Inside Baseball

OK, for the three (four?) fellow baseball dorks who are also Cream readers: While The Fiery Furnaces were at Bonnaroo, they talked to MLB.com about the national pastime. (They're White Sox fans—who knew?)

Choice quote: "I don't really want to wish them bad, but I hate the Cubs. They get what they deserve, in my opinion, and they deserve to lose." Take that, Ronnie Woo Woo.

One More Thing

Bonna-Recap: Beer and Loafing in Tennessee

Photos By Steve Cross

Well, it's all over now, baby blue. Somehow, I made it out with only a little bit of sunburn on my calves, an empty wallet and a handful of brain cells that didn't drown in booze. I also managed to leave my keys when I left the house on Friday and smashed my skull on the floor as I climbed through an unlocked window yesterday—a little head injury to remind me of my journey into the heart of darkness.

Bonnaroo Sunday: Thank God It's Monday

Photos by Steve Cross

Three full days of binge drinking and marathon walking under severe abuse of the elements have left me physically, emotionally, psychologically and financially drained. I'm only just now getting around to writing this at 6 a.m. because I literally just spent 12 hours sleeping in my bed.

Looks like Bonnaroo saved the most searing, scalding hot day for last. Sunday was a scorcher, and several of your lucky Scene correspondents who'd managed to score a couple artist laminates (God bless you, De Novo Dahl) spent the morning in the shade sipping complimentary mimosas and munching on breakfast burritos.

Bonnaroo Sunday: F*ck You Mister West and Your Awesome Awesomeness

Early word in the press tent was that Kanye West disappointed the 'Roo crew with an untimely, five-o-clock-in-the-fucking-morning set. Rumors were rampant: The patchouli-and-devil-stick contingent were pretty sure that Kanye had conspired to cut Phil Lesh's set short, and the pinkos were convinced that he was chilling with Obama. But more likely than not it just took a while to set up that crazy stage.

Bonnaroo Sunday: Where Did You Sleep Last Night?

Photo by Chris Victorio

Either I accidentally stepped in the path of someone's tour bus last night, or these swollen limbs, blistered feet and this increasingly nauseating hangover mean the last day of Bonnaroo is upon us.

Last night was kind of a hazy whirlwind of free drinks, smuggled-in beers, and backstage dance parties, but I'll try and recollect the details as much as possible.

Pearl Jam rocked a three hour career-spanning, massively attended set, including a 10 song double encore and a cover of "All Along the Watchtower." At least I'm told it was career-spanning—the only album I really know is Ten and I'm pretty sure I haven't played that in its entirety since 1994.

I got my first taste of Ghostland Observatory, who blew more than a few minds during their 2:30 a.m. set with a soul-inspired mix of psychedelic electro pop and angular rock 'n' roll. They had a pretty sweet laser light show too.

I'm afraid that's all my memory chose to store, save for one moment around 6 a.m. when I woke from underneath a tree, inexplicably clutching an unopened beer in one hand and my car keys in the other.

The sun is in full bloom today, friends. Mercury will rise, tents are coming down, and no one is looking forward to the traffic we'll face getting the hell out of here. But these are all things that can be bitched and moaned about later. There's still a whole day of music to see.

Bonnaroo Saturday: 'Here Comes the Sun' or 'Soggyroo: a River Runs Through It'

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.

Bonnaroo Saturday: a Canadian Firefighter in a Mail Truck

Oh dear, my brain is turning to jelly. Delicious hickory-fired pork-flavored jelly.

Ends up I drank more last night than I realized. I may or may not have been crank calling my editors, I definitely bought three or four rounds of beer for Howlin' Rain. (At six bucks a pop. Math. Ouch.) And I think I may have even enjoyed the tacky trance of DJ Tiesto. It's been a weird fucking weekend—a Canadian firefighter in a mail truck sorta weekend.

Bonnaroo Saturday: How the Hell Did I End up Here and Why Do I Have an Unopened Beer in My Pocket?

In lieu of actually writing full sentences, here are some potential titles that I thought of while trying to sleep on the couch in the press tent:

"I Wish I Didn't Eat So Much Fiber Yesterday"

"Tougher Than Pleather: It Might Not Be Comfortable, But at Least It's Waterproof"

"Bask In The Irony: Howlin' Rain Are Playing In the Fucking Howling Rain"

"Maybe Spending My Rent Money on Beer Wasn't a Good Idea"

"Dude, What's That Smell: One Man's Quest for Personal Hygiene"

"I'm Glad To Hear You're on Ecstasy. Now Stop Touching Me, Please"

"Is That a Budweiser In Your Pocket or Did You Get Really Drunk and Pass Out Somewhere Inappropriate?"

"Yes, I Did Bring A Copy of Strunk & White's Elements of Style to a Rock Show. What Of It?"

Alright, it's time to grill some pork chops....

Bonnaroo Friday: Dry Land is not a Myth...

Photos by Steve Cross

Conditions yesterday afternoon had reached a perfect state of homeostasis complete with a sunless overcast, and a sweet, soothing breeze sauntering underneath. Unfortunately, by the time Chris Rock went on, those ominous clouds were starting to pay off with chilly, biting sprinkle.

Bonnaroo Friday: I Think I Owe Metallica An Apology

When I posted that thing earlier, making fun of their bald spots, I had forgotten that Metallica put out five of the best rock albums ever recorded. My bad. You can have all the issues with "teh intertubes" that you want, just keep playing "Master of Puppets" and I won't say anything bad anymore. Well, as long as you keep the Load/Reload/St. Anger tracks to a minimum. But other than that, rock the fuck on

Also, while I'm here I'd like to mention that I haven't seen so many free-range titties since I moved off the dairy farm. It's like Moses came to Manchester and said, "Let thy boobies go!" I'm not complainin', but seriously, someone's gonna lose an eye....

And on that note, I'm off to noodle dance to the Kentucky beard-rock of My Morning Jacket and then manipulate my glowing ball of invisible energy during the Europe-72-Dead-iness of Howlin' Rain!

Be Kind, Have Phun,
Sean

Bonnaroo Friday: Surprise, No Surprise, Surprise

No matter how many times I hear Zach Galakakakakalangalanglakanifis' "Who ate all the pussy?" jokes I giggle like a 14-year-old in a sex ed class. M.I.A. actually did show up, which was kind of a surprise. Word in the press tent was that she didn't realize that the 'Roo was in Tennessee when she announced her hiatus earlier this week. The Raconteurs are WAY better in a giant, drug-addled festival situation than they were at the Cannery Ballroom a couple months back, which wasn't really a surprise. And Chris Rock, maybe the funniest man to ever appear in a little film named Pootie Tang, had a rather brutal assessment of our current political situation, which was pretty fucking side splitting, but not nearly as funny as this:

Bonnaroo Friday: Bonnaroo is Nobody's Bitch

Easy, breezy and beautiful is probably the least original, but most effective way to describe my first six hours at Bonnaroo so far. There was no traffic on the drive down, no hassles checking in for press credentials and assembling my tent under the scorching hot sun was at least 1/10th the hassle I expected.

Though I've been here in the two years previous, I still apparently wasn't quite prepared for the sensory overload that resulted upon walking from backstage smack-dab into a swarming sea of sun-kissed, half naked individuals streaming through a playground of corporate-sponsored interactive attractions, various vendors and other commercially viable sideshows simmering under the heat.

The only band I've caught so far is Canadian twin sister singer-songwriter duo Tegan and Sara. I'll be honest in saying I groaned a little when the Scene put this on my schedule. I did a review of their first record many years ago—of which I wasn't a fan—and haven't quite found a reason to give them a second chance. I showed up to find I was most definitely the lone hater in a crowd that could barely contain themselves waiting for the band to set up. A predictably booming applause erupted once they were on stage, and I'm not too proud to say that it only took a song or three before I myself was digging it too.

Bonnaroo Friday: Now It's a Mother-Frakin' Festival!!!

I had my first Beatle Bob sighting. It's on now, kids.

No Really, I'm Truly Sorry I Missed Hot Dog Day

To my comrades in the cubicles back at my cushy office job:

How was Hot Dog Day? Did everybody bring the side dishes they promised? Did Tim bring all the obscure condiments like he was talking about? I'm sorry I missed it. I really do love our Friday corporate team building activities, but I really need a weekend of alcohol abuse, loud music and thousands of freaky-freaky people.

If I don't make it back by Monday morning, look for me wandering along Rt. 127 outside of Viola. I'm probably in a shallow grave after making one too many hippie jokes. Those hippies can be vicious little fuckers if you cross 'em.

Stay Cool,
Sean

Bonnaroo Highlights: Thursday

Photos by Mark Austin.

Showing up to Bonnaroo on a Thursday is like getting to a big party early. People are starting to trickle in, everything's pretty chill and no one has their buzz on yet. There's still plenty of open space to stake out, and no one is too ridiculously hippied-out yet. I don't care what you say about how Bonnaroo brings more and more hipsters every year—hipsters were easily outnumbered 10 to one.

So, we would not recommend hitting the campgrounds looking to score bootlegged anything on the first night. Since beers were $6 (!?$#%@?!?), we thought surely someone was hawking $3 cans somewhere. No such luck. Bring your own beer, people! Even though cans or glass bottles aren't allowed in Centeroo. We still saw tons of people with canned beer, and it was confusing, so we don't know how that works.