'Roo Report Part 1

The dreams have started, and at times I feel a phantom wristband where my Bonnaroo one sat for four days. My nose is actively peeling, but my headache remains and I still wince at sunlight.

You can scrounge through plenty of concert diaries from publications and bloggers across the country. The festival log here represents the musings of a Bonnaroo skeptic, a first-timer who might never return but remained happy for the journey.

The Slow Road to Manchester
So here we start, when 70 interstate miles sounded so simple. The Coffee County Sheriff’s office tacked on 28 – all drivers went way past the Bonnaroo exit to the dreaded line we hoped to avoid. At 7:15 a.m., we ground to a stop, 15 miles away.

We barely moved until Sheri needed to hit the bathroom, then the cars rolled an unexpected mile along the emergency lane. Sheri caught us after we pulled from the pack during the next long stop.

Then the Tee-Hee Girls began their dance. Descended from some sorority with low standards, the girls in the car in front of us cock-teased every group of boys that wandered past the stopped vehicles. They yanked out a boombox to start a mini-rave 10 miles from Bonnaroo; unfortunately for the wandering boys, that was all they yanked out. I drank copious amounts of water, longed for a Yuengling and tore through 50 pages of Lucky Bastard.

Then the traffic picked up to where the dance party had to wait until the tents poles went up. We rolled the last five miles to the security checkpoint, where a simple “no” about glass bottles got me through, and then it was set-up time.

Twenty minutes after 12 noon, the Sisters Stacey and I had beers in hand, tents standing, and a conversation going with the Indian boys from Drexel University in Philly who parked next to us.

The anticipation of all that music was downright painful.

We hunted down the Staceys’ friends for a few mid-afternoon brews, then grilled some Bocas before venturing to Centeroo, where gruff security search everything for beer and illegal materials that somehow slip inside the venue anyway. A guard shouted at me for not stepping away from the checkpoint fast enough, so I loudly dubbed them “The Gestaperoo.” Not only did I get laughs, but I demonstrated the impotency of Bonnaroo security (e.g. they didn’t kick me out for being my usual mouthy self).

The first night’s music coasted by, and I never made it to buzzband Vampire Weekend – their Ivy League credentials turned me off anyway. With the long night rapidly catching me, and the horror stories of sleepless, humid Bonnaroo nights never manifested.

With a thick fingernail moon and the Big Dipper clearly pointing out the Northern Star, the music didn’t matter. Inside the tent, I heard every note of the Dark Orchestra’s Dead reenactment, and it propelled me straight to sleep.

The next morning, I heard one of our tent neighbors exclaim, “Walking through that crowd was one of the most impossible tasks I’ve ever had to accomplish.” She was referring the neo-hippies drawn by the DSO.

And I thought I was soft.

Frantic Friday

Rising to complete a vigorous constitutional before the bathrooms drew a line, I read and made friends with our Indian neighbors, two recent college graduates on their last hurrah before careers dragged them apart. A few well-disguised joints and splashes of Jack Daniels made them enjoyable neighbors, even if the one guy’s girlfriend never spoke a word to me.

We started with the music – and Drive-By Truckers never sounded better. While the diehards can’t handle the bassist’s vocals, the set had a strange cohesiveness that let them escape their Lynyrd Skynyrd influences and rock in the Friday lineup as only a Southern band could.

Forty-five minutes later, the migration began, with Argentine/Swede Jose Gonzalez quickly going subtle. For once, he wasn’t alone on stage; a percussionist rounded out his sound, and he clearly earned a new following by the close of his 45-minute set. People leaving the stage had no idea who they just saw, yet few wanted to forget.

Tegan & Sara didn’t keep the vibe going. Identical twins who have become a latter-day Indigo Girls, but their synth-pop has yet to move into multiple dimensions. A few songs, as “Walking with a Ghost,” resonate, but they were the exceptions.

Stephen Marley only had to say “Hey mon, here be another of my dad’s songs.” He never did, but the crowd was already there. That was fine – he didn’t draw the obnoxious Tegan & Sara fans, so the reggae revival worked fine, even if it did sound a lot like a cover band working its way through Legend.

The Raconteurs deserve only one descriptor – blistering. Not for a second did the quartet let up, and they could have headlined without a second thought. Maybe Jack White needs to sit out a year so Bonnaroo appreciates him more. As much as they plowed through their newer cuts, they back off on others. “Store Bought Bones” became a funky, skeletal jam punctuated by three White solos.

Erin’s buddy Casey convinced us all that “Rich Kid’s Blues” was about to segue into “The End” from The Doors ... for about 10 seconds. It never happened, but it only augmented the onstage drama already provided by The Raconteurs.

Old Man #1 of 3: Willie Nelson

My only goal for the weekend was to catch the three old men I might not have the chance to see again – other goals would emerge as the weekend lumbered on. But catching Willie Nelson was a Friday priority – at 75, I couldn’t count on him to ply the concert circuit much longer. I knew every tune he and his band played; for the familiarity, they never felt as if they went through the motions. That show was more a family affair than any other – two of Willie’s sons, but the scions of his ancient band also joined the festivities. There was not a more laidback show the entire weekend – take that, Jack Johnson.

The weekend's shortest hour belonged to Chris Rock. For all the white folks nervously laughing at many jokes, he never avoided controversy, his observations about men and women were spot-on (men can't go backwards sexually, women cannot go backwards materially). The political material aped a recent Rolling Stone interview, but he tucked in enough new bits to keep it fresh. Plus, he advocated the need to kill Flava Flav, that his continued existence gives John McCain ammunition to say, "This guy isn't what I stand for." Can you argue that point?

Hell, he could have stood up there just bugging out his eyes for an hour and I wouldn't have stopped laughing.

OK, I'm officially over the Napster fiasco
Rock then introduced the biggest question mark of the weekend - Metallica. Would they play their less-dynamic newer stuff, debut songs from their upcoming record, or fall flat on the Bonnaroo audience?I heard the first words of "Creeping Death" and my mind dusted off all the lyrics I'd memorized at 14. More Ride the Lightning followed - "For Whom the Bell Tolls" and the title track, before they broke the show open with a range of songs from their first five -and unarguably best - albums.

That teenage Melville would have been happy to know that when his adult successor finally saw Metallica, his hair was long enough to rip off the bandanna and let it fly until an aching neck forced him to stop.

Even though Lars Ulrich wears the pants in this band, James Hetfield is a consummate rock frontman, teasing the audience, giving them verses to sing, and leading them

Short blasts like "Last Caress" and "So What" spiced up the set between epics like "Master of Puppets" and "...And Justice For All." They reveled in their moment, and rewarded the tens of thousands watching.

Really, it shouldn't be surprising; Metallica has played the European festival circuit for more than 20 years, and Bonnaroo's eclectic lineup follows the spirit of Glastonbury and others.

I couldn't help feel a little sorry for them - they played one song ("The Memory Remains") recorded after 1991. Hell, this concert could have been held in 1992, minus the band's haircuts. Everything else was nearly 20 years old. They disavowed such a large chunk of their work. Still, there's nothing wrong with Metallica clinging to their brightest moments; no one had to suffer through "Here of the Day" or "Unforgiven Two."

(Up next: Who showed up for Super Jam)