Stuck Inside of Nashville with the Moody Blues Again (Bonnaroo Sunday 6/15/08 Report)

I needed some distance from the event; for perspective. Besides, I’m lazy by nature when it comes to reportage. I don’t really have deadlines or follow them except those imposed by my own sense of urgency. The last few hours at Bonnaroo were the most satisfying because I was there with my oldest and closest friend. Muley is his moniker, the My Space profile where he resides behind a cache of acoustic gems. “Porch rock” he called the music from the mountain top, inspired by daily views of Diamond Head and the DNA of The Dead, New Riders, Allman Brothers, Brownie and Sonny, and whatever else came across our musical grooming of the 70s.

Muley Graves’ ballads were birthed on the island of Oahu during the eight years my six-string brother spent working toward his PhD studying biological stuff I have never been able to pronounce no less comprehend. He’s a genius, pure and profound but in my company, he’s the same irascible stand up comic childhood compatriot he’s always been. That is the essence of friendship: the eternal resistance to fly too far from the source of what makes two people…one. Of all the relationships in one’s life – lovers, spouses, family – none is more solid or dependable than the best friend who goes back to the beginning. He or she whose been hip to the entire ride, knows your light, accepts your shadows, taps your humor, feeds your sanity, ebbs your mania or simply provides a reflection to help uncork the inner helium by revealing there is no such thing as being completely alone.
Beyond all else, Muley is a musicologist, a walking glossary who has seen and heard a most diverse spectrum of songdom since we air guitar’d the masters before the first pubic hairs arrived. “Hey man, Bonnaroo has a pretty awesome line up this year,” said the email. “I just might fly out and meet you there.” I have problems with specifics, research, lists, anything that involves structure. But he’s a scientist so I left the travel arrangements up to him. “I’ll get the laminates, big man,” said the rock scribe of good name and loud pedigree. “You handle the travel and festival itinerary.” Of course, it was all a sham from the get go. The plan such as it was scribbled with invisible ink on disposable tissue that it disappeared into the Tennessee wind before the first tie dyed tees wandered into the Manchester pasture.

This blog was designed with no design. ‘Feed’ from the Knoxville radio station, My Space friend who networked Planet Rock to a good part of the Volunteer state, sent me a message last month with the heading, ‘LONNAROO!’ If my name didn’t have two Ns, that would have been the end of it. But in synchronous arrival with Feed’s message came an email from Metal Edge editor, Phil Freeman, asking if I was still interested in going to Bonnaroo to capture the atmosphere for the proposed fall Metallica cover story I’d been charged to compose. Celestial alignment is never random. It’s my favorite Theodore Roethke quote: “I learn by going where I have to go,” the epigram which open the Who chapter of my book.

Writing without borders is problematic, especially for the reader who might be new to the voice of the reporter. If one goes back and examines whatever it is I regurgitated in this blog experiment over the past several days, they might find a couple lumps or chunks of substance that brought forth the true beauty of this gathering of the tribes. Samantha from San Diego, an organic goddess I met briefly before Spearhead’s set at Vegoose last year, found the blog and sent me this note today. “How was Bonnaroo!? I miss the collective consciousness created by hippies and live music.” Is it really that simple?

Sunday afternoon, while Muley was watching Orchestra Baobob, I was chatting it up with the masseuse in the Artist’s Hospitality tent. Born and raised in Lawrence, Kansas, the “S-word” was spit out within seconds. “I worked with a band called Stick from Lawrence when I was at Arista in the mid 90s,” I said. “Oh my God, I love Mark Smirl (lead singer),” she fired back. “Do you know Paw?” Here come the warm jets of connection. “I was one of the first to play ‘Jessie’ on my syndicated radio show, Pirate Radio Saturday Night.” Her grin widens. “I had the biggest crush on Grant from Paw. He could’ve had me but his eyes were on another.” Next thing I know, I’m trading this tattooed manipulator of muscle, this energy muse, a 20 minute session in the chair for a copy of my book. “I’m engaged to a guy who owns a restaurant. Life is really good.” Then I drop Michael Franti’s name because she’s yogic and I was feeling it. “Oh my Lord, Spearhead is like religion to me. He is so special, that man. I’ve met Michael. He has the light.”

I leave the tent and wander out to meet Muley for Aimee Mann, a glimpse of Jakob Dylan, a side stage glance of Robert Plant with Allison Kraus and T Bone Burnett, some smoldering riffs from Derek Trucks with the smoky piped Susan Tedeschi and then somewhere around 9 pm, we look at each other, psychic from our four and a half decades together, and nod, ‘let’s hit it.’ Through the swooning, grooving masses under a perfect full moon in the gentle, comfortable cool of dusk, two old friends march happily out of Bonnaroo. A pause here for deep thanks to Ken Weinstein and Big Hassle PR, who provided this pilgrim the incredible access that eliminated any hit of drama, conflict or chaos. Festival sanctuary is not easily come by and should be appreciated by anyone gifted its accoutrements, be they star, scribe or something in between. From the Guest Parking area, we were out of the compound and on Highway-24 heading back to Nashville in minutes.

Wheels spinning, lunar rays aglow, Muley grabs one of the 20 discs he burned for the trip and pops it in the deck, muting out the static drenched AM signal from who knows where carrying the Lakers/Celtics game.

Wonderful day, passing my way, knock on my door/even the score with your eyes/Lovely to see you again my friend/walk along with me to the next bend

Memories rush back, the melody, every lyric, like yesterday, familiar as a heartbeat. “Walk along with me to the next bend!” We’re in full sing along, cabin Karaoke of the most divine. Hayward, Lodge, Thomas, Edge and Pinder, five souls who brought textures, colors and melotronic magic to the 70s through their visionary orchestrations. Four chords, lost chord legends of mind and wonder who whisked us to whimsical places, prog in its infancy, voices in the sky crafted by British poets at the dawn of pop.

“I’ve got the title for the final post”, I roar! “Stuck Inside of Nashville with the Moody Blues Again!” High fives, high volume, two kids on the road, flying on a carpet of tunes that were sung together when the trip began and shall be sung when it ends.

Give just a little bit more, take a little bit less, from each other tonight/And bet what you’re feeling and see what’s in front of you, it’s never out of your sight/You know it’s true/We all know that its’ true.

The zeitgeist of Bonnaroo and its loving attendees, revealed within the verses. Then, now, it is the song and its message that survives. In days of future passed, we will come to understand it all better. I may not make it back next year, or the year after, but book my spot for Bonnaroo, 2012.

“Listen to the tide slowly turning, washing all our heartaches away/We’re part of the fire that is burning and from the ashes we can build another day/But I’m frightened for the children and the life that we area living is in vain/ And the sunshine we’ve been waiting for has turned to rain/When the final line is over, and its certain that the curtain’s gonna fall/I can hide inside your sweet, sweet love forever more.”

The story is in YOUR eyes, now, brothers and sisters.
Tell a good one.

Sunday Afternoon…The Fig Girl

Muley Graves and I arrive around 11:00 am. En route from Nashville down I-24, I get several text messages passing on Father's Day salutations. Half the text'd I had no clue of their origin nor did it matter 'cause the intent was love. You don't fuck with love, even if you love to fuck. One has no bearing on the other, yet they are both inexorably connected. I'm standing up in front of an iMac in the Artist Hospitality tent. Aimee Mann just passed by. Didn't say a word just channeled her space with how much I dig the Magnolia soundtrack. Some real fine composition and honest heart in those ballads. Plus the best 10 minutes Tom Cruise ever left on the screen and that includes (sorry Cam) Jerry Maguire. Close, but not quite dripping with narcissism. Phil Lesh tootles about the enclave, jeans so dirty they look like they haven't been washed since Jerry was alive. I got a Bonnaroo hat, some Crogs for Meg, bottle opener, torch from Jeff. Muley has propped the fold out chair we bought a couple hours ago at Wal Mart --where a lady outside offered me a puppy -- next to the “Which” stage under a tree. He's happy. Rogue Wave played, I drifted out for "Lake Michigan" because my hometown radio station, Indie 103.1 broke that track but more so because it’s a great song, makes you feel good, the chorus, like Sarah's cold red herbal tea in a plastic tub iced to the rim. She's from Nashville. Says she'll take out for BBQ tomorrow. I have no expectations.

Getting hungry. We had a breakfast sandwich back in music town but that's history. My ability to stroll pass the meal ticket girl at the front of the grub tent without suspicion evaporated today. "Uh, I left it in the bus." I will find a way in, but in the meantime, hunger is panging. Out I wander amongst the insiders mulling about in the getting hotter by the hour sun. She approaches, a two foot tower of artificial fruit protruding from her brunette crown. Her smile as wide as the Tennessee River, I catch her gaze. "Wish that was real," quips the pilgrim. She stops and magically pulls an authentic banana from the Bonnaroo air. Then she smiles again, leaving me in awe of her synchronous arrival, her gesture of Biblical goodness. When Moses had nothing left after Pharaoh banished him to the desert with his 'staff to rule over scorpions and snakes, he came upon a desert bloom, laden with fruit. Life from the fig kept him going until the shepherd girls found him. Food, water, bath, love. Spirit. In the tent, later, I see her again. "Give me your name. You've inspired me to blog." Kicky La Rue, she says. How can a guy who reviewed porn films in the 80s under his OWN name possibly make up a moniker like that? "All of us (pointing to a half dozen other colorfully clad sirens) work for Music City Burlesque. In Nashville. I want your email address! You can Google me."

Bryan the veteran rock radio PD with whom I did some loud and lovely stuff during the RIP reign, stares right at me and freezes. Waiting for my name. "Lonn.", recognition, reunion and the inevitable story, "My wife left me 14 months ago for another woman and I lost my gig, and I was fucking suicidal, but then everything changed. I got a gig in New York, awesome station, and there's this gal I'd known for years and she just arrives again out of nowhere." I don't 'go there' into the “S-word” stuff. Not this time. Instead just acknowledge the moment and move on. "Do you have a card?" he asks. A lot of people have asked. "I don't." The Indian shrink into the Secret who sees me for free once a month said (in female Quickie Mark Apu speak), "Lonn, you cannot go to this festival without business cards. This is a good opportunity for you to network. Stay in prosperity." I am wearing the green underwear Dr. K told me to buy.

Before tapping this out, I was talking to a stranger about Tiger Woods and The Lakers and miracles. Sports is fertile miracle ground. More than many other disciplines. I will find a bus to watch at least a piece of the U.S. Open. And a slice of the NBA finals. And I will hear great music and be fed by god and goddess. In the gmail box 20 minutes ago, a note from Jenny arrives (like Kicky, not a real name). "I like what you're writing, Forrest. Unstructured..." And she said some other stuff but I cut and pasted this part of the note. You'll know why when you read it. Talk about LOVE! Getting hungry again...

"If we now consider the fact that, as a result of psychic compensation, great humility stands very close to pride, and that "pride goeth before a fall," we can easily discover behind the haughtiness certain traits of an anxious sense of inferiority. In fact we shall see clearly how this uncertainty forces the enthusiast to puff up his truths, of which he feels none too sure, and to win proselytes to his side in order that his followers may prove to himself the value and trustworthiness of his own convictions. Nor is he altogether so happy in his fund of knowledge as to be able to hold out alone; at bottom he feels isolated by it, and the secret fear of being alone with it induces him to trot out his opinions and interpretations in and out of season, because only when convincing someone else does he feel safe from gnawing doubts."

Stumbled upon that passage last night by your boy, Carl Jung. “S-word” reigns supreme.

Nothing going as planned (Bonnaroo 2008: Friday Night 6/14 and Saturday 6/15)

Nothing going as planned…minutes after my last blog, I sliced my finger open on the filing cabinet in the press trailer and didn't realize it until I headed out to see some music. I realized I was bleeding like stuck pig (respect to the creatures who permit us those amazing pulled pork sandwiches like Jack's on Broadway, sorry getting off point again) but Nicole walkie talkie'd a golf cart from the first aid tent about a half mile away and I was cleaned up in no time. "Just a flesh wound" in Python parlance. Shortly afterwards, the Metallica bus rolled in and set up camp behind the Main Stage adjacent to the media area and guest hospitality where peeps come and go all day grabbing grub and hanging out.

This is when my intention shifted from drifting about like a Brian Wilson leaf on a windy day into content gathering for the assignment mode. First things first...wandering over to the band's make shift village, first face I see is former RIP scribe and longtime So What? gatekeeper, Steffan Chirazi. You know, this is sounding lame so fuck it. Long blog short, I heard about the upcoming LP, ten songs, several over eight minutes in length, some kind of metal monster, old school Ride the Lightning/Master of Puppets in feel with proper evolution from personal time and tide peppered into the mix. Really only chatted with Hetfield, who approached me with extended hand and kind words. He is not your average rocker, never has been. Artists of immense accomplishment often enter your space with an advanced aura of 'please stand clear, special person approaching.' Not James. He is a prince in a land of few gentlemen. We didn't talk a word about the new record of anything else of that nature. I'm getting the story from others, a different approach, which will be revealed when the piece is published in either the Sept. or October issue of Metal Edge.

The rain began to fall around dusk and Chris Rock entered the area, beaming a huge smile, shortly post Jack White's visit to bid his fond respects to the drummer Ulrich. Rock brought Metallica on stage after his hour long stand up. Two hours after that, it got wetter and my
summer wardrobe began to feel as ridiculous as it looked. Fortune shone upon me through the black wailing skies as attorney Peter Paterno and managers Peter Mensch and Cliff Burnstein offered me a lift back to Nashville where we arrived downtown around 2 am. Printer's Alley -- an odd, narrow stretch of bars and hot dog stands about a block from my hotel -- was roaring with Friday night naked karaoke and severely damaged damsels yelling at their boyfriends in the middle of the street, the local police ignoring the noise, as did I. "I'm going to bed," I said. "Thanks for the lift, Pete."

Did not sleep well and finally gave up on the nocturnal ride, waking to an email from 70s music scribe legend and personal literary hero that lunch today or tomorrow was on. Google Chet Flippo so I don't have to compose a lame, quick Wikipedia paragraph that does little service to the amazing shit this man wrote about the icons of rock n' roll when rock n' roll was a toddler (His books on Amazon can be bought at this link). I will elaborate at a later date on Chet but because he doesn't deserve a half devoted blog post. He took me to Jack's BBQ on Broadway where he was welcomed like the local hero he is but the guy chopping the pork behind the counter. We ate, talked, and walked around the festive downtown streets, country music blaring through the open doors of businesses with taps flowing and gullets swallowing. And I mean LIVE music; two piece, three piece, any piece that serves the country muse, youngens and oldsters, singing through their Saturday, Tennessee style, small but captive audiences, hammered and enamored.

By midday, it's obvious I ain't getting my ass out to Manchester, 70 miles up Highway 24, instead donating my pass for the day to my buddy Mark's pal, Nick from Kentucky, a big Gogol Bordello and Cat Power fan. Today is your day, Nick, and we'll throw in Jack Johnson, Ben Folds, Donovan Frankenreiter, LIttle Feat and Levon Helm to sweeten the day. And at night, Pearl Jam will jam at 10:15. I still have an odd desire to make Sigur Ros' 1:15 am set but we all know there's as much a chance of that happening as me running into Jewel on Broadway, drunk, sad and in need of a shoulder to cry on. "Took Jewel about a week to develop a southern accent after she moved here," quipped Chet. "Yeah, they're coming to Nashville in droves now. Maybe it's time for me to start thinking about Austin."

Lisa's coming by in an hour, the local publicist who moved here 15 years ago. We gotta catch up. She brought Cobain and company to the RIP offices in '92 for that unforgettable lunch recounted in the chapter, "Nirvana at High Noon" in my memoir. I talked to her this morning, got quite a distinct Southern accent.

Back at the 'Roo for Father's Day.

Metallica Bonnaroo 2008 Entire Performance Available For Viewing

The good folks over at BWBK has been courteous to take all of Metallica's performances and embed them for your viewing pleasure, go here to watch them...

Bonnaroo fest opens with Metallica, Chris Rock, My Morning Jacket, Raconteurs, Swell Season & Willie Nelson

By JAKE COYLE, AP Entertainment Writer 49 minutes ago

MANCHESTER, Tenn. (AP) — Bonnaroo began in earnest Friday with the rarest of double bills: Chris Rock followed by Metallica.
ADVERTISEMENT

Metallica's Lars Ulrich and Kirk Hammett introduced Rock, and the comedian in turn introduced who he called "the baddest ... band in the world." Both acts were unlikely fare for the Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival, which began in 2002 as primarily a jam band event.

But in recent years, Bonnaroo has broadened itself and brought more diverse fans to its 700-acre countryside site south of Nashville. Among the tens of thousands of festival-goers, Rock, Metallica and many other performers were very conscious of their entry into a tie-dyed world they seldom traffic in.

In a bit in his set about Prozac and other medications, Rock chastised the crowd, who he said was likely on "performance-enhancing drugs."

"You all should be ashamed of yourselves for taking antidepressants to see a comedian," joked Rock. "I am an antidepressant!"

Metallica also touted its cheerfulness.

"Do you feel good?" lead singer James Hetfield asked the crowd. "Metallica is here to make you feel better."

Performing on the main stage Friday night, Rock jumped right into his material, much of which he's performed during recent touring. Looking on backstage were many of the other comedians performing at the festival, as well as Jack White, whose band the Raconteurs took the main stage earlier in the day.

Rock worked the giant crowd without missing a beat in his timing, hitting on the election, Anna Nicole Smith and high gas prices despite the war in Iraq, ("If I invade IHOP, pancakes are going to be cheaper in my house," he said).

Metallica had a more difficult time winning over the crowd, which was head-banging but apparently not moshing. Hetfield repeatedly urged the audience to sing along. He asked, "We do have a few Metallica friends here, yes?"

Hetfield occasionally informed the crowd the titles of the songs they were playing and which album they were from. "That was `No Remorse' from `Kill `Em All,'" he said, an annotation that would have normally been completely superfluous for the band.

But Metallica is an exceptionally hard working band — they could be heard practicing backstage in a trailer shortly before their set. Eventually, they won the crowd over with their tenacity, as well as classics like "Sad But True" and "Enter Sandman," the latter of which was accompanied by pyrotechnics.

Like a jam band, Metallica has a fiercely devoted following and Hetfield alluded to this Bonnaroo-ness of Metallica: "We support live music ... and that's why we're here."

The notorious Tennessee heat that has in the past made Bonnaroo a chore was thus far bearable (after midnight, My Morning Jacket pulled out a cover of Sly and the Family Stone's "Hot Fun in the Summertime"). But by then, the rain that had threatened through much of the day finally fell.

READ THE REST OF THE ARTICLE HERE
___

On the Net:

http://www.bonnaroo.com

Bonnaroo Friday 6/13/08 Pictures

Jimi’s Pedal (Friday Night 6/13/08 Bonnaroo Report)

Friday afternoon…I want to translate this stuff as it’s happening because that’s why I’m here, not to transcribe and process the material for some sort of packaging distribution. Tennessee born My Space friend Rooster and his gal drove three hours from Knoxville to watch me suffer through the Lakers’ meltdown last night at Bailey’s Irish Pub on Broadway, ten minutes or so from where Metallica reportedly performed an unannounced club gig to a hundred serendipitous strangers. I am at Bonnaroo amongst the masses where the past and its inequities are forgot faster than one can say, “Whiplash!”

We took the side roads through emerald pastures populated by rusty roofs and happy cows, stopping once at a Shell station where gas is still $3.80 a gallon so I could pee and my limo drivers could torch their Marlboros. “We’re gonna make sure you get your credentials and everything is cool Lonn before taking off,” crows Rooster, “’cause we don’t wanna leave you out here alone I Deliverance land.” My ass is safe, I assure you, nothing but peace, love and Technicolor musical saturation.

Any plan of specific action entered the air conditioned trailer I’m sitting in, copping wireless from Jim Merlis (Bob, what a fine fellla he is), Ken Weinstein, Chris Vineyard and the charming Nicole. This is my sanctuary? Cool…I’ll be back. For I know not where my green shoes take me. Jeff the photographer of venerable accomplishments and contraband sojourn shouts my name. “Lonn Friend!” from behind the artist hospitality tent. Within minutes, the discreet, narrow glass implement of Rasta intake emerges and the festival begins to take on proper proportions. “I’ll be on the stage shooting Umphrey’s McGee in an hour,” he blurts. “Dude, you’ll LOVE them.”

Time to eat…one problem, where? Out into the wild where the fans and freaks are dancing and reclining and occasionally twirling where it’s still early in their hearts and minds. I lumber into artist catering where one usually requires a meal ticket to get the best grub in the entire valley (you see when the word artist appears on anything the quality must be beyond reproach). Cous cous, tuna salad, pita, eggplant in marinara sauce, I know I sound veg but that wasn’t the intention just looked yummy and was. Forget about the oatmeal raisin cookies. But wait, the rap at the table.

Jaylaan who owns a record label called BluHammock in New York and took the final glance last week of my Spearhead liner notes before I sent them to Michael Franti; she’s the first person I run into entering the grub tent. Yeah, that “S-word” again. Not even close. We sit down (random) next to Dan a writer from the New York Times who’s nuts and brilliant and doing a business section story for the pulp icon. “Kirk Hammet is using Jimi Hendrix’s foot pedal tonight.” I’m just writing this as it happens so forgive me if I drift. “Have you heard the Madonna rumor? With Kanye?” “No, but I heard that Kirk Hammett is going to jam with My Morning Jacket.” Press trailer. People talk. Bloggers listen.I go into the serendipity rap for Dan, the psychology of success that has breed Bonnaroo and Coachella where the model is, there really isn’t one. He’s smiling and taking notes on a small pad like the kind Jack Webb used in Dragnet. “Right, thanks, I got it.” God I wish I had a link to Webb’s classic drug monologue right now to add atmosphere. Anyway. Dan and his bride of 15 years disappear and the table reverts to dudes, Jay also on her way.

“You’re the lighting guys for Metallica?” Yeah, I know. Synchronicity, but you don’t know the half of it. Never mind the history, 20 years, documentary sound bites, drummer composing the foreword to my book or the sheer volume of time spent doing good media works, I am anonymous here, one of the crowd, a mosquito on the exposed nipple of a Carolinian teen. And I tell you this with reverent sincerity, I have no expectations. Don’t give a fuck if I even see the boys face to face because the story is not THEM, it’s THIS; The underbelly, the fans, the crew, the heart and most importantly…the soul. The music will fill the night and we will ride the lightning like mythical pilots. “They’re using Pan Cans, old school…ike the 70s. That’s how they want it to feel.” These are the facilitators of light, the illuminators, part of the mighty concert machine.

“What are pan cans?” All the miles I’ve trekked, I never paid attention to the specs and the techs. That right brain imbalance, I guess. “They’re basic lights, bulbs, no automation or movement.” It’s how people saw Zeppelin, Blue Oyster Cult, Pink Floyd and everyone else back in the day. “I’ve heard the new LP hearkens Ride the Lightning and Master Of Puppets,” offers the scribe, feigning cliché. No reaction. They don’t care. “We haven’t heard anything about the new record or a tour. We’re just hired to do this. I have ten other crews on tour right now from Def Leppard to Tim McGraw.” Road warriors, businessmen, cave dwellers and stage sparklers. The story…yeah, the story.
Text comes in from Forrest. “Check out Umphreys McGee if you are near their stage now, dude, prog rock kings!” Two minutes later, I find myself in front of the WHICH stage and who is launching into their celestial set? Of course but not hardcore “S-word” ‘cause F is following the preceding from his Macbook in Hollywood. “I’m watching online. It’s awesome!” I’m back at Yes at the L.A. Forum Topographic Oceans tour ’75, where guitarist Steve Howe noodled the electrons out of the atoms. Bet the pan cans were firing like novas that night.

I dig the improv and virtuoso musicianship and then start floating away into other environs. Is that Marley I hear? I follow the vibrations to the main stage a hundred or so yards around the bend of food and smoothie sands and the strains go from shred to groove. “Don’t worry, about a thing/cause everything little thing, is gonna be alright.” Stephen is channeling his papa, Father’s Day weekend, three little birds in my heart start to flutter. This is why we came. To feel it. To forget about the state of the world, John McCain’s gaffes, talking heads and empty beds. We just want to be Ram Das for a spell. Be here now. All rhyme, no reason.

Sanctuary calls. The trailer is buzzing with writers and reporters, no names, just laptops and assignments. Merlis and Nicole are dealing with something. Publicists are always dealing with something because everybody always wants something. I don’t want anything except this space to decompress and talk to you.

Opening my email, I am greeted by the news of the death of NBC’s Tim Russert. Shock and sadness sit for a second. I recently became a big fan of this political reporter through his participation on Countdown With Keith Olbermann. Russet has been the most conscious, tempered, at times, visionary voice during the current presidential campaign. Heart attack. Dead. Boom. Here. Then. Gone. Now. I take the sign to draft this installment because who the fuck knows? I could go back out there, meet a hippie that looks like Ellie May Clampett and by the time My Morning Jacket hits the stage sometime after midnight, I’m a statistic. What a way to go, though. “Writer Brought Down by Boner at Bonnaroo.”

If I do get a second with the boys before they hit the lights, I’m gonna ask ‘em to dedicate “Fade to Black” to Tim. Hey, even if I don’t, I can do it myself.I am, after all, a meditator. What’s that I hear? Claypool’s bass? Yep. Better get out there. He and Kirk grew up together. Wonder if Les has seen the pedal?

White Punks on Southwest

White Punks on Southwest

I drop my car off at the house I used to own and the wife I used to have drives me to the airport. “So how long are you going to be gone?” she asks. “Five days. Tell Meg to call me on Sunday…it’s Father’s Day.” Four years this very week the two of us parted ways and went down our own paths but the beauty is that the healing is genuine. “Say hi to Lars,” she adds, emptying me in front of LAX’s Terminal 1.

I have two books nestled next to the Macbook in the backpack: Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five (the literary inspiration for the novel I’m currently outlining) and Synchronicity by Carl Jung. You’ll understand very shortly why I choose to point these things out. For those who’ve following my writings over the past several years, the “S-word” has been as frequent a visitor to my first person narratives as Amy Winehouse has been to rehab. I see the signs, connect the universal dots and report accordingly, and damn the naysayers who think me on crack.

I check in and wherever will I depart from? Gate 11…of course. Being an “11” person this makes me want to type the “S-word”, but I’ll spare you for the time being. Having been forced to trash my aerosol can of “Off!” and “Banana Boat” sunscreen because the benign canisters exceeded 3.4 ounces, I begin to get that feeling, that rodent squeak in the subconscious that even before I get to Tennessee, never mind the festival site in Manchester, another blog shall manifest. So dig what follows next…

Two very tall fellows are in the departure area waiting to board my flight, both I recognize, one I know personally. “Fee...it’s Lonn.” The lead singer of the 70s sensational Tubes smiles wide. “Hey, man, what’s up? You going to Nashville? We’re playing there tomorrow night.” I saw The Tubes at the Greek Theater while still a student at UCLA on the heels of their iconic debut. “We’re white punks on dope/mom and dad live in Hollywood/hang myself when I get enough rope.” Avant pop satire cloaked in prog rhythms, vocals delivered by the Bay Area wailer who I met for the first time in London hotel the evening of the day I spent with Alyssa Milano and her Remy Zero hubby Cinjun and band member Cedric in the summer of ’99. The encounter wasn’t random then. Nor is it now.

“Bonnaroo?” he asks with a cocker spaniel tilt of the noggin’. He’s unaware of the masses gathering in the fields of Manchester, the enormous bill ‘o musical fare. “Oh man, this sounds incredible. But why the fuck are we playing in Nashville tomorrow night? It’ll be a ghost town! I’m calling my agent.” Classic moments follow depicting rock star venting mild concern over whether anyone’s gonna show up for his gig tomorrow night. I hip Fee to Friday’s itinerary while he’s yapping to his agent. “Yeah, man, we go on at the same Metalllica does. Oh well, maybe the locals will come out.”

Back to Jung. The former Mrs. Friend once owned a store on Westwood Boulevard. One afternoon, the front man of one of her favorite bands growing up wandered into the place. “Lonn, guess who was just in store?” I recall her quivering. “Fee Waybill!” Years later, in the winter of ’04, the separation year, I’m in Las Vegas, decomposing on the sand and composing my memoir, Joyce gets set up on a blind date. With Fee Waybill. Too much suffering to enjoy the experience, it was a one off. But in an odd way, it bonded Quay Lude and me.

“Watch the Laker game later with me, Fee,” I offer, boarding the plane, passing the second tall character. “You know, that guy looks like Senator Bill Bradley. He played for the Knicks. So did my late Uncle Larry. Nah, that can’t be him.” Not on Southwest. Not with us punks.

Hour into the flight, I drift up the cabin and say ‘hey’ to Fee. “Lonn, you were right. That Is Bill Bradley. Only guy on the plane taller than me.” Laughter. Wonder if he knew my uncle? Somewhere over Texas, I went to the bathroom. On my way back, I pause at his seat, take a deep breath and wait for his eyes to abandon the Washington Post. I extend my hand and he shakes it. “It’s a great honor, Senator,” I say. “What’s your name?” he asks. “Lonn Friend. I think you may have known my late Uncle. Larry Friend.” Recognition. Synchronicity. “Yes of course, Larry Friend. Did you say late uncle?” Glare gets a bit more urgent. “He died of prostate cancer about ten years ago.”

A couple more sentences, mine being last. “You’re a great man, sir, “I utter in my most sincere Keith Olbermann. I’ve met few politicians in my life. Al Gore at a book signing, Governor Pataki at the post 9/11 Concert for Heroes, and surfing Congressman Dana Rohrabacher at the recent NAMM show in Anaheim who was hanging out with guitarist Jeff Skunk Baxter and photographer Robert Knight. The strangest groups often travel in threes. I always look into the eyes for that is where the truth lies. Senator’s Bradley’s windows were the cleanest.

Arkansas down below, I meander to the back to engage the flight attendants, Cheryl and April. They live in Phoenix, home of the Suns; the NBA team co-founded by the aforementioned dear departed Uncle Larry. I recognize another face, or should I say, head (as in bald), belonging to veteran industry promotion guy, Phil ‘The Skull’ Costello. He and the (former) Senator are waiting for the rear facilities. Skull enters to do his thing and the former Knick and me talk hoops. “I think the Lakers will win tonight,” he says. “Jackson is so good at managing his players.” I recount quickly my lifetime devotion to the purple and gold. “Did you read Sacred Hoops?” I smile. The senator grins, “I wrote the foreword to it.”

Costello vacates the john and I say hello. “So are you still in the mix, man?” I query innocently. “I know you don’t work at Warner Brothers anymore.” His face goes stern, like a spilled a drink on him. “In the mix?” he flashes back. “Uh, I released one of the best albums of the year, In Rainbows. Uh, yeah I’d say I’m in the mix.” The hey day of the influence peddling promo domo has thankfully passed (God bless the digital domain) but one cannot dismiss the inimitable bravado of a man whose devoted his life to hammering people into seeing things his way. “Didn’t mean to bruise to your ego, Phil. See ya.” Thank you Universe for reminding why I will never work in the record business again. Love the records, loathe the business. That’s a mantra one can live with.

“What do you want from life?” crooned the wailing Waybill. “To kidnap an heiress, and threaten her with a knife?” Absurd, fantastic. A Tubes concert was visual as well as musical, bombastic theater, all senses tapped, and all risks taken. When Outside Inside came out in 1983 and the video for “She’s Beauty” was all over MTV, I saw the band once more and they rocked hard once again and I’m sure they will rock hard tomorrow night. “My first concert was Van Halen’s 1984 tour,” wiggles Cheryl. “I was 16 but oh do I remember that show. David Lee Roth was amazing. Jumping and bouncing all over the place. Have you heard the new Journey? That Filipino singer is really incredible.”

Fans…rock n’ roll’s life force. Decent begins and I hand the Senator a copy of Life on Planet Rock, having inscribed, “Much respect and gratitude for your service to hoops and humanity.” Baggage claim, Fee and Roger Steen, the original Tube duo still in tact, offer me a lift from the airport. There I am, in a van with a band on the road, again. “Do you know this guy Phil Costello, Lonn?” says Fee. “He’s an independent, sold a half million Radiohead records on the web. That blows my mind.” Private chuckle. “Yeah, I know him,” I reply. “He’s a punk.” Hell, who am I kidding? We’re ALL punks.

Another Jungian adventure has begun. What do I want from life? This.

Bonnaroo 2008 Kick Off! The Itinerary

So I'll be landing in Nashville in about 24-hours and volunteer state peeps are emailing and my space messaging their ineffable excitement and I confess it's resonating with this old road warrior. I did extra fifteen-minutes of yoga this morning and haven't eaten a stitch of meat in more than a week. Feeling vegan, pagan…how did Cornell put it? Looking California but feeling Tennessee. Now much as I live the serendipitous way when on assignments that take me into the womb of rock, this particular gathering of the harmonic tribes is so encompassing that I did something quite unusual. I drafted an outline. Rough, of course, because the acts' performance times overlap on disparate stages. But for me, this is a HUGE step toward structure.

I don't get in until around 8pm Thursday and that's pretty close to tip off time for game four of the Lakers/Celtics round ball circus, so I'm quite certain whether I get my shit together for Thursday's talent parade but my daughter will kick my ass if I don't catch at least a slice of Vampire Weekend (set time 11:30 pm), her favorite band from Coachella. After 35 years of wearing the surrogate Dead Head crown thanks to my lifelong friendship with Professor Mark from Berkeley (who will be joining me on Friday in Nashville, our first road trip together in eons) I long to finally see Dark Star Orchestra (11:45pm). Manhattan's Marsy Robinson, musicologist, Conor Oberst freak and earthen goddess, insists I see The Felice Brothers who go on at 10:15 pm but are also doing a 30 minute Soundstage bit on Friday so I’ll try and ensure our paths cross then.

When I used to do the festivals in Europe in the 1990s under the RIP aegis, I just moved about in concert with the acts I was covering, I have no such strings attached to my movements at Bonnaroo. I do plan on spending considerable hang time in the Metallica enclave on Friday, but again, the script is in pencil. There's just too much groovy shit going on to barnacle oneself anywhere at this Herculean hob knob. The next paragraph is my wish list for Friday the 13th, the day M. Knight's The Happening opens in theaters nationwide. Trust me, if I wasn't in Manchester, TN, I'd be at the Arc Light in Hollywood buzzed and brewed for my favorite modern filmmaker's latest celluloid experiment.

Brother Les Claypool at 4:15; a rocker with whom I've had a couple quirky adventures including that Denver, Colorado smoky pre-show bus moment during the Public Enemy/Anthrax/Primus tour of '91when he debuted for me an advanced clip of a new, groundbreaking animated TV
program some odd friends of his had developed-it was called Ren & Stimpy. Les still has odd cartoonish compatriots (what IS South Park without the strains of Claypool?) but to me, he remains a brilliant, eccentric musician who wields the four string with unparalleled abandon and has never really altered in personality or demeanor since the day I met him. Considering he grew up in the east bay bug of El Sobrante, California with Kirk Hammett, I shall organically weave him into the Metallica story. Or not. Like I said, I've no idea on what's ahead.

Back to the itinerary.

Rac-in' Jack White at 5:00 pm post Tegan and Sara at 2:30 pm, ramping up to Chris Rock at 7:45 pm who'll warm up the metal heads for the four horsemen at 9 pm. Somehow (and once again, I defer to my 18 year old) I will break away to catch a taste of Rilo Kiley at 6:15 pm and M.I.A. AT 6:30 pm. 'Tis a land best served by jugglers and shape shifters, Bonnaroo, but you're talking to an 11 year student of Kundalini who has astral traveled and on more than one occasion, found
himself in two places at one time. So if you see me out there, it may be me or my doppelganger. Either way...say hey.

It's the rock around the clock aspect of this festival that sets it apart from the rest. Given that insomniac fact, I have My Morning Jacket 12pm to 3 am set and Crazewire.com's former Friend Jedi intern and jam band savant, Forrest Reda's remarkable Disco Biscuits 2 am to 4 am jam in the margins. Saturday afternoon 4 pm is where I'll commence again with my pal Nick John's Mastodon and old friend Dweezil Zappa at 5:45 pm playing the tunes o' his late great papa on the even of Father's Day. Ben Folds is ON somewhere between 6:15 and 7:45 pm as is surfing' Jack Johnson, another Forrest pick from when the wave running balladeer was strumming his acoustic on the Cali sands to boards and bikinis. Pearl Jam, the band of golden words in my memoir, at 10:15 (speaking of surfers done good) -- I'll have my DVD copy of Into the Wild for Eddie to sign for Megan Rose. Then I can't in my clearest third eye imagine the transcendence of Sigur Rios at 1 am, in the wild. There will have to be a golf cart to get my ass to Phil Lesh and Kanye West for their midnight sets. How did Harrison put it on Yellow Submarine…"It's all too much."?

Depending on my plus 50 heart rate, the Sabbath holds Trombone Shorty at 1: 30 pm, Ladytron at 2: 30 pm, Jakob Dylan at 3:00 pm (getting into the bare bones warmth and rhythm of his new release, Seeing Things), the amazing Robert Randolph's Revival at 2:45 pm, Robert Plant with Mrs. Costello and old mate, T Bone B. but again, here comes the daughter factor on Father's Day, with Death Cab for Cutie at 7 pm. If there are any molecules in brain or body still left
functioning at 8:45 pm, I'll pop a Xnax and float my way into Widespread Panic.

Of course, everything I just spelled out is completely subject to alteration, modification, indoctrination and emancipation based on the universal forces in play at beautiful Bonnaroo '08. I will blog when I can if time, tide and temper permit. Lonnaroo online caretaker Tony Kuzminski has gently brow beat me to post and post often. We'll just have to see where those Tennessee breezes blow. Go Lakers! xL.

Bonnarro Here I Come!

I needed a road trip. And this one revealed itself. Bonnaroo.com. Though I ran the iconic rock mag, RIP, back in the day, irony has me traveling to Nashville to gather sights, sounds and sweat for an upcoming Metal Edge cover story on Metallica. Back in the day, the light-hearted metal fanzine didn't really compete journalistically with our Larry Flynt published bible of bang but they did offer commercial distraction. When Zenbu Media, publishers of Relix -- where I compose the ongoing Soapbox column -- acquired Metal Edge and instilled veteran pit-dweller, Phil Freeman, into the editorial captain's seat, redesign commenced in earnest and now Metal Edge resembles RIP in both graphic and text attitude. And since RIP died 12 years ago (14 months after I departed for the record business gig that would fill my wallet and empty my soul-it's in the memoir, Life on Planet Rock), I figured why not write about the band I've known and covered for 20 years for a new platform where there's a goodly amount of respect for this veteran pilgrim of six string adventures.

But it ain't just the four horsemen of Bay Area thrash-turned global hard rock juggernaut that got me jazzed about the bountiful Bonnaroo '08. I'm also excited about reconnecting with old friends whose musical evolution I have also witnessed and enjoyed. The entities are scattered throughout the four-day festival, disparate deities of riff and word like Pearl Jam and Robert Plant, united with Allison Krauss and an old golfing buddy named T. Bone Burnett. Got a friend in Las Vegas who lives and dies for Widespread Panic yet I confess I've never had the live experience. My daughter is crazy about MGMT. Jack White does little wrong in my book so the Raconteurs are high on my list. I could go on and on but this is the debut entry so let me get back to the set up.

My gut has me going early Hunter S. this trip, like real bohemian, leaving my lodging up to serendipity and the synchronous appearance of new media 'apprentices' who'll aid and abet me in my mission to translate what I capture on site, helping me bring the content to the fans via this blog. Given the blessing of access from being around this world for so fucking long and never having blown up the bridges I helped build, I anticipate words, sounds and images -- both moving and still -- that will serve to relate the magic, essence and music of this southern festival fantastique.

Okay seed planted. Communicate at will. Get excited if you're heading to Tennessee and wish me luck. Turn off the muse, find the muse, raise the volume but lower the noise. Back at ya soon.