bon ete
my it’s been many moons since i left chattanooga. i’ve been on a real whirlwind tour (which hasn’t allowed me internet access) and now i’m back down south.
rather than boring you with hours of details about my travels, i’ll spare you and give visual documentary instead…. these are each worth a thousand words, right?
my lovely girl squad at rothbury
the one thing i learned how to do this summer
skate art party at off the hook, montreal
poutine is disgusting.
drinking mojitos with scott in nyc
dancin the night away in chi town
it’s time.
packing. moving. sorting. trashing. watching as all of your posessions are able to fit into a few soggy cardboard boxes.
framed pictures of ships i never rode on and of the places i will never forget and of a woman standing with a llama in peru that i cut out of a magazine and pretended to be my grandmother and of the friends and the life i’m soon to leave behind; books i always intended on reading but never got around to; curtains faded from the sun that streams into my downtown apartment; pots that have held masterful curries and terrible late-night mishaps involving rice and pickles and too much vodka; scars on the hardwood floors from 4 a.m. dance-offs; closets and cabinets overflowing with scarves and jackets and dresses and tops that don’t fit and cold-weather things i won’t need in california; lamps that haven’t held working bulbs for months; two cats: one that’s obese and loving and one that’s whiney and tailless; board games that have brought on rivalries that we just might take to the grave; trinkets: a brass unicorn, a home-made painting of a snail, fake flowers given to me by a friend on my 21st birthday, wings from a halloween costume, a set of tea cups and saucers scrolling je t’aime, a rug i hung on a wall, the things of yours i still haven’t moved. so many things.
things. things. things. things. things. taking up space, suffocating me, tying me down. they’re only things. but everything i look at is another memory, another string tying me to that old dirty apartment that refuses to let me go. i loved there, i fought there, i laughed there, i learned there, i grew flowers there on my porch barely big enough to stand on and watched them die and grow again in the next season, i felt the greatest happiness of my life and also the greatest sadness and now it has all come to a close.
a new chapter in my life is about to begin.
all i have to do is say goodbye.
que?
Well, it’s finally over.
It took me a few days to be able to muster up the energy to speak correctly, much less write again.
muddy. sweaty. passionate. painful. satiated. exhausted.
The friends I decided to camp with were in the biggest damn hurry to get to Bonnaroo as quickly as humanly possible. Why? So that they can enjoy every blistering second of the Bonnaroo camping experience and to make sure we got one extra night of the elements just to ice the cake.
Of course, by leaving WEDNESDAY NIGHT, we landed the best campsite you can get at Bonnaroo. and, naturally, by best I mean absolutely fucking worst. We were camped an extended hike around the VIP, across a bridge, through a few feet of mud, and approximately 2 MILES from Centeroo. And, of course, as my luck would have it, every time we tried to make it back to our campsite the taxis had stopped running. I no longer have feet.
Of course there were a few occurrences of people in my immediate social network acting like complete assholes and some doing things they would never do in their right minds that I watched in terror of. Like, my old buddy from Lollapalooza (who I will reserve anonymity) who decided that attempting to give another entirely straight dude a BJ at 3 o’clock in the morning in the backseat of my car, while I was in it, was an excellent idea. Let’s just say this ended up in bruises and mud and really angry neighbors and a veeeerrrrrrryy awkward next morning.
Aside from the camping adventures, the music was phenomenal. Quite frankly, I spent most of my time in the Arcade tent, which was more like a private club than a tent at a festival. Hardwood floors- brilliant when watching a show meant standing in a gigantic bog of mud and other people’s sweat- Gigantic Fans- I forgot there was such a thing- The Craziest Dance Party at Roo Hands Down- this is where the best DJ’s were at and, by default, this became the mecca of those who wanted to shake their asses.
Now let’s get to the music. I didn’t see nearly as much as I had wanted to, but when you’re miles away, times are hard:
MURS brought it so hard, it wasn’t even funny. I wasn’t sure if I was really in the mood for technical hip hop on Thursday afternoon, but I quickly changed my mind. It’s all about working the crowd and making people never want the show to end and for that, my friend, congrats.
Passion Pit was just as energy-filled as I had expected them to be, but we got wrapped up in Tobacco’s DJ set (which reflected his Black Moth Super Rainbow origins with unique, danceable tracks and really smooth transitions) and therefore wound up in the very back of the stage outside of the tent and in a huge mud puddle, so it didn’t really give me the full effect I was hoping for.
As far as performance, however, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs rocked my socks off. Karen O is by far the coolest chick this side of the Mississippi and seeing her perform live only solidified this for me. She knows how to work the crowd and that girl literally put it all out there for her set. love.
The Beastie Boys and David Byrne were a tough choice, and after seeing them, it’s even tougher to tell who came out ahead. They both delivered insane amounts of energy- although trying to compare the Beastie Boys bouncing old school hip hop tracks to David Byrne’s jittery Talking Heads covers is impossible. They both had the crowds screaming the words out just as loud and the excitement on stage and off were level.
Yes. I saw Phish. I’m not proud, but I did.
I saw Pretty Lights late night and had a great time, but the only thing different about his Bonnaroo set and the set I saw a few weeks ago in Knoxville was that he dropped an M.I.A. remix- wow. I’ve never heard anyone do that before. WHERE WAS THE FUCKING DUBSTEP!?! I had expected that if anyone at Bonnaroo was going to drop some bass it would be Pretty Lights. Come on, dude.
Saturday was a bust. I saw Mars Volta. That’s it. My friends were being impossible and trying to meet up with my crew meant missing out on shows, as it always does. Ah, the age-old festival question: friends or music? They are always better when in combination, but the things we sacrifice for them both.
If I could do it over again, I would have loved to see: Rodrigo y Gabriela, Del McCoury (I want to sit on his lap and have him tell me a story), Wilco (I’m sorry my dears it seems I’ve missed you again), and The Decembrist.
Now, if I could have a moment to speak to the people who did the lineup for Bonnaroo- WTF?!?! BRUCE FUCKING SPRINGSTEEN IS THE ONLY PERSON I CAN SEE FOR THREE FUCKING HOURS ON SATURDAY NIGHT?!?!?!?!
I’m not quite sure what you were thinking, and, judging by the mass exodus of people before his set, I’m not the only one who was unhappy about this. Thanks for the nap.
Snoop Dogg. This was, surprisingly enough, the highlight of my weekend. I already knew he was a badass beyond compare, but his show just made it official. I mean, I have NEVER seen anyone work a crowd as hard as he does. Everyone was soooo in tuned to every word he was saying- there was so much crowd involvement and I left there feeling like I had been strapped and selling dro and fucking bitches for the last fifteen years. He inspired everyone in the crowd to lose control- I mean, putting our middle fingers in the air and screaming ‘Fuck the Police’- that’s something everyone can get behind. Snoop had the crowd screaming their lungs out in an East Side/West Side battle (which turned into a whisper when the cops rolled by), had a sentimental moment with the sexy ladies in the crowd, and got real talking about peace and love. I’d tap that.
All in all, it was a beautiful weekend, but I’m glad it’s over. Sleep is now necessary.
Basking in the glory of Fleet Foxes
As a recent college graduate, I prefer to call myself a’ lady of leisure’. It rolls quite easily off the tongue and this ease doesn’t exactly inspire me to change my status to ‘employee’ or ‘equestrian’ or ‘tax payer’ or some bullshit like that.
Summer has officially begun. It’s as hot as a hooker on a tin roof and festival season is upon us.
Tomorrow= bonnaroo. A mecca of sorts filled with normal people from across the nation (some with desk jobs, some in school, some just your usual traveling circus hippies) who will spend hundreds of dollars to become disgraces to evolution all for the pursuit of happiness. Which, for us at least, means music, friendship, sunshine (which we could probably use a little less of) and the opportunity to assume identities we would never dream of in our real lives. Some will wear wings and glitter, most will eat psychedelics, and all will not bathe for at least four days.
Where in the world can you see Public Enemy, High On Fire, St. Vincent, Phish and all of the people that are there to see them on one plot of land? Only in this gloriously dusty,overbearingly hot, potentially incredibly muddy, and magical acre we call a music festival.
This is the stuff legends are made of.
Let the madness ensue.
ultra music festival. the beginning of the dirty season.
