Bonnaroo 2013 From a Distance

Outside is cold and windy, conditions that will only worsen the next day or so.  But worse yet is the incessant grayness, which is already provoking my annual run-in with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), the emotional equivalent of a migraine, and in some ways more painful.  All of which made me think of warmer, happier times as we exit the holidays and move into winter's frigid core.   And one of those warmer, happier times for me was definitely last year's return to Bonnaroo, which I wrote about, but never posted.  So, here, with a few minor updates, are those words.

It's hard to imagine an event that wreaks more havoc on one's expectations than the annual Bonnaroo music & arts festival in Manchester, TN.  The past two years I arrived with a set of preconceived notions that were crushed within hours, and I'll be surprised and highly disappointed if this trends anywhere but up on future visits.  The why of all this gets to the very heart of the festival itself, and the happy fact that for all of its size and quirkiness, Bonnaroo wildly succeeds in building an authentic and somewhat diverse community that compels everyone into its fold, warmly embracing both festival-goers and performers alike.

For the remaining curious, yet sheltered few, "Roo" is four days and nights of nonstop movement, merriment, and most important, music cut from a generous swath of conventional, alternative and progressive genres.  To the uninitiated, it would be easy to dismiss the affair as yet another open-air string of stage acts bookended by decent enough headliners.  That wouldn't exactly be false, but in the same way that that Kobe Bryant could be described as a good basketball player, it would be woefully, almost criminally inadequate.  Roo isn't just a back-to-back series of outdoor concerts; it's an unrestrained, refreshingly novel pop culture experience that well exceeds this description in a great many ways.

I fully grant this could all sound rather embellished to the Roo virgins among you, and you have every right to cock an eyebrow at such a claim.  But as the now grizzled veteran of two consecutive festivals, I stand by my words, and further assert that it's hard not to feel accepted or at least welcomed only moments after entering the grounds, as you park and immediately pitch tent on the 10' x 20' lot you're provided to make camp.  Neighbors quickly greet neighbors with offers of assistance and invites to highly personalized campsites, as everyone hurries to get situated before the first acts hit stage by mid-day.  To all but the most doggedly introverted new friendships at Bonnaroo are practically guaranteed. 

Last year I wrote about our experience as Bonnaroo noobies armed with VIP passes (http://zeepoohbah.blogspot.com/2012/06/overa-week-has-passed-since-phish.html).  For anyone even mulling the trip it's worth the read.  Much of what I wrote then applies to future events as well, so I don't want to tread over old ground.  My point wasn't to slam the far more popular General Admission (GA) tickets --far from it in fact, as the orange GA wristlet will get you into every venue the VIP model does for a much lower price, making it a slam dunk for this kind of event.  But for those of us more closely aligned with the alpha boomer demographic, VIP is a difference with a very real distinction, and provides a comfort level that's almost impossible to beg off once experienced.  

That's not to say everything is perfect, even in VIP, because there is still room for improvement.  What Bonnaroo consistently does well, though, is evolve and continue to refine itself into a better experience with each passing year.   And in the end it is one hell of a ride that will stay with you far past closing night and well into the frigid months of winter.

Volumes could be written on the more fringe aspects of Roo, from the ubiquitous drug use to its celebration of personal expression --much of which likely thrives due to the complete dearth of law enforcement on any inch of festival grounds.  But at some point all the plug & hype eventually brings you to the obvious and very salient point of the music itself.  After all, that is the real heart of this exercise; what the orange bracelet with its radio frequency sensor ultimately accords you during 100 hours of festival uptime:  access to a staggering array of shows you would never otherwise see over so short a span. 

And with that knowledge comes the biggest, and often most frustrating decision you'll have to make, which is, just who you'll be seeing & hearing over the four days and nights of your stay.  Because, at any given time there are no less than ten venues and only one of you, which can be maddening given the wealth of talent too often competing for your attention. 

For me it all began with the tri-sister act of Haim (rhymes with "time"), a group EW mentioned as one of 15 Artists to Watch in a playlist they published last January.  I've always had a thing for hard charging female bands, and only wish there were more of them at these large events.  Except, stylistically, Haim seems a bit hard to pin down, given they routinely merge elements of folk, hip hop and blues against a backdrop of more traditional hard rock.   

But midway through their lean eight song set I suddenly realized what the all the fuss was about as Danielle Haim's confident lead guitar and searing vocals hit just the right notes on a cover of Fleetwood Mac's "Oh Well."  Blending anger with arrogance, it was an unexpected prelude to three excellent singles that followed, and Haim nailed it with aplomb.  Until then I had always thought Bob Welch owned this song, but their take made me reconsider the notion of musical standard-bearer, and drove home the point that for any great song there's always another grand interpretation to be made by someone you currently don't know.

While Thursday stayed hot, Friday was pristine.  From dawn through dusk the grounds were enclosed by endless blue sky and graced by a continuous northern breeze that seemed far more Caribbean than anything Deep South.  Contributing to this perfection was an eclectic line-up of acts that ran from late morning to well past midnight.

A month before Bonnaroo, I watched Trombone Shorty & Orleans Avenue give their all in a one hour set at Maryland Blues Fest just off Sandy Point Beach.  As they hit stage the temperature was just hitting hit its high mark, and I remember thinking just how bloody uncomfortable I was feeling, with another four acts to follow.  A minute into his first piece, I felt a strong wind blow every atom of sweat from my skin, and I jokingly wondered if it wasn't Troy Andrews' breath moving jet speed through the bell opening.  At Bonnaroo he played for 60,000 strong  on the elephantine Main stage at a lunchtime show that gave no quarter.  You'll often hear people wax about their favorite artist being "unbelievable," but Andrews'  mastery of circular breathing at times seems to flirt with the supernatural.  There are extended stretches of uninterrupted playing that make even audience members wince and want to catch their breath.  Even more, it's the sheer force of his playing that makes Andrews an obligatory watch. 

Two years ago on a lark I caught Of Monsters and Men on YouTube playing "Little Talks" in someone's living room, and was struck by the way in which co-leads Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir and Brynjar Leifsson deftly played off each others' rhythm.   "Mountain Sound" and "Dirty Paws" were better still, so going into Friday afternoon I was amped for what was certain to be one of the better acts of this year's schedule.

Halfway through their utterly sterile set I found myself gasping for air, wondering how I could have been so horribly wrong.  Everyone sang like they had been dosed with horse tranquilizer, and Nanna's once mesmerizing voice seemed almost suffocating on stage.  Bryndís was no better, and the band in general seemed to be phoning it in, with no clue of just how bad they sucked. 

I genuinely hate to sound harsh because these are terrific musicians, but maybe it's just the nature of their music.  Bonnaroo is all about plugging into your audience, where even so-so bands can play with abandon and leave you still wanting more (e.g., Matt & Kim).   But that's definitely not everyone, and I have to wonder if perhaps OMAM isn't more suited for the coffee house than the outdoor arena.  God knows, you'll need the caffeine. 

If Monsters wanted a lesson on how to hook an audience, they needn't have looked any farther than where they had been playing three hours later.  Because at precisely 7:30 PM Wu-Tang Clan dropped in like a Stage 5 hurricane, spinning 25 songs in 90 minutes, beginning, appropriately enough, with "Bring da Ruckus," and finishing with the less than subtle "Gravel Pit." 

Minutes earlier Tracey and I had been "approved" for a coveted Row 2 spot, putting us within spitting distance of RZA, Method Man and a dozen other clan members pacing the stage.  That's not counting two women who were signing every single word of every single song, injecting, I would assume, the right measure of nuance that would have otherwise been verbalized.  That's a good thing for anyone worried that "I came to bring the pain hardcore from the brain; Let's go inside my astral plane…" might not have been properly conveyed to the hearing impaired among us. 

It's not that Wu-Tang was ever my bag-- until then I'd never listened straight through a single one of their albums--but as a performance they killed it, and wound up being one of my top three acts this year, a fact I’m still trying to get my head around.  Being on the second row almost certainly contributed, as it was impossible not to be energized by the patently insane crowd and animated behavior of everyone on stage.  Wu- Tang didn't just play to their massive audience--they dominated it with gusto. 

But if there was one compelling factor beyond all others that drove people to Bonnaroo this year, hands down it was Paul McCartney.  I've probably seen well over 200 concerts in my life--including massive arena shows for Genesis, U2, the Stones and others--but I've never seen anything like the frenzy whipped up by his Friday evening headliner.  Never. 

Like all top bills, Sir Paul played on the expansive Main Stage, the grounds of which holds about 80,000 people.  The night before he had rehearsed over an hour, and classily acknowledged the impromptu crowd that formed at the stage gates hundreds of yards away.  Given what we were seeing then it was clear this was going to be huge.  Everyone just felt it, like animals who sense earthquakes long before humans. 

McCartney went live minutes after Wu-Tang ended, which was right about sunset.  Because he was a headliner, he performed with no competition from the other stages, giving him everyone's undivided attention.  As we made our way from Wu-Tang  over to McCartney's stage we briefly topped a hill that overlooks the area, and for a clock cycle or two I felt as though I was in the trailer for World War Z:  An immense ocean of people were vectoring in and about Centeroo, overflowing the stage grounds and spilling into the surrounding area almost like liquid, and just about as manageable.  It was the first time I can ever remember feeling more than a little crowd discomfort, and we bolted to our campsite. 

Situations like this highlight why good planning pays off.  Our tent sat directly in front of Main Stage.  Granted, there were football fields of space between the two landmarks, but we're also talking speakers that can easily reach out and touch you over this distance with astonishing clarity.  McCartney played to the crowd, and plowed through his enormous portfolio of Beatles, Wings and solo hits, reaching back 50 years over his three hour set, playing no less than three encores to a crowd who would've gladly stayed for more. 

Over the next two days I heard numerous people say just how well McCartney sounded, as if he hadn't aged a week since "Live and Let Die" hit the Top 40.   Truth be told, it was a smashing good time, and we got more than our money's worth.  But let's be honest:  it's just as true that he--Sir Paul--didn't sound that good.  Not really.  You wouldn't have noticed as much on the high energy bits where everyone screamed as much as they sang, but McCartney's voice cracked numerous times during his slower songs, and overall he simply couldn't hit the high notes he was able to a great many years ago.  That's not to bust on Paul--he is still a bonafied superstar and well worth seeing--but recognize that, as with all of us, the person you're seeing now isn't quite the person he used to be. 

Saturday turned hot again, and I awoke with thoughts of great coffee along with the depressing reminder that Mumford & Sons would not be playing their scheduled evening performance.  By now it was common knowledge Mumford had cancelled due to an acute blood clot on the surface of Ted Dwane's brain, which had been surgically removed days earlier with apparent success. 

As bad as it was you got the very warmhearted feeling that everyone was just thankful Dwane was still able to breathe and would live to play another day.  No, the far more depressing news was that Jack Johnson, who had initially been just another Bonnaroovian attendee, had agreed to sub for one of the most scintillating, audience pleasing bands on the circuit, a curious, ill conceived replacement akin to having Perry Como sit in for Joe Cocker. 

Johnson's clearly gifted, and by all accounts, a terrific human being whose charity work along with his willingness to play on 48 hours notice speaks volumes about his character.  But "scintillating" is not a word you're likely to hear to describe his show.  Catching his very early morning rehearsal as I awoke in my tent reminded me of just how wrong he seemed to be for this festival.  Listening to Johnson is to hear one song blandly roll into another without the slightest hint of passion, a fact made all the more painful by the interminable set he played.  I heard more grumbling about his show than all others combined. 

There were other bands that disappointed.  After watching Alice Cooper burn it down during last year's Saturday midnight show, we were similarly fired up for Billy Idol, who's apparently vaporized too many brain cells to even know what the hell he's singing these days.  Idol sputtered through one song after another, punctuating his set with bizarre fits of maniacal laughter as if his spinal cord had begun to short out.  Given the midnight venue's general insanity I honestly don't think anyone cared, but for me it was the saddest reminder of what he used to be and has since become. 

Nor did the Two Gallants ever quite hit their stride, marred by a wildly amped up bass beat that overwhelmed both mid and high range notes from an otherwise talented group.  You could forgive this sort of thing for the first song or two before the sound guys found their sweet spot, but 60 minutes of one continuous hydrogen bomb blast becomes a bit much, and I honestly still don't know what this band sounds like on stage even after being only yards away. 

Björk was...well, all Björk:  supremely gifted and tripping balls.  That's not to say she was in any way bad:  her voice was heavenly, and she was completely in form her entire set, which was well received.  However--and I know good friends will disagree--I'm honestly not sure Bonnaroo's format suits her unique style.  Björk isn't just unconventional, or even flamboyant like Gaga; her stage presence is bizarre, leaning towards operatic, and completely non-interactive.  So, while I expect her fans left satisfied I lean towards seeing her in a more appropriate setting, one befitting her theatrical flair, such as, well, an opera house. 

But if a few shows here and there fell a bit flat those frankly paled against the much larger backdrop of acts that not only satisfied,  but soared in their execution.  To mention a few: 

Macklemore & Ryan Lewis charmed the Main Stage crowd with a breezy set that featured some hysterical audience participation.  I already knew Macklemore could belt a lyric; but I was genuinely surprised at how funny he was. 

David Byrne & St. Vincent rocketed past my already lofty expectations, and I would have gladly listened to hours more of anything they felt like performing.  Byrne was all class and even threw a few Talking Heads songs into the mix. 

So many others.  Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros were quite good, though I had expected a larger role from Jade Castrinos.  The Lumineers proved they were so much more than their cheerfully romantic "Ho Hey," enchanting the crowd with their excellent debut album of upbeat folk melodies.  And Tom Petty put the finishing touch on closing night with a blistering three hour set that was pitch perfect--each song  lovingly rendered to a huge, immensely receptive crowd. 

Still, for me the unquestionable high point of Bonnaroo 2013 had come a day earlier, when Frank Turner & the Sleeping Souls reminded everyone just how great live performance can be at its very best.  You dream about a show like this, one that blends relevant lyrics, skilled artists, boundless energy, and an immensely likeable lead singer who doesn't just connect, but emotionally bonds with his audience. 

Turner's roots are British punk, and his songs are generally boisterous if not downright sharp edged.  But while punk often veers towards the cynical and divisive--which is perfectly fine and even the point--Turner seems more empathetic to the entire range of human experience.  There's an optimism that pervades even his more downbeat works, and while he's certainly feisty, he never seems anything less than friendly. 

That afternoon he nailed 17 out of 17 songs, all of them memorable, if not brilliant, and as Tracey apparently expected I left the tent having fallen madly in love.  But later--given my skeptical wiring--I began to wonder if was all just due to "the moment."  You know, like the stellar (Insert Awesome Event) you so enjoyed on that singular occasion, which turned out to be mediocre or worse on some later second viewing.  Because some moments are just that:  points in time where everything magically converged to bring about something special; moments that transcended the offering itself, which simply aren't reproducible. 

Whatever doubts I had vanished last Thanksgiving at Philadelphia's Electric Factory, where Turner was  as good, or perhaps better, if there can even be such a distinction.  That's when it hit me that if Frank Turner had been the only truly great band out of all the other acts we saw at Bonnaroo the trip would have still been worth it.  Because that's a big part of the thrill, finding that once in a year, decade or even lifetime band / music that connects with you like no other.  That musician and/or band that somehow represents some part of you, what you believe and stand for. 

Getting back to the whole warmer, happier thing, Bonnaroo 2014 kicks off in five months.  Rumor has it that Clapton, Cave or even Gaga might be playing, and that'd be terrific because I love them all.  But if we're really lucky we'll drop in on some other group or person I've never heard and be completely moved by music I didn't even know existed.

As I look out my front window this cold January evening I honestly can't wait.

Bonnaroo 2012 - A View From The Not-So-Cheap Seats

Over a week has passed since Phish closed Bonnaroo 2012 with a double set that pushed almost three hours of their distinctive jam sessions well past the enormous What stage and deep into the numerous camps where even more people listened in and around their tents.  It seems only fitting that Phish would play last, given their vast genre-bending repertoire, which perhaps made them an ideal metaphor for a festival that hosted just about any style of popular music one might wish to hear over its four day schedule.  Where else could you catch an uncensored Ludacris performing with a live band, Radiohead rampaging through their entire catalog, and The Beach Boys dishing all their greatest hits, each within a few hours of the other.  Never mind the slew of up and coming indie bands, and other groups that simply defy being pigeonholed.

But music wasn't all there was: a comedy tent hosted everything from extreme juggling to the naughty yet screamingly funny comedy folk of Garfunkel and Oates, with a few edgy, if not outright bizarre acts scattered about for accent.  Better still, the cinema tent ran 24 hrs/day with old and new offerings that spanned 80 plus years of filmmaking.  Given the time of year one might imagine the continuous air conditioning being the biggest draw to this tent, but then again, you haven't lived until you've seen silent Laurel and Hardy with live accompaniment from Steven Bernstein’s Millennial Territory Orchestra (MTO).  This wasn't pipe organ music of days gone by; it was world class talent belting out jazz rhythms matched to images of Laurel running from gun toting criminals through a carnival fun house, and Hardy getting a racehorse to stand on top of a piano--all pre-CGI, mind you.

A year ago I had never heard of Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival, but even after the pitch from my better half it never occurred to me that someone my age might actually consider attending given the obviously young crowd that was sure to dominate.  Not to mention that it's a festival held in a massive 700 acre field smack in the middle of middle Tennessee.  Manchester, on a good day, holds about 10 thousand people, which is barely an eighth the attendance of Bonnaroo last year.  It is, in a word, rural.  Another word would be hot.

I'm 53 years old.  I live in Baltimore, in the city, in a rowhouse, with nary a blade of grass on my lot.  I have an air conditioner that lets me escape the summer heat, and a bed that sits high off a reasonably level floor.  I do not like spending nights in hot tents, laying on sleeping bags with anthills for box springs.  I do not like camping, and certainly not when it means four days and nights among 80 thousand young people who've just discovered alcohol.  Throw in the conspicuous lack of showers coupled with rows of "Portable Sanitation Units" and you have my personal vision of hell.  This, then, was the overwhelming inertia my poor wife had to overcome to get us to Bonnaroo.

But Tracey lives for a challenge, and quickly found the perfect solution--the gist of which required her to utter one simple three letter acronym:  V.I.P.  Minutes later, after hearing just what that meant, my fears had turned to joy, and misgivings to anticipation.  There would still be lots of young people doing their young people thing, of course, but we would be moving about with ease in relative comfort, doing our middle aged thing.

There was more of course, such as the purchase of a six person tent, portable ceiling fan and inflatable queen-sized air mattress, but it was those tickets, and the benefits they held that closed the deal and got me to Bonnaroo, where I possibly had the best vacation of my entire life, and certainly of the past two decades.

To be fair Bonnaroo offers a litany of choices for the discriminating traveler.  There are ticket options at every rung of the price ladder.

At the very top is the "Roll Like a Rock Star" package that lands you and seven of your pretentious friends in a mega-swank tour bus, stacked with every conceivable amenity (sans groupies), including your own 24/7 concierge and chauffeured golf carts to move you about the festival acreage.  There's all that and much more, but at the stratospherically high price of $26K/bus.  Do the math and that works out to around $813/day for each person, a price point only a one percenter could love.

Then again it's the more down to earth General Admission (GA) that's by far the most common way to explore Bonnaroo, and if you bought early at last year's summer pre-sale your four day pass set you back just under $210/person.  That's a great deal, because GA gets you to as many events as your feet will take you, and if you're on a budget, believe hygiene is overrated, and don't mind wading through massive lines of other joyful Bonnaroovians for each separate show, it is definitely the way to go.

But for those with a modicum of disposable income who aren't quite so enamored with long waits and grungy conditions, I cannot recommend the VIP option highly enough, which by far provides the most comfortable way to experience this festival.  When you break it down at $1400 a couple, you're spending about the same per day as you would at a nice hotel, except that your getting a continuous flow of great performances to boot.  Your wristband with its impregnated microchip will look almost the same as a GA version, but the benees you'll gain are exceptional, the majority of which are meant to keep you out of long lines and in your comfort zone.

Bonnaroo officially kicks off on a Thursday with the first act starting around 4:00 PM.  However, the gates open early Wednesday morning for GA patrons, who start lining up early morning down Interstate 24, only to rot in traffic as one car at a time moseys in for inspection. It's completely expected that you'll spend over four hours playing start-n-stop as you slowly crawl your way to the entrance gate that lets your car onto the campgrounds; and waits of up to even six hours are hardly rare.  The GA highway exit is easy to spot: it's the one the sheriff's deputies and state police are all hanging around, and don't think for a second they like any of this festival monkey business.

VIP patrons, however, get their own exit a mile down the road from GA, and the day we arrived there was zero wait for us to leave the highway and reach our dedicated entrance gate.  Check-in consisted of a very nice kid who asked if we had weapons.  "No," was the right answer, and after he briefly glanced our trunk--nothing was actually touched, mind you--we immediately drove a couple of hundred yards to the VIP camping area just ahead.

That's when I noticed just how close we were to Centeroo, the enormous inner circle of Bonnaroo that contains the many stages, show tents and other attractions.  The VIP camping lots sit just outside this holy ground, and even if you're camped on the side farthest away you can easily reach the Centeroo entrance in ten minutes.  That makes it easy to go back and forth between Centeroo and your tent between events, and spend more time at camp, grilling kielbasa and mingling with other camp dwellers on your lot.

Contrast that with some of the GA sites, such as Camp Stewie Griffin or Camp Long Duk Dong, and now your Centeroo commute becomes quite the journey: walking from these more remote camps can easily take over an hour.  That's not necessarily a bad thing, but it does force you to adjust your schedule accordingly, and blisters are a given.

Even once you do get to the outskirts of Centeroo, though, you're assured of another hefty wait before your obligatory weapons grope and final scan-in.  Crowd lines to the front gates themselves are often staggeringly long, particularly before a popular stage event.

Happily, if your wristband reads VIP, you get your very own gate to Centeroo, which, on our worst day of foot traffic, may have taken us a full minute to pass through.  These measures alone make VIP a game changer for anyone who hates wasting time, and wants to just focus on having fun.

There are other perks, however, many of which you'll appreciate even more as time goes on.  Centeroo has three well placed and very large VIP tents that are mightily air conditioned, have free laptops w/ internet, and a plethora of charging ports for just about any kind of cell phone, including my utterly worthless Blackberry Smartphone.  The ports hang off hookah devices that look like the real thing, until you realize that the water pipes are actually port connector cables. There's also draft beer at decent prices, including one of my favorites, Magic Hat #9, and freezers stocked with free (!) pint and half pint containers of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and Greek yogurt in a handful of popular flavors.  If that's not enough, each tent has a huge projector screen with Hi-Fi sound hookup to the main stages, which allow you to see & hear a live video feed of headliner performances.

In the end, though, VIP is worth the extra money, not because of the lines you avoid or pints of free cookie dough ice cream, but because it caters to basic human dignities like daily hot showers and air conditioned restrooms.  Because every night you get to hot wash the Tennessee dust off your body (believe me, there is dust galore to be washed away) and avoid dealing with the aforementioned Portable Sanitation Units, known otherwise as porta-pottys.  And that in itself is good enough.

However you decide to experience Bonnaroo, whether in bourgeoisie or proletariat style, it's an exceptionally well run festival that quickly charms and leaves you wanting more, and that was probably the biggest revelation of all.  There's a infectious sense of cooperative hospitality on both sides--organizers and attendees alike--that underpins the proceedings.  All this and more is embodied in The Bonnaroovian Code, which has organically evolved over the decade run of this event, and essentially affirms compliance to the golden rule.  Respect, participate, contribute, evangelize, be positive and responsible.  Maximize your fun, but do no harm to yourself, those around you, or the environment as well.

Two other things surprised me about Bonnaroo.  I had honestly expected much more binge drinking and associated drama, but almost none of that materialized.  The majority of people--young and old--seemed to drink responsibly and there was very little fallout from the few who did over imbibe.  Conversely, weed was omnipresent.  You couldn't turn your head without bumping into someone's lit pipe, and the perfumed aromatics of "Bonnaroo herb" persisted within Centeroo at all hours of the day and night.  Even bongs were openly used, and I don't think there would have been enough jail space in the entire state had Security decided to intervene.  But there was no obvious security around, only those with the word "SAFETY" printed in large black letters across their shirt.

I was also amazed at how well represented the LGBT community was.  This might be the most gay friendly--or anyone friendly--event I've ever attended.  In fact, you pretty much have free rein to be yourself, whatever your identity or demographic.  While not the majority, it wasn't unusual to see women walking topless both in and out of Centeroo, many of them with nipples painted like flowers or other geometric designs.  Fortunately, I'm exceptionally tolerant of such things...<ahem>

Well and fine, you say, but what of the performances?  A fair question, because regardless of how wonderful the stay or how well it's organized, the lineup is what ultimately brings people to Manchester.

Simply put, Bonnaroo acts were among the best I've ever witnessed.  That's no small confession considering the number of live shows I've seen over the past 30 years--well into the hundreds, some of which proved seminal to my understanding of music.

Experiencing a live performance from any of the headliner stages improved upon the best arena shows I've attended.  Before then I would have said that seeing Genesis in Philly's Vet Stadium was my benchmark for live music, as they were spot on with both their music, and their performance.  Collins had presence, and even as you sat among a massive overflowing crowd he made you feel essential to the proceedings.  You felt appreciated and completely in phase with the band as well as the audience.  Those are the kind of singular events that feel exclusive, that you wish could go on and on, and that you hope beyond hope you're able to experience again before you leave this world.

That begins to describe how we felt our entire stay at Bonnaroo.  I got my first hint at just how special things were to be with a quick one hour set from Colin Hay, the ex lead singer for Men at Work, who dazzled with acoustic renditions of "Overkill" and "Who can it be, " along with newer solo works dealing with human failings, deliverance and forgiveness.  It was an intensely personal performance, as small stage shows tend to be, and it was especially cool to see him perform alongside his wife, Cecilia Noël, who accompanied him on an air flute--you read that right--an imaginary flute which she pretend played as she mouthed the notes--and quite well, I would add.  Say what you will, but she made it work.

It would take far too long to review every group we heard over four days, but there were plenty of standouts that, by themselves, made the trip more than worthwhile.

Minutes before Flogging Molly opened their set you knew something was up as people moved closer and closer to the stage, so much so that it seemed to displace the very oxygen needed to breathe.  Crowd surfing had already begun and a few were being randomly moved to all points among the choppy sea of people under the tent.  Then, right as Dennis Casey hit his first six string chord, came "the shift," in which an already close packed crowd crunched in even tighter, making it hard for an atom to find room.

We were mercifully standing towards the back, and doggedly avoided being pulled into the resulting chaos, but it took some real effort.  Moments later a mosh pit spontaneously formed just behind us, where another group of fans began slam dancing, with little regard for those around them.  Nothing personal, mind you, and what's a busted lip among mates.  To one who invaded her already condensed personal space, Tracey immediately countered with a hard raised elbow, which probably endeared her to this group.

Such is the spirit of punk, and Flogging Molly is most certainly that, but with a sharp Celtic edge.  That afternoon they played an airtight set, and Dave King displayed one of the most interesting and durable voices in this genre today.  I especially liked his riff on Wall Street, which was together both punk and Irish in its condemnation of corporate greed and oppression of the working man.  A great many of their songs were from the newer "Speed of Darkness," which is a killer album, but it was the old stuff like "Salty Dog" that seemed bring to the house down.

Civil Wars was an entirely different kind of show.  Joy Williams and John Paul White, mesmerized a packed stage tent with an exceptional 75 minutes of sophisticated folk ballads and romantic instrumentals.  Wilson was beautiful, exquisitely talented, and looked radiant with the joy of being just 10 days shy of her birthing due date, which she playfully referenced between songs.  White was flawless as he played through their set and frequently exchanged one immaculate acoustic guitar for another between songs.  Their encore was a gift to the audience as they took  requests and played another four songs before bumping into their allotted time.  "Poison & Wine" was especially breathtaking, but in truth everything they performed that evening was amazing.

On that same stage before Civil Wars, Kenny Rogers had also played to a packed house.  It's fair to say that Kenny has a mile or two on him now, and isn't the same person he was in his prime.  Even so, he's forgotten more about playing to an audience than most performers will ever know.  What he's dropped in range he more than makes up for in charisma.  At the start he promised to play every single hit of his career--some 53 years, mind you--and before it was over that's exactly what he had done.

It didn't hurt that Lionel Richie just happened to drop in, completely unscheduled, and partied "All Night Long" in a quasi-duet with Rogers, who at first didn't know what to make of Richie's entrance.  Rogers started a bit shaky, but Richie's voice was pure velvet, and you got the feeling there was some real friendship being shared between these two.  Towards the end of the set after Richie had returned offstage, the mayor of Manchester appeared to hand Rogers the key to the city, the only one given each year to the "best performance."  Whether that was true or not, it was still a touching moment.

Watching the Red Hot Chili Peppers' Saturday late show was like viewing nuclear fusion close up.  Anthony Kiedis' vocals were crisp and fiery, and honestly sounded better live than on their well engineered CDs.  Flea was electric, bouncing on pogo stick legs from one side of the stage to the other, all while giving a master's class on bass guitar, making it look effortless.  Chad Smith laid down a massive beat of funky rhythms, and Josh Klinghoffer more than held his own as RHCP executed a spectacular two hour performance that was as good as anything I've heard in a very long time.  In all there were 20 songs played, five of them in an extended encore that included my favorite, "Ethiopia," and of course, "Give it away."

For me the most fun of all began early Sunday, just after midnight when one Vincent Damon Furnier--whom you know as Alice Cooper--hit the stage with might have been the most crowd pleasing performance of the festival.  It's one thing to be a great singer, but quite another to be a great showman, and Cooper is precisely that.  He knows exactly who and what he is, and stays completely in character the entire show. With a superb band accompanying him, including Orianthi on lead guitar, Cooper made two hours feel more like ten minutes, and went for broke as his character was fried in a giant electric chair, then beheaded in an elaborate guillotine, each between mushy feel-good songs about murder and necrophilia. But even after all that, it was his encore that established his place in Bonnaroo stage history, a rapturous cover of Lady Gaga's "Born this way," personalized to Cooper's unique delivery.  It was a fitting climax by a performer who's profited greatly over many decades from being a "freak," and it was hard not to be overwhelmed by the crowd's reception.

I remember Cooper being a pariah of Christian groups years back, and you'd think a show seemingly meant to shock would leave everyone dazed, if not aggressive and cynical.  But Cooper's no more an emissary of Satan than Billy Graham, and as he and others have pointed out for years; at its essence his show is simply well played Vaudeville, updated for a modern audience and put on by a master artist.

Bonnaroo had these and so many more great shows, and some honorable mentions as well.  Garfunkel and Oates played for merely 15 minutes, which was five beyond their allotted time, but what a densely packed quarter hour it was.  I damaged internal organs laughing over unrepeatable lines from  "...I don't understand job," and one of their newest, "The Fadeaway," and only hope I'm able to catch a full show at some future date--though, I'm not sure my body could stand it.

Radiohead combined their richly ominous set with a light show that could have been seen from Mars, and Foster the People lit a fire under the audience as everyone seemed to dance to their entire set.

There were also numerous short concerts in little nook and crannies scattered about the landscape, some of which merited a stopover.  Not that everyone was good, but it's always intriguing to hear what might be the next great thing in the early years of their development, before being discovered.

The Monday we packed our tents and began the return drive home, I realized I had thoroughly decompressed from what had already been a very stressful year.  Not for a moment had I thought about work, or what was waiting upon my return.  We both left completely relaxed, clear headed and almost ready to re-engage with the outer world again.  Bonnaroo was far more than a vacation; it was a glorious retreat that refreshed and honestly began to restore my faith in humanity.  My friend Jim Palmer is known for saying, "Life is my religion."  I couldn't agree more, and what a amazing four days we had highlighting the beauty of it all.