The following is a summary of a four days’ worth of music, parties and ruminations on how the two come together when 80,000 people of all walks of life come together to share in the experience. Certain details and names will be excised at the request of parties to which they pertain, to protect their innocence and avoid any negative connotations from being brought to their name.
This year’s expedition to Bonnaroo began right around the time that Big Ears took place. In fact, I received my Bonnaroo press application before I ever got my Big Ears credentials. Though the festival often shines as the beacon of summer to look forward to throughout the school year, the thought of forking over $250-plus after a financially devastating year seemed fraught with impossibility.
Within 10 days of firing off the application with as much candor and professionalism as one of my limited diplomatic skills can muster, a reply of approval graced my Tmail inbox, and it was off to the races.
For the remainder of the school year, I looked forward to the second weekend in June, recalling the excitement throughout the Beacon office as various workers shouted this year’s trickle-down lineup throughout the cubicle, exclaiming approval and bemoaning oversights as the Bonnaroo Myspace and its merry band of curvy robots brought forth the talent in magical clouds.
As June finally rolled around, all of the last-minute preparations had to be made: who to go with, what to bring, who to see and how to stay alive in the blistering Manchester heat. All of these things fell in line with cosmic precision. An old friend and his significant other decided to go and asked me to camp with them. We share tastes in music, so seeing shows would be a group affair, and with past experience navigating the festival’s crowds and colorful geography, they would have a sort of guide.
To say things went wrong from the start may perhaps be a tidbit melodramatic, as the early fails of the trip were largely due to user error. The plan came down to leaving at 4:30 a.m. Knoxville time, as press credentials would not be available until 7 a.m. Manchester time, an hour behind us.
After loading the cars with requisite food, camp supplies, beer and hard liquor, the caravan rolled forth from west Knoxville, south towards Chattanooga for the I-24 connection. Alone, the drive gave time for mental preparation and reflection on past experiences. Like sex and food, going to Bonnaroo is one of life’s example of where one trip on the merry-go-round does not equate to the next or even compare. As the weekend would play out, the truth of this would become all the more apparent.
After arriving at the radio station for Fantasy 101.5, also known as “Radio Bonnaroo” during festival weekends, the rancor in the eyes of the convergent queues could be seen by the likes of Stevie Wonder, thought it is not known at press time if Wonder drove through the area. The original idea apparently was for general admissions ticket buyers and those picking up will call to be in one line and media to be in another, so that the processors inside the station would not have to sort through their miscellaneous boxes of wristbands, tickets and other admission paraphernalia.
However, upon joining the shorter line, it became apparent that the miscegenation between media and general patrons was so extreme that the line had nearly come to a stand still. This was at exactly 7:02 a.m. Thursday morning.
While in line, a great many ideas flowed from the press members, who soon former a cabal and discussed their various angles at a story. Some thought to emphasize the “art” side of the festival in its most Duchamp-inspired format, with pictorials and critiques of portapotty art, while others, without relent, clung to the festival’s jam roots and proceeded to trash talk everyone from Bek to the Kings of Leon, while exhorting the merits of Leo Kottke and Dave Matthews.
At 9:49 a.m. with shining yellow wristband in place, the journey to enter the festival seemed nigh over. Ah, misdirection.
First I tried to remember which way the entrance had been in previous years. Manchester has numerous entrances and exits from Interstate 24, and as any past attendee can tell, the miles-long lines of cars in each direction often make it difficult to tell which one is correct. There is, however, only one general admission entrance, an important fact to keep in mind.
For the next three hours, I shuffled back and forth through the main drag of Manchester along state road 41, asking anyone and everyone how to get to the festival entrance line. Once I parked at the end of line without knowing, simply to be turned around when asking for directions. Many other false starts ended with equally abortive ends, and finally concluded with sitting in a mile-long line for an hour before finally entering the gates.
My caravan buddies long since set up camp and already were checking out the sights of Centeroo, the main concert and festival area. Thanks to an understanding parking director, I found a camp site not 100 feet, as the crow flies, from theirs. Within an hour we met up, drank some Pabst and set out for the weekend’s main attraction: the music.
Thursday: Calm before the storm
First up in That Tent was the Postelles, a sort of generic indie rock band whose Brooklyn sound was a thin-yet-moveable as to be expected from their name and appearance. The crowd seemed to enjoy their set long enough for the rest of the first day warm-up bands to begin, which was right about the time they launched into a snotty cover of the Ramones’ snottiest cut “Beat On the Brat.”
Next came the Entrance Band, whose association with Sonic Youth helped make them one of the more compelling acts of 2009. Led by psych-guitar devotee Guy Blakeslee, the Entrance Band also featured Paz Lechantin, late of A Perfect Circle. Lechantin’s bass line set a thick groove over which Blakeslee ripped solo after mind-blurring solo. Toward the end of the set, the band howled through the Seeds’ oft-covered gem “Can’t Seem To Make You Mine,” made all the more poignant as both the writer, Sky Saxon, and most well-known re-doer Alex Chilton, have passed away in the last year.
During the Entrance Band’s set, the main antagonist of the weekend began to creep in: the heat. In the past, there has been rain and days where the heat was almost killer. People have died from dehydration at Bonnaroo but often in conjunction with drug toxicity. This year, however, was the worst in the three years I have attended the festival.
After returning to camp for more cooler refreshments, it was time for the press welcome dinner and awkward meeting with other members of the international press pool. With Bonnaroo being my first large festival, the intimidation was high.
After being corralled into a photo op thanks to dinner sponsor Chase Bank, the buffet finally was opened. With veggie burger, real burger, grilled chicken and brats, the catered dinner was easily the most complete and energizing meal of the weekend, and full advantage was taken.
At the dinner, I met a pair of video media men from Virginia who work in state public radio and news. After discussing whose state had a harder reputation and past experiences at the festival, we adjourned with free beer provided by Magic Hat to Miike Snow.
Snow’s live set, like most pop-electronica, incorporates a lot of lights and smoke. His sound, while great in terms of mass appeal, is as generic as ketchup not bearing a 57. My colleagues spoke his praises, and I went along for the ride, but the show ended up being only mildly satisfying.
Afterwords, the real treat of the show revealed itself. The two reporters I met at dinner began rounding up concertgoers and interviewing them for a future broadcast. The off-the-cuff lines of questioning and overall fun they had with their jobs, while still remaining under a great deal of professional responsibility, inspired me to cover the weekend in a way that would truly reach people and answer what they wanted to know most.
The final act of the night that made an impression was Neon Indian, one of last year’s biggest rags-to-riches upstarts whose suburban Texas vintage electro-jams gave a counterpoint to confessional dreampop revival that has swept the indie scene during the rise of Beach House and The xx. As the fresh-packed sand turned to mud, the night wound down for me as the crowds surged on for The xx, Lotus and Wale. For this reporter, two hours of sleep and a day’s worth of burning sun were enough to put oneself out to pasture for the evening and dream of the days ahead.
