I have a new respect for my journalist friends. The delicate balance between covering Bonnaroo and enjoying Bonnaroo is not unlike walking a high tightrope…while tripping acid. Nothing I’ve written this weekend could be looked at as anything but passing superficial observances of my surroundings. My pals, however, have managed something I struggle with even while sober. They have remembered recent experiences in their lives and articulately documented them. For me, this weekend is already a blur so hopefully this temporary amateur blog combined with the more qualified accounts provided by my peers will serve as written witness to a really good time we all had together. The very evidence that a bunch of weird shit happened at a certain place in space and time. My friends kept their cool, wrote it all down and didn’t miss a beat. This is all to say, my friends are a bunch of no-good suckers.
When I returned to the post-apocalyptic drug-circus late Friday night, it seemed everyone was already mostly brain dead. I made the executive decision to go to sleep early (4:30am) and face the coming day with renewed energy and poise. Saturday’s afternoon and evening activities have already been documented so I’ll pick it up just before the Eminem performance.
After Buffalo Springfield made my nipples harder than a bag of rusty nails with their closing rendition of “Rockin’ In The Free World”, we wandered the outer edge of the festival to find a spot for one, Mr. Mathers.
If I know anything about hippies and LSD (which I like to think I do), the one thing they really want while “tripping balls” is for an angry little man to scream at them about murder while a straight-from-University-of-Phoenix style computer animation of a bleeding-eyed skull eats their soul. This is to say that there were no hippies at the Eminem performance. Instead, it was as if all of the meat-head wife-beaters (not the shirt, actual wife-beaters) were filtered into one area to grunt and do the wiggly hip hop/raver dance together. And to yell “fuck” and “bitch” a lot.
I don’t hate Eminem. In fact, I think the early records were really interesting in a genre at times starved for creativity. Despite being one of the biggest names of the festival, he’s simply not festival headliner material. There was no feel-good sing-a-long. No epic numbers that tens of thousands could all relate to. In fact, at times it appeared the new songs he played had been specifically written for Bonnaroo and his upcoming performance at Lollapalooza. Mid tempo? Check. Orchestral? Check. Vaguely uplifting? Check. It was like the Coldplay of hip-hop.
From there we went and saw Scissor Sisters who began their set with some giant silver tentacles/penises which erected from the front of stage and quickly extended damn near to the end of the crowd. It was beautiful. Scissor Sisters are sassy, wildly charismatic and just fun as fuck. And with tunes for days. They were one of my favorites.
From there things get blurry, perhaps because I drank a secret potion from a gypsy at the Gogol Bordello show. I’m pretty sure I stole some magic beans too. The short time I spent at the Other Tent for GB was intense. I think I freaked out and left.
We wandered back towards Guest Camping where we encountered a two-story Tyrannosaurus Rex wobbling in the entrance to the campgrounds. I played it cool like “Oh hey there’s a T Rex. Guess I’ll just walk around it” but NO. That was apparently not cool and an angry security guard screamed at us for our hubris and lack of dinosaur respect.
We gathered ourselves and walked to the front of the stage where String Cheese Incident was performing. We passed security and headed around to the back of the stage to find a shortcut to our campgrounds. I was at the back of the line when I saw a man in a spacesuit being given a pep talk by his crew a few feet behind the stage. I quickly realized that he had on a jetpack and the motherfucker looked REAL.
Quick side note: I was on drugs. But not to the point that I would hallucinate a spaceman. My group had left me there so I quickly called them to hurry back. Unaware of proper spaceman-viewing etiquette, we stood nearby and stared. Moments later we were ushered behind a gate a few feet away and told to cover our ears. THEN THE MOTHERFUCKER WENT INTO SPACE FOR LIKE TEN SECONDS. It was the best thing that’s ever happened since Jesus. Then we left, went to camping where we got liquored up and headed back to see more shows.
By this point I was severely intoxicated. I know this because I was enjoying Girl Talk. Here’s what I remember:
-Balloons
-Roasting a bone
-Dancing with Not-Dave Paulson
-A turd on the toilet seat in the Port-A-John (How? Why?)
-The girls telling us that they had just witnessed a foursome in the grass (complete with fellatio) while I was dancing with Not-Dave Paulson. (Who sucks a dick at Bonnaroo? That is so unsavory.)
-A brief cameo by Festival Seth
Then we went back to the RV and fell asleep
We spent Sunday afternoon resting and recovering. We entered Centeroo around 3pm and I proceeded to get absolutely shithouse drunk in the VIP tent. I then went with my fiance to watch a few songs by Iron and Wine, then ventured to the surprisingly less gay performance by Robyn. Robyn should be famous but she’s not. At least not in America. She’s between 17-43 years old and has a bunch of good songs. She’s like 80’s Madonna. She’s probably foreign. I don’t know her story at all honestly.
Then we watched Strokes for awhile in a magical VIP area by the soundboard which I didn’t know existed, ate a chicken on a stick and went the fuck home.
Friends, it was a magical time.
Thanks for reading and until next year,
Matt Friction
