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.
