kind of music. But, you’d never know from hearing him motormouthing last night about Metallica. Bastard somehow wormed his way to the absolute front row for that concert. The Metallica show might have been the climactic performance of the day for most of the 80,000 people here. But for me, it was the revelation of what a spectacular band My Morning Jacket is.  Singer Jim James’ voice seems at times uncannily at times like Al Green. The band started out the night with very reggae-inflected material and by the time the show was over had ventured into a lovely blend of romantic yet powerful pop that sounded like Simply Red or Prince at times. James danced unabashedly, whipping a scarf into a Sinatra-esque post over his shoulder to an explosive lights-out.

Giving MMJ my blue ribbon for Friday’s shows comes at the expense of what I thought would be my Friday headline: “Monkey Spanks Bass.” Former Primus frontman and bassist extraordinaire Les Claypool writes and plays wonderfully silly, eccentrically funky songs. Backed by a cellist and saw-player at times, the zany king of bass players at one point whipped an electric standup bass with a bow, all the while sporting a chimpanzee mask and singing something that sounded like “running through the jungle with my dick in my hand.”  Well, these things didn’t all happen at the same time, but, you know, Bonnaroo moments are pastiches anyway.

Earlier in the day, a light rain started. What began as sprinkles during Willie Nelson turned into a deluge during MMJ. We returned from that show, shivering and soaked, only to find that the downpour collapsed the hillbilly-rigged tarp cover that we’d run from the back of Jeff’s Yukon to the scaffolding of the campground wall at that end of the campground. We had to fix that before we could change into anything dry. After a day of drinking in the sun, it was all startlingly refreshing.

A closing thought on last night: as campers streamed back into the alleys gridding the media/guest camps, we were assailed by a shirtless, raving sufferer of some combination of substances and delusion. Shirtless and shoeless, his hiking shorts sopping wet, his body glistening in the rain and streetlight glare, he caromed from person to person as they walked by, beseeching them to “have fun.” Our Minister of Good Times stopped screaming at folks only to hawk up some kind of mucosal discharge that was attacking him so strongly that he could barely breathe — as if he were drowning on his feet from this odd allergic reaction to something. Sneezing, coughing, snot rocketing–not really puking but you kind of figured that was next–back again he would recover, yelling “are we having fun? Have fun!”

More later, darlings.

OK, after the successful conclusion of day 2, I understand why all those people were lying down. It’s not because they’re not interested in the music. This shit is exhausting. And it’s only Saturday.

Yesterday’s day of music began with Drive-By Truckers on Which stage, the Fiery Furnaces in That tent and then Erick Baker in the same place (Troo Music Lounge) the Royal Bangs played the night before. The only notable show out of that lot was Baker’s. Pretty sure he brought his entire fan base from Knoxville. Todd Steed was there, and so many other Knoxville people. Baker received a standing ovation after almost every song. He seemed thrilled to be there and was gracious, despite almost continual sound interference from Umphrey’s McGee, playing at Which stage at the same time. (And despite the two huge screens inside the Troo Music Lounge showing Umphrey’s McGee during Baker’s show. Not a brilliant idea.) After the show’s conclusion he announced that he wanted to “meet everyone in here.”

This is a huge “farm.” Still, there are occasional issues with sound interference from stage to stage.

It was sweltering by noon yesterday. Both myself and Rock Star Boyfriend (my traveling companion, Trace Bateman of The Rockwells and Tommy Bateman and the Thunder Thieves) covered ourselves in sunscreen and sucked down bottles of water every few minutes. It was still miserable for a while. Before Erick Baker’s show I took a trip through the mushroom fountain. Incredibly refreshing, but also incredibly dirty. The water spurting out of the top of the thing is a nice shade of brown. But when it’s 90-some degrees and you’ve been outside for days, care for hygiene and worry about disease potential disappear.

Clouds rolled in around 3, providing much needed respite from the sun.

We checked out The Swell Season in This Tent at 4:15. They were, and probably will remain, my sentimental favorites. The Swell Season is Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. He’s Irish (also plays in popular Irish Band, The Frames) and she’s from the Czech Republic. They starred in the 2007 film Once, which, if you haven’t seen, you should. They also did the soundtrack for the film and won an Academy Award for Best Original Song (”Falling Slowly”). They had a violinist with them yesterday and it was just overwhelmingly powerful and beautiful. Hansard was delighted to be there and Irglova looked painfully shy and nervous, but also excited. At one point, Hansard brought poets from the audience onto the stage to perform along with his guitar playing. Rock Star Boyfriend looked over at me during “Falling Slowly” and pointed at his arm. “I have chills right now,” he said.

We stuck around This Tent until Rilo Kiley, watched her for a bit and then went to Willie Nelson. I’d been told that he has a special sort of presence, and it’s true. Such an icon, and it was so cool to watch him live. He was very laid back, sort of quiet and…very cool.

Somehow, we missed MIA altogether. Definitely Friday’s biggest bummer.

Then there was Chris Rock (hilarious, not surprising) and a nap. I heard from our campsite neighbors that Metallica put on a good show, but The What Stage lawn was full during Chris Rock, and Rock Star Boyfriend and I were too tired and sick of getting stepped on to stay for it.

We woke up from our nap around 11:45 p.m., just in time for My Morning Jacket at Which Stage. It had been lightly raining since 8, but started coming down harder when the show started. This was the second time I’d seen MMJ; they are phenomenal live. I turned in before 2, but RSB informed me that Jim James donned a cape and “funny hat” and danced around while covering a James Brown song.

It’s about noon now. It’s shady and cool out, and I’m feeling rejuvenated by the ice cold shower I took this morning. Kanye moved his show from its early evening spot to 2:45 a.m. He wants to show off some new glow-in-the-dark technology. Should be nothing less than magical.

Speaking of magical, Mary Kate and Ashley Olson are here somewhere. We discovered the Broo’ers Festival, a tent featuring micro brewed beers, and I’m ready for a day of Sweetwater Blues and maybe a corn dog. Or two.

I know Manchester isn’t far from Knoxville, but it’s weird that it feels so much like home. That might have something to do with the AC Entertainment people walking around everywhere, the Yee-Haw booth, the two Knoxville bands I’ve already seen and the availability of booze. (Though it’s much more expensive here. $6 a beer and the choices are: Budweiser or Bud Light.) It’s also a little dirty, but there’s still plenty of grass, which I’m told will be trampled into a distant memory by Saturday or Sunday.

Oh yeah, and, coincidentally, our campsite neighbors also happen to be our real neighbors from home.

We took the back roads yesterday and that was a good move. No traffic and lots of lovely countryside. We stopped for a moment to allow a hunchbacked old gentleman clack across the road with his cane. He waved and smiled a toothless grin as we drove past.

I’m a Bonnaroo first timer. Therefore, everything is really exciting. “Oh, look! A mushroom fountain!” “Look how big that field is!” “Look! Corn dogs!” It goes like that. There are also topless girls. They don’t prompt exclamation as much as quiet nudging of the person next to me.

After setting up camp, the first show we saw yesterday was Superdrag’s, at 7 p.m. in “This Tent.” (Now I have to give a giant ‘what the hell?’ to the tent names. I know they’re designed to be confusing, but… why? Why design something so that it’s extra confusing?!) It was fairly well, but apathetically, attended. Good sized crowd with no energy, until “Sucked Out,” their hit song from the mid-90s, came on. A few people danced for that one.

There’s a lot of lying around, in general. Overall, I’m surprised how few people seem to be attending shows expressly for the music. Maybe it’s that they’re seeing shows they’re not particularly geeked about, but there’s a lot of lying around and allowing the music to provide more of a soundtrack, instead of actively listening, getting involved.

Or at least that’s the way it was until the Royal Bangs’ show last night (this morning?), at 1:30 a.m. in the Troo Music Lounge. What started as a half-filled tent of sleepy-looking people quickly escalated into a full tent of rowdy dancers. More and more people wandered in throughout the course of their set and few people left. That’s a good sign, I think. They brought their own sound guy with them and sounded great inside the enclosed tent.

“Thanks guys! Now leave us all your money when you go! All the money you don’t need to get wasted, anyway,” singer Ryan Schaefer yelled at the end. They were so well received, they might have actually gotten some.

So far, the festival is running smoothly. The Greek vendor has delicious food. Outside is warm, promising to be officially hot by mid-day, and first on the agenda (my agenda, anyway) is a press meeting, followed by the Drive-By Truckers, followed by another home-town boy, Erick Baker, then bigger headliners later this evening. Should be a good day. If it’s not, you’ll hear about it. Actually, you’ll hear about it no matter what. Get excited.

Avid fan of cultural dissonance Jack Rentfro blogs from The Seventh Battle of Bonnaroo

Dispatches to begin Friday. Or maybe even Thursday if he gets lucky.

Ok, thinking I could figure out this crazy magic voodoo technology over night, plus encamp in a wilderness of friends and strangers was pushing it. It is now Friday around noon. The cycle of the packing and prepping for five days of living in the back of a car; navigating the backroads to avoid the traffic; successful press credential check-in; setting up camp in a grassy parking lot in near darkness and still managing to have fun that first harrowing night behind me.

My traveling companion is my brother, Jeff, younger by about eight years. I am at a strange crossroads in my life where I find solace in my old nuclear kin. Our dear old mother sent us off by granting her boys a blessing and absolution. Mother dear, may you never see the sights we’ll see before this is over.

Jeff is a sort of sunny dispositioned, extroverted version of me. This is the first time we’ve done anything together longer than a few hours at holidays since we were kids growing up in the halcyon hamlet of Cleveland. Yes, that Cleveland. The home of the JudyBats.

I really must ask him when he started painting his toenails.

It was by amazing serendipity that we slipped into one of the dwindling number of campsites in the Guest/Media/VIP camp before late-comers were sent to the overflow lot, a fate I have experienced before. Anything that adds to the 15 miles of walking you do a day at Bonnaroo is to be avoided. It was even more fortuitous that our camp was bordered on one side by friends: Knoxville musicians “Smokin’” Dave Nichols and Ed Richardson. The Metro Pulse RV is a few vehicles away. The longer I’m here, the more Knoxvillians I run into. It’s hard to beat last night’s introduction to the fine lads in American Plague.  Scott Lee and Dave Dammit strolled by our camp only to be hailed by my brother, Jeff: “Hey! Y’all must be in a band!” They yelled back “Hell yeah!” Where upon Jeff queried: “Whar bouts ye from?”

Any, about 15 minutes later, we were all piled into a golf cart being driven by a friend of mine working the golf cart service intended to provide transportation to staff and entertainers. There really is nothing that can beat being carted around, giant glass of gin and juice in hand, a parcel of hard rockers and your brother in the backseat yee-hawing at one and all as they parted before us like cattle before a 19th century cowcatcher. Somewhere along the way, realizing it’s getting light and you really want to make the press conference for the first time in your three years of covering Bonnaroo in some capacity or other.

I am now in the media tenting sweating out little gin bullets while I try to tell you about how fortunate I feel to be immersed in the vast floating city of Bonnaroo, even though I traditionally end up sick or hurt in some way by the experience. It truly is some kind of affirmation that there are good things going on in this country. Even though the national zeitgeist is in a very dark place these days. A time when little old ladies whisper in the grocery store about how “people are gonna be hurting before the year is over.” And gas prices rise like fevered temperature. And government seems to be dying from the head down, fueling the fierce malaise.

My battery is draining. Janeane Garofalo is on stage as the next press conference starts up. And I gotta go hear some music at some point.