Archiving Athens


Last night we watched Athens, GA: Inside Out and wallowed in nostalgia. Seems like everyone I know has told me about this movie. It’s a low budget documentary about the influential ‘80s Athens music scene. There are performances and interviews with the B-52s and REM and underground icons like Pylon and Love Tractor and Limbo District. Good stuff.


Of course it was a trip to see the musicians (Michael Stipe- so young! Flat Duo Jets- totally a White Stripes prototype!), but it wasn’t the music that made me sentimental. It was the B-roll footage and the establishing shots that seem so precious now. Those grainy drivebys of cattle farms and kudzu-wrapped storefronts. Pedestrians wearing overalls, roadside BBQ stands. The film is a repository of any small town Georgia landscape during my childhood. 20 years ago, Athens was surrounded by cow fields and a lush southern landscape that is by now heavily paved over with big box stores and suburban sprawl.

I bet people all over the world have fallen in love with this movie and flocked to Athens, searching for remnants of the scene. I wonder if they find it?

The big guns


Last summer I listened to the French Kicks on my headphones all the time, feeling bright and powerful. Like I could stay up all night writing and never be alone.

Then we went and saw them live and the performance was a total letdown. The lanky lead singer hid behind a mop of curly hair. They looked sloppy. They played sloppy. I kept waiting for them to get it together and sound like they sound in my head, buzzing and hot like July. Shawn said they were probably on drugs. Why didn’t I think of that? Am I naïve? Is that why they made me feel high?

I’m sick of everything that used to turn me on.
I wanted everything but it took too long.

It’s summer again and I have avoided last year’s music. I thought it would be foolhardy, maybe even depressing, to play that soundtrack again. However. “One More Time” just came on my iPod and I feel like a fool, A FOOL, for not bringing out the big guns sooner. French Kicks, I still love you.

One More Time mp3

Bonnaroo breakdown 2008



Your Own Personal Bonnaroo.
We took off for Bonnaroo after I finished class last Thursday afternoon. My mom, husband, nephew, 2 girlfriends and I all packed in Mom’s SUV for the road trip. Helena (age 14) and Justin (18), on board for their first Bonnaroo, were probably mystified at how silly the grown ups were acting.

This was my second year at “the Roo” and I’m as surprised as anyone to be employing such a term. We used to watch the procession of summer caravans on their way to Manchester and think, I smell patchouli. But you just can’t argue with a lineup that includes legends of rock, country and blues alongside the same indie bands I’d normally catch at the EARL. I’ve learned that there’s a thousand different ways to experience Bonnaroo and the point is to make it your own.

Our strategy has been to stay at Mom’s in Sewanee (about 40 miles away), drive down after the hottest part of the day (2 or 3pm), watch 8-10 hours of phenomenal music and come home to a cozy bed and shower. I’m sure the whole camping experience is a blast, but I love having the chance to escape for the night, recharge and relive the whole thing the next day.



Best Way to Start Bonnaroo with a Bang.
After we sat in traffic on the shoulder of I-24 for at least an hour, then idled in the bottleneck of cars and campers at the gates, endured the long drive to day parking, long walk to Centeroo and a long wait at security, we finally arrived at THIS tent just in time to see MGMT at 8:30. I dragged Jason and Justin into the crowd up front. It was hot and I couldn’t see the band, but woooo it’s Bonnaroo! We stayed until they did that song about “this is our decision: to live fast and die young.” The crowd was ebullient, singing along, so so happy to be there. I guess when you pay at least $250 to attend an event, you’re committed to having fun, no matter what.

Next we wandered around like tourists, showing Justin all the sites. Made our way over to THAT tent so the guys could catch The Sword. I stayed long enough to get the general drift of things and then headed back to the “indie” tent of the night to find out what all the fuss is about Battles. This time I stood near the sound stage, where I discovered an clear view of the performers, plenty of room to dance and of course, the best sound. I ended watching almost all the other Bonnaroo acts from this spot.

The High on Life Award.
So Battles was satanic. Unbelievably fast, technical guitar rock that keeps upping the ante. It was hard to dance to, but even harder not to move around. It was an impressive performance, but don’t know if I could enjoy it at home. I felt lucky to get to see them live… that was the first of many moments where I felt like I was getting away with something… I kept looking around at the crowd, thinking, did that really just happen? And we saw it?



Most Fun Show.
After that, I reunited with the group. The day’s excitement was all catching up with us and we looked pretty sleepy. Vampire Weekend took the stage in no time and provided the needed recharge. I’ve been reading a lot about this band on blogs, but found the clips online to be kind of weak. They certainly brought the energy to their live show, magenta spot lights and all. In my opinion, Vampire Weekend wins as the Most Fun show of Bonnaroo. The band seemed excited to be opening the festival and the singer struck that perfect pitch between friendly and confident. At one point, he recommended we pogo or twist to the next song. And did we ever.



Nicest Surprise.
Friday’s schedule was impossibly stacked with great acts and I wish I would have admitted defeat early on. We commuted back from HQ in time for Minus the Bear at THAT tent. They were loud and jittery and just too much for me to take that early in the “morning” (it was 3pm).

Jason and I were sitting on a hay bale, sweating and trying to get motivated when we had the most pleasant discovery of the weekend– Edgar Meyer was about to take the stage with Bela Fleck. People who are into Bluegrass already know about these guys, but I came to Bonnaroo to see MIA and !!!, so it was kind of a shock to find myself in The Other Tent, covered with goosebumps, giddy with the display of acoustic talent onstage. My Dad has always listened to Bela Fleck, so I knew he was the guy who played unexpected stuff on the banjo. And Jason got into Edgar Meyer when he transposed a bunch of classical cello stuff to the stand up bass. It seemed like everybody in that tent, musicians and music lovers alike, was just completely ecstatic. Like it was a historic jam that everyone was happy to be present. I guess this is why hippies follow Widespread Panic around.



Disco Matinee
!!! followed by M.I.A. just about destroyed THAT tent on Friday afternoon. The singer for !!! had us all screaming and laughing trying to match his manic stripper dance moves. Then M.I.A. finally took the stage and invited everyone to come up and dance with her. Glee, bouncing, sweating ensued.


New Heartthrobs
I fell in love with Jack White on the jumbotron. I watched a ton of guys with guitars last weekend, but Jack White is the real deal. He seems to totally dwell in this stylized blues/rock persona– some timeless, black-clad, dictator like a cross between Anton Chigurrh and Ziggy Stardust. The Raconteurs are being hyped as a “real” band, and not just a Jack White vehicle, but I’m not convinced. I could watch him nonstop. The man is dangerous.

Meanwhile, Justin and I both had such a crush on Memphis’ Amy LaVere, we snuck backstage to give her a lemonade. I think we first heard Ms. LaVere’s songbird blues on an Oxford American compilation. They compared her stylings to Dolly Parton meets Ella Fitzgerald. The Troo Music Lounge– a tent really– didn’t do her velvety voice justice, but she could rock the stand up bass. She was so tiny and flattered when we delivered the lemonade. It was definitely a highlight of the whole festival for my nephew.

Saddest Defeat
I could list all the bands I’m sorry I missed. My Morning Jacket would be at the top of that list. We all had to make some painful decisions between favorites, or between standing and sleeping. Sleep won on Friday night.



Well, now I can say I’ve seen them.
Half the fun of seeing a show is bragging rights. Cat Power and BB King were kind of forgettable, but at least I can say I’ve seen them. The same goes for Chris Rock and Metallica. Entertaining, possibly historic performances that are already a blur. Pearl Jam did not disappoint. They brought back a lot of memories from high school. They seemed genuinely awed by the audience and the opportunity to perform for at Bonnaroo (this makes a difference, I think).


Still Can’t Believe it
I am still googling “Kanye West + Bonnaroo” to find some kind of suitable explanation for what went down on Saturday night. How could this happen? Don’t concert organizers and their legal teams have ridiculously thorough contracts that prevent these kind of performer fiascos? Kanye West might as well have cancelled. Considering the 80,000 tickets sold with his name on them, I am baffled that there is no lawsuit pending against him. We waited til 4 am, telling ourselves we would be rewarded with a life-changing show, then finally bailed. It was daybreak when we got home. The birdsong kept me awake for a little while.

The last drop
All I could manage on Sunday was Aimee Mann and Broken Social Scene and that was more than enough. Aimee was a cool and confident performer. She sounds even better live than on repeat on my iPod. BSS blasted us out with something like 7 guitarists on stage at once. Both made me realize they have a LOT more music than I'm familiar with and left me wanting more.

Bonnaroo Burlesque


The hippies have a good thing going at Bonnaroo. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to be there– smiling, dancing their asses off, sharing bowls and contraband Gatorade, spooning in the shade or waiting in line politely for port-a-pots, ATMs, and the ferris wheel. I didn’t see a single brawl or belligerent drunk. I didn’t see any pissing-in-public or throwing of bottles. No obnoxious corporate sponsors or security guards. No pickpocketing or puking or heckling or groping or arrests– the free-for-all antics that you kind of accept with Big Shows.

(Actually, free-for-all is an illusion– Bonnaroo is a miracle of logistics and planning. I marveled to look around and imagine the sheer cash flow of the thing. What’s $250 tickets times 80,000?)

Of course, my impressions are pretty rosy because I went home each night and took a shower and slept in my bed. Friends who camped have more hardcore tales of what transpired after dark. i.e. those peaceful nappers are actually passed out drunks who get tripped over, stomped on, covered by ants, and tangled up in sloppy, unintelligible fucking, cheered by a crowd. Then there’s the creepy contrast between the “recreational” drug use of the affluent tourists and the East Tennessee methheads who come out of the woodwork for Bonnaroooo. Anyways.

In a crowd that big, caution definitely treads on the vibe. Its hard to dance when you’re vaguely keeping one eye on the nearest exit, and the other on your wallet. As a woman, I’m particulary wary of big crowds. Maybe part of what made Bonnaroo so much fun is that the crowd was the well-balanced. Bonnaroo is still whitey as hell, but there seemed to be as many women as men, maybe more.

Make the ladies feel safe and they will drive cross country to not only show you their tits, but walk around topless all weekend, sober, happily smeared with mud, body paint and electrical tape. They will crowd surf (Franz Ferdinand), mosh (Gogol Bordello), rush the stage (Hot Chip), and jump onstage and freak eachother (Girl Talk). (I know, crowdsurfing, moshing, and freakdancing. Its like a ‘90s revival.)

I remember reading an interview with Thurston Moore where he’s asked about being married to a powerhouse like Kim Gordon. He made this awesome comment about when you keep the queen bee happy, the honey flows freely. So yeah, the hippies have a very good thing going. There was even a vendor selling those little funnel contraptions that allow you to pee standing up.

Other than the belly dancers and burlesque side shows, and Sting taking off his shirt, the girliest part of Bonnaroo had to be Feist’s performance on Sunday. For me, it was the high point of the whole sweaty, dusty, sunburned ordeal. And gawd, she was striking on stage. At turns poised, then playful, then powerful. Leslie Feist looks so much like her voice– stylish, delicate, immaculate. Her songwriting alone is reason enough that her DNA should be shelved somewhere, but recordings don’t do her voice justice.

I was a little frightened, however, at how skinny she looks. Hopefully I’m wrong about this, but I couldn’t help thinking it:

Could it be just the bangs?

She was the only performer I saw who actually interacted with the audience. We obediently sang along, whistled along, snapped our fingers. Somebody waved the Canadian flag. Somebody gave her a bundle carnations. Somebody yelled out I love you Leslie. And a guy’s voice yelled out I wanna fuck you. Just a little reminder of the ugly anonymity of the mob. Maybe this is why other bands don’t try to engage the audience. Maybe this is what happens when a woman gets on stage.