Friday, June 25, 2010
The Daily Beacon • 3
ENTERTAINMENT
Editor keeps faith in ‘modern Woodstock’ Jake Lane Entertainment Editor What proved to be perhaps the last day I would spend at Bonnaroo, the last time I’d walk that litter-strewn, sunbaked farm, proved far less remorseful or sentimental than perhaps might be acceptable, if not appropriate. So many great memories exist in that place, but with a combination of adult responsibility and righteous aging, what once seemed like Paradise became more like a softened Purgatory. At the Cinema Tent, we watched “Footloose,” yet another guilty pleasure classic that inspired, during its choreographed finale, a wild assortment of dancing festival-goers to charge the front of the room and hold their own miniature happening, ending with a conga line up the main aisle. While anyone good and objective would have held his seat and watched, I am of the Thompsonian school of journalism, which believes to join the party can only lead to a more profound and accurate view of its cause and effects. Though on most days I truly hate “Footloose,” the idea of letting it all go and jumping into the fray with everyone else seemed the best cure for such bitter pill as some of the sights of the weekend provided. It should have been a forgettable experience but in my mind is perhaps the greatest moment of that final day, and with the exception of the Flaming Lips’ congenial parade of all things strange and weird, this was perhaps the only moment where I could fall into the tapestry of the weekend and be one with everyone else, a moment that seemed ceaseless in years past. Once the film ended, we
decided to make an honest attempt to nap, staking out empty rows of seats and sprawling out. As the noon rush came in, however, we were given the boot yet again and left to find the shade. First in the day’s lineup was Tinariwen, a band from Mali formed by a group of Tuaregs, the nomadic people of the area. Though their musical history goes back almost four decades, they began making an organized racket after laying hands on professionally built instruments in the late ‘70s. With a sound derived much more from a shared groove and a laid-back sentiment running through their songs, the group’s emotive yet relaxing sound made for both pleasant mood music and easy sleeping. One of the bigger letdowns, musically, of the weekend was the oh-so-cleverly named Japandroids, whose similarly titled colleagues Japanther are much better. Their indie-punk sound left little to remark about. A lunch trip put me back at camp, where I decided that forgoing Dave Matthews’ reprehensible closing set seemed the proper thing to do, thus I tore down my camp and made preparations to leave after catching some Phoenix in the evening. This was the best decision I made that weekend. After lunch came Memphis alt-country mainstays Lucero, whose inclusion of a Staxworthy horn section helped buffet their whiskey-andheartbreak sound against the punks waiting for Against Me! and the rapidly out-of-place hippies waiting for Jerry to take them to Terrapin Station before the next Trey Anastasio solo album drops. Blues Traveler, a consistently fun show which has never quit left the ‘90s, made a stir with a faithful greatest hits/new jams set, including the strangest Radiohead cover yet, with that band’s sole Stateside hit “Creep.” Singer John Popper and his harmonica are hard to miss and seemed to be everywhere during the festival, but Blues
Traveler remains the best example of how the ‘90s mainstream blues-jam-rock gumbo can still be intriguing. I skipped the blasé balladry of Regina Spektor for the only slightly more appetizing Against Me! set. In the past, the band was inspirational to me and the several evolutions of the band I played in until recently. In our middle period, our drummer wrote a song that called out lead singer Tom Gabel for turning his back on the view he so vehemently espoused on tracks like “Baby, I’m an Anarchist” and “Untitled (Armageddon)” after the band recorded its major label debut with Butch Vig. Though Gabel and crew have weathered that storm and kept on trucking, their more-polished sound has attracted a, say, equally glitzy audience. The mainstage of their tent had none of the trademarks of a punk rock show, with the exception of a few unfortunately faux-hawked guys who, despite their girth, attempted to crowd surf for the majority of the set. Though the band appeased old fans with classics like “Pints of Guiness Make You Strong” and a closing electric rendition of “Baby, I’m an Anarchist,” the inclusion of the lead-off from their most recent album “White Crosses,” “I Was a Teenage Anarchist,” made such concessions seem purely for aesthetic. A few minutes of Kris Kristofferson and a trek to the World Famous Garlic Grilled Cheeses stand lead me to the fountain, a perennial reminder of the filth and fun that Bonnaroo embodies: crystal clear Thursday, the water ends up a murky brown by the end of the weekend after serving as an improvised bathing station and cool-down spot. This year the brown had a remarkable red hue, thanks to GWAR and their corn syrup-excrement encrusted fans who made an early morning jaunt to the fountain for the express purpose of leaving Bonnaroo with a fountain of blood. The sight gave a good
THERE IS NO OFFSEASON FOR RECYCLING YOUR BEACON
laugh and helped raise my morale considerably. I returned to the Cinema Tent with my friends to catch the beginning of “Under Great White Northern Lights,” the most recent White Stripes documentary. Chronicling their 2007 Canadian Tour, its a film about a band at their breaking point, one member exponentially rising to the height of fame while his former wife and constant companion wants to stay in the shadows. The heartbreak on screen seemed to make the melange of the weekend a bit easier to deal with, and broke when we left for Phoenix. Like any band whose hype machine has hit that crucial stage of “buzzworthy,” Phoenix has their fair share of supporters and detractors. The former could be heard singing their praises all weekend, while the latter quipped, “Dude, it’s like Coldplay but gay.” Fact check: Thomas Mars has children with Sofia Coppola. Whose is bigger? I have to admit that they weren’t the be-all-end-all highlight of the weekend, but after burning out in the sun and on the festival, I can’t say I wouldn’t have been more into them at another time. With the end of Phoenix, I left the grounds and the festival. There was no great sorrow or melancholy. In fact, I dreaded the coming rain much more than leaving. All through the drive home, which was cramped when my iPod crapped out and I was forced to first listen to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Chronicle” (win) and a succession of low band radio (varying) until I pulled back into my driveway, cracked a beer and reflected. Every good romance ends
in heartbreak; the inevitability of such an end is what often makes such things the most poignant. Whether it be a matter of natural or untimely death, betrayal and dissolution or the elusive “mutual friends” route, which still usually leaves one side bitter. With myself and a music festival, the love is quite obviously one-sided. As previously eluded to in the coverage of Friday’s festivities at Bonnaroo, a certain amount of the glamour and idealism that has accompanied me to and from the festival in previous years has dissipated due to the negative experiences encountered at this year’s festival. More than just being bummed about a drug dealer getting busted, the idea of the “modern Woodstock,” like the erstwhile Modern Prometheus, is often a monster unintentionally made from fanatical good intentions. While any experience
shared by tens of thousands of people is bound to have a variety of outcomes and reactions from the various parties at hand, when put apart from society there usually will be the person who seeks utopia in the chaos. While I certainly am not alone in thinking festivals have such potential, like the Byronic Hero there is a degree of futility to living in civil anarchy or “above the law.” What I learned at Bonnaroo this year amounted to what you’re told in grade school and the military: stand in line, don’t act funny and for Chrissake, cut your hair. Well, not this fella. I keep my reservations that the festival I love hasn’t gone to hell, but I’m not sure how long I can delude myself. For those who dare to go where the law can be bent to the will of the masses, always remember that you are being watched, and they take names.