06/25/07 @ 03:24:47 pm by archivesadmin
By: Shea Carver
ON THE ‘ROO-AD AGAIN
The (mis)adventures of Bonnaroo came too quickly this year. That it’s been 365 days since my compadres and I broke down three times in B.F.E. on the way to camp with 80,000 hippies seemed rather staggering—and something we definitely weren’t ready to live over again. Lucky for Mandy and I, we had loads of magazines to bring en route, just in case a 2am flat tire or 4am burning brakes ensued. How grateful we were not to need AAA this go ‘round.
In fact, the ride was smooth and easy, taking us along I-95, I-20 and I-75 without a hint of trouble. As the 1am-hour approached, so did Chattanooga, Tennessee. We decided to get one last night of sleep in a real bed before taking to a tent for the next three days, which seemingly heated up as quickly as 40 hells. We descended upon a cheap motel, one we were sure looked similar to Paris Hilton’s cell block—“How appropriate that you’re wearing orange,” Mandy reminded me—but it was cheap and only an hour and a half away from Manchester.
“We get a T.V.,” I said, showing off a 1980s remote. “They gave us the remote control at the night window—and asked that we please return it upon check-out.”
Classy digs, this joint. We were sure a rapist would exit from the next room or that we would find someone had OD’d in the lodge the next morning. We breathed a sigh of relief when we awoke to find ‘Roo awaited us safely.
After our last real cup of coffee and a hot shower—one we knew we’d be pining for later—we hit the road. Within mere miles, Bonnaroo Radio tuned in, and we welcomed it wholly as it played some of the greatest music we had heard outside of my iPod. The station is an exact replica of what the festival has become: superb music of all genres—not just hippie fare, as many assume—and in vast amounts, without repetition or commercials. We heard the Lemonheads’ Nineties’ rock, LCD Soundsystem’s outstanding beats, Band of Horses’ soft croons, in-studio shows and interviews; it played like one great playlist, song after song. The DJs spoke with soft intonations, not robust egocentric attitudes. They knew how to let the music speak for itself—and they chose tracks that weren’t so mainstream. Rarely, if ever, did it repeat the same song. I wanted to bottle up the airwaves and bring it back to Wilmington for all to hear.
But Radio Bonnaroo was only a smidgeon of sound to preface the enormity of the festival we were about to see. The Police, Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, Spoon, Ween, Wilco, the White Stripes, The Flaming Lips, Ralph Stanley and His Clinch Mountain Boys, Dr. Dog and so many more—it read like an all-star bill that no one had seen this close to the Mississippi.
IT’S A ‘ROO LIFESTYLE
After setting up camp under the blaring sun and drinking quite a few Miller High Lifes in the process, the 700-acre farm started feeling like home. Our brethren stopped by one after one to talk music—the safety traffic dude hailed Wilco’s new release, Sky Blue Sky; another ‘Rooer expressed the brilliance of Evan Dando covering one of my favorites, Gram Parsons’ “$1,000 Wedding”; yet another camper stopped to hear the new White Stripes CD blaring from our speakers. That is the love of Bonnaroo; it’s a bonding period for music fiends. Sure, it’s one big party, too; there are enough doses to rival any Ken Kesey “Acid Test.” Still, it’s the music that outshines the experimental attitude and free love (Trojans are given out at every hub and vendor around the site) that remains somewhat prevalent.
We packed up our essentials: sunscreen, cigs, a schedule, tons of beer to sneak in, water and more water, a few snacks, Neosporin, a tapestry and a few other goodies that would make the day better. As we approached Shakedown Street, the shouts for ‘shrooms, doses, candy and the like increased. Policemen and women rode their horses around, as if turning their ears and eyes to what was going on in front of them. They would stop to wake up the drunken pirate who had crashed on the side of someone’s tent, simply asking him to move along. Or they would just watch over the crowd, often interacting with them kindly. The citizens of ‘Roo obliged nicely; in fact, over the course of the weekend, there was only 72 arrests (and that’s out of 80,000 people). Unfortunately, there was one death—but only one—caused from what’s suspected to be drugs and extreme heat.
Bonnaroo seems to have a festival of this caliber down to a near science (unlike the Altamont days, when the Hell’s Angels acted as security). There was never a feeling of “widespread panic” or a vibe that seemed threatening in any way. It was quite impressive to have so many hot, sweaty people in one place without more problems. If anything, people welcomed each other in the name of music—through a bonding of arts in all forms.
As Mandy and I walked, we approached a huge sculpture made of plastic bottles, which were filled with colored water. They stood tall, welcoming all inner artists to help in its erection (no Trojans needed). Obligingly, we added to it. Mandy picked up a bottle. “I have been feeling so purple lately,” she noted, grouping the bottles with other like shades. I went for green—seemingly the color of Bonnaroo.
‘Roo touts itself a “green” event, one of many music-for-social-change functions that is molding a new vision of our soundscape. The provision of four days of A-list musicians, tons of vendors, 13 or so stages, among Port-a-Pottie lines as long as the Nile, the festival doles out literally tons of trash. Yet, it’s counteracted by the vast amounts of recycling bins scattered throughout the grounds. Even when we checked in, we were given a recycling bag for camp, which was picked up and disposed of in an eco-friendly manner at the end of the festival.
Throughout the site, large sculptures were made of recycled trash, with signs that revealed statistics on the event’s eco-friendly efforts (“250 tons of Bonnaroo garbage will be recycled into construction material and park benches, for use at future events”). But that’s not all ‘Roo does to ensure activism and education on the importance of living green. Their non-music stage generators ran on biodiesel fuel (burning 40,000 gallons, to be precise); even one stage, appropriately titled the Solar Stage, was solar powered.
Throughout the festival, vendors passed out environmentally and health-conscious living information, and there was even a waste-free restaurant serving organic food. The paper goods used to print the Bonnaroo program were made of recycled paper (“And probably that dam hippie glue, too,” Mandy said. “My schedule fell apart after one flip-through.”), as was all administrative paperwork and toilet paper. Some of the merchandise consisted of organic cotton and hemp T-shirts, while the concession service items were biodegradable. Bonnaroo has already proven itself since day one, five years ago, to be a festival promoting not only music but a lifestyle that will make a difference on Earth—it’s social change that sounds really great, in essence.
RIP ‘ROO-IN SOUNDS
Our first show included the saucy spunk of the Brazilian Girls—a four-piece that includes only one chick. However, Sabina Sciubba wears a crown of exotic beauty and proves to be enough woman to counteract the testosterone of her bandmates (keyboards, Didi Gutman; bass: Jesse Murphy; drums: Aaron Johnston). Essentially, her estrogen ignites onstage like a bomb—or in her words “La Bomb.”
When the New-York-based quartet jammed into their latest hit, “Talk to La Bomb,” the European front lady pranced around stage using her feminine powers to entrance the audience. Playing cute-sy with her words, she often enunciated sounds like bombs crashing in mid-air, and she frequently switched languages, singing in German, Italian, Spanish, English and French.
Audience interaction fueled Sciubba’s fire. “How many of you are sexy?” she asked. “How many of you are assholes?” Coyly, she raised her hand before breaking into “Sexy Asshole,” a song perfectly describing the arrogance that befalls on the beautiful.
Combining electronica with reggae and rock, the band has called their sound “melting pop.” Their image is not only defined by their experimental jams (“We’re not a jamband ... we’re a band that jams,” they have noted) but by the eclectic stylings of Sciubba, which include her sassy garb. On this day she had a saucer-type backdrop she unfolded like wings against her back. Her gold reflection danced and twirled with an ethereal twist, increasing her mystique and hynotizing fans across the farm.
Completely encaptured by the funky sounds, Mandy and I lost track of time in the blanket of the very un-Brazilian Brazilian Girls—but not so much as to miss out on grabbing a close spot at one of the most highly anticipated shows of the weekend. We trekked over to The Other Tent to catch Gillian Welch and David Rawlings. When the bluegrass angel took the stage, Rawlings by her side in a pink pin-striped suit, nonetheless, the jovial banter between the two seemed to cool off the high temps. Opening with the lilting “Orphan Girl,” they prolifically picked their way into a cavalcade of songs, from “I Want to Sing That Rock and Roll” to “Elvis Presley Blues” to “My First Lover.”
Welch crooned from the depths of her soul, often carrying out her notes in a side-jaw stretch, as Rawlings ran his agile fingers all over the fret, proving one of the most amazing guitarists in music today. Then the dust settled ... but only before kicking back up in a frenzy. Welch announced, “There’s already a king of rock and a king of bluegrass, but there isn’t a king of rock and bluegrass—until now. Welcome Led Zeppelin’s Mr. John Paul Jones to the stage!”
As the guitarist joined in, he took to the mandolin ever-so-delicately, showing a more timid showmanship than during his full-throttle Zep days. Playing “Wayside/Back in Time” and “I Made a Lover’s Prayer,” the three complemented each other as if they’d practiced forever. Ever grateful, Welch hugged the Brit before his exit, wherein Rawlings and the redheaded, alabaster-skinned dame continued through “Miss Ohio,” “Revelator,” and Radiohead’s “Black Star.”
Welch even called out Rawlings to sing. “What do you expect?” she asked. “You’re wearing a pink suit.”
“This is a song I wrote with my friend, Ryan,” Rawlings announced, “Adams.” The two proceeded into a fantastic rendition of “To Be Young (Is To Be Sad, Is To Be High).”
JPJ had not seen his last performance, however. As part of their encore, the two welcomed the Zeppelin veteran back out for a cover of Johnny and June Cash’s “Jackson.” It was the strongest duet I have heard live—one I can only hope will be released sometime soon.
Our adrenaline was at high speed by the time the hour and 45-minute show ended. My jaw was still agape—I had seen all living Led Zeppelin members, albeit not together. Still, it was something that had not yet registered fully. Nor would it throughout the rest of the weekend. We left Gillian and company sure that no one could beat their set. We headed over to the British sounds of Lily Allen.
“She’s known to lose her shit onstage,” Mandy said. I was expecting to see just that. I really knew nothing more about the gal, other than she hates to be compared to Amy Winehouse and her video for “Alfie” is awesome. And after Allen began her set, I didn’t care to know more about her, either. I wasn’t fully enveloped in her ska/hip-hop/pop fare. In fact, it seemed millions of miles away from the snippets of what I had heard of her music.
“She’s like a European Gwen Stefani,” I noted.
“Yeah, but she’s drunk and getting ready to freak out on the audience,” Mandy said.
So we stayed for two more songs, only long enough to learn Allen was swigging from a bottle of Jager onstage and had downed a few Xanaxes before performing. It was the only interesting part of the show, which really wasn’t that interesting at all.
A few hops, skips and jumps later, we had settled upon a grassy knoll with tons of other hippies at Which Stage, awaiting the French-Latin combo of Manu Chao Radio Bemba Sound System. Not knowing what to expect, when the percussive stylings began, the intensity of the drum roll essentially made my heart feel as if it were skipping three beats at a time—and not in a good way. I looked at Mandy. “Run,” she said. And so we did.
Off into the rest of the night we went, where we decided Tool had seen better days—specifically 10 years ago. Seemingly, everything else was a blur.
Day three of ‘Roo
We awoke in a massive sweat—90 degrees by 11am—to learn that Super Jam, consisting of Ben Harper, Ahmir “?uestlove” Thompson and the one-and-only John Paul Jones, zipped through many a Zeppelin tune until all hours of the morning. We had missed it, but we weren’t fazed, really—we had too much to look forward to throughout the rest of the weekend to sulk, starting off with a set from the great Philadelphia rockers Dr. Dog. We hauled ass to This Tent for a 12:45pm set. The fivesome came out with a gracious attitude (“Thanks so much for gettin’ up early to catch us!”) and a goal to make their set unforgettable. They accomplished it.
Having fell in love with this group three or four months ago, I had a reserve of excitement set aside for their live music, and they met all expectations and then some. First off, they have so much energy, it’s completely infectious to watch them exude it live. Secondly, their talent cannot be mistaken. Their five-part harmonies are as delicate as the Beach Boys, a la Pet Sounds, and their music is a cross between the Beatles Sixties’ experimental jams and Randy Newman’s Seventies’ rock. However, they don’t try to emulate such comparisons; they stand on their own accord of originality with integrity.
With drenched shirts and sweat dripping from their long, shaggy beards and hair, they rocked out “My Old Ways,” “Fool’s Life,” “Ain’t It Strange,” and the beautifully decadent “I Hope There’s Love,” among others. The guys proved to be steadfast in their capabilities to reproduce live staunch rock.
Sharing vocals, Scott McMicken (Taxi) and Toby Leaman (Tables) equally drove the band’s harmonies, while the back-up vocals from the rest consisted of lots of “la la las” and “be bop bas.” The only disappointing element to the set was that they did not do an encore, one that was well-deserved and would have been so much appreciated.
As they exited, so did we, heading into the heat of the day with Regina Spektor. The Moscow-born, New-York bred songstress was every bit graceful onstage, as she tickled the ivories through many songs, including “Bobbing for Apples,” “Summer in the City” and “Hotel Song.” Her subtle sweetness made everyone take to her, and her humble demeanor shone after she messed up mid-song, noting, “I knew this was gonna happen! Why does it have to be in front of a crowd and never in my room when I am practicing alone?”
While Spektor’s coquettish ways added to her tantalizing music, Mandy and I were in desperate need of a pick-me-upper. The beer was flowing too easily under the 2pm sun, and we could not crash before the Police headlined at 9pm. We headed off to the ‘Roo coffee shop for an iced cappucino, followed by a trip to to the Fructis “hair salon” to sign up for a free washing. “You’re number 455,” the lady said, handing me a slip.
“What number are you on?” I asked.
“Seventy-six.” Out of the “salon” we went, knowing our thoughts of clean, silky hair would remain mere thoughts.
After a quick run through the water fountain at Centeroo, we headed back to Which Stage for Damien Rice. I expected it to be relaxed, considering Rice’s singer/songwriter style of playing. Yet, I didn’t expect it to be bad. As I began to doze off for a late-noon nap, reverb of horrendous proportions began. I immediately awoke bug-eyed. Technical difficulties combined with, in Mandy’s words, “bad music from his new CD,” led us away from Which and onto That Stage for a close spot for Spoon.
As we arrived The Hold Steady were wrapping up to immense applause. The audience was truly having a time with them, as they rocked out a more animated Springsteen-like set. They clearly had the crowd, who was intent on wringing them dry of every coda and refrain. The buzz was clear: This band was another up-and-comer sure to take over airwaves soon.
Shoving our way to the front for Spoon, when the Austin, Texans, came onstage, we were all ready for a heaping tablespoon of indie-rock. However, what they delivered was more like a teaspoon, if not a dash. While the band played ”The Beast and the Dragon,” “The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentine,” “Small Stakes” and “The Way We Get By,” among others, they felt completely disconnected, almost like they were bored. It was a far cry from the other bands we had seen, and it became clear Spoon was no more than a recording band.
After listening to the majority of their set, hoping the show would turn around, an hour and 20 minutes later we decided to head over to catch the last part of Ween. As we approached This Tent, folks were literally crazed. Dean and Gene Ween were captivating the audience with an explicit “Fat Lenny.” Folks on pogo stilts were jumping as high as they could to the razor sharp beat. It’s the only regret we had of Bonnaroo—watching Spoon over Ween.
As the witching hour neared, we were preparing ourselves for a late night: the Police, then The Flaming Lips until 3am. As we descended upon thousands and thousands of folks at What Stage, we all readied ourselves for the ‘80s iconic comeback of Sting, Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers. When the Police took the stage, the crowd flew to their feet. Copeland banged his gong, kicking off the show, as Sting and Summers turned three-minute pop songs into elaborate compositions, taking the idea of jamming at Bonnaroo to a whole new level. They didn’t need a special guest appearance to give their music cred—they were the piece de resistance of the festival. The masterminded set included the greats: “Message in A Bottle,” “Synchronicity II,” “Walking On The Moon,” “Wrapped Around Your Finger,” “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da,” “Can’t Stand Losing You,” as well as others.
With impeccable execution, each of the Police stood thousands of feet taller than the anticipation for their show. To say they lived up to the hype does not do their musicality justice. Copeland played a stupendous jam on a wall of high hats and bells. Sting enunciated tribal calls and extended choruses for every fan who wanted more from him. Summers made his electric guitar another limb of his body, shredding chords with sophistication unparalleled by any other ‘Roo act.
Sting, knowing Copeland’s veteran status from playing ‘Roo with Oysterhead, called out the drummer: “We know you’re all here to see Stewart!”
Copeland rebutted: “Oh, they really want to see you dancing naked with them!” Sting’s shirt came off, and into a bombastic “King of Pain,” they jammed.
Even though we were treated to an hour and 45 minute show, they were scheduled to play for more than two hours. However, such did not happen. Whether it was the promoter’s problem or the band’s decision, who knows? Still, we felt full upon their exit—although, we could have easily found a way to ingest seconds and thirds if they insisted.
Midnight inched closer, and The Flaming Lips were doing their soundcheck to “War Pigs.” Coyne, ever the loquacious one, promised to be back onstage in no time, which he did in massive proportions, landing in a spaceship that dropped from the rafter of lights. From the top, Coyne arose in his famous bubble, where he proceeded to walk it into the crowd. They carried him back onstage, and the band ripped into a set that was, as all Lips’ shows are, magical.
From playing “Yoshimi,” “Yoshimi II,” “Yeah Yeah Yeah,” “She Don’t Use Jelly,” “Do You Realize?,” and others, Coyne and his fellow troubadours of experimental psychedelia not only entertained musically but with clear agendas. Coyne’s politically-charged polemic had a few concert-goers fighting their way out of the crowd, muttering, “Why doesn’t he just play the music and stop preaching?” As any Flaming Lips’ fan knows, that’s not in Coyne’s stage presence.
But fans should have felt rewarded, as the set ended with a brilliant Stones’ cover of “Moonlight Mile,” a perfect combination of balladry rock and experimental muse that the Lips are so brilliantly skilled at maintaining. Again, in the height of the ‘toon-like set up, featuring lasers, confetti and streamers, The Flaming Lips ended Saturday with visions of alien dancers and Santa Claus drag queens swimming through our dreams. And the hope for a better tomorrow kept us cozy through the night.
Read the final day of Bonnaroo in next week’s edition, featuring the review of Wilco, the White Stripes, Wolfmother, Ralph Stanley and His Clinch Mountain Boys and more.
Categories: General
