In case you're still hankering for some Bonnaroo coverage, I've got some, and then some, and then some more. Had my brain been working better the last few days, I would've furnished ye Cream faithful with my musings on Manchester with greater haste, but a long harsh weekend like the one I'm still recovering from yields a mighty harsh grindstone to face Monday morning. Anyhow, here goes:

How anyone could ever handle four straight days of braving Bonnaroo without the amenities of guest camping and climate-controlled artist and press areas is simply beyond me. Then I remember how — not long ago — I used to patronize these festivals and slum it among the plebes with smiles abounding. Well, now I’m spoiled and I’ve forgotten my roots. While access to Bonnaroo’s perks may have gone to my head, blood has stopped going to my feet, the drugs have worn off, the chigger bites are spreading and the blisters are still bulging. Such is the price one pays for an 86-hour three-way of musical, professional and hedonistic responsibilities. Having made it back to Nashville safe and sound, I’m learning to readjust to a life in which my shoes aren’t waterlogged with pissy mud and muddy piss, and my mind is altered only by MSNBC and VH1 Classic.

Like what you read?


Click here to become a member of the Scene !