Phoenix Rivers

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Miles came to my house around 9:30 AM. I did some last minute packing, and threw my major gear (tent, sleeping bag, shade tents, Coleman stove, utensil box) in the back of the car, and in Rollie's canvas roof bag which was strapped tightly to Miles' Trail Blazer. After doing the deed, Miles took off to tie up some loose ends of his own, as I scrambled to pack my personal effects before the E.T.A. at the rendezvous point, Ian's apartment, at noon.

Soon enough, Conor, Rollie, and Eoghen came rolling up in the Grand Prix, and it was time to go. Unfortunately, no sooner had we pulled away from my house, when Rollie realized that he'd left his tent at his apartment. We went back to Graywood Apartments and retrieved said good along with our perishable items in a cooler. It was on the ride to Graywood that I noticed the air conditioning in Conor's car wasn't working. In fact, I dare say, the air coming out of the vent was hotter than the air outside which was hovering in the mid-90s that day. I quickly realized the utter dogshit heat I was about to have to endure for the next six hours was going to suck extensively.

Noontime came, and we arrived at Ian's apartment. The rest of the group was already assembled inside. After a brief reception, our party went to the parking lot. Having already decided seating arrangements weeks-prior, we got into our designated vehicles and headed toward Tennessee.

The seating arrangement was a follows:

Conor's Pontiac Grand Prix

Conor O. (Driving)
Rivers L.
Rollie H.
Eoghen O.

Miles' Chevrolet Trail Blazer

Miles B. (Driving)
Trent K.
Sean A.
Max C.

Matt's Ford Explorer

Matt P. (Driving)
Caroline G.
Delia B.
Ryder B.

Ian's Toyota Highlander

Ian H. (Driving)
Eileen J.

After stopping for gas, we hit the road at around 1 PM.

We made our first stop in Newnan, Georgia. I went into the convenience store there and bought a 32 ounce bottle of lime-flavored Gatorade Rain. I was in dire need of it at this point since I had been riding in a car with no A/C, only downed windows, for an hour and a half. I then walked into the adjoining Dunkin' Donuts and bought 25 cherry and glazed doughnut holes. I walked back outside into the scorching Georgia heat, and rejoined the others, some of whom were enjoying the last bites of a Subway sandwich. We got back in the cars and headed back to the interstate, bound for Tennessee.

We encountered some traffic problems north of Atlanta due to some road-side construction. After sweating profusely for what seemed like days, we finally got moving at a reasonable pace and resumed the trip. Similar problems occurred in Chattanooga, Tennessee some time later.

We made our next, and last, stop at a gas station perched in the Tennessee River Valley; the same gas station we made our last stop one year previous. I bought another Gatorade Rain. I was hoping to make it a hasty pause in the journey, but almost everyone else in the group decided that it was time for food, and they walked over to the near-by Hardees leaving Matt, Trent, and I sitting behind the gas station making awkward conversation. I say "awkward" because this was not too terribly long after the now-infamous "Last Days on Shady Glenn" post flame war between Trent and Matt. Overall, however, the two were on their best behavior for the entire trip, and the issue never came up, at least not in my presence to my recollection.

With brown Hardees bags in-hand, the rest of the Bonnarites slowly emerged from the tinted glass doors under the smiling yellow star. Since he had to eat, and all, Conor handed me the keys and entrusted me with the privilege of driving such a finely-tuned machine such as the Grand Prix. Unfortunately, I took a little too long trying to figure out the specifics of the car seat, and I failed to notice that the others had already pulled out of the filling station's parking lot. After finding my way back onto the interstate, I had to drive like a madman through the winding, mountain parkway to catch up to the others. By the time I did, we were right near the entrance to Bonnaroo.

The fine men and women of The Tennessee State Troopers and The Manchester Police Department waved us in, as they always do, to the Neverland that is Bonnaroo. Typically, at this point, some local kid dressed in a lime green t-shirt with an all-access pass around his neck would've come to the car, checked tickets, distributed wristbands and maps, asked if we had any glass, then taken a quick look inside our trunk and coolers to check for forbidden glass or stowaways. No such luck this year.

In 2006, we were introduced to the D.T.F. or Drug Task Force. They appeared to be searching approximately one out of every twenty cars or so. It just so happened that we were stopped for a random search. They checked our tickets and then we were all made to get out of the car and put the contents of our pockets on the hood of the car while they patted us down for drugs. Meanwhile the rest of the D.T.F. was going through the car checking for glass pipes, they said. They were thorough, to say the least. They even bothered to check under the front seat's removable headrests. Now, I'm no drug smuggler, but if I was, well, I think I got a new place to hide my shit. As long as I don't run into the hippie jam band festival cops, I think I'll be cool.

The D.T.F., after deeming our car morally fit to enter the den of iniquity, wrote "DTF" on the windshield in yellow paint marker and moved us along to stage two, where the thing I mentioned earlier about the kid in the lime green shirt happened.

All four cars got back in line, and we went down the road in search of a campsite. On the road adjacent to last year's campsite, a dirty, dreaded, hippie freak hitched a ride on the back of Matt's car. Matt seemed alright with it, and let him ride until we got out of the densely-crowded row, and onto more open road. We were flagged into our campsite by a Krewe of 'Roo member, and we set up camp as quickly as possible so as to allow us the maximum amount of space available in which to camp. After everything was set up, we sat down for a rest.

Miles was happy about that.

Growing weary of sitting after a few minutes, Miles, Rollie, Eoghen, and I made our way toward the vendor's stands on the road where the dirty, dreaded, hippie freak, parasite had been. After doing a bit of exploring, it was time to go to Centeroo to see what was new. As it turned out, this was new:

A giant Ferris Wheel located right next to the entrance, just inside of Centeroo. It cost five dollars to ride, however, and none of us were willing to cough-up the cash for the sure-to-be adventure that would be the result of a Ferris Wheel ride.

After a brief stroll, we met up with Trent, and the rest of the group headed back to camp. Trent and I walked about for a time, and then Trent asked about the Ferris Wheel. When I told him that I refused to pay $5 to ride it, he offered to pay for my ticket in exchange for my company on the ride. I accepted the offer, and we boarded the wheel.

(The yellow circle is our campsite)

The view from the top was a very good one, and I ended-up taking a couple of good pictures of the area from fifty or sixty feet up (above and at the top of the page). If nothing else, the wheel provided an excellent point of reference because of its high visibility.

I also took this picture which I deemed appropriate for being featured on a bottle of Jones Soda.

After the ride was over, I noticed this phenomenon:

For the rest of the weekend, the occasional black smoke ring would appear in the sky.

After a couple of days we finally figured out that the rings were the result of a giant pillar of fire emitted from a metal sculpture. This was the main attraction in Bonnaroo's "fire garden".

It was on our way back to camp that I began to hone in on a particular problem: dust. Lots and lots of dust. Every time I licked my upper lip that entire weekend, my tongue would retract into my mouth bringing with it a nice layer of grit.

Walking back to the camp at night was like being in Night of the Living Dead, except, instead zombies emerging from fog, it was hippies emerging from dust (far worse).

When I got back to camp, Delia, Caroline, and Sean were perched on top of Miles' car, watching the sunset.

Eventually, we all made our way into Centeroo to see a band that I was told would be good. The band was Tortured Soul. Judging by their name alone I was immediately turned-off, but at Conor's insistence I went against my own judgment and saw Tortured Soul. The band was a trio, and they all came out wearing Mormon uniforms. They then proceeded to play a song that sounded like really bad strip club music for about 30 minutes. The lyrics were something like, "Baby, I'm in heaven when I'm with you." They were the worst band at the festival, and probably the worst band I've ever seen in my life, unless you count choir music as a band. Unfortunately, I am alone in this critique. Everyone else really seemed to dig it, and I don't know why.

I left the show. I was angry myself for not listening to my own better judgment. I returned to the campsite, hoping someone else had a shred of sanity left after that most-recent atrocity. They didn't, and I found myself alone. I climbed up to the top of Miles' car to see what I could see. After sitting for a moment, I noticed a guy, who was maybe five years older than I am, walking by himself. I'm pretty sure he didn't see me, and there was certainly no one else around to hear him when he suddenly lifted his head up and shouted emphatically toward the heavens, "I am the fucking commander!"

Eventually, everyone came back, including Trent who was now decked-out in his goth/leather bar/ravewear outfit.

After awhile, I called it a night.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Friday came quickly. The sun's rays easily pierced through the synthetic material of my tent, and heated it up so much that it became uninhabitable by 8:30 AM.

After getting fully conscious, I spent a couple of minutes on the phone and on-foot, and tracked down my boss at Howie's, Sanders. He was with his roommate, Charlie. We chatted for quite some time, and then it was time to go to the day's first shows.

While waiting in the frisking line at the entrance of Centeroo, I noticed the guy in front of me with this stupid bullshit tattooed on his back. I hope he dies penniless, of full-blown AIDS, in a prison... in Azerbaijahn.

Most of our group left for Andrew Bird who was one of the first acts of the day. The show kicked ass, but Miles and I decided to leave it early to get a good spot for Ben Folds.

Unfortunately, everyone else at Bonnaroo had the same idea.

Nonetheless, Ben Folds put on an incredible show, as expected.

That Ben Folds is an incredible man.

After Ben Folds finished, Miles and I headed over toward "Yet Another (Comedy) Tent" to try our luck at getting in line for Patton Oswalt.

The problem with this tent is that it's air conditioned and it only holds 800. Therefore, every pussy-ass Radiohead hipster fuck kid who got too hot in his black Death Cab t-shirt and black girl jeans with the pink belt and matching pink Chuck Taylors cannot wait to go in there, not because he likes the comedians, but because he's soft, and he can't handle a little heat. Same goes for the steadily proliferating number of middle aged women in their giant sun visors and white shorts who accompany their daughters to Bonnaroo to stop them from eating acid and getting balled into quarantine by aging flower children. According to Madison (who had come up with another party), an actual line of dialogue overheard near the front of the line to see Lewis Black (which extended out fifty yards or so, then doubled back towards the tent) was as follows: "I've never heard of this Lewis King guy, but my son says he's pretty funny." That's fucking blasphemy, I hope Ricky Scaggs hunts this woman down and runs her over with his tour bus.

Anyway, point is, we figured the line would be too long.

Quite the contrary, actually, we got in within five minutes of arriving on the scene.

Patton was fuckin' hilarious, naturally, and, as you've seen, we got to meet him at the end of the show.

While we were lined up to meet him, I handed my camera to some chick to take our picture with Patton, and she ended up taking someone else's photograph too. That stupid whore; her family won't mourn her passing.

After Patton, we had just enough time to make it over to the main stage for the beginning of Oysterhead.

The show was a lot of fun, even though they only played material from their first and only album. That is, with the exception of, a cover of "Heartbreak Hotel".

Trey played his deer antler guitar theremin thing.

As much as I wanted to stay for Tom Petty, I ended up going back to camp and passing out in a chair for about an hour, and then making it to my tent. Fortunately, I had the cognizance to set the alarm on my phone for a 11:30, thus giving me half-an-hour to get up to Centeroo for My Morning Jacket.

I woke up to my alarm as planned and walked to Centeroo by myself.

After standing around waiting for My Morning Jacket for a little while, the lights went out, and "When You Wish Upon a Star" began to play over the loud speakers. At the song's conclusion, the band entered the stage and immediately launched into "Wordless Chorus".

They played for damn-near three-and-a-half hours. Rock.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Saturday dawned just as Friday had, hot and sunny. Miles, Eoghen, Max, and I decided to try and catch Lewis Black performing at the comedy tent at 2:00 PM. However, when we got there, the line was, as I mentioned earlier, ungodly in its length. We were disappointed, but elected instead to go and see Buddy Guy.

After wading through a sea of dozing hippies, we finally made it to a comfortable spot for Buddy Guy.

Even at 70, Buddy Guy can still jam. I thought he managed to put on one of the most entertaining shows at the festival.

After listening to Buddy for a bit, it was time for one of the bands I was most excited for, Elvis Costello & The Imposters with Allen Toussaint.

All things considered, we got fairly close for the show. Unfortunately, we were not close enough to the penumbra of the large shadow created by the exceptional height of the "What" stage. Therefore, we stood in the sun for almost an hour waiting on Elvis Costello to take the stage. Although, the serious heightening of my risk for skin cancer later in life was made well worth it when Elvis Costello took the stage with band and full horn section to play "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding".

The show was a lot of fun. The few classics Costello ended up playing, like "Alison" and "Watching the Detectives", were great. However, even with the added bonus of seeing Allen Touissaint on the bill, the concert was made into a bonafide experience by this:

Two dudes throwing a gigantic dildo back and forth to one another.

I have no way of knowing whether or not Elvis saw it, but judging by his expression of horrified dumb-struck awe, I think he might've.

After the show, we got a chance to move up much closer to the stage where Beck would be the next performer. The only problem was that Radiohead was playing after that, and all those fucking hipster kids who can't take the agony and the ecstasy of standing up for 7 or 8 hours at a time just to see your favorite band, just had to sit down and wait for the show to start. So, there I was, wedged between some chick with black hair and a pink streak in her bangs and a strung-out dreaded hippie, both of whom were seated. This made the task of moving forward impossible. Damned to our spot in the sixteenth row, Miles and I made the best of it by talking shit about the people presently seated at testicle level where they should've been.

Beck came on and rocked the shit for a couple of hours. There were giant boomboxes, bear suits, and a dinner table jam. The event was so grand and elaborate that describing it here would be an injustice to the performance.

After Beck ended, even though we were only a few rows from the main stage with the main act starting in just over and hour and a half, Miles, Eoghen, and I elected to go back to camp.

We were slowed on our journey, however, by Cypress Hill who was performing their classic "Hits from the Bong" when we walked past. Miles, Eoghen, and I watched a few songs from a great distance back, and then continued back to camp.

There we found Rollie, Conor, Trent, and Ryder also feeling rebellious.

While we sat and discussed future plans for that evening, Trent hit upon an idea.

Originally writing off the idea as ludicrous, we watched in amazement as a small line of people began to develop outside of our campsite.

Soon Ryder jumped in with a paint brush, and I appointed myself "the color expert" on the project.

Soon after that, some jocko fuck walked up and demanded that we go Jackson Pollock on him. Unfortunately, the face painting kit wasn't big enough to fulfill such a request, and he put his shirt back on when it became apparent that it was gonna be awhile. Instead, he just asked for a black line under his eye.

Soon enough, Trent began offering JägerBombs in exchange for an open canvas. That was when we symbolically raped a guy. This guy:

The thing I love is that everyone knows by looking at this dude exactly who he is, and what he's like. We all know people exactly like this, and that's what makes this whole situation beautiful. Also, after the poor fool was painted, the JägerBomb he received as compensation for a night's use of his face was lukewarm. Yummy.

After the face painting fun had subsided, Miles, Eoghen, and I did something we've never done at Bonnaroo. We left the premises in search of ice and Gatorade. After a brief drive around the festival grounds trying to find an exit, we finally got to one, and made our way to the nearest gas station. We came back bearing wonderful offerings of ice and candies. By this point Radiohead was in full swing and I could not have given any less of a fuck as I drank my giant bottle of ice cold Gatorade.

At midnight, Miles and I headed back to Centeroo to catch Dr. John's midnight show. On our way up the road we heard a man screaming "Watch Out!". Realizing the danger that lay ahead, I ducked behind a car just in time to see the firework casement, that had been placed just feet in front of me on the road, explode. Shooting beautiful colors into the night sky.

I've always known about the "Fireworks Show" setting on my camera and I just never had the chance to use it up until that moment.

At the tent where all the New Orleans-type musicians were, they had giant, immobile, Mardi Gras floats set up with compensated Bonnaroo employees perched on top of them yelling and throwing beads. It was truly a fest.

Dr. John put on an incredible show, but unfortunately I didn't get any worthy pictures of the occasion.

Except for that one.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

I woke up to the sound of the wind blasting against the side of my tent. I unzipped my vestibule, and, by God, if it wasn't blessedly cool, cloudy, and windy. It was then I noticed one of our E-Z-Up tents was upside down near Trent's tent. Apparently, earlier that morning, the tent was pulled out of the ground by the by the wind and tossed into adjacent campsite leaving a big, nasty scratch on the side of a vehicle over there. I think Trent had to move it, but I could be wrong.

At this point, some were already up and planning their itenerary for the day.

Others were breaking down their campsite.

Still others were still fast asleep. I decided to remedy the later situation by throwing shit at Conor's head. While I did so, Miles and Trent came closer. I did what any good friend would do, and I pushed Miles into the tent, which was stirring at this point, zipped up the flap, and began kicking anything solid on the inside of it.

Eoghen got a good laugh out of it.

Miles, on the other hand, was not amused.

The situation culminated in the all too familiar Mexican standoff between the two parties.

Then a little kissy-wissy made it all better.

Like I said, before, the dust became an issue right from the getgo, and the ten minute sprinkle we had on Sunday morning as the only form of precipitation didn't really help the situation too much.

With Conor and Rollie finally rousted, some of us made our way through the tent city in search of food, and, in my case, a cold soda for Caroline.

We passed some frat-house hippies and their fucking drum circle. I almost puked.

The group stopped to fill our water vessels, and for me to take a picture of Eoghen. This picture of Eoghen:

We finally found some delicious French bread pizza, and a cold Pepsi for Caroline.

After delivering said drink, we walked down the road to Centeroo one last time.

Since the line for Lewis Black was ungodly long, again, I elected to stay with the group which was heading to see The Street, an act that, despite the hype surrounding them, I hate.

We took our place, and Max sat down with a nice frozen lemonade which he'd gained a hearty addiction to during our days at the festival.

The show was horrible, as I expected, and even with the confused and distracted stage presence of Mike Skinner, was made worse by the inclusion of some British black dude who thought he was R. Kelly. I went in to the show wanting to hate it, and I hated it. What else can I can I say?

It wasn't a wasted effort, however, as the next act was one of my favorite, if not my favorite, hip-hop artists of all time, Atmosphere. We got up very close to the stage, and I managed to convince everyone else to stay with me for the show. This was a decision not one regretted.

Atmosphere ended up tying My Morning Jacket for the best show of the festival in my opinion.

After Atmosphere was over, we walked over to where Sonic Youth was playing. When we walked up, the band launched into "Teenage Riot", which was the main song I wanted to hear from them. Despite my prior enthusiasm for the show, I was simply too exhausted to go on.