Thurday 15/06/06 Day 1 @ Bonnaroo Festival, Manchester, Tennessee

No phone, no friends, no tent, no patience – this is how your American representative of Gigwise does a festival, like it’s 1969, the original Woodstock.  Another flashpoint from 1969 sits 54 kilometers east: the little town of Altamont.  We all remember what happened at Altamont, don’t we, students of rock?  Hired as security by the Rolling Stones, the Hell’s Angels use beer cans and pool cues to beat attendees into bloody stumps.  In stark contrast, the security at Bonnaroo wears pink T-shirts.  And the word on the back?  It doesn’t read Security.  It reads Safety.  Back to our quandary.  No laptop, no umbrella – the technology and the tent are by no means essential.  No problem to sleep in the back of the car.  But the human element, the familiar friendly faces – this is something altogether vital.  They will be here, alright, but, as we are travelling in separate vehicles, it’s anybody’s guess as to whether or not we will meet up.  Alone with everybody, eh, Richard Ashcroft?

And who is everybody?  Here we thought they’d all be hippies.  On the contrary, they’re rich and they’re young.  Behave, children.  Arnold Air Force base sits due south of here. They will not hesitate to carpet bomb you as you react in a fury when your pin number is refused by the cash machine (service fee: $3.50).  Don’t think they won’t unleash the tear gas after you tear down the beer tent because you couldn’t scrounge up the necessary five dollars for a 16 oz. plastic bottle of Budweiser. Welcome to Bonnaroo. Hope you have a fat wallet.

One (1) blueberry pancake:  $4
One (1) hot shower: $10
one (1) burrito: $10
one (1) gyro: $10
one (1) case of beer (24 cans, Natural Light): $50

New to the grounds, no sense of direction, we wander toward the most agreeable sound. They call this place The Other Tent.  Inside we find a frail young gentleman moaning into two microphones. No band, no instruments from this distance – wait, come closer, there’s a keyboard – a cacophony erupting inside. The performer has the same taste in headwear as Peanut from Kaiser Chiefs. And, if our interpretation of his lyrics is accurate, he just tipped said hat to the Angel of the North. Attention hippies: a free hot shower awaits the first one of you who correctly identifies the precise geographic location of the Angel of the North. Any guesses? Going once, going twice…

“Newcastle!” cries the tie-dyed T-shirt-wearing ne’er do well next to me.

Here’s a tenner for your shower, friend.

“Shower?  **** that.  I was ordering a beer, you retard.  But yeah, I’ll take the ten bucks.  Sweet, now I can score some shrooms.”

And so ends any further foray into charitable games of chance.  We are no longer awarding prizes for anyone’s grasp of trivia.  There will be no more tests of knowledge.

Turns out the performer in the Peanut hat is David Ford.  He just sang a song about being homesick.  Christ, does that strike a chord.  Only moments ago, there we were, steering our rental car, a silver Kia Rio, phenomenal gas mileage, through a terrifying sunset dustbowl into our designated camping site (#64, Dr. Peter Venkman). No vehicle pulled up behind us as we left for the main grounds but still we cannot shake our fears of being trapped in this parking spot forever.  We’ve only been here an hour but the pot in the air has seeped into our pores, triggering a manic sense of paranoia.  What if we lose it?  What if claustrophobia cripples us and all we want to do is exit at once?  What if we can’t find our friends?
 
“Tough call, bro. You’re just gonna have to check with your neighbors. Party’s on til Monday, though, you know, so there’s a good chance you’re gonna be here til Monday.  My advice?  Chill.  Just chill, you know. Take it easy, like.”

Chill, yes. Let’s chill. We are chilling. What’s next? What now?  There are 80,000 overprivileged white kids here. We are acquainted with precisely this many of them: one.  Before we left for Tennessee, he sent us a message. “Let’s try to meet up. How ‘bout a show in the Comedy Tent? Or what about the Wood Brothers?”

Well here I am, good friend, in This Tent, so where the hell are you?  Your Wood Brothers are there on stage. Wait, Brother Wood didn’t just say what I think he did, did he?
 
“If I die young / at least I got some chocolate on my tongue.”

Embarrassing.  Oliver Wood, I have a question.  Is your lyricist Oprah?  You didn’t try to get this song on the Willy Wonka soundtrack, did you?  Of course the crowd responds with a stentorian cheer.  Thursday night and already the whole place is stoned.  Oliver Wood undoes his ponytail and suddenly you identify him for who he really is: the unholy hybrid of J. Mascis and your suicidal daytrader roommate from the year 2000.

Next up, dios (malos).  Finally a reason to be leaning against the guardrail.  Read a lot about these dios people, just never got around to hearing a song.  Tonight, we do.  Good thing.  This band is a revelation.  The songs are incredible.  The drummer is the lunatic clone of Freddie Mercury, pulling outrageous bug-eyed faces from behind the kit, pointing his sticks at the crowd like pistols.  Take a listen to frontman, Joel Morales:

“Now, we know this is only the first night, but we guarantee that you won’t see anyone this whole weekend who is more ****ed up than we are right now.”

Of course, it’s only a matter of time before some dimwit thinks he’s up for the challenge.  Before I left for Tennessee, a participant in an earlier Bonnaroo offered up a laundry list of what to expect.  Tyres stuck in mud.  Twelve-hour waits in standstill traffic.  Overpriced trousers and scarves for sale, all, of course, handcrafted with loving care out of hemp.  “And one more thing,” he said, “don’t be surprised if you see a naked person.”