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.