Check out the Creative Loafing Bonnaroo 2011 photo gallery
Does this sound a little too much like I drank the kool-aid? Well, when a really tall friend tried to move forward through the crowd, he was tapped on the shoulder. “Come on, dude,” a fellow fan complained. That was it. These were the harshest words I heard all weekend. The good-natured tall kid shrugged, smiled, and moved.
If you’re upset by crowds, drugs, or dirt, then this is not the place for you. If you’re just uncomfortable with those things, it might be just where you need to be. This place tests the power of the human body as well as the human spirit, but both pass with flying neon colors.
As the Strokes went on, the excitement was palpable, but so was exhaustion. A fan holding a sign asking Julian Casablancas for just one kiss, rather than the typical “marry me, rock star” trope, reflected our returning sense of reality. The lead singer’s trademark mumbly, angsty vocals engaged an audience almost incapable of being enlivened, a perfect cap on my experience.
I saw a bracelet declaring Bonnaroo “a loophole from reality.” At first, the festivities seemed like a fever dream; by the last day, I wondered if my real life was the dream after all.
But it’s not, I know now. I’ve rediscovered showers and beds and square meals. But there’s still a part of me that expects to walk out my back door and find a loud, thumping stage waiting for me. Since that won’t happen, I guess it’s back to seeking out great live shows on my own, with renewed passion and an opened mind.
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