As a personal rule, I tend to speak unfavorably about Bonnaroo bands who don’t allow media into the press pit. After all, it is the press pit. But hey, sometimes, for whatever reason, your services are not needed. For Danzig Legacy, we let that slide, considering they at least let us in the sweet spot. The muscle-bound godfather of horror-core strictly forbade celluloid of any sort. No photo, no video, and some would-be photogs seen snapping a shot were sometimes squirted with water guns by security.

In fact, Glenn himself took issue with one photog in particular. The shutterbug in question was our own Michael W. Bunch, who was photographing some people in the crowd dancing. Mid-song, Danzig ran to the side the of the stage pointing and screaming before approaching security and then proceeded to run all the way past the side stage, almost into the crowd to "walk among us." As you can see from the exclusive footage above, security soon slowed his roll, and Danzig returned to stage after a matter of minutes. (More on the performance in Lance's post.) Bunch told us that he was certain "Danzig was going to kick [his] ass." Awesome.

If there’s one thing you can do to make your Bonnaroo experience more pleasant, it’s give Sean Maloney $30 to cook for you. That point could not have been made more clear to me than on Saturday morning, when I ventured over to Refugee Camp Cream (aka “Egg Mountain,” because they apparently bought all of the eggs) for bacon, eggs and pancakes. Sure, you might have to catch the pancakes because High Watt bartender and professional Pink Spider Matt Friction is flinging them at you. And bacon grease might be everywhere. And you have to hang out with Crusty Crawshwitz (who I find creepy). But it’s worth it. It’s so worth it.

Satisfactorily crammed full of the greasiest food available to me, I took a leisurely stroll to the What Stage to have my mind blown by "Screaming Eagle of Soul,” Charles Bradley and His Extraordinaires.

Damnit! Darondo canceled! While there's almost certainly nobody else that cares, I had planned my entire weekend around seeing the obscuro-funk champ. Ah well, Charles Bradley is pumping through the press tent right this second and it's been an otherwise incredible weekend. The weather is perfect, the gang's all here, and the vibes are primo. And I'm not about to let a little thing like not seeing a guy I never thought I'd see anyway get in the way. Accentuate the positive and shit. Okay, I'm lying, I'm totally bummed out and I'm going to go drown my sorrows in Korean tacos. Mmm, tacos.

And while I might be bummed out not Friday was nothing but sunshine and badass tunes. I kicked off my music listening day in pretty much the best way you can: right up front for Afrocubism. There are sublime frequencies that manifest when you combine badass Cuban musicians with badass African musicians and let 'em roast in the middle of Tennessee on a Friday afternoon. So many guitars! So much percussion! Mix in the first post-work beer of the day — they taste so much better when there's no guilt in the can — and you've got yourself a perfect festival set.

Any day that culminates with Britain’s unlikeliest rock gods playing their iconic post-rock to tens of thousands while backed by a wall of LED screens and tubes that flash and pulse in a coordinated display of modern ingenuity … well, that’s a day you can’t complain about.

Post-rock and soul seem to be my primary genres of choice this weekend, and Sharon Jones — backed as always by the phenomenal Dap-Kings — delivered the latter with stunning proficiency on Friday afternoon at What Stage. Jones was confident as ever, strutting around the stage in her purple sequined dress, thanking her fans and the universe for the success she’s achieved despite obstacles like the recent loss of her mother, getting a late start in life — she cut her first solo track at age 40 (she’s 56 now), having worked as a corrections officer at Rikers Island for many years — and a recent dental procedure gone awry.

Apart from a half-hearted attempt to see a few songs by Ludacris over the human roadblock outside This Tent, and a couple of songs trying to figure out who that electro-pop artist was who sounded so familiar — wait, that was Feist? — my first day at Bonnaroo was spent mostly in a kind of time warp. And it was a wonderful place to be: Sharon Jones and her ace Dap-Kings delivering a soul revue that would've given Ike and Tina a run for their money back in the day; Afrocubism's entrancing grooves-out-of-time; Fitz and the Tantrums wowing a jubilant crowd with blue-eyed R&B summer jams given a spitshine of ’80s pop gloss. Even the dazzling Rodrigo y Gabriela, backed by the powerhouse C.U.B.A. ensemble on the What Stage in a Friday-night headliner slot, returned throughout the night to the kind of wicked wah-wah riffing that usually heralds the arrival of John Shaft.

By contrast, Radiohead brought the future.

It's hard to believe it's been 15 years since OK Computer, in part because each new Radiohead record pushes the group's earlier work farther off its radar. (You didn't really think you were going to hear anything off Pablo Honey or The Bends, did you?) Roughly a quarter of the band's generous 25-song show (including two encores) was devoted to last year's The King of Limbs, an album of electronic experimentation and hiccuping beats that cast off the pop-songcraft vestiges of 2007's In Rainbows like a zeppelin ditching sandbags. At first listen, it sounds like a studio hothouse flower that would wilt in Manchester's heat and dust.

The concert opener, Limbs' lead-off track "Bloom," removed any doubts about its stageworthiness. Framed by a rapidly blinking grid of monitors offering kaleidoscopic cubist glimpses of the band members, against a backdrop resembling a cathedral organ's pipes undulating with marbled light patterns, the group turned a rhythmic headscratcher of a song on record into a billowing sail of beats, nervy and elating.

Noon was maybe a little too early for me to catch a first show — though I played it relatively Soberoo the night before and thus felt physically fine, the sun was definitely assaulting my willpower something fierce. I put up with this to watch The Kooks, "from England," who artfully deployed their brand of 21st century rock songs to a crowd that skewed a little older than what I'm used to seeing at Bonnaroo. It's jangly and a bit by-the-numbers, but the numbers are at least well-painted.

Remember yesterday when I complained about the comedy lines? Well, I missed Marc Maron because I was waiting in line for Aziz Ansari, and was only five people away when they ran out of tickets. It was a bummer, but A: I've seen Aziz before, and B: I had nice conversations with other folks queued up around me. This one guy had on a Game of Thrones T-shirt, and I saw him receive at least two high-fives from strangers shouting "King of the North!" and "Winter Is Coming!" respectively. Comedy nerds are an affable sort, which is important: I estimate at least 5,000 people were lined up trying to score tickets to Aziz, and I saw no line cutters, queue jumpers, or "saving a spot" jerkoffs.

You know how when you’re in college, everyone is always asking you stupid-ass questions like, “What’s your major?” Bonnaroo is just exactly like that. Only they want to know what bands you’ve seen today, and, “What’s the best thing you’ve seen so far?” I don’t know how to answer these kinds of questions. Don’t they read my blog?

The truth of the matter is, I really didn’t see much in the way of the music during daylight hours yesterday. Rather, I spent my day putting myself in the shoes of those less fortunate. Instead of taking for granted my conveniently remote camping spot, complimentary wi-fi, free bottled water, and daily pedicures, I roughed it in the trenches with the unwashed masses.

As I crawled into my tent on Thursday night, unwilling to humor my overambitious schedule’s suggestion that I peek in on the epic sing-along to R. Kelly’s masterpiece (question mark?) Trapped in the Closet in the Cinema Tent at 2:15 a.m., I had only one thought on my mind: “How can it possibly be this cold at Bonnarooo?”

Since I’m a creature of habit with limited, decade-old camping gear, my sleeping situation has been the same for the past five years of Bonnaroo-ing. I have a tent, and inside that tent is an air mattress that probably has a leak in it, a sleeping bag, a sheet and a blanket. The sensible Bonnaroo camper — one who doesn’t want to wake up in a pool of sweat at 8 a.m. — winds up sleeping on top of all of that stuff. On Thursday night, I slept inside my sleeping bag and was still cold. And, while I welcome the mild temperatures and the lessened chance of spontaneous combustion via heat index, that was totally weird.

Then I tried to escape my sleeping bag and immediately pulled a muscle. An auspicious start to Bonnaroo day two!

Every Bonnaroo needs a theme, and after starting my slow descent in to beer-drenched insanity — at 10:30 yesterday morning, mind you — my man main Gravy and I decided that this year our theme is gonna be “Wriot Boiz." Mind you, we polished off half a case of beer between the two of us while listening to Gang Green really loud in the parking lot for press check-in. Basically we walked in this piece and set the pace. It's now your responsibility to keep pace, 'Roosters. Actually, don't, because I worry about your safety, and Wriot Boiz are more pro than most folks can hang with. And by “pro” I mean "drunker than shit."

But that was a helluva way to start things off! We made a bunch of new friends, we somehow managed to set up camp, and then by the time we had almost (almost!) sobered up, it was time for the real party to start. And you know what that means: arepas and Mariachi El Bronx! I never actually made it to the Mariachi stage — it was the first night of alumni weekend, you gotta stop and chat. But they set the tone for the night with their joyous Latin sounds. And arepas are just awesome, there's no better way to put it. And maybe it's because I live on Nolensville Road, but nothing makes me feel more at than some Latin music and some Latin food.