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.