With acts ranging from the funky to the fresh, from Phil Lesh to Chromeo, from M.I.A. to Solomon Burke, from Battles to Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings, Bonnaroo is still advancing the hippie ideal of inclusivity in its seventh year. That is, we can all get along just fine, you know, if there’s booze, weed, good tunes, fresh air and somebody to paint flowers on our faces.
So instead of grumbling about all your favorite acts who won’t be gracing Nashville stages this year, you can thank your hemp-lined stars that Bonnaroo is only an hour away—our city’s consolation prize for often being left off the tour map. And like so many festivals from SXSW to Coachella, curating your own mini-festival is part of the fun.
Luckily, Thursday’s a breeze. By just planting your backpack for a few hours at This Tent at 7 p.m., you can catch our own power-pop vets Superdrag, the psychedelic pop of MGMT, math-rockers Battles and the preppy cardigan beats of Vampire Weekend. And you still have time to see what all-female tribute band Lez Zeppelin are up to.
But come Friday, you’ll find yourself gazing down the barrel of an identity crisis. Do I need Tegan & Sara’s plangent folk-rock to walk me through my last failed relationship, or is it better to commune with my fellow brethren watching Stephen Marley? And you can’t see Willie Nelson and M.I.A. both at 6:30—who do you think you are, anyway? Some kind of retro American cowboy or a globe-trotting electro-clash diva? Speak now, or forever hold your—and shit, I’ve never seen techno wizards MSTRKRFT, but My Morning Jacket put on one hell of a bad-ass live show. Both play at midnight. There’s comedy galore, films and even an arcade, but what, are you trying to kill yourself? You know it’s gonna be like 95 degrees, and that’s to say nothing of the humidity, which will feel like you’re breathing cotton candy.
But let’s not dwell too much on the greater symbolism to be found in this paradox of choice set against the backdrop of man vs. nature. As Jack Silverman writes, you’ve got bigger tofu to fry, since this year’s festival brings metalheads to the hippie fray in larger numbers, thanks to Metallica.
It’s not like you can escape the cacophony, heat and sensory overload anyway. But you can be prepared for it, as Steve Haruch guides us. Did you buy VIP passes? They sold out, ya know. Both Lee Stabert and I found that scoring artists passes—and free beer, food and delirious backstage access—made all the difference. Though it was not entirely repercussion-free, as we tell you.
But hey, it’s Saturday. And by now, you’re sunburned, you stink, the grease in your hair has congealed, you have the outline of a footprint on your back, mud on your ass, and anything goes. Do you like B.B. King, Ben Folds, Cat Power, Mastodon or the Avett Brothers? Well, good luck with that. They’re all kinda playing at the same time. But at least then it’s only a hop, skip and a Kanye until ’90s holdovers Pearl Jam moodily and grungily prove why they’re still holding over. And there’s always Phil Lesh.
Sunday, bloody Sunday. Oh Yonder Mountain String Band, you Dirty Dozen, why have you Broken my Social Scene? I wanted to see Ladytron. Widespread Panic ensues. Oh well, there’s always next year.
