So, despite my attempts to get actual rest on Friday night, I ended up accumulating perhaps three hours of real sleep, at which point the tent became uninhabitable, so I hunkered down and ate strawberries and blueberries in a tiny triangle of shade created by a nearby truck parked close to our tent. Once Amber got up and going, we headed into Centeroo to meet up with Maggi, who was craving a tofu scramble. I split from the group shortly afterward and headed back into the bustle to see what I could see. I’m a sucker for seeing, see.
I headed toward the media area to try once more to get onto a wifi network so I could file some shit, but once again I was rebuffed. So I hung around during a press conference and got to listen to Margaret Cho, Jimmy Buffett, Robert Kennedy Jr., and others just sort of shoot the breeze. So bizarre, this being-a-part-of-the-media thing.
Saturday is now somewhat a blur in my memory. I remember shooting Bon Iver and Of Montreal — clusterfucks, both, because the pit was so crowded — and then finding Amber on a blanket and passing out next to her in the sunshine. We met up with Maggi and the gang and I procured an enormous slice of pizza, and we sat on the grass and made fun of Elvis Costello (I know, I know, but we were delirious). Then there was nothing else to do but meander toward the main stage for The Boss, who played a three-hour set during which Amber rattled off untold numbers of factoids passed down to her from her boyfriend Craig, Bruce Springsteen’s No. 1 fan. No, really.
It was during Bruce Springsteen’s set that I saw the most bizarre and unsettling thing I saw all weekend. Directly behind us, some kid just randomly started having a bit of a freakout on the ground — writhing, kicking, thrashing freakout. It looked a little like a seizure, so naturally we stared for as long as we could to try to determine if the kid needed help. His friends were around him and they seemed unfazed, so we held tight. After one final explosive spaz attack, he collapsed into a heap and laid still for several minutes. He was breathing. And then he got up and started dancing with his pals. Yep. Apparently the kids love tripping balls to Americana rock (which must, as we surmised, be prefaced by a count: “One, two, three, four!”).
I don’t *get* Bruce Springsteen but a hell of a lot of people do, and he made a ton of people ecstatic that night. So good on him. Even if he did have trouble hoisting himself up onto the barricade. (The camera caught that!)
Then came the Yeasayer/MGMT bill, which I was looking SO forward to. I shot Yeasayer from the pit and it was beautiful and amazing (I luff them), even if their vocals were all over the damn place. Their show was still damn fine, and I’m not sure if any other act’s percussion section could have rivaled theirs.
Then came MGMT. I tried to make it into the pit but the security guys got pissed and overwhelmed and kicked all of us out, leaving only like nine photographers to shoot. FUCKING LAME. I retreated back to my standing spot with my pal David and we both quickly realized that something awful had happened that that their sound was tinny and tiny and bottled and quiet and disappointing. We suffered through four songs before we left. And it pains me to even admit that, since I am a HUGE MGMT fan. But it felt a little phoned in, I’ll be honest. And that’s a shame; the crowd was fucking enormous. Probably the biggest crowd they’ve ever played in front of. They could have packed the Which stage, in fact.
Feeling bitter, David and I took to the ferris wheel to forget our musical problems. I couldn’t get a decent picture to save my life. I blame fatigue and laziness, not utter lack of photographic ability in anything less than supernova-level light conditions. Grounded, we watched the silent disco for a bit, then met up with Amber, and went our merry ways.
Amber had instructed her mom to come pick her up at 5-something a.m. so she could go catch her early flight back to New York. We decided to pull an all-nighter, and spent the wee hours making sure she had all her stuff together, separate from mine. The sun rose, blotted out by thick fog, as we trekked to the outside world. Bleary-eyed and exhausted and existing in a mental fog that has still not yet lifted for me, we waited on the side of a gravel road and watched hipsters of all stripes come and go. At one point, this rednecky girl tried to get past security but didn’t get cleared, so she spun her truck tires passive-aggressively and lurched forward while cussin’ about not being able to get to work. Yeah, no idea. It was a little much to take in at 5 a.m. on no sleep.
I got a call from David, who had performed the minor miracle of finding our campsite based on my very horrible directions (“Camp Billy Zane, near a Grateful Dead flag and a state flag” — HOW VAGUE IS THAT). He was seeking permission to crash so he wouldn’t have to set up his tent at 6 a.m. Permission was granted and when I had hugged Amber and her mom goodbye (her mom and step-dad said they saw some random person rolling around ecstatically in someone’s yard on the way in) and returned to the tent, there lay David, conked out on the damn floor in what looked to be the most uncomfortable position ever. I left him that way, not out of meanness, but out of a sense of obligation to his ability to fall asleep in that position at all.
I got a couple of hours of broken sleep before the tent heated up and David was awake and raring to get out and see some shows. I said fuck it and didn’t even give myself a spongebath like I had the previous mornings. We broke down the campsite and shoved everything into my car (thank god for D; it would have been much much much more difficult doing so solo) and headed to Centeroo, my feet throbbing inside my cute-ass boots. (Even extremely comfortable footwear can kick your ass after a few days.) I was feeling completely unmotivated, so the only pit I pushed my way into was Ted Leo’s, and I got some boring shots and then went and sat down to enjoy the show.
Sunday’s a bit of a blur; I was sleep deprived and so very tired. I remember trying to get into the VIP viewing area for Snoop, which happened because David had a very special pass onto which I latched like a leech. Inside that VIP viewing area, I saw the biggest joint I have ever seen in my life. And I saw a lot of people flipping the bird simultaneously. Apparently Snoop Dogg doesn’t care for the po-lice.
It was time to bid adieu to Bonnaroo. I gingerly made my way back to my car and maneuvered my way off the farm, driving into the sunset and toward Nashville, where Kristin and Lonnie did me a solid and let me use their shower AND their spare bed. Needless to say, BEST SHOWER EVER.
Although I have to admit this here and now because I never would have believed it had I not lived it: Going for several days without bathing is surprisingly easy once you get used it.
DON’T EVER TELL ANYONE I SAID THAT BECAUSE I WILL DENY IT ‘TIL THE DAY I DIE.