Jam Worth Spreading
Rather than settling in for three hours of My Morning Jacket, we beelined for The Other Tent and the mystery prize called SuperJam. Until the impromptu band hits the stage, no one reveals the lineup.
Rolling the dice proved fortuitous – 20 minutes after we arrived the irregular sprinkling showers split into a sheer downpour that left the festive scrounging for cover. People outside the tent crammed and screamed at those of us with the foresight to grab a seat.
When I first heard about SuperJam, two names came to mind – Jack White and bassist Les Claypool, two musicians with a proclivity for jamming outside their comfort zones.
With the crew sliding an upright bass among the microphones, the first participant was revealed.
With a delay due to cancelled flights in
Finally around 1:30 Claypool stepped forward to emcee, and Jack White slinked over to his Fender Mustang without a trace of rock star in his steps. Who would fill out the lineup - Eddie Vedder, Robert Plant, Jack Johnson, or Sam Beam from Iron & Wine?
[Upon further review of blurry YouTube footage, it might not have been Jack White after all - after the 100-minute wait for them to start, my mind might have started to see who it wanted to see. But a cowboy hat, black shirt, pale skin and a Fender Mustang or Jaguar? If it wasn't Jack White, this guy sure wanted to be him. ]
Thankfully none of the above appeared, and my new favorite band Gogol Bordello finished the lineup. The NYC gypsy punks were suitably stewed and ready to waltz through some improvised tunes.
The loose set centered around a trio of Tom Waits covers – “I Don’t Wanna Grow Up,” “Way Down in the Hole” and “Cold Cold Ground.” They ambled through the songs, turning them into the 15-minute epics necessary to make it a jam session. White looked perfectly content plucking some random notes and the occasional arpeggio. In a typically goody outfit with a latex mask that had to be hot as Hell, Les Claypool was an effective emcee, egging the audience into various nonsensical chants descended from his days as Primus’ frontman.
By this point, the fight with my body neared its end, and I’d lost long ago. SuperJam would end the night, but returning the tent, the music kept me going. After earning a spider bite in my late-night trip to the bathroom, I was really finished.
From the distant Which Stage, the
The Point of No Return
Rain pounded
My hair was not the greasy mess I anticipated, and sponge baths kept my scent from leaning into rancid produce territory.
So I decided to forgo any thought of a shower and sweat my way through it. At best, my pheromones would punch through the deodorant mask; at worst, my friends would forgive me, and our concert neighbors would hate us.
After burning a few American Spirits with the Indian boys and the festival veteran two tents over, scent was not a worry.
Shortly before entering, I lost Erin and Sheri, so I set out to wander for a few hours before Iron & Wine, where I knew I’d catch them.
I caught a little of Gogol bordello’s afternoon set, which was not as drenched in alcohol as SuperJam. They again demonstrated themselves worthy heirs to the tight musicianship and party spirit of The Pogues. Super Taranta was my first purchase upon returning to
Old Man #2 of 3: B.B. King
Are you allowed to be disappointed at a legend? Ask anyone who saw Chuck Berry at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame show 13 years ago.
I have to give the same answer from the five songs I heard from B.B. King. I found myself wishing I’d not skipped out on all those opportunities to catch him in
At 82, King is more storyteller than blues virtuoso. His massive band and horn section filled the gaps. He and Lucille were more like an elderly couple that endure on routine and little else; his faithful guitar was too much a prop at times.
I don’t blame the old man for not being able to tear it up anymore; I blame myself for expecting Live at the Regal.
Old Man #3 of 3: Little Levon
After a few sweeps though the Iron & Wine’s swelling crowd, the Stacey sisters walked in. They found a spot and I immediately charged back to the Other Tent to catch Levon Helm. A decade after beating throat cancer, his album Dirt Farmer showed the Band’s greatest voice remained strong. Onstage, he was diminutive behind his drum kit, even as he mowed down the small crowd with his voice.
Without the time to wait for him to revive a few Band favorites, I skipped back over for my favorite folkie.
Beam’s Choice
Although he’s better in a smaller setting, I couldn’t shut out Iron & Wine. Sam Beam rearranged his songs heavily for the concert stage. It has the effect of turning every opening note into a question, and the first words into a revelation.
With a full band, even new tunes like “White Tooth Man,” “Pagan Angel and a Borrowed Car” and Boy With a Coin” roared out fresh and well-oiled.
His heart-wrenching versions of “Carousel” and “Upward Over the Mountain” again proved his craft for tough folk tunes peppered with abstract lyrics.
We left as the mournful tones of “Trapeze Swinger” began, and the song followed us all the way to Jack Johnson, with me fending off tears the whole way.
Home Stretch
With apologizes to Neil Young, at Bonnaroo, even Jack Johnson has got soul. He’s an original Bonnaroo guy, but now too popular for anywhere but the What Stage and its massive lawn.
And honestly, the man can spit out a dynamic take on Zep’s “Whole Lotta Love.”
I’m not a Jack hater, but I recognize where he’s headed – this man will be Jimmy Buffett in a decade. The surf lifestyle has already won him millions of fans, and when my generation approaches forty, they will morph into Surfheads, tailgate with margaritas and wear Jack Johnson brand sandals (if they don’t already make them; I’m not bothering to look).
But after several long days, mellow fit the crowd, and was sorely needed a an intro to Pearl Jam. Eddie Vedder couldn’t be restrained until 10:30, and came onstage for a quick duet with Johnson.
Another Flavorful Jam
As with Metallica, Pearl Jam was a wild card. Ably mixing their best tunes with rarities, covers and Vedder’s inevitable Bush-hating rants, this outfit came to kick Bonnaroo’s ass.
They played the best of Ten, gave me a bolt of “Corduroy” and threw in “Crazy Mary” for good measure. Their 2 and a half hours melted by, luring me back to a band I abandoned as a surly high schooler who couldn’t handle that everyone planned to buy Versus. I traded in Ten and never touched another PJ album despite how much I loved “Corduroy”; maybe it’s time to reconsider.
By the time they hit the encore, the wine had hit hard Vedder. He dedicated a song to a friend injured in the
With a pair of well-picked covers – The Who’s “Love Reign O’er Me” and “All Along the Watchtower” – Pearl Jam sent off my teenage self in grand fashion.
By that time, Kanye’s set had been moved back to 3:15.
Sigur Ros would have put me to sleep at the That Tent anyway, so I wandered back, laid down and let them do their work from my tent.
I’m Glad I Didn’t Wait (for Kanye or Sunday night)
How ironic that Chris joked about the “Kanye-sized ego” needed to run for president, when the festive had a big dose in store for the on Sunday morning.
Perhaps he’ll call his next record Persona non Grata, because that’s what Kanye West turned himself into at Bonnaroo by taking the stage at 4:30 a.m., a mere 495 minutes after his original start time. Dawn quickly broke on his light show; West never acknowledged the delay or the audience, going through the motions and departing.
Rogue Wave singer Zach Rogue asked the audience if Kanye really went on at 4:30 and assured the small afternoon crowd that “We would never do that to you.” These indie rockers stretched out their sound into dream alt-country pastures, showing chops they lacked when opening for The Shins four summers ago.
After they wrapped up, I scrambled back to the campsite to find the Indian boys moved their car, and I had a clear shot at the road. I pulled up, then sprinted inside to bid goodbye to my camping buddies. Beneath the giant rasta heads, I waited while Orchestra Baobob from
While somewhat disappointed in myself for skipping Solomon Burke and Broken Social Scene, I was marinated, cooked and ready to peel out of this oven. Ten minutes later, I-24 again stretched out before me, then 70 miles of highway and a shower were the only obstacles between me and a deep dreamless sleep.
Futuroo
A week later, I can’t see myself staking another tent in
But
Actually, I hit the road for the next in five weeks – the Pitchfork Festival at
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