Bonnaroo 2012
There's a mechanical problem, minutes before we're supposed to take off from LAX. Already on the tarmac, we're taxied back to the gate, where we wait for nearly two hours for a new plane. Chaos, angry passengers, frustration. We jockey for position along with the other Bonnaroo-bound: there are only so many seats available to Dallas/Forth Worth, where weather is precluding all flights to Nashville. We don't make our connection, or the next two attempts at stand-by, so we have to spend the night in Texas and miss the first evening of the festival. At the steakhouse in the hotel where we stay, Greg plays up our plight to the server, who comps us a bottle of wine and desert. We take these back to our room and gorge ourselves in bed.
An early morning flight to Nashville, a hurried check-in to our hotel (where we score a jacuzzi suite), running to catch the bus to the festival. We're there by one, barely missing The Kooks. We quickly learn that our VIP upgrade affords us some huge advantages: no waiting in lines, exclusive seating for big shows, access to a large, air-conditioned tent filled with couches, cushions, free fruit, and cheap massages, incomparably cleaner/larger bathrooms, and remote concert viewing, should we choose.
We stumble around, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the festival grounds, by the sensory overload of things to see, to hear, to smell, to touch, and to taste. It's a bit intimidating, like arriving a week late to summer camp. We try to get our bearings and find a sense of belonging in this pop-up community, but there's very little time to get acclimated before the first show we catch - Two Door Cinema Club. I'm excited to hear some tracks off of an unreleased album, and Greg hoists me atop his shoulders during my favorite song. He pivots so I can videotape the screaming, cheering, waving crowd around us. Girls in dangerously little clothing crowd surf above us, and a guy nearby climbs the rafters for a better view.
Bonnaroo is like nothing I've experienced. Sun, skin, and sound everywhere. Carnival rides and games, food trucks, colorful tents crammed with crafts, art, and clothing, a water slide and oversized fountain, and a sprawling campsite with its own small village, all spread out over 700 grassy, tree-filled acres. Throngs of people, mostly young, many beautiful, nearly all thrilling to natural and man-made highs. Drugs everywhere: smoked, swallowed, shared and sold, all in plain view. We watch kids barely out of their teens pose for photos with acid tabs on their tongues. Over eighty thousand people are here with us, being flooded with music that pours from every corner of the grounds. It's positively surreal.
We wander in wonder at this small city, and plunge headlong into a three-day binge of our own illicit hedonism. We've come prepared, and we've been looking forward to this weekend for months. We feel no hesitancy and no shame about what we're going to do to our bodies and brains. We've earned the shit out of this weekend, emotionally, financially, and physically.
Our first roll kicks in while we watch Trampled By Turtles, and it's pure heaven. Dusk, and the sting of the sun is finally off of our bare shoulders and legs. We're sitting on a blanket-sized piece of vinyl fabric that I bought in the fashion district, just for the occasion. I picked the most colorful, silly, and happy print I could find - bright blue, green, and orange whales. This mat becomes an invaluable part of our Bonnaroo equipment: lightweight, waterproof, and fun, it's the perfect no-fly zone for when we need to carve out a little space from the crowd - not to mention put a layer between us and the dirt and bugs.
As the bluegrass notes wash over us, in the sandy area that divides the standers from the sitters, I'm physically unable to stay still. I jump up to dance while Greg remains seated, chatting with our neighbor on the ground. They talk about psychology and other randomness, passing a joint back and forth, happily crossed-legged on the ground despite the fact that everyone else around them is on his or her feet. I touch the back of Greg’s neck every few seconds as I dance, both to keep my bearings and to connect with him. He smiles up at me, telling me how much he loves the moment, the experience, me. It's an intense joy for both of us, that lasts song after song after song. When the opening strings of Wait So Long hit the air, everyone goes wild. Greg leaps to his feet, then kneels and pulls me atop his shoulders, where I stay for the duration of the song. He bounces and sways, holding my legs tight as we both belt out the words we know and love by heart. I dip my head and kiss his face, upside down. From my vantage point I see the hundreds of frenetic, ecstatic people singing along with us. The lights are synched perfectly to the tune, and our senses are saturated in every way possible. We leave the show electrified, and stay that way for the next three days.
There are over 150 acts at Bonnaroo, and it's impossible to see every one. We follow the schedule we've set for ourselves loosely, coming and going from the eleven different stages as we please. On our way to watch some electronic, for example, a strain of lo-fi indie pop will float to me, and I'll pull Greg off in its direction. This is par for the course, all weekend: we're flexible, high, and just happy to be within a minute's walk, at any time, of some of our favorite music in recent years. We follow beats as we fancy, depending on the whims of desire, hunger/thirst, and state of mind. It'd take pages to detail the entire weekend, but I can at least list some highlights:
Top Ten Eighteen Bonnaroo Moments, In No Particular Order (except #1 really was #1)
18. Sunday night, stopping randomly at a small stage, headlined by some band we've never heard. Less than a hundred people are watching, but the twangy country sound fits our mood. We dance beside a small canopy with stringed lights woven in its branches, oblivious to how we look to anyone but each other. We cross arms, grab hands, and spin, and I take one of the most vivid mental snapshots of my life: my boyfriend's laughing face, the lights and trees blurring behind him, and beyond that, paper lanterns aglow and adrift in the sky.
17. Stomping and sloshing my way through the mud on Sunday, being so glad for my rain boots, and loving the feel of the light, warm rain on my skin.
16. Watching a paper lantern being lit and launched, a few feet away from us, at Red Hot Chili Peppers (the cheers from the crowd are deafening each time one is successfully set afloat in the night sky - we see dozens over the weekend). When it dips back down into the crowd, threatening to crash, a woman catches it and gives it the push it needs to get skyward again. The crowd roars with approval and excitement.
15. The heady feeling of freedom, to be there with Greg. Just us, doing as we please. No obligations or responsibilities to anyone other than ourselves and our dogs, waiting for us back home. Recognizing and appreciating the fact that we can do this again - anytime we like, in fact - finances allowing. We're that free. It's intoxicating. The sense of well-being and connectedness, with my boyfriend, with the world at large - with myself. Finding the first true moments of peace and contentedness since my father died.
14. Discovering Major Lazer, based on a tip from some young'uns we meet on the bus.
13. Skrillex. Mind = blown.
12. Walking by Radiohead, but not actually stopping to watch them. This is strangely awesome. I don't remember where we're going or what exactly we're doing, but we just aren't feeling Radiohead enough to stop and stay at the stage. It's enough for us to be nearby, see the stage, and know we are hearing Radiohead live, and go on with our night. Totally surreal moment, getting to make that choice.
11. The Shin's performance of Simple Song, which has become my favorite track of the past few years. I'm obsessed with it. We watch the show from the VIP section, just high enough above the crowd to have a great view but still feel in the mix. It's drizzling rain, and Greg wordlessly takes out his hoodie and wraps me in it.
10. Walking in to the festival one afternoon while The Beach Boys are playing. We stumble straight into the venue, packed with three or four generations of smiling, singing concert goers, chanting giddily to songs they've grown up with. The group sounds exactly the same as their records.
9. Dancing with wild abandon to Phish, with glow sticks Greg has collected for us, in the misting rain. We wander the outskirts of the crowd, jumping around and laughing like children, lost in the moment and music. Greg completely lets loose and dances with pure, unconscious joy.
8. Trampled By Turtles (especially the moment described above).
7. Discovering the ridiculously talented LP, who Greg's been into for some time, and now I know why. After the show, an older couple approaches us to say, "We saw you guys yesterday, and we just want you to know we think you're romantic and sexy. We'll let you figure out who we think is which." Makes our day.
6. Ritzy Bryan of The Joy Formidable smashes her guitar into the drum set, and the crowd goes bonkers. They do an amazing set, and the girl is a freaking rock star.
5. Dancing at the Silent Disco (everyone is given wireless headphones playing the same live-DJed music). I'm rolling hard, and consequently feel like the best. dancer. in the world. So, so, so much sexy fun. We had plans to go back for another round on Sunday, but it was closed, so Greg proposes we make our own Silent Disco. And that's exactly what we do: we find a semi-private, relatively quiet patch of grass, put on our headphones, and just dance for a while to our own beats.
4. Watching Greg during Dispatch, but especially when they play The General. He's absolutely elated.
3. Mogwai's entire set. Rocking, eyes closed, high as hell. Indescribable beyond that.
2. Young The Giant's performance of My Body, which is pretty much an out-of-body experience for me. I am beside myself. I have never seen a crowd so charged up, and it is far and away my favorite performance of the entire festival.
1. Laying on the grass, on our ridiculous whale sheet, in the middle of the festival grounds at 1:00 am, on a perfect, lovely roll, holding one another, eyes closed in the dark and cold, hearing the strains of music around us, feeling cozily tucked in amongst the thousands of blissed-out people, but special and separate at the same time, kissing for several minutes straight without breaking contact. Now when I ask him for a "Bonnaroo kiss", he knows exactly what I mean.
Bonnaroo 2013 - A handful of impressions
Grief
Sunday, early afternoon, still at the hotel. I'm in a state. I've barely slept the past three nights. I've taken loads of drugs. I've hardly eaten a thing in four days. I'm depleted, exhausted, starving, and dehydrated. I've sent Bryan on ahead of me since a) my stomach is threatening revolt and b) I'm feeling like I need some time alone to get emotionally centered for the day. It's the second Father's Day since my dad died. Normally I'd not let myself sink into that hole, but my body is pissed at what I've been doing to it, and has nothing extra to give me, to keep me afloat.
On the shuttle to the festival, I send text messages to all my friends who are dads. I text Bryan to remind him to call his father. He answers almost immediately. Sent him the sweetest text in history. An ugly, ungenerous part of me responds back in my head. Must be nice. At the fest, I spend the first hour struggling to dial into a happy spot. I watch The Mowgli's, the most upbeat of bands, from the back of the tent, leaning my face against the poles of a raised lounge area. I cling to the posts and mouth the words as I listen to The Great Divide and San Francisco, tracks I've been looping for weeks back at home. I can't sing, because my lips are inches from the ear of a guy reclined on a sofa in front of me. Instead I just press my forehead to the bars like a prisoner, close my eyes, and will myself to count the blessings of the moment until genuine gratitude takes hold. But my throat is tight with grief, and I miss him with an inexplicable fierceness. I wish I could tell him about it, all of it, even the drugs. He'd shake his head and chastise me, but half-heartedly. He'd get it. And he'd delight in my delight. I miss him.
Joy
Two a.m. Sunday morning. That Tent. Billy Idol has just finished playing. Most of the crowd is staying exactly where they are, holding fast to their good spots. It's been a strange Saturday evening. The cancellation of Mumford and Sons cast a bit of a pall on the festival, which, by and large, is vocal about its dissatisfaction with the replacement act of Jack Johnson. Lots of bitter, sarcastic jokes being cracked. Lots of disappointed Mumford fans. There's been a weird hole in the evening where the much-anticipated headliner should have been. People have been wandering, ambivalent about what they wanted to do or see instead. Energy has been low for a couple of hours, as clusters of bummed out fans trickle around the festival grounds in search of something to keep them going. But now the buzz and hum are starting to build again. Empire of the Sun is about to start, and the crowd is fidgety with excitement, despite the late hour, and despite the fact that they're going on nearly half an hour late.
And then they do start. And the roar of the crowd ripples out from in front of the stage, back through and over us, and electrifies several thousand people, all eager to be recharged for the late-late shift. They sound absolutely amazing live, and I'm instantly transported. Everything is blue lights, lasers, and fog. The Australian duo are outfitted in psychedelic costumes, with LED lights lining their instruments. It feels like being in a video. We've somehow, miraculously managed to carve out enough room to dance, cornered against a railing near the back of the tent. While we're not close enough to make out all of the action on stage, we've got a decent view and incredible sound, and I'm beyond thrilled to be able to move and jump like a maniac when Alive comes on. Everyone who knows the words is throwing his or her head back and belting them out. I'm turned around, facing Bryan, dancing with him, singing to him again, smiling and laughing and out of my head with joy.
Affection
It's the Saturday night hole. The empty place where Mumford and Sons should have been. We've just left The Lumineers, but we don't know what we want to do until Billy Idol, at midnight. There aren't any shows going at the moment that are particularly compelling to us. Neither of us is interested in Jack Johnson; in fact, I'm terrified that watching him will actually bring me further down and put me to sleep. We briefly consider the Ferris wheel, but the line is outrageous. Should we take a pill? he asks. I'm unsure about starting on ecstasy this early. It's only a bit after nine, and I'm planning on going all the way until morning. Pretty Lights played until sunrise the night before, so I'm guessing Empire of the Sun and Boyz Noise will go just as late. I want to time my high to maximize on those shows. We could just get high and hang out in the Christmas barn, he suggests. Fuck it, I say, realizing there's nothing else to do. But two caveats, I say. If we start now, it'll be a two pill night for me. He nods. And the other? I reach into my bag, pulling out the tiny baggy from my coin purse. I'm a handful on two pills. Like, I will need to dance. And I might disappear to go do just that, no matter what's on.
We place the capsules on one another's tongues and toast with our water. See ya later, I say, like always.
The Christmas barn is going strong, and we hang out there for a bit, bobbing to the beat and smiling at all the weirdness of it. It's a barn, in the middle of a farm in Tennessee, in June, decked out like the North Pole, and filled with ravers. It's spectacularly bizarre.
I know the moon rocks have kicked in when I start to obsess about the Silent Disco. Jared Dietch is starting at eleven, and I want to catch as much of his set as possible before Billy Idol. I caught some of his set the night before and it was a blast. But I know that with the fest crowd largely disbanded by the cancellation, there'll probably be a line to get in to the Disco. A very, very long one that starts early. So I ask Bryan if we can go sit on the grass near it, to make sure we don't miss out. He agrees, and we step out of the Christmas chaos into the cold night.
My high ramps up noticeably as we do so.
Cold.
I run to the locker to get my hoodie. I return to find the line has grown. Bryan is socializing with some other very high people. A guy and a girl, who, a moment after introducing herself to me, literally crawls off on all fours, disappearing back into the dark. She just fell into my lap, he says. We sit cross-legged. We chat. We chat faster. Moon rock. Heart thumping. My eyes are wide and I'm rocking to a beat somewhere. I run to the bathroom again. I refill our water bottles. Bryan waits for me. I'm thankful for my warm layers. Recorded music pours over us from a nearby tower. Something awful. Some awful artist. We're too far away from everything live, it's all we hear. What it is? Why aren't they changing it? We laugh. We sit closer to one another. Watch out, I say. I'm coming up. I climb onto his lap and wrap my limbs around him. Cozy. Warmth. I do not love this man. I barely know this man. But he's strong and he's kind and he's here with me, and we're having a good time. We're in a great mood now, the headliner hole forgotten. We're ready to dance. The line grows long behind us, and I feel a rush of gratitude and relief that I'm not going to miss my DJ, that Bryan has patiently waited an hour with me, in the cold grass. He holds me. I bury my face against his shoulder, his neck, this man I do not know or love.
I'm glad he's here.
In the Disco, I cut loose fast and hard. He keeps up with me for a while. We retreat to the grass behind the tent. Room for us to goof, to spread out, to sing to one another. The music is a mix, and frustrates me. Some spectacular EDM tracks, some randoms from the 90s. Bryan sits and watches me. Takes photos of me. He points at me, licks his finger, makes it sizzle on his shirtsleeve. I laugh and dance harder. The line to get in has quadrupled. They watch us enviously. I'm giddy. This is my zone. When fireworks start over my shoulder I can't even stop to watch. Alive comes on and I explode into movement and laughter. I sing the words to Bryan, ecstatic. I mean them. Loving every minute cuz you make me feel so alive, alive. And I do feel incredibly alive. I never feel more alive than when I'm dancing to music I love, and here I am, at Bonnaroo, my god, what an amazing thing, what an incredible experience, out here among the stars, thousands of joyful people around us, listening to musical thrill after musical thrill. My heart fills with affection for this person, for being here with me, witnessing and sharing in my joy. He's made it real, more real than when I do it alone, and even though I don't love him, I love him for being with me in this moment.
Drugs
Friday, late afternoon. The sun is slowly dripping into the magic hour. The weather is a gift - a godsend really. Nowhere near as hot or humid as last year. There's even a light breeze valiantly working its way through an eighty thousand-strong mass of bodies, lifting skirts, hair, and spirits even higher than they already are. Bryan’s younger brother has joined us for the day, with a one-day ticket so they can rock out to Paul McCartney and ZZ Top together. They haven't seen one another in two years. Lots of laughter, smiling, teasing.
The three of us grab a patch of grass near a hip hop show. We sit only long enough to share a truly wretched soft pretzel and a handful of shrooms before we get up and wander the grounds, soaking up the chill sunset vibes of the festival. They're not attached to anything until the classic rock shows starts a few hours later, and I'm content to meander and take in the sights while the mushrooms gently, slowly curl their fingers around my senses. I let my gaze linger on things as we pass. Colorful clothes, face paint, signage, the oversized grotesque statues spiked in the ground. Everything has the potential to be a playground for my mind. I loosen my thoughts and relax my body into the drugs, letting them take me where they will.
As usual, it starts with water. Water has always been the gateway for me, with shrooms. Especially in the fading light of dusk. The twinkle and sparkle, the splatter and trickle. When water suddenly takes on an extra dimensionality, I know I'm high. The water of the Centeroo mushroom fountain captivates me as we come upon it. I jump on a bench as the guys walk ahead, snapping pics, entranced by the sound and sight of it, which blend together. Synesthesia, my favorite thing about mushrooms.
Mild giggles kick in as we walk up to This Tent, where Jim James is just starting. It's the perfect musical backdrop. A. E. I. O. U. sounds lush in my ears, drippy and loopy and sexy and silly all at once. I post to Instagram with one hand, my other arm wrapped around David as we half-dance, nodding and smiling and laughing.
Surprise
Here's what I expect of watching Paul McCartney: I expect it will be a ton of fun. I expect an eighty thousand person singalong. I expect to enjoy it and appreciate it for what it is: a once in a lifetime experience. I'm a Beatles fan, but I'm certainly not a rabid one.
Well, I get the singalong, and I absolutely get the fun. We end up in a very cool little cluster of people with whom we sing, dance, and high-five throughout the show. But the whole experience is heightened by the fact that while I'm not a rabid Beatles fan, my companion, Bryan, is. And watching any show in the company of a die-hard fan is always much more fun. He knows every word to every tune, and is just generally beside himself, he's so into it. He sings the ballads in my ear and plays the guitar solos on my hip and my arm. And somewhere along the way I get hit with a wave of holy shit emotion, as in holy shit, I'm watching one of the most famous musicians in the world, a man who's not going to be up to doing these shows for too many more years. I think of all the times I've listened to The Beatles either by myself or with friends who were fans.
I think of the fact that my brother was the one who introduced me to them.
And as Sir Paul pauses in between songs to muse about "his friend John", it dawns on me what an amazing, momentous thing it is, to be living at a time when I can watch this incredibly famous and influential man perform. A man whose life and experiences and connections and friendships are so intermeshed with the 20th century historical musical narrative that it's hard to think of someone more important, or integral to, well, the whole fucking thing.
And it moves me, tremendously. And I think of friends that I love, and who I would be crushed to lose, in the way that Paul lost John. And I cry. Unexpectedly, I cry. And I'm strangely happy to be surprised by this moment.
Peace
I don't meet up with Bryan on Sunday. I don't want to. I'm burned out physically and emotionally. We talk about meeting up for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, which is the final show, but he's already buried deep in the crowd when I get to the field. I'm feeling really low at this point in the evening. So low, in fact, that I actually consider skipping the show and just going home. Everyone else just seems so connected, and I feel so incredibly alone. There's a special kind of bittersweet energy at the last show on the last night of a festival. People stand closer to one another. They're quieter. It seems like they listen to one another more, perhaps soaking up the last of their interaction with each other before saying goodbye forever. It honestly feels like 79,999 people, and then me.
And then it starts raining.
It isn't pouring, but it isn't misting either. The covered tents at the back of the field quickly fill up, as some people retreat for shelter. But most just hold their ground, some in rain gear, though most not. I'm waiting in line for the bathroom, pulling my ninety-nine cent poncho out of my bag, when the band starts to play. And I know instantly that I'm not going anywhere. The sound is so good, so rich and full and pretty, even way back where I stand, at the far end of the field. It lights up the night and grabs a hold of me and says Hey, look, don't leave yet, ok? It's Tom fucking Petty after all. You can be sad, but just be sad to Tom Petty is all's we're saying.
So I don't leave. I go to the bathroom, where I unfold and don a flimsy, transparent triangle of plastic, and then I step back out into a massive, moonlit singalong. I wander around the field for the entire show, socializing a bit, but mostly just stopping in one section long enough to listen to a song or two before moving on to another area. I watch lanterns being lit, and set out to float off into the night sky amidst cheers and applause. I watch fire breathers and glow stick dancers and hula hoopers. I spend a few minutes running in circles with a group of people who are just randomly running in circles, for the sheer fun of it, in the rain. I do all of this alone, and my heart, which has felt so empty and hollow all day, suddenly is full again. I throw my head back and yell out lyrics along with everyone else. Heyyyyyy baby, there ain't no easy way out. Heyyyyyyy I will stand my ground. And I won't back down.
I won't say that I feel joyful, exactly. Not akin to other, higher moments of the fest. But I find peace back there, in the dark, aimlessly wandering and singing to myself, to the crowd, to the band, to the sky, to my past, to my present, and to my future. It isn't some great revelatory moment. I'm not high, and I haven't had a single drop of alcohol. It's just a clean, peaceful feeling, standing there in the rain, being alone, and being anything but at the same time
Connection
Thursday night. We've got our festival legs. It's the warm-up day. No major shows, none of the big stages are open, but there are several smaller or lesser-known acts scheduled to kick the weekend off. Last year Greg and I missed Thursday entirely, so it feels like a bonus to even be here tonight.
We drift and sample shows at will, having fun and enjoying the scene but not getting too amped up about anything. Until we stumble upon Django Django. And that's when our festival starts. I've never heard them before, and Bryan has only briefly checked them out online when making his schedule. They're indescribable. Part EDM, part funk, part question mark, and one more part question mark. I've since listened to them on Spotify and something definitely gets lost in their studio recordings. But live? Live they are unreal. So fun, so funky and danceable.
We catch the show from the outside of the tent, nowhere near close enough to see the stage, but the sound hits us - and the crowd around us - just right. We have a blast dancing with one another, laughing and goofing around to the music we can't for the life of us describe or classify, but which is rocking us hard. Some guy near where we stand shines a handheld disco laser under our feet, twisting the grip to change the pattern as we dance. I'm mesmerized and delighted. Bryan is loving the music, loving dancing, loving his first taste of Bonnaroo.
There aren't a lot of moments during the weekend, that he and I truly connect over the music we're watching. But we connect over Django Django, and it's the perfect sleeper hit start to the weekend.
Luck
I lucked out so many times throughout the festival, in terms of catching the one or two songs I'd wanted to see, at shows that I wasn't otherwise interested in. This happened with Maps and Atlases, Beach House, Wilco, ZZ Top, David Byrne, Divine Fits, and at least a couple more I'm not remembering. I just happened to be walking by, or walking up, or on my way to another show, and I caught some of my favorite randoms this way. Super lucky timing.
Regrets
I missed On an On entirely, because we got to Paul McCartney so early. That's my biggest regret. I also missed The XX completely (I missed them at Coachella, too - double fail).
I wish I'd been much closer for Of Monsters and Men and The Lumineers. The Lumineers put on an awesome show, but their sound got completely lost in the back. We could barely hear them. I would have been much more bummed about it if I hadn't seen them here in LA last year, and smack up against the stage at that. And I can't really complain about the Of Monsters and Men show, since this is the third time I've seen them, and both times before were really amazing for me, emotionally.
There are a couple other smaller bands/performers I wanted to see that were earlier in the day, but I was just way too trashed from being up until 6am the night before to get back up early enough to catch them. C'est la festival vie.
EDM
Porter Robinson, Wolfgang Gartner, Boyz Noise, and Pretty Lights are all, predictably, incredible. Danced my face off, loved every minute of them.
Romance
Negative. Chemistry, yes. Lots of laughs and great conversation, definitely. Romance, no. Ellie is officially still single, kids. Hide your menfolk.
Moment of Random Dancing In the Middle of Everything
One particularly Bonnaroo-esque moment was actually on Thursday night. We took moon rocks, which neither of us had ever had before, and it hit us like a tsunami. I consider myself, for lolz or for lolsobs, to be a pretty savvy user of ecstasy/MDMA at this point. And I've never experienced anything like it. It was nearly incapacitating. We both had to sit down when it hit, lest our legs give out from under us. This happened as we were walking through the middle of the festival. We just plopped down right where we stood. That lasted about thirty seconds for me, at which point, I, of course, needed to dance. The closest music source was the crazy Christmas barn, and it was perfect. Bryan just sat watching, dazed but laughing, as I broke it down right there, in the middle of foot traffic. I didn't have a choice. Then we just sat there for a while marveling at how unbelievably high we were, and every few minutes I'd pop back up to dance some more of it off.
To me a festival isn't complete unless at some point I'm randomly dancing in the middle of nothing/everything. So I got that covered.
Favorites
Band - The Vaccines. Holy shit they rocked. Loved loved loved seeing them, especially since they were a last minute, very exciting discovery for me. I've since added lead singer Justin Hayward-Young to my rock star crush list. I mean, come on. If The Strokes + Weezer + a dash of Vampire Weekend sounds good to you, check them out. Family Friend (just the tune, no video) is fucking amazing, I cannot stop listening to that track. Also great are If You Wanna and Norgaard. Oh, and Wetsuit, which was so, so fun to hear live.
Performer - Matt Berninger of The National, who drank his way through the show like a boss, jumped into the pit inches from where I stood, and wandered around the audience for a couple of songs, dragging and violently yanking his mic cord behind him. Such a badass. I Need My Girl almost killed me. I wish it would have. Then maybe Matt would have revived me when he plunged into my personal space, which he totes did on purpose, I'm sure of it.
Song - Alive, by Empire of The Sun. So magical. I was in heaven. One of my favorite festival moments of all time, if not THE best moment, actually. Can't wait to see them again at HardFest in August.
Were There Any Groups of People Dressed In Banana Suits?
You bet your potassium there were.
vs. 2012?
Gah, do I have to? Put a gun to my head and I'll say 2012 was better. But that's not really fair. Such wildly different experiences. Last year I went with Greg, and we were pretty head over heels, though the fact is we fought terribly when we were there. Drugs and romance, I have learned, do not mix. Like, at all.
That being said, some of my favorite moments of this year way, way trumped some of my 2012 moments. It's just too hard to compare, really.
Gonna 'Roo Again Next Year?
Honestly, I'm not sure. I'm going to wait and see what the lineup is first this time. And I'm itching to do a new festival, if I can. Maybe Osheaga, in Montreal. Or, dream fest - the Isle of Wight. And if I don't go to EDC next year, I can pretty much never go, because it'll be my last chance to go before I'm 40. And your girl really doesn't give a whole lot of fucks about age and all that nonsenserry, because she still has a blast going to EDM shows and such...but EDC is a whole 'nother kettle of (very young) fish.
I'm also thinking of maybe just taking a trip to see one of my huge favorites somewhere cool, such as Explosions in The Sky, or The Walkmen. Making a weekend out of visiting a new city, capping it off with a concert. Dunno.
How Bad Was the Comedown After Bonnaroo?
Suicidally bad. That's not an exaggeration, I'm sorry to say. I was an absolute, utter mess. Even worse than after Coachella, which was unbearably bad. Hence my silence on the blog and IG. I was in the throes of some of the deepest despair I've ever experienced. I don't know if it was the moon rocks, or the combination of lots of moon rocks plus lots of mushrooms, or the fact that I barely ate while I was there (I lost ten pounds over the weekend), or WHAT was going on, but I crashed worse than I ever have. Disastrously bad scene. Spent most of Wednesday wanting to hurl myself off of the roof. Really. Luckily friends near and far were there for me, and I had a ton of support when I needed it most. Like, unreal amounts of love and support, which probably saved my life.
Serotonin depletion is bad news for anyone, at any time. But for someone prone to depression, it's actually incredibly fucking dangerous. I've now learned this lesson twice, the very very hard way. It's something I'm factoring into consideration for all of my subsequent festival plans, including Burning Man. That much usage spells serious trouble for me. One or two nights in a row is one thing, but four nights in a row is just not doable for the Ellster.
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And that will conclude your coverage of Bonnaroo 2013, which was written by your blogmistress all at once over the past few hours and therefore on no sleep, so apologies if it's not her best work, etc and so forth, and also apologies in advance for a few more IG shots she's probably going to post because they're pretty and she wants to, even if they're totally redundant (read: sunset Ferris wheel shots) and to all a goodnight zzzzzzz.....
Bonnaroo 2015 - 40 moments
It's always an intimidatingly huge task, to try and recap Bonnaroo. Just reviewing the performances doesn't really get you there. And anyway, music blogs and mags do a much better job of that than me.
With festivals, it comes down to moments. Blissful moments. Stressful moments. Carefree moments. Surprised moments. Annoyed moments. Amused moments. Playful moments. Pissed-off moments. Those are what stay with me. So those are what I'm sharing today, albeit a solid month after they've cooled off. Forty moments and forty images to keep them company in my memory. In no particular order, because order is taking the summer off.
1. An industrial truck is rolling through the middle of the grounds. It inches past picnic tables where the sweaty and sun-drenched scarf down pizza and donuts. The cab's windows are lowered; two tanned young men sit inside, looking surprisingly cheerful considering the circumstances. These men are doing god's work: hauling pumped-out waste from the Porta Potties. Their heroics are not lost on the crowd, many of whom rush up to high-five them in appreciation. Bonnaroooooo! they call to one another, slapping palms and exchanging smiles, respect, germs. I have a hard time picturing such a scene happening at Coachella.
2. The things you hear, as you move through the throng. Snippets of conversations, shouts of greeting, laughter. You wonder about the stories behind some of them. I really don't think they have chicken soup, says a male voice doubtfully, and I'm intrigued enough to make a note of it in my phone. Is his girlfriend sick? Cold? It's ninety degrees out, middle of the day. Hot soup hardly seems a refreshing choice for overheated revelers. I hope she finds a pot pie or fried chicken, something more likely to be around but just as comforting.
3. They like to say Bonnaroo fills up your spirit for the year ahead. I think of this as we're laying on our sheet, at the edge of a relatively empty tent, listening to the opening song of Who Is William Onyeabor. It's especially dry and dirty over here. As people drift in to check out the music, they kick up dust and inadvertently add to the thin layer of Tennessee that hovers then settles lightly on our skin. I love it, though. It's part and parcel of the experience. We're especially close right now, maybe that's why. Joking and cuddling, flat on our backs, removed but involved, enjoying what's on offer but also making something for ourselves. These are the best Bonnaroo moments. Taking it in but creating at the same time. I love him so much at this instant, fist propped behind his head, tapping a foot while I slap his leg to the beat. All our small cuts and hurts forgotten, lovingly bandaged up with music and sunshine.
4. We're enjoying one of the few gaps in our schedule. Wandering, catching bits of shows here and there, gravitating to whatever draws us in. Something funky's going down at This Tent. We slide into the back corner, where the reds and purples of stage lights hit the black wall of night, washing us in a pink haze. We dance, and I can't tell if we're being ironic with our ridiculous moves or not. A man approaches us and wordlessly, wondrously hands us a pineapple. He gestures emphatically for us to hold it together, which we do, glancing at one another and at him in amazement. So, this is happening. He still doesn't speak and neither do we, other than to say thank you and laugh. All three of dance for a few moments before I sense that I'm expected to return the pineapple. I do so, and he dances out of sight with it. I think we're festival-married now, says Terence. I think that was some kind of ceremony. I suspect Pastor Pineapple will be in a lot of Bonnaroo stories.
5. Another overheard tidbit. This time I see the speakers: a girl skipping ten steps behind two of her friends - a girl and guy - who lean on one another with linked arms as they walk. Crossing an expanse of grass in front of us, so young and fresh they make my heart ache. There's a softness about them I can't explain, as if the light breaking just now was cleared by the clouds especially for them. Where are you gooooing, Katie, where are you going? sings the second girl to her friend ahead. Joy and friendship twinkle in her voice. We're going to make halos! comes the reply, over a freckled shoulder, equally singsong and inviting. Somehow they've managed to write Bonnaroo in fourteen words.
6. Turquoise braids so close I can see where the blond fades in. A gauzy floral kimono, also turquoise, wisping across my ankles. Funky sunglasses, red lipstick, a smile wider than the sky. Girlfriends on either side of her, but she's obviously the beloved ringleader. They sit practically on our feet, so smashed up against them are we. Row after row of us, cross-legged, facing the Jumbotron where Bleacher's lead singer is torturing a tent full of millennial women. He's one part one emo, one part bro. "Ebro," Terence calls him. Braids and Co., shifting positions, notice how much they're on top of us. They apologize, try to make room. We assure them it's no problem, they're welcome to what few inches of space we're all sharing. Braids is effusive, bubbling with thanks and her goofy stoner's grin. She loves us, she says. I love her hair, I say. If we want any of her, you know (she holds up a small pipe), we're welcome to partake. Seriously, it's the good shit. Terence gives her an orange, which he obtained from the VIP tent but which we have no use for. Braids is delighted, hugs him in thanks. I get a hug, too. If nothing else, I won't get scurvy! There's a topless hula hooper over Terence's shoulder. I discreetly point her out to him and my expression says See? I told you they do that here. I've been thinking about ditching the itchy bra under my tank top, so I'm building my case. Bleachers, a world away from NYC, are a blast.
7. I'm going to kill him, I fume silently. I'm going to absolutely kill him. The thing I dread most, the thing I warned him against repeatedly, has happened. We've gotten separated. There's no cell reception. Texts don't go through and calls disappear into voicemail purgatory. We have a designated meeting place set but a show has just started, one we've both been looking forward to. Tears for Fears. He wanted to catch some of Ben Folds before it started, but we cut it too close and by the time we left the crowd was impossibly thick. Walking too fast ahead of me, darting around crazily, striding over the blankets of people already sitting down. I refused to follow suit, perhaps unreasonably so, but I'd rather take the long way around than be disruptive and rude. And now we're separated instead of singing along together. I'm going to kill him. And I nearly do, when we meet up afterward. Chewing him a new one by the mushroom fountain, overly loud. He counters with fierce, forced cheerfulness. These are the worst Bonarroo moments. Veering sharply off course before you know what's happened, willing yourself to shrug off anger and annoyance, intensified by heat, fatigue, hunger. But I do. I stop us walking and pull him into a hug, holding tight until I feel the tension truly release from his body. I'll hold him all night if I have to. We're not fighting at Bonnaroo. Anyway, they sounded depressingly old to me, to be honest. The whole show felt hokey. You can't go home again. You can only go forward.
8. Childish Gambino. Not my thing, but Terence is fascinated by the guy. Completely gave up a career acting. It's like if I just decided one day to.... I tune out. I can't help it. I'm distracted by thoughts of the night ahead. It's just past nine and in a little while we're going to take pills which will make us want to dance. And I can't wait to dance. Deadmau5 the night before was not enough. I'm twitching in my seat, ready for some Silent Disco, some Bassnectar and Flume. Though it could also be the fact that my ass itches horribly, when I sit on the ground in my Dance Pants. Something about the combination of cold vinyl, the hay-like grass underneath, and the sticky slick feel of my leggings. It's the worst, and I keep finding reasons to stand up, smooth my clothing out. The VIP tent is a short walk away so I make a couple trips over there to pee in relative luxury while Terence gets his rap fix. In the buzzy light of the trailer restroom, I check myself out. High neck crop top that laces up my back. Colorful, slinky jersey pants hugging my hips. Festival outfit planning always brings out my harshest inner critic. No way, Ellie. You are too fucking old for that. That too. And that? Don't even think about it. And I compromised with myself this time, balancing out the amount of skin I'm showing. But the getup is skintight and unforgiving, and I worked hard to own it. This vanity, gross and superficial, is still part of the fun of festivals for me. I'll outgrow it eventually.
9. I always forget how much I love the sprawling, sweltering afternoon shows on the main stage. The frenetic energy of late-night sets is the excitement I daydream about, leading up to festivals. But once I'm there, the truth is that the daytime headliners out at the What Stage - a massive field lined with food stalls and shops, with room enough for 90,000+ people - are what often give me the most joy. And right now, I'm giddy with it, listening to Spoon. The sizzling heat has pinned thousands of fans to the ground, where they sit or lay in various degrees of dehydration, delight, or both. Every last one of us working on a sunburn, none of us caring. The opening chords of "Do You" launch me into a frenzy. I jump up, dancing a circle around Terence, singing to him as I bounce. It's one of the songs I've most been looking forward to hearing live. Their entire set will end up being one of my favorites of the weekend. Britt Daniel's scratchy howling has been on my radar since the 90s and finally seeing him perform is a kind of coming home. Terence dances with me, the two of us jumping around like maniacs. When we collapse in a heap, defeated by the sun, I lean against him, smoothing the hair from his face as I sing.
10. Waiting to ride the Ferris Wheel. In three years of going to festivals, I've never yet managed to get on one. We're high on mushrooms and the length of the line doesn't faze me a bit. Everything is color and light and contentment, and I'm satisfied to just look around. The sun is setting, and our bodies cast twenty foot shadows across the grass. The placard at the entrance tells about the original Ferris Wheel at the World's Fair. Adjusted for inflation, a ticket to ride cost $90. Ninety dollars! I'll tell everyone I know this, back at home. Silly on psychedelics, we assign flavors to the car colors. I hope we get grape. Or lemon. When we finally board, we're amazed at how long the ride lasts. Florence and The Machine is on, way off in the distance. I'd caught her at Coachella and had encouraged Terence to go watch her himself, but he's chosen to stay with me instead. We watch a sea of people surging to the music, which we can hear clearly even at this remove. Terence takes in the vastness of Bonnaroo, the endless camping area and the size of the grounds. I duck as he takes panoramic pictures, craning around in my seat to get my own sunset shots. It's spectacular.
11. Guster is playing "Ramona." I wasn't even sure I wanted to watch their set, I had so little faith they'd play much of the older stuff I know, considering how massive their catalog is. But they're playing "Ramona" and it is absolutely making my Bonnaroo. I. Fucking. Love. This. Song. Terence films me singing along, where we sit off to the side, in the grass. When it ends I realize I'm crying. Not even sure why. Not even sure what it dragged up, from deep inside me. Not sure I want to look at it and see. But it got something, that's for sure.
12. Deadmau5 has just ended. Tens of thousands of people are shuffling back to the main grounds, to catch the rest of ODESZA. Other mau5heads like me have been stunned into silence. I stumble along, my hand hooked into the back of Terence's shorts, "Avaritia" still ringing in my ears. The set was phenomenal. Operatic. And all I can think is that I wish there was a way to make Joel Zimmerman understand - feel - what his music does to us. I wish there was a machine I could hook him up to, so that as he performed, all the emotion, all the elation his music generates in fans could be routed straight back into him. Electrify him with a heart attack of appreciation. He is like no other, to me. An innovator with the success and talent to back up his occasional attitude. One of my biggest creative idols, and whom I was most excited to see this weekend. From the opening notes of "You There" (which is exactly what I'd hoped he'd start with), I spent his entire set in an ecstasy of movement, only stopping to drink water. Heaven.
13. Billy Joel. Creeping around in the dark field as his set is starting, trying to agree on the optimum spot. We end up on the VIP hill, where to my right I see a crowd of ninety thousand, illuminated by the towering lights of the What Stage. A mass of waving glow sticks, launched in huge bundles towards the sky at key points during songs. LED hula hoops, jump ropes, and all manner of blinking totems. And the lanterns. Those delicate paper balloons carefully lit and set aloft by the crowd, to the triumphant cheers of everyone nearby. They drift by overhead, tiny glowing festival clouds that complete the magic scene that is Bonnaroo's last night. And the music. Terence belting it out, totally absorbed, totally transplanted (probably someplace close to where I've gone; we're only two years apart, after all). I get weepy during "Piano Man" and giddy during "Only The Good Die Young" and everything in between is just all kinds of wonderful.
14. Sometime this spring, "Sedona" by Houndmouth got under my skin in a really big way. The story in that song...I don't know, I just love it. And when they played it, well. Terence standing behind for me to alternately jump on and lean into, breaking my face on the biggest smile ever. Realizing it was only Thursday night and we had another three days' worth ahead of us.
15. Do you know STS9? I did not. I don't know how I'd missed them, studying up. Right up my instrumental alley. We caught them on accident, grabbing a bite next to where they played. Sometimes, being completely removed from a stage offers the best vantage point. This was one of those times. We could see the entire light show, lasers and strobes blasted in every which way to the pulsing beat. From a distance, the whole thing look contained, like a sci-fi movie set standing alone on an otherwise dark island.
16. A small thing, but heartwarming to see: the various Robin Williams totems.
17. I say this with love in my heart for AWOLNATION: AWOLNATION is a big dork. I'd dragged Terence up close to the stage in the blazing heat, half an hour early. We and everyone around us utterly defeated by the sun, hardly anyone talking. Shading ourselves with our hands, sending emissaries out for cold drinks. But then the music starts and we all gamely jump up. Faithful, sun-fried fans, going on pure anticipation. He's animated, undeniably spirited and pumped to be at Bonnaroo. But also...awkward somehow? When he tries to rally the crowd between songs he sounds more like a morning radio DJ than a rockstar. It's a surprise, a bit of a let down at first, but then fun in its own way. We giggle at how goofy he comes across, and give in to what now feel like cheesy anthems.
18. Cooling off in the VIP tent, girding ourselves for another several-hour stint in the sun. Terence uses the bathroom, and when he returns he finds me in conversation with a middle-aged man holding a silver mylar balloon. He's round and pink, pleasantly toasted by sunshine and alcohol. He's telling me about the vibrations in his balloon. How it's picking up levels of sound beyond what the speakers are producing. People are freaking out, he says, when they hear it. Goes on a bit about frequencies and secret, mystical music. Clearly having some kind of spiritual experience, with the balloon, sharing it with everyone he can. Terence gives it a try, and the surprised look on his face delights the man. See? Totally different waveforms, right? The balloon is passed to me. Yep. Totally different waveforms. Pretty damn cool.
