Saturday, June 14, 2008
Bonnaroo Bonnaroo Saturday: 'Here Comes the Sun' or 'Soggyroo: a River Runs Through It'
Posted by Seth Graves on Sat, Jun 14, 2008 at 5:52 PM
Photo by Steve Cross
I woke up this morning to find my shoes were still soaked, the ground was still muddy, and the sky was still pissing a steady drip onto our parade. I hopped over and weaved through over a matrix of pond-sized puddles and mud pits to catch San Francisco's Two Gallants. Sporting just guitar and drums, these guys play surfy, garagey indie rock inspired by Depression era country and folk. With tales of train hoppin', wife shootin', and the impending doom posed by the gallows at Mexican jail, their lyrics get a little too contrived and anachronistic for my taste, but they've got a few hooks I've been singing to myself all day.
Photo by Christopher Victorio
By the time Two Gallants were done, the clouds had dissipated and a slightly less brutal version of the sun took its rightful place in the sky. It still wasn't quite enough to dry up the mud, but it sure as hell beats catching my death in the wet weather.
The highlight of today so far has been NYC's self-proclaimed gypsy punkers Gogol Bordello, who've upgraded to a bigger stage than the tent they played last year. Frontman Eugene Hütz looks more and more like an Eastern European redneck every time I see him, but he's never any less energetic. He and his nine-piece, racially and internationally diverse combo didn't just fan the party flames, they doused that shit with gasoline using their circus-ready mix of cabaret, punk, dub, and old school Euro-folk.
Photo by Steve Cross
Photo by Steve Cross
Photo by Steve Cross
I stepped away to catch a little of Atlanta's indie metal gods Mastadon, only to find that I was inexplicably refused admission to the press pit. I instead found a reasonably good spot near the stage, but the sound was just rumbling drums and bass with the faint squeal of electric guitar in the background. I wound up stopping into the Budweiser Troo Music Lounge to catch the rest of Gogol Bordello broadcasting live on Fuse. Granted, they were live in the flesh just 150 yards away, but the view was much better on a flat screen TV, and more comfortable from an air-conditioned seat.
As for now, there's still more drinking to do, more bands to see, and more ridiculous-looking folks to make fun of.*
*In all fairness, nobody here actually looks cool. I mean, it's pretty impossible when you're either on the cusp of heat stroke or looking like a drowned opossum. Even folks who try—say, shirtless pretty boys with doo-rags, tribal tattoos, and Ray-Bans—just look even more like douches for doing so. Seems the best route is to just adorn yourself in the most ludicrous attire possible (i.e. the girl in bikini bottoms, fairy wings, and galoshes)—or perhaps as few clothes as possible, covering the blank spaces with cheap body paint and letting it smear and run all over you.
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