Friday 16/06/06 Day 2 @ Bonnaroo Festival, Manchester, Tennessee

Following our debriefing in the press tent and a refreshing cup of water from the water cooler in the trailer, we stand amid a sea of seated attendees in the shade of That Tent.  If Chicago Amigo cannot spot us now, he’s blind.  An hour early for Andrew Bird and already the tent has reached capacity.  With that in mind, when Bird is done, we ought to head over to the main stage.  Cos if we wanna get a glimpse of Radiohead, we’d best be camping out now.  What’s that you say?   Main stage doesn’t open each day until noon? 

Bugger.

12:55p.m.  Five minutes to show time.  Just when all hope appears lost, who should stumble by us but Chicago Amigo.  But what’s this?  He walks right past us without stopping.  Something’s up.  Jog up to the guardrail.  A tap on the shoulder. 

“Hey, there you are.”

Dig the bandana, man.  And that facial hair – it’s something else.  But what is with your eyes, amigo?  You look like a treacherous methamphetamine ghoul.

“Overdid it last night, Gigwise.  With the pot and the Pabst.  Tried a little nitrous.  All filters obliterated.  All bets off.  Started talking to every girl within arm’s reach.  Asking many probing questions.  You won’t believe what I said to this one chick.”

Out with it, junkie.

“’What are your thoughts on stem cell research?’  That’s what I asked her.”

“What’d she say?”

“She walked away.  By the way, for this weekend, I have adopted a handle.  My name is no longer the one that is printed on my birth certificate.  For this weekend, I elect to be referred to as Big Smoky.”

A figure in a cowboy hat approaches.

“You remember Lord Ambiance, right?”

Yes, the drugs are out of control.  The following morning, thanks to the magnanimity of Big Smoky and Lord Ambiance, who have let me stay in one of their two tents, I will sink my teeth into a delicious morning bratwurst as a drug goblin comes round to mutter one word – mushrooms. 

“Mushrooms?  You have mushrooms?”

After a late night watching Disco Biscuits to a bonanza of cocaine, the lethargic compadre of BS and LA leaps to life.

“Nah, bro.  I was asking if you guys had any mushrooms, heh.”

“Sorry,” says Big Smoky, as Drug Goblin wanders to the next tent, “all we have is produce.”

Upon hearing the word “produce,” Drug Goblin doubles back to our tent.

“Ah, so you got herb, then?”

“Incorrect, sir,” says Gigwise, the voice of reason, “when he said ‘produce,’ I believe my friend had intended to say ‘condiments’.”

I point to the ketchup and mustard on the table.

Cut to Andrew Bird.  We are leaning on the guardrail.  An enchanting young lady spies my blue Media wristband, asks me why I am not in the photo pit.  Darling, haven’t you heard?  Wristband subjugation is the order of the day.  Only those with gold wristbands may enter the magical photo pit. 

“Make way!  Step aside!” barks the big-boned blonde in the pink Safety T-shirt.  “Photographers, coming through.”  Lord, this is annoying.  All of us are forced to take two steps back from our spot on the rail to clear a path for tripods and extended lenses.  Bonnaroo has been a festival heavyweight since 2002.  One would think, by now, the organizers would have had enough sense to create a separate entrance for photographers, a means to enter the pit without disturbing paying attendees.  Lollapalooza had these paths, in its very first year.  Why not you, Bonnaroo?  Andrew Bird, your thoughts?

Whistle-whistle, fiddle fiddle.  This guy sounds like Rufus Wainwright with a violin.

Now that we’re all reunited, once Bird is done, we do what needs to be done.

We hit the beer tent.

Seu Jorge is doing that laid-back cover of “Rebel, Rebel” he did on the boat in The Life Aquatic (Wes Anderson, I owe it all to you!), as we queue up for some booze.  We listen to a bit of him before heading back to the tent.  Our eyes widen in delight at the sight – Oregon, Virginia, Vermont, Louisiana – why, there are microbrews from all over blessed America here in this tent.  Finally, something besides Budweiser in a plastic bottle.  Big Smoky, any recommendations?

“Haze, man.  Purple Haze is sensational.”

“I think I’ll try the Top Hat.  It’s 10.8% alcohol.”

“It’s your liver, man.”

Gigwise saddles up to the Top Hat counter.  Brewed in bucolic Burlington, Vermont.  Nice radio station there, the Buzz.  At least it was nice in 1998.  They played that Drugstore song, the one where Thom Yorke croaks, “Kill the presidennnnnnnnnt.” 

“Sorry, hon, I can’t sell you this beer.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“The law prohibits me from selling this to you.  I can give you a sample.”

“How bout five samples?”

“Sir, that’s not funny.”

“I am no longer thirsty.”

I turn to the next vendor.  Abita.  From Louisiana.

“Yeah, gimme one o’ them Purple Haze things.”

Lord Ambiance, Big Smoky, and I sit on the grass.  A toddler right beside us is clowning around with a rubber Croc shoe.  Lord Ambiance waves, makes baby faces at the young beast.

“For the love of God, Lord Ambiance, let the infant be.  The last thing she needs to see at this stage in her development is your demented face.”

Two young ladies from Oklahoma enter the scene.  They tell us, yeah, Wayne Coyne’s at all the shows.  He’s a legend there.  Everybody goes up to him, talks to him, the whole big.  Nice guy.  Very approachable.

“I guess the closest thing we have to that in Chicago is Billy Corgan.”

Billy Corgan?  Our legend?  What century is this, Big Smoky?  That’s it, brother.  No more talk from you.  I slap him on the mouth with the baby’s spare Croc.  Chicago legend?  Try Jeff Tweedy.  Kanye.  R. Kelly, if you have to.  Anybody but Billy Corgan.

The Okies rise to their feet and depart to the tune of Ben Folds’ “Rockin’ the Suburbs.”

Ben Folds?  Hey, that reminds me.  I’ve a press conference to attend.

We don’t make it out of the beer tent until three-thirty.  Big Smoky and Lord Ambiance are dead set on seeing Bright Eyes (groan), but it’s not so bad, as Shite Eyes is playing the Which Stage which is located directly in front of the press tent.  On with it, mentalists.

They tell me they’ll save my spot.  I tell them I’ll bring back two cups of refreshing water.  Deal.