Bonnaroo: A Rock Diary

MANCHESTER, Tenn. - It came as a shock to see the aerial photos being sold on Shakedown Street, Bonnaroo's main thoroughfare, on Saturday. Attendance was shy of last year's record, but seeing something like 70,000 people from the air is still awe inspiring.

The view from the ground nearly defies description. Walking to and from Centeroo, the festival's compound of stages and official vendors, the dusty expanse sometimes resembles a third-world market and sometimes, as during the Sunday night early exodus, the end of the world. Equally remarkable is the truly eclectic mix of festival-goers. Despite the Clear Channel takeover and the proliferation of mainstream artists in the lineup, jam band fans and hippies of all stripes showed up in droves: young ones, old ones, Trustafarians, '60s holdovers, enterprising veggie quesadilla chefs-no shortage of dreads and tie-dye.

Added to the simmering cauldron of heat, music and drugs were hipsters, high schoolers, frat boys and the women who love them, ravers, parents, children, and me.

Day One:

Neared Manchester, Tenn. at about 2:00 p.m. on Thursday. Endless line of Bonnaroo traffic was diverted on the shoulder, and over the next four hours we gradually inch towards US-24 exit 112. Set up about thirty minutes away from Centeroo, next to a friendly group from Virginia (who throughout the weekend will share their water, food, and shade).

Ventured in the first evening and spent a great deal of time trying to get oriented. The four main venues are named What Stage, Which Stage, That Tent and This Tent. According to Josh from Wisconsin, who I met in the long line for Stanton Moore's set at the Something Else jazz tent, the festival creators created the system to "trick" people (i.e. stoned people, i.e. everybody) into seeing different types of music they weren't seeking out. It's an interesting thought, and moreso now given the variety of the lineup.

Was turned away from the tent when it reached capacity, and went to That Tent to wait for the National. Waited through the end of a set by the Sam Roberts Band (unfortunate, fratty quasi-retro rock) and technical difficulties which resulted in an altercation between the National's violinist and a stagehand, until finally the band took the stage. Sound was much more British new-wave than I'd been led to believe, and singer Matt Berniger sang spookily like Ian Curtis although sometimes too low to be audible over the instrumentation.

Slogged back to camp and rolled over a few hundred times in my tent before falling asleep.

After a solid, energetic set by the Kings, trekked over to see Manu Chao and the Radio Bemba Sound System. Manu Chao surprised with his set-instead of duplicating the more relaxed feel of his international pop albums, the band went for a deep reggae on many songs, periodically erupting into a hyper-kinetic double-time thrash, during which Radio Bemba's flamboyant guitarist would leap onto the monitors and unleash over-the-top wah-wah solos.

Day Three:

Saturday afternoon, listened to most of the Hold Steady's set from a shady area before getting a good spot for Spoon's set at That tent.

Spoon's characteristic taste and restraint didn't detract from their live show at all. Instead, the band played tight and loud while impossibly cool singer Britt Daniel heaved himself about the stage and mauled his guitar during such songs as "My Mathematical Mind." Gimme Fiction and Kill the Moonlight were both well represented, and band played their best known songs "I Turn My Camera On" and "The Way We Get By" with all the energy they deserved. Daniel has an innate sense of drama, and when he hit the fantastic line "I got to believe they call it rock and roll" from "The Beast and Dragon, Adored" it sounded positively triumphant.

Went back to camp rather than watch the Police (who, I heard, were about as good as could be expected; personally didn't feel like staring at Sting's smug mug on a Jumbotron for two hours). Gave in to exhaustion and napped. Woke up much too late and missed most of the Flaming Lips, to my eternal shame. Still got a taste of their joyful spectacle: confetti jets, smoke, lasers, lights and costumes. Wayne Coyne is not a great live vocalist, but as a feelgood ringmaster, his skills are unparalleled. Got to hear their standard closer "Do You Realize??" as well as an encore ending with an yearning version of the Rolling Stones' "Moonlight Mile."

Day Four:

Spent much of Sunday recovering from three days of dust, heat, and dehydration. Hiked back to Centeroo around 4, and went to What Stage for Wilco.

The heat was still unbearable, but all discomfort disappeared when Wilco took the stage, opening with "You Are My Face," one of the most stately and gorgeous numbers from their laid-back and jam-friendly new album Sky Blue Sky. Jeff Tweedy's new songs may lack the edge of his best work, but it is obvious that new lead guitarist Nels Cline is at least a gifted musician and possibly a visionary. He seemed to perform miracles, his hands coaxed spiraling, towering leads from his Fender Jazzmaster, directing the new songs' breathtaking instrumental passages. Tweedy was in fine form as well, giving vitality to the words and melodies of such classic songs as "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart" and "A Shot in the Arm."

Broke my heart to leave early (good work, Tweedy), but needed to secure a spot at the impending White Stripes show. Ended up about 30 to 40 feet from the stage, packed in tight by the ever-expanding crowd. The masses were indeed unwashed, and the odor was none too pleasant. It was evening, sticky and muggy, and the vintage blues pre-show music suited the ambience of the crowd perfectly.

Jack and Meg walked on late, waving to the crowd before kicking off with "Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground." It didn't matter that I had heard that song hundreds of times, as Jack steadfastly refuses to play or sing anything the same way twice.

It was a raunchy, dirty set, with both Jack and Meg squeezing the maximum amount of grit from their simple grooves. The mid-set slide showcase of "Death Letter" was heart-stoppingly thrilling, and the monumental, effects-laden fuzz-guitar sound was so powerful it seemed to bend the speakers as it forced its way out onto the crowd. The crowd pogoed, crowdsurfed and headbanged as we were beaten into willing submission.

There was a moment during the long encore when I looked at Jack White, perched atop the monitors, his body shaking as he ripped into another screeching solo, that I became aware I was watching something of genuine importance. Watching the White Stripes that night I knew I was in the presence of one of the great rock and roll bands of our era, and that I would have a story to make many envious in years to come.

Took a much-needed dunk in the Centeroo fountain after the show, and headed back to camp for the final time.

It may be, as some claim, that Bonnaroo will be destroyed by its commercial ambitions, and that the original spirit of creating a temporary utopia apart from the laws and cares of the world (the aim of every rock festival since Woodstock, in a sense) has already been diluted by the manipulations of the business world. Or it may be that Bonnaroo will, as its creators hope, become an institution, America's version of the famed annual Glastonbury Festival in Britain. I can't say. But I can tell you that the camaraderie is real, that Bonnaroo exists in a dream state where instant connection is possible, and friendship evolves naturally. Beyond that I can only tell you what it did for me, and it was no small thing. My faith in rock and roll, ever shaky, was given a much-needed shot in the arm.