WHERE THE PEOPLE ARE AS FLEETING AS THE\nFESTIVAL ITSELF. WHERE TIME IS MEASURED\nIN SET LENGTH, SUN STRENGTH AND THE SORENESS\nOF YOUR SOLES. WHERE SPACE IS CONQUERABLE\nTHROUGH THE POWER OF MUSIC. WHERE\nTHE QUESTION IS NOT WHEN OR WHY, BUT HOW?\nWHERE THE ANSWER IS ALWAYS BONNAROO.
Swooping in over\nthe scene, the cars are\npacked a mile back and\nthe mood couldn't contain\nmore excitement.\nAn array of guitar licks, base\ndrum kicks and colorful melodies\nradiate up from the masses in the\nsame way heat twirls and wafts\nup from concrete.\nStories of Bonnaroos past are\nshared through open windows,\nand somewhere soon stories of\nBonnaroo present will take form.\nSomewhere soon a "noise-ician"\nwill wail, a shaman will teach, a\nclown will laugh and an artist will\nredefi ne his medium.\nAnd then, somewhere soon,\nthey will all go home. They will\npack their things and leave this\nplace, and the dust they raised will\nslowly settle back into the Earth.\narly in the weekend\nwhen the vibrations\nare still sky high, the\nsputters and whispers\nof 300 conversations\nfi ll the air just outside\nthe entrance to the Bonnaroo\ngrounds. But above them all is\nthe amplifi ed voice of Ray Bong,\nscreaming his song through the\nscreeches and scratches of his\nmusic.\nIt doesn't matter what you do.\nThe man will fi nd a way to put his\nfi nger on you.\nSo you got to do what I do.\nAnd come to Bonnaroo.\nWhere the man can't get you.\nHe calls himself the President\nof the United States of Bonnaroo,\n"the only free country on Earth."\nThe squaking and thumping and\nbuzzing and hissing of his music is\nas outrageous as his wardrobe.\nHis dirty bare feet kick sandals\nto the side and start pushing pedals\non the ground. His knees shake\nbeneath his camo shorts, and his\narms fl ail freely from his sleeveless\ntye-dye shirt. And as he prepares\nfor his solo on a 1978 electric\ntoy guitar, his tongue whips back\nand forth against the grey stubble\non his face, moving right in motion\nwith his red, yellow, green,\nblue and purple hair, which sways\nacross his sunglasses.\nI refuse to be held down.\nNow I'm going to make a wacky\nsound.\nThe solo begins and the crowd\ncircles in on the self-proclaimed\n"noise-ician" from New Orleans,\nand he continues to tweak with\nan array of boxes, buttons and\nlevers resting atop his keyboard.\nFor the grand fi nale, he picks up\nthe wireless drum synch and parades\naround the crowd. He holds\nthe small black box over people's\nheads and shifts it side to side like\nhe's adjusting the antenna of an\nold television, tweaking the pitch\nof the song with each motion.\nAs the song concludes and the\ncrowd thins, a passerby tells his\nfriend, "That guy is my favorite\nband."\nn another time and\nsome space away, 40-\nyear-old Patrick Ironwood\nsits cross-legged under a\ntent in a yellow T-shirt and a\nbillowy, blue dress covered in pink\nand yellow fl owers. He's speaking,\nquite frankly, about drugs.\nHe's not selling them and he's\nnot trying to label them as good\nor bad, right or wrong. He just\nknows the reality of this place.\n"In this venue, people will be\ntempted with the experimentation\nand exploration of drug use,"\nhe says. "I want to give you real\ninformation on how to explore\nsafely … because the Tool mosh\npit might not be the place."\nSince 1971, Ironwood has lived\nin the Sequatchie Valley Institute\njust an hour south of Manchester,\nTenn. The community of 10 to 15\npeople uses limited electricity and\neats only what they can produce\nthemselves. He subscribes to the\nshamanistic belief that it's possible\nto go into the subconscious\nand tinker with the world from\nwithin another dimension. Glancing\nat his notes, he tells the small\ncrowd, "It's been called prayer, but\nyou can learn how to do it where it\nreally works."\nIt's not so much a promotion of\npsychedelic drugs, but rather a\npromotion of their possibilities. A\nlot of people use them recreationally,\nbut the important part, he\nsays, is making sure people bring\nsomething back. "Bring the tools\nout of the tool box," he says.\nWhile Ironwood talks about\nmushrooms, ecstasy and LSD,\nhis eldest son Sage -- not even old\nenough for kindergarten -- sits naked\nnext to him, hunched over a\npiece of wood painting a picture\nof a palm tree and a wavy ocean.\nThen, unannounced, Sage interrupts\nto steal daddy's attention.\nWhen the attempt fails, the naked\nboy takes off running and strands\nof hay fall from his long, golden\nhair.\nZipping through a forest of festival\npatrons, the look of elation on\nthe boy's face is reminiscent of a\nyoung animal getting its fi rst taste\nof the wild. And then, he is gone.\nerhaps that day, perhaps\nanother, a separate\ngroup of children\n-- these ones fully\nclothed -- giggle and\npoint at Flower, the clown who\njust made a fool of himself. Again.\nOutside the Kidz Jam tent it is\nhot, it is loud and the smell of marijuana\nsmoke can hit you at any\nturn. But inside it is safe. Cold water\nand shade are in abundance,\nand laughing too hard is the only\nreal danger for the group of nearly\n20 kids sitting on the grass.\nIn 2004 Rain Blanken, executive\ndirector of Kidz Jam, contacted\nthe Bonnaroo coordinator to\ninquire about establishing a kid's\ntent. "(The coordinator) has kids,\nso she liked it," Blanken says. Now,\nanywhere between 100 and 200\nchildren benefi t from Blanken's\nproposal.\nWalking between stages, the\nfi rst visual cue is the giant Sponge-\nBob moonwalk. Then there is the\nsound of children laughing. Then a\nred fi re truck brushes your leg as\nthe 3-foot driver yells, "Beep beep."
Then the spray of water splashes\noff your face and laughter ensues\nas the man holding the water gun\nsays, "Come donate to Kidz Jam."\nThe nonprofi t organization from\nTroy, Ohio, runs strictly on donations,\nand for four years Nancy\nBennett-Cupps has contributed.\nHer two youngest kids, Zoey and\nArlo, are 5 and 9, and every summer\nthey come all the way up from\nTampa Bay to play at Bonnaroo.\nTo them, it's a place where people\ndance, play hula hoop and burn\nlots of incense.\nWhen Flower fi nishes his fi nal\nact, Zoey and Arlo say thank you\npack their things and head off to\ntheir next "activity": hacky sack at\nthe Ziggy Marley concert.\nWith time slowing\nand exhaustion\ngrowing,\nGeorge\nLong and\nJim Thomas\ntake a break beneath the\nshade of their own artistic creations.\nTucked deep in the corner\nof Bonnaroo is the Art of Such 'n'\nSuch -- a collection of interactive\nsculptures, paintings and games.\nJust last night, fi re jugglers\nwhipped fi re balls through the air\nas dancers ducked and weaved\nthrough the shadows that moved\nas much as they did. With the\nswing of a giant mallet against\nthe lever of an old-fashioned carnival\ngame, a metal ring shoots up\na pole and clangs against a bell.\nWith the toll of the bell, a giant\nfi reball erupts into the night sky\nand lights up the awe-struck faces\nthat respond with cries of jubilation.\nBut today it's the sun that burns\ndown on the faces of artists disassembling\ntheir work. From behind\nhis large-rimmed sunglasses,\nThomas describes the goal of the\nartists as an "organic aesthetic."\nAnd Long, who speaks from the\nshade of his fedora lined with red\nand yellow fl ames, explains that\nmany view art as something distant\nor removed. "We wanted to\ncreate an out-of-the-box gallery,"\nhe says. "Bring it to people in a\nway that is approachable, in a way\nthey haven't seen before."\nFor the past few days, this art\nwas interactive in the sense that\nthe people dancing around it were\nas much a part of the art as the\nstructure itself. But today, the only\ninteraction between creator and\ncreation comes when the pieces\nare removed and loaded onto a\nwagon. Then Thomas and Long\ntake a deep breath and march forward,\ndragging their work into the\ndistance beneath the heat of the\nsummer sun.\nSwooping out, away\nfrom the scene, the\ncars line up again with\ntheir headlights cutting\na path through the dusty\nhaze. The excitement is gone and\nwindows are closed, as Bonnaroo\npresent becomes Bonnaroo past.\nA man smashes his fi st into\na port-a-potty, over and over,\nscreaming some inaudible obscenities.\nFor the fi rst time, frustration\nis a visible entity. And as\nhe walks away, still mumbling\nto himself, he rubs his fi st and\nshakes his head, fi nally able to\nfeel the pain.\nSomewhere soon the "noiseician"\nwill unplug his toys and\nthe shaman will visit the distant\ndimensions of his dreams. Somewhere\nsoon the clown will remove\nhis makeup and the artists will\ndrive away from the environment\nthat empowered them.\nAnd somewhere soon, as the\nlast car leaves, the dust will settle\ndown -- back to the Earth -- waiting\nto be kicked up again.
