Alas and a lack (of sleep).
Though I abstained from further musical madness Friday night, the rolling hills of the Bonnaroo farm brought the music to my tent flap all through the night. Despite my best efforts, I got zero REM and spent much of Saturday attempting to find some place to recharge.
Following the established routine of the weekend, we met up at my car and left for Centeroo and the air-conditioned Cinema Tent. Unfortunately the lines had already formed for Conan O’Brien’s second performance in the comedy tent, so we had to run for the next best, the sporadically placed and densely populated rooted trees situated in sight line of the Which Stage, the festival’s second-largest platform but usually the home of the best entertainment.
When no spots could be found, we adjourned to the Lunar Stage’s two isolated trees and were able to find a suitable plot to snooze in. Hundreds of futbol fans braved the sun and heat, shouting more at two teams on a screen than perhaps any audience of the weekend. The majority of the early afternoon was spent in this manner before returning to the Which Stage.
A novel idea for beating the heat involved climbing under the VIP bleachers, sacrificing a good view for comfort. Barring rain, this would have been genius and likewise heavily exploited, but the smattering of rain from Thursday, in addition to a large concessions tent with heavy water run-off nearby, made the bowels of the bleachers more akin to a swamp.
Norah Jones and her band gave a chilled-out set with vaguely reggae twinges given to earlier jazz-themed material. Added to the list of covers that seemed ubiquitous at this year’s festival were takes on the Kinks’ “Strangers” and various country songs. Since Jones reinvented herself a few years back, she has become much more compelling in performance, and her transition in genre has been graceful.
After Norah Jones came the Avett Brothers and a healthy dose of clouds and showers to cool down the grateful, sunburned audience. The only drag of their show was being too far away to get rowdy with their more upbeat material, but nonetheless the Avetts soared.
Then came The Dead Weather, which could be passed off as another Jack White vanity vehicle by some, but thanks to Alison Mosshart’s tougher-than-nails hellcat strolling and moaning, Little Jack Lawrence’s thundering groove, Dean Fertita’s screeching guitar and organ and White’s propulsive timekeeping, The Dead Weather is easily the most fully realized band under the White umbrella. Though it may lack the compelling drama of the White Stripes and pop appeal of The Raconteurs, The Dead Weather takes the best of both bands and makes for a fairly unique sound.
After returning to camp for dinner, I met up with some more friends from Knoxville and made it back to Centeroo, where wristband checks became more severe than any past experience. Two of my friends, whose original intent involved sneaking into the festival, hitched a coincidental wild ride with Damian Marley’s drummer and were comped tickets. One of them, however, had not gotten around to validating his ticket, although it was on his person. When asked by security why and how he had no wristband, he told them the story, but an argument ensued. This ended with my friend slammed to the ground and then against a metal barrier and questioned. After the situation was resolved, we caught the end of Stevie Wonder and staked out a seat for Jay-Z.
Sleep, however, got the best of me. I walked back to camp and listened to Hova from afar, with Stevie Wonder on keys no less. Thus ended day three on a high note.
