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?