Bonnaroo 2007

For the sixth consecutive year, I packed up and headed to a large piece of hot farmland in central Tennessee where Bonnaroo is held. My daughter Anna and I spent almost six days of wandering in this musical dustbowl. And other than a lingering cough and a farmer's tan, I still feel high on the vibrations of the most diverse showcase of music in the Deep South.

Wednesday Quote: Avoid moonshine. -Dierks Bentley, asked about his advice concerning festivals.

We got in pretty easily except that the little security punk confiscated some of what I consider my personal property. I'm not talking drugs. I'm not talking liquor. I'm talking "Treehugging Dirt Worshipper" stickers. "Coexist" stickers. "Namaste" stickers. A single shoebox of positive vibrational energetic life force f**king stickers. What kind of festival is this in 2007?

The head lock threatening "fun" is tighter on the place every year. It was a peaceful anarchy back in the glory days, when security seemed content to amble around on horseback watching dreadies get high and dance. Renegade vending was always a natural extension of the post-Grateful Dead community, so a casual shakedown street would develop in the campground every year. Even legal vendors would frequently set up a secondary stand in the illegal vending section. No one complained.

But suddenly the promoters have taken the high road and pretend that they have never broken a law in their lives, and are intent upon making this a squeaky clean festival. This might be suitable for the buckle of the Bible Belt. But, my friends, Manchester, TN is a few notches from the buckle; the George Dickel Distillery is not too far down the road as well as the Jack Daniels Distillery - this place is far more Whiskeytown than Bibleland. Buford Pusser spent his sheriff career fighting local moonshiners a few miles east. This is a land of hard drinking and broken rules. I cannot understand how a rock festival can try so hard to remove the very activities which define a rock and roll lifestyle.

Security gets a little meaner every year. Two years ago I watched the drug dogs surround both the truck to my left and the car behind me. Confiscations of personal stashes along with stiff fines resulted. Have a nice festival, y'all. Welcome to Tennessee.

Thursday Quote: The interesting people I meet at festivals are not usually musicians. It’s the people selling jalapeno corn dogs, or painting faces. - Michael Franti

We find our buddies from Athens, GA. They had strapped their moonshine, their pot, and their renegade vending merch inside every part of a truck where people would never search. I was impressed. I can’t even get a stack of stickers in, but they are masters of sneaking contraband. They arrived drunk and victorious, trading rebel yells of hazy crazy joy.

Anna and I came to the festival as writers. We were given media passes, which makes us one step closer to being REAL JOURNALISTS (or at least on the real journalist list for the next free tickets we want). I thought that I’d just grab my media bracelet and go, but it got a little heady being around famous people in air-conditioned press conferences featuring Free Bottled Water, which is a far bigger perk than you think. It’s 90 degrees and we’re in a room of perhaps 100 reporters and photographers, making genuine eye contact with Bob Weir, Dierks Bentley and Ziggy Marley while sipping on water bottles which suddenly taste better than anything brewing at the George Dickel distillery which we toured a day ago. When Anna asks a question and receives a hug from Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips, I see the light - Being Media Rocks.

Thanks to being Small and Cute, my press partner Anna gets chatted up around the press tent. Women are a minority - it appears that rock journalism is dominated by heavy-set middle-aged males vying for the "who’s got the longest camera lens" award.

Later in the movie tent I got to hear documentarian D.A. Pennebaker speak about his classic film Monterey Pop in honor of its 40th anniversary. It feels strange to be watching a movie about a festival while attending a festival; the audience enthusiastically applauds Janis and Ravi Shankar as if they are performing live. But Pennebaker was eloquent as he humbly explained the story behind the movie, how he built five of the six cameras himself and described much of the film as a series of happy accidents.

I'm probably the first person to go to bed. The amazing Yard Dogs Road Show was the only musical act I saw on this short schedule day. A sword swallower, a belly dancer, fan dancing, a trombone, an accordion - like one of Tom Waits’ best dreams. But I'm already getting sunburned, and it's only Thursday.

Friday Quote: It’s not just music… it’s an adventure. - Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips

Bonnaroo press conferences were brief but beautifully surreal. Comedian Lewis Black and Ziggy Marley – together at last! Michael Franti and country star Dierks Bentley exchanging thoughts! Never mind that most musicians are less than eloquent ("Festivals have the best drugs." - Kings of Leon’s Nathan Followill). The press is getting the exclusive scoop on rock star ramblings about Bonnaroo drugs, heat, and the state of porta-potties.

I rush over to one of the main stages to catch Michael Franti - the Last Hippie in America. Everyone feels the love from the second he bounds barefoot onto the stage. As much as I personally hate audience participation, when Michael tells me to clap, to jump, and to sing along, I do it. The man tells us about directing prisoners at San Quentin to sing the theme from Sesame Street. They do it. The man sings anti-war songs to U.S. soldiers while in Iraq. They cry.

I'm writing in Michael Franti as a presidential candidate. He might be our last hope.

My favorite music tent was the one the legendary Richard Thompson joked about renaming "The Obscure Has-Beens" tent. The largest stage is reserved for Widespread Panic, The Police, Kings of Leon, Tool. But this smaller side tent – named The Other – was where I saw the magnificent soulstress Mavis Staples, jazz great Ornette Coleman, Hot Tuna, and singer-songwriter Richard Thompson.

Across from me in the media pit is Beatle Bob who manages to terrorize everyone around him with his crazy frenetic dancing. Glad I’m safely on the other side watching the endless sweat droplets fly from Thompson and his Brit band as he belts out his classic "Wall of Death".

Ravi Coltrane - son of John and Alice - sent chills up my spine. I mean, maybe it was the air conditioning in the Somethin' Else Jazz Tent, but I believe that it was Coltrane and his quartet. I was sitting next to Blue Note people who were exceptionally clean while I stunk to high heaven since I couldn't find my deoderant when I woke up. A little embarrassing, but hey, it's dark and they will never see me again. Anyway, the music soon overcame any thoughts good or bad. Jazz is the ultimate Mind Eraser.

I try to go see Tool, but it’s too crowded/crazy out there. I hear the whole set from camp, though.

Saturday Quote: Drop Acid, Not Bombs. - Fence Graffiti

My friend was sporting a hat with an LSD sticker and heading to Old Crow Medicine Show. He had abandoned all hope of vending and took to drinking bourbon and indulging in other classic Bonnaroo vices. This is a tough festival and everyone deals with it the best way they can. But for me, the music at Bonnaroo IS drugs.

Where is Simon Cowell when you need him?

Alexa Ray Joel, daughter of Billy, has an amazing physical resemblance to her father. She also has proper pitch. This is the best I can do in terms of positive comments. It's hard to believe that she has any right to sing the blues, coming from rock royalty/Berklee music school/wealthy upbringing. But here she is, pretending that she KNOWS HOW IT FEELS TO LIVE HARD AND FEEL LOW DOWN. Good God, the girl looks twelve years old and is gesturing wildly, like Mariah Carey on crystal meth. I'm walking away quickly.

Oh. My. God. Now she's singing a Dolly Parton cover.

Somebody kill me now.

Hot damn… Hot Tuna. The thumping bass might even be worth the hearing loss it is creating in my right ear after fighting for this plum viewing position. Jack Casady looks frailer than last year… but come to think of it, so do I.

When I was ten years old I bought a Song Hits magazine to find, I don’t know, maybe the lyrics to the Jackson 5’s "I’ll be There"? And there was an ad on the back page, showing then-Jefferson Airplane members Jack Casady and Jorma laughing and looking at a copy of Song Hits. Hippies! I thought back then, since I had rarely seen the like down in south Georgia. And here we are now, Jack and Jorma sweating down south with me and a thousand other fans listening to their seasoned set of plugged-in blues and ballads. Hippies? Not too many left, and the ones who come to Bonnaroo are residing in the back forty, too far for me to hike over to when so much music is calling me over here in Centeroo.

But this is a festival which owes its original success to the gypsy travelers who have always considered a gathering of music to be a sacred and worthwhile occasion – a time to be festive, imbibe in a variety of spirits and feel the positive energy of live performances. Bonnaroo has changed over the years in terms of target audiences – the population is largely clean and collegiate now, and several people ask "what happened"? I can name two things which diminish the gypsy band: price of gasoline and the harshness of the on-site searches.

The Police: the biggest headliner played the hits efficiently. We sang along and danced - it seemed that the full 80,000 arrived for that show. But it felt a little sterile. This is, after all, 80s pop music and I just fail to understand the endless hype surrounding the band. I owned Synchronicity just like everyone else twenty years ago. But Sting always seemed like a pompous ass to me, bragging about his general superiority. Sting and his Tantric Penis! Sting and his Bad Acting! Sting and his Thin Vocal Stylings! When an Esquire writer gushed for the umpteenth time about the Police at a press conference, I wanted to walk out. So, yes, The Police did their hits medley quite proficiently. But their songs do not grab my heart and give it a squeeze.

The Flaming Lips: They begin 45 minutes late, but that is not unusual. The space ship, the bubble, the confetti, the collection of costumes all take preparation. I’m no good at describing the hallucinogenic spectacle to Lips virgins - but curious readers should attend a Lips show at least once.

Sunday Quote: When you moan, the devil don’t know what you’re talking about. - Mavis Staples
It’s odd to hear Mavis Staples and her band belt out civil rights tunes and gospel songs to a hungover, virtually all-white audience. But Ms. Staples is as powerful a singer as I heard all weekend. She sings her Staple Singers standards to a crowd mostly too young to remember the hits - "Respect Yourself" and "I’ll Take You There".

I feel like an Oklahoma refugee today, covered in fine dust. The heat is relentless. The prevailing fashion is bandito - a scarf worn over the face, with sunglasses. But it’s Sunday, and there’s still toilet paper. Little miracles happen.

I just left the media center, where, sadly, there were no water bottles or ice left. Even the media has been abandoned to the elements. I'm wondering today as I once again bake in the sun... is Rock and Roll worth skin cancer, wrinkles, loss of hearing? But this might happen anyway - might as well have a good soundtrack to go with it.

Ornette Coleman is alternating between saxophone, trumpet and violin. It's hot as hell and he's wearing a sportcoat and pork pie hat, looking cool. I leave halfway through the set to catch the White Stripes (on Monday, I read that Coleman collapsed from the heat shortly afterward).

Indie director Jim Jarmusch holds a Q&A which captivates me almost as much as any performance. His humorous tales of working with Neil Young, Johnny Depp, Tom Waits and other notables are spellbinding.

It's beautiful here in the press area, away from the dusty hordes. I'm sitting on a golf cart listening to the White Stripes. There's only two of them, but Meg and Jack are tearing up the place. The Decemberists, Jeff Tweedy from Wilco, the Yard Dogs are here - everyone is sidestage to hear the White Stripes. And they are rocking the field.

I skip Widespread Panic, having seen them already this year, and go back to camp early.

Monday Quote: Is that religion-peddling queer still at it? - Camp Neighbor

The Krishna dude just won't give it up in my campground. How did he get in with an endless supply of Gitas? He's worse than a Jehovah's Witness during Saturday morning cartoons. I can't even go pee without him begging me to Give Krishna a Chance.

Anyway, the porta-potties are already gone by 9 a.m. Party's over, and we pack as quickly as possible. We pour the last of our bottled water on the dusty windshield, blast the A/C, and head back to Georgia.

waiting for the tree man

I always knew that one day an aging pecan tree would land on my house. The difficult thing will not be getting this one removed today. Rather, it will be the hard look I have to take at my yard and the other trees. I have a feeling that at least one other will have to go.

But I love all of my trees and hate to have any of them cut down.

God is the experience of looking at a tree. - Joseph Campbell

NTD

Bad Vibrations in Wisconsin

Here’s the news story: fifty-year old Linette Servais has sung in the choir for thirty five years. She played organ for the St. Joseph Catholic Church in New Franken, Wisconsin. She also organized the annual picnic and photographed children during their First Communion services. But Father Dean Dombroski discovered that Servais was also selling sex toys and other products at home parties. As a result, Dombroski relieved Servais of her church duties.

The Pure Romance website is pretty tame for a sex site. It’s more Avon than Penthouse, featuring smiling (and clothed) ladies who apparently look so relaxed and happy due to the reasonably-priced lotions and toys found in the catalog pages. There are items like “Coochy”, a shaving cream designed especially for “down there”. And buzzy toys with cute girly names like “Spring Fling” and “Pretty in Pink”. And Linette Servais was one of the Avon-style ladies who sold Pure Romance products in-home.

Linette Servais is a cancer survivor. A brain tumor left her sexually dysfunctional, and she credits sex toys as key in helping her get her mojo back after medical treatment. Servaise claims that she “prayed over this a long time” and “feel(s) that Pure Romance is my ministry.'' She wants to help other women who have experienced similar dysfunctional problems.

Get a tableful of women together for cocktails, and you will soon know that various sexual dysfunctions are as common as dirt. Linette’s so-called “ministry” certainly has a market out there.

Father Dombroski sent a letter to his parish regarding Servais stating that “Linette is a consultant for a firm which sells products of a sexual nature that are not consistent with Church teachings. Because parish leaders are expected to model the teaching of our faith ... she could stay on as the choir director/organist or she could continue to be a consultant but she could not do both.''

I am curious… is the female orgasm consistent with church teachings?

I can speak personally as a girl-person about this: Orgasms are good. Orgasms are mysterious. Orgasms are a desirable state. Orgasms are vibrational transcendental perfect ecstatic events which are practically religious in nature. They make us think about heavenly things. Maybe orgasms can bring us closer to God. Orgasms are about love and peace. I never feel like picking up a handgun after an orgasm. I am not angry with anybody after an orgasm. Peace and love and butterflies and fluffy little clouds and…

… oh, wait. Sorry, Father Dombroski, were you saying something about “not consistent with Church teachings”? I got a little distracted there, thinking about that Big O which is like birth and death and a roller coaster and a day at the beach all rolled up in one… big…

...screw it, Fr. D., I am not going to dig around the internet to find scholarly evidence to argue with you about the sweet goodness of the female orgasm. Of course it’s a good thing, and of course any God who created vaginas and clitorises and G spots would want His little creatures to know how they work. And if you think that this is the Devil’s Work, I’m sorry, but I think that you’re dead wrong. I don’t need Wikipedia and Masters and Johnson to back me up. I swear on Eve Ensler’s personal copy of The Vagina Monologues that orgasms are good, they’re darned good. And God bless Linette Servais for helping women on their paths to physical enlightenment.

There’s real problems out there for the Church to worry about: paying off all the victims of child molesting priests, for instance, and trying to keep the diminishing church members from abandoning Mass altogether. But dismissing a godly woman from her religious duties just because she has discovered the power and joy of her own body and endeavors to share that wonderful secret with others?

The Church should be ashamed of itself.

NTD

I got back to Georgia in a blistering heat after seven hours driving an air-conditionless van. And now there's half a tree on my roof... when did this happen?

I had received an invitation to a party tonight which was to feature a) free alcohol, b) free food, and c) a hot tub. But I think that I will lie down on my futon instead and wait for a) the insurance adjuster's phone call, b) the central air conditioning to bring the temperature down below 85 degrees, and c) sleep, eventually.

Tomorrow maybe I'll feel like seizing the day, grabbing the bull by the horns, making hay while the sun shines, gittin' 'er done, et cetera.

NTD

R.I.P. Grandma Mattie.

NTD

I Miss My Daughters

I like to think that my two daughters are frolicking across Europe holding hands and singing Edelweiss and giggling over cute monsieurs during these two weeks that my ex and the Kid are visiting my globetrotting elder offspring. However, I suspect that the two might be fighting over who rules the bathroom and bidet while their dad sighs and searches for a full cuppa joe somewhere in France and/or Spain, I forget where they're supposed to be today.

The point is that I miss them terribly. I always have access to at least one of my daughters and I'm jonesing right now.

At least there is lots to do in their absence - like chasing moles around the yard with spray repellent and poison. It is unbelievable how these critters have created tunnels rivaling the NYC subway system in a matter of days.

NTD