Monday night I got back from my first foray into the deep and dirty world of multi-day music festivals. Somehow despite a travel-lustful youth and an enjoyment of most musical types I never did manage to get to a camp-out-take-no-shower-bake-my-ass-in-the-hot-hot-sun full on rock festival. Not for lack of offers in fact but something always seemed to come up.
When I was 17 some friends offered me a ticket and a ride to a Grateful Dead show in Las Vegas. I declined because I was about to leave for Israel for in a couple of weeks and I decided I needed to save the money. And besides, I can always catch the next Dead show right?
As it turns out, not so much. Jerry Garcia died that summer in rehab. I remember the day perfectly. I was on a rocky beach shore with 900 other teenagers and a handful of staff competing in a Macabia , an Israeli sports and team spirit competition. As I recall we did quite well. But the rumor began to spread about mid-day and but sundown people had called home to confirm and it was true. Jerry died of a heart attack in rehab. At that point I'd say a little over half the kids on that beach with me were deadheads of some kind. Some of them had started following the dead as toddlers with their hippie parents. Others got into it as teenagers along with tie-dyed t-shirts and bongs, the way today's 14 year olds wear disney channel promise rings and read Justin Beeber's autobiography. It was what you did. And so I never did get to see a Dead show. But I had the t-shirt. And a bong. A few other opportunities cropped up over the years, a burning man invite, beach rock fetsivals, but somehow it just never happened. Something always came up.
But not this time! Ah, no my friends. Not this time I tell you. This time I was invited by close friends, and enticed by the offer of VIP status.
Not for us, the cow pasture campsite with no shade and the mile walk to the entrance.
Not for us, the hours of waiting in the sun while our bags were searched to get into the concert grounds.
Not for us, the paying of 11 dollars for a beer.
Not for us, the city of gen-pop port-o-lets whose stench towered in the afternoon heat.
Nay, not even for us the going of four days without a shower!
I tell you now for those of you considering it, VIP rock festival is the only way to go. Sam and Bryn, an old roommate and his wife who just moved down to Nashville picked us up at the airport and drove out to the camp grounds (vip of course) on Thursday morning. They took care of the supply run weeks in advance so we had a cooler full of quality beer (cans only) frozen salmon filets, chicken, meat skewers, eggs, beans, veggies and more. Also a couple of poorly labeled plastic water bottles filled with Vodka and Silver tequila. These were the source of more than a few amusing mix-ups over the weekend including the most horrible cup of coffee ever made.
I tell you now, these photographs are lies. None of us smile this much first thing in the morning.
Now how, you ask, did a man get so lucky as to acquire VIP status at so prestigious an event as Bonnaroo X? That my friends all comes down to friendships. My best friend in fact. Carrie's (above right) husband Steven is a publicist with Big Hassle and they do all the publicity for Bonnaroo. At an event like this it means that Steven (and his cohorts, who are an awesome bunch of people) are charged with making sure that the press is happy, the talent is happy, photographers get their pictures, which makes them happy (except for the ones who don't get and then Steven gets to brow beat them until they smile anyway), basically making sure that everyone is happy happy.
I had the privilege of sitting around in the small air-conditioned office in the press area and all I can say is... Moses was a pussy. If the Big Hassle team had been on it, the Israelites would have been across that desert and living pretty in Jericho in a month flat. Faster if no one found anything in the desert that they could make into moonshine. Thumbs up boys and girls. Next I've got an old ladies worth of cats for you to heard.
The crowd was just about as entertaining as the music and I took lots of pictures of both. Live events and documentary style isn't really my thing, give me 20 minutes in the studio and day, but I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed myself, running around with my super special photographers pass. So here's an edit of the results:
And now ladies and gentleman, THE DECEMBERISTS...
My morning Jacket was next in the lineup and they put on one hell of a show. Truly a rock star band.
And next up, The Arcade Fire...
That was the end of a very long day. After the show we all headed back to the campsite and some much needed sleep, only to find that the organizers had graciously installed some large floodlights to light our way back. And they shine right down into our lovingly assembled campsite.
The next morning after mistakenly trying to boil a pan of vodka instead of water, and after the ensuing fire, panic and tasting the wretched brew, I set out to explore the crowd.
Oh yeah. That's him.
