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.