Results tagged “concerts”

A classic Bill Frisell moment occurred very soon after the musicians took the dais affectionately called a stage in Annapolis' beloved Ram's Head sit-down club.

The 858 Quartet--Frisell, accompanied by violinist Jenny Scheinman, violist Eyvind Kang and cellist Hank Roberts, as well as his own trusty Fender Telecaster--entered to eager applause. As the string players settled themselves, Frisell approached the microphone and introduced each member in turn. After a pause he added, "And I'll be right back." The audience laughed and murmured awkwardly as he hurried back stage to retrieve a pick.
When Frisell returned, Kang whispered to him, "They want you to explain." Meaning, to explain where he just went.
Frozen in front of the microphone, Frisell asked, "I need to explain myself?", with a hint of sincere exasperation. The crowd laughed again. Frisell unfolded a piece of paper in his hand, as if about to read a prepared statement, then looked about the walls of the club. "The music is... (pregnant pause)... Well, I can't explain it!" More confused laughter, and Frisell sat down. I had already felt as if I had gotten my money's worth, and not a single note had been played.

Bill Frisell doesn't understand human beings, I don't think. He's a wholly separate kind of entity. He's quiet, extremely introverted, unapproachable. Mentally, he's plugged in elsewhere. And that is, of course, what makes his music so unique. Even the label "jazz guitarist" doesn't do Frisell justice, a misplaced synecdoche that fits him like a thrift store tuxedo. First, there's his musical style, which borrows just as much, if not more, from American indigenous musics such as folk, bluegrass, country, and rock as it does from blues and jazz and classical. Frisell has recorded covers of Bob Dylan, George Gershwin, Henry Mancini, Sam Cooke, Charles Ives, Willie Nelson, Gilberto Gil, Leadbelly, Stephen Foster and Madonna (he also contributed to the most recent album by the drone-metal group Earth, among other curious guests spots). America is often called a cultural melting pot, but few musicians actually serve up that stew.
But just as radical is his playing style. Frisell has pioneered an open-string style which has inspired many imitators and devotees in all walks of life. He employs an arsenal of loop, delay and effects pedals, sometimes choosing to spend his solo in a given tune by tweaking knobs rather than plucking notes. And when he does pick out a solo, it is still in defiance of the standard philosophy of weaving a new melody into the song, of exploring and expanding the harmonies. Instead, Frisell has a somewhat minimalist style, playing brief melodies or just single, sustained notes, waiting until the exact right moment to say the exact right thing. Listening to Frisell play is like sitting at the feet of a monk, waiting for him to open his mouth and bless you with pearls of wisdom.

Bill Frisell originally formed the 858 Quartet in 2002, to record a series of completely improvised pieces inspired by the paintings of Gerhard Richter. For this current tour the quartet performed a handful of extended pieces, some newly composed for the group and others radically re-worked from previous Frisell projects. Each piece began without apparent direction, and would end abruptly, but in between was electricity. The music would lurch and evolve from free-form, polytonal improvs to bluesy grooves before transfiguring into something else entirely; disjointed in the best way possible. The quartet displayed a wonderful rapport, coalescing ever more into one another as the concert progressed (a companion of mine noted how they even physically mover closer and closer). Eyvind Kang struggled initially with pitching but shook it off as he warmed up. He was at his best during his solos, when he would forsake his bow and engage in what could only be called pizzicato pandemonium. the veteran Hank Roberts looked like my high school geometry teacher but played with a punk rock attitude, hunching and grimacing and punishing his instrument. A pregnant Jenny Scheinman was the MVP, equally adept to play perfect support as to soar about in lyrical, emotional solos, echoed in her own fluid mannerisms. Frisell kept close to his pedals, focusing on textures and atmosphere for large portions of the evening. On the guitar he blended and took precious few (and regrettably quiet) solos, which indicated that he saw himself as a member of the group rather than its leader. The show lasted just over an hour, at which time the group encored with an energetic version of "Baba Drame" by the Malian guitar hero Boubacar Traoré, a Frisell favorite.

If you have an opportunity to see Bill Frisell play, 858 Quartet or otherwise, take it. You need to see him, flesh and blood and Telecaster, to even hope to understand who he is and how he does what he does. Don't just listen to me, because... well, I can't explain it.

Part IV: Sunday and Departure

Sunday is a day of relief. Coming off the constant rush of Friday and Saturday (and their late nights), it's the time to relax and move at a more leisurely pace. It's the time to soak Bonnaroo in and really remember what it's like to stand on the farm, to feel the bright sun and warm breeze, to see all the happy people and hear all the diverse music. You will be holding onto those memories for many long months.

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8:30am - Wake up. Oh, it's hot again. Everything is hot. I'm in a sensory deprivation tank that's been placed over a burner. What an alarm clock.

8:31 - Breakfast and lounging. Others were up, and I met them in the shade of the canopies. As I ate dry cereal we discussed last night. Jamie said he was at all of Kanye West's show, and that it was pretty good. Others who were at Phil Lesh & Friends repeated the same story Ryan had told me, and we all relished the schadenfreude.

10:00 - "Shower." As much as I or anyone else might wish it to be, Bonnaroo is not paradise: the funk in my pits and the grease in my hair was reminding me of that. Baby wipes are a staple, but they only do so much. Bonnaroo does have pay showers, but I've never felt it was worth going that route. I opt to do what many of the crunchier attendees do, and take a military shower at the water stations. All I need is a couple washcloths, soap, a little inhibition and a lot of ingenuity. Sunday is a good day to do it, as a way to be relatively fresh for the long trip home the next day.
With a new springtime scent and a bounce in my step, I walk back to my camp. By the time I'm there, the dust from the dirt roads have caked on my legs and feet, and one can hardly tell I've bathed at all.

11:30 - Head to Centeroo. After an attempt to sleep in a camping chair in the shade, I decide it's time to get to Centeroo. As it happens, I'm not on my way to more fun and music; Sunday was actually a light day for me in terms of artists of interest, and my first show of the day didn't begin until 2:45. I was actually on my way to a sponsored attraction called the Fuse Barn, "powered" by Fuse TV. They were the one location in all of Bonnaroo that advertised a free cell phone charging service.
Let me go on a tangent and say that my phone and I do not get along. I think of me and my phone as having a comically dysfunctional, Odd Couple-ish relationship. See, my phone is lazy. Incredibly lazy. It needs to be charged at least once a day, and more frequently if I have the audacity to actually use it. Two or three calls and it's all tuckered out, informing me it's going to turn itself off. Occasionally when I try to turn it back on, it thinks the better and turns itself back off. It's battery bar is perpetually at one block, warning me that at any time it may need to sit down and take a break. My phone drives me bonkers, but what can I do? We're a pair!
Anyway, I'd been conserving my battery life by keeping the phone turned off almost the entire time I was on the farm. But it was Sunday, and I knew Matt and I would need to get in touch to finalize plans of how to meet up and when to leave. I also was painfully wishing to talk to my wife. So, armed with my phone charger I went to give the lazy guy a cup of black coffee.

11:50 - Fuse Barn. The phone charging booth opened at noon, and I arrived early to find about thirty-five people more motivated and frantic than me. I got in line and waited. At noon they had not opened, the line had doubled, and it had become blazingly hot (we had no shade). At five after, while still not open, one of the employees came out and told the line that they only had thirty slots and so only the first thirty would get the phones charged and that others could come back in an hour. They also listed off a few major manufacturer's brand names that they did not have equipment for, sorry everyone. I counted the people in line, and I was thirty-third. I stayed, thinking that perhaps I had miscounted or someone would leave or not be able to charge their phone. At ten after another employee went through the line and handed out combination battery-powered fan and water spritzers with Fuse's logo. At twenty after, the booth opened, and the line... didn't move. I was unsure of the details, but I gathered that the process taking a phone from someone and plugging it in was much more technical and complicated, and therefore the line could move not faster than one step forward every couple minutes. When I looked at my watch and realized I had been baking in the sun for almost an hour, I wished everyone around me good luck and left, making sure to kick off the dust from my heels.
I did have an alternate plan. There is a small, child-oriented tent called Kidz Jam. Walking by it the day before I noticed an electrical outlet patch peeking out the back of their tent. It was still there, and so I sat down, plugged in, covered the phone with my backpack, and attempted to look like I was just relaxing in the shade, reading the day's issue of the Bonnaroo Beacon.

2:00pm - Talk to Jocelyn. After an hour of charging I took the phone and my gear and moved to a more secluded spot under one of the farm's grand oak trees. There I called my wife, Jocelyn. I must say, her voice on the other end was the most beautiful music I heard all weekend. I missed her fiercely. We spoke for twenty minutes, me giving her highlights of my time, and her giving me the scoop on the wedding she photographed the day before. I told her about The Bluegrass Allstars, Chris Rock, SuperJam, Mastodon, Sigur Rós, karaoke, losing the lens cap, and so on, but with so much left to say (as you now know), I didn't fear having nothing left to tell her when we would be reunited. I also had the opportunity to hear my little baby daughter coo and yelp and laugh, melting my heart all the more.
After saying goodbye, I gave Matt a call and left him a nervous voicemail about plans for departure. It was then time for my first show, which helped to put the precarious situation out of my mind.

2:45 - Orchestra Baobab. This group from Dakar, Senegal has been fusing African traditions with Cuban and Caribbean music for four decades. They experienced a slight resurgence in popularity in 2002 when Dave Matthews and Trey Anastasio filmed a documentary about meeting, learning from and performing with the group.
I arrived a few minutes before the show, and found only a scant attendance with easy opportunities to get very close to the fence. To my chagrin, most of those in attendance appeared to be merely holding good spots for one or both of the indie rock shows later in the day: O.A.R. and Death Cab for Cutie. In fact, several of these self-absorbed hipster wankers were lining the front fence, sitting down with their backs to the stage, taking turns napping and staring at the dirt, while one of the most significant African musical groups performed behind them. On the other hand, I was able to get in front of a guy after telling him I was there for Orchestra Baobab and would be leaving right afterward. All the same, there were enough of these indie kids around that I feared the band, while up there giving their all, would feel unappreciated. As it turned out, only my side of the crowd was really a problem (a fenced-off path leads from the stage to the soundboard, bisecting the grounds). I watched as the folks across from me danced jubilantly in a tight pack, offering cheers to the band, who in turn grinned and waved back. The grass did look greener on the other side of the fence. One of the band's tenor saxophone players was a particularly entertaining ham, shuffling on stage and teasing the vocalists while they sang. Behind his sunglasses he would identify specific people in the audience, offering them huge smiles and thumbs up. Towards the end of the show, they invited a young, shirtless guy in the crowd up on stage. The guy, for whatever reason, had with him an alto sax, and he joined the horn section in their antiphonal licks. I found this to be a beautiful statement from the band: we view music as a communal thing, and will dance and cheer for you like you do for us. I would bet that O.A.R. doesn't hold the same sentiment. Too bad, because Orchestra Baobab was the most fun show of the weekend.
After the band finished and the dust had settled and we all caught our breath, I made my way to That Tent for my next show. I had just spent almost two hours standing in an unprecedentedly scorching Bonnaroo 2008 sun, and the tent's muddy shade was looking very attractive.

4:20 - Not what you think, just Solomon Burke. The show that just ended was by vanguard Bonnaroo artist Robert Randolph, and the show later on would feature two beloved blues-rock guitarists, Derek Trucks & Susan Tedeschi. Between these packed shows the tent was nearly deserted; I found myself once again with the opportunity to be very close to the stage. Yet it surprised and saddened me that performances by these younger (albeit respectable) players would draw three or four times the crowd as a mythic soul singer with a half-century career and a place in the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame. In fact I quickly learned that many of the folks around me didn't even know who Mr. Burke was, and were just waiting for "Trucks". I would assure them that they were indeed in for a treat.
Setting up the stage meant lots of instruments, mics and a horn section. It also meant a very large and colorful custom-built throne front and center (Mr. Burke is a man of great, er, status). All this, in turn, meant that the band wasn't ready to take the stage until 5:25, forty minutes late. The band played Burke on, who was lifted onto the stage in his wheelchair, then moved to his throne. He is a very large person.
As I watched the show, the hindsight finally came to me that I didn't actually have high expectations for this show. Solomon Burke is getting on in years and clearly not in the best of health, so he was not likely to be much of a fiery, passionate performer. Also, the R&B and Soul singers from the golden age that are still with us are often notoriously flat and disappointing live nowadays. Chuck Berry is known for not showing up at all for his gigs. Even The Hardest Working Man in Showbusiness' set at Bonnaroo 2003 is often cited as one of the worst shows in the festival's history. Perhaps this trend partially explains the low attendance at Burke's show? In any case, it fully defied these probabilities, and shame on anyone who would call it a nostalgia act. Burke was seated at the center, and created a hurricane of excitement around him. He thoroughly engaged the audience and seemed so genuinely pleased to be playing for us.
Burke announced that this was a request show, but it wasn't readily apparent that we were not the ones requesting songs. I eventually noticed a small video monitor at his feet, and presumably requests were coming in from the Internet (was the show being broadcast somewhere?). The selections were stellar, including "Diamond in Your Mind" by-- you guessed it-- Tom Waits. Burke also invited "all the ladies" to come up on stage and dance, and soon dozens of wide-eyed and grinning young women-- and a couple dudes-- had peppered themselves throughout the musicians.
As great a time as I was having, I had my own schedule to keep even if none of the artists seemed to be cooperating. As I left the tent and headed towards The Other Tent, I looked back to see just how small the audience really was: the people only filled the area right in front of the stage, and barely anyone occupied the back half of the tent. It is still heartbreaking to think of how very many people missed out on this joyous time.

6:15 - Broken Social Scene. Broken Social Scene falls just above The Hold Steady and just below Wilco on the list of bands that I really should like but just don't. And in yet another sincere attempt to develop that affection, I made the time to see them perform. I left the tent not fifteen minutes later, still unmoved. I may have stuck around a bit longer if the lovely and talented Feist were with them, but no such luck; instead I spotted a middle-aged topless woman noodle dancing. I high-tailed it over to the main stage for my one last big must-see of the weekend.

6:40 - Robert Plant & Alison Krauss with T-Bone Burnett. I again took advantage of the lopsided crowd and took the long route around to the far side of the field, then entered into the pit directly in front of the stage. It was understandably packed, but all present were thoroughly entranced and had no use for any activities that would annoy their neighbors (yelling, flailing about, asking for a fix, etc.). It came as no surprise whatsoever that such a duet of stunningly talented singers would put on as fantastic a show as they did. Further, I would say that the show (as with their album) was made all the more profound because of such an unlikely pairing rather than in spite of it. The song selection covered many gems from their album including "Gone, Gone, Gone", "Fortune Teller" and "Trampled Rose" (hey, another Tom Waits composition!). However, the crowd favorite by a mile was an energetic performance of the classic Led Zeppelin, Lord of the Rings-inspired song "Battle of Evermore". Even the security guard who yelled at me to put my fancy camera away (yes, I finally got caught) could not dampen my spirits.

7:50 - Jake Shimabukuro. It was bittersweet walking to the small tent in the back of the main stage field, knowing that inside I would find my last Bonnaroo show. Perhaps I was a bit overly sentimental about it, but Jake Shimabukuro felt like just the right punctuation to a sentence that could've kept going. A young Hawaiian whose ukulele chops have all but earned him the middle name "Virtuoso" among music critics, Shimabukuro is as humble and appreciative a performer as he is skilled at his instrument. He sat solo on the Troo Music Lounge Tent's small stage by himself for a hour-long set, and the only change was when the spirit of the music would lift him from his stool. Shimabukuro engaged the audience. He asked us questions, repeatedly thanked everyone he could think of (sound crew, bartenders, other artists at the festival), and took the time to explain a bit about each piece performed. He also took the award for most diverse repertoire, reprieving his own pleasant originals with covers of The Beatles, Chick Corea, Led Zeppelin and Franz Schubert.
Shimabukuro won over the dedicated audience by deftly removing himself from the spotlight. He didn't showcase how great he was; instead, he simply asked those present, "Isn't it wonderful, the sounds that can be created?" To which we grinned and replied, "Yes!"

8:45 - A few more kernels of amusement. Leaving Centeroo for what would be the last time, I passed by a young man and woman standing by the long wooden fence that separates the concert grounds from the camping grounds. The woman had chosen to festoon herself not with clothes but with paint, and the man was out working the crowd, asking strangers to sign a 3'x4' canvas they had with them, as a keepsake. I was happy to acquiesce; it felt as if they were claiming that their Bonnaroo experience would not have been complete without me. Picking out a color from their packet of markers, I looked over the canvas and decided to be different, as people in our generation are wont to do, and sign the side border. See you next year! - Steve
A few minutes further down the road, I was admiring the graffiti that the festival encourages its patrons to apply to the same wooden fence. One particular statement caught my eye. I suppose not everything at Bonnaroo 2008 was worth its wait.

9:10 - Spending time at camp. Nearly everyone at camp wanted to skip the evening's headliner, Widespread Panic. There is a backstory to such a sentiment, and the gist is that WSP is a respectable southern-rock jamband that has simply headlined Bonnaroo too many times. The point is, we all were determined to thoroughly enjoy one another's company in the relaxed atmosphere of Camp Inforoo, content to let the jams drift unobtrusively into the environs. I lit up my second cigar, we lounged and chatted, put one another into hysterics, and watched as occasional smuggled fireworks were set off, from around the grounds, into the balmy night sky.
Early on, we had some visitors: the young man and woman with the canvas. It turned out the man posted infrequently on Inforoo, and wanted to stop by and meet us. I was impressed by how many more signatures were on the canvas (including the border) in just an hour or so, and all present signed as well.
Someone had brought a watermelon that had gone untouched all weekend, so Jamie, The Dude and I smashed it.

Monday, 2:00am - Bedtime. By the time the collective decision to turn in came, it had gotten surprisingly chilly. I had not packed any blanket, to maintain a light load, but now I was very thankful that others at camp weren't so lean. I was lent a thick comforter, and slept like a baby.

8:30 - Awaken. While still on the cool side, the sunny Tennessee day was warming up rapidly. Outside the tent I was surprised to see that everyone else in camp was already up and packing. I hopped to it, knowing that I needed to catch Matt and Joe at the location of the car. I freshened up, ate a little, rolled up my tent and organized my belongings. The bittersweet goodbyes. The memories.
A fellow camper graciously offered me a ride over to the car (at this point I was realizing just how much I had relied on other people for things during this weekend. I'm very grateful for all the charity). She dropped me off just a block away, and with my gear on and in tow, I met up with Matt and Joe just as they were done loading their gear in the vehicle. We squeezed mine in, then squeezes ourselves in.

10:00 - Leave Bonnaroo. Thoughts of being reunited with my family by day's end was all that could soften the pain of leaving this magical place and returning to the real world. From the back of the car I watched as we rolled down the rural dirt road, the tall grass and modest hills overtaking the view of the arch and the ferris wheel and the pod balloons.
It was slow getting back on the highway, although compared to the congestion getting in on Thursday, we were fast as lightning. I asked Matt and Joe how they enjoyed their first Bonnaroo, to which Joe replied, "Well, my backpack was stolen and I got detained by security." I knew this had to be good, and it was. Let me relay the story to you.
It all went down on Friday afternoon, not long after Matt and Joe had finished setting up their camp. While others went off to explore, Joe went to nap in his open tent. He woke up about an hour later to find that his backpack, which was placed just outside the tent, was now gone. He searched around the camp, but quickly determined that it must have been swiped. Soon Matt returned, and they used his cell phone to call Joe's (which, along with other valuables, was inside the backpack). The thief picked up. Joe pleaded with him. He told him he didn't need the whole bag back--which Joe reiterated in truth to me--, but just the cell phone, seeing as it was his address book and calendar and all. The thief, probably sensing a trap, refused. That was the last that Joe heard from him or the backpack.
While walking the roads between camps, looking in vain for his stolen belongings, Joe was kicked in the head by a horse. I'm unsure of the details of how this happened, but I do know that Joe fell to the ground and blacked out for a couple seconds. When he got himself up, the long wait in line, the brutal heat, being stolen from and now getting assaulted by a horse made him snap. He walked over to the horse and shoved it with all his might. The horse was startled, but of course it didn't topple; it was unharmed. However it's master, a female mounted security guard, saw what had happened and rushed over. She was irate with Joe, but Joe would have none of it, yelling back at her. Eventually other mounted guards came, and Joe was taken into custody.
He was escorted to a chain-link detainment cage, apparently not far from the parking-only grounds. There he was kept until he could cool off. He relayed his experiences to the guards, and after a couple hours was let go, with some very harsh warnings from the security captain.
I told Joe that I was very sorry to hear he had such a terrible time this weekend.
"Are you kidding? I had the best weekend of my life!", he replied.
I didn't know how he could say that; I remembered how bummed I was when my backpack was stolen at Bonnaroo the previous year, but I at least was able to get it and all its contents back. He said that it did suck to have lost those things, but between all the music he saw, all the people he met, and all the fun and wild times he had he couldn't really care about that. The rest of the weekend was just too amazing. "Plus", he added, "I now have some great stories to tell." I had to agree with him there.

10:45 - Errands. Matt promised his wife he would bring home some big-ass fireworks, which are legal in Tennessee. Off one exit, he found a store he liked, which also had gas. I offered to cover this tank, and Joe told me to get premium. I went inside, handed my card to the young man behind the cigarettes and Lotto tickets, pointed out the window to our car, and said, "Fill it up. 93, please." Then, I gave Jo and quick call on my half-dead phone. When I came back to the counter, the clerk handed me my card and a receipt... for $93. I questioned him, and got the answer you're probably expecting: "Well, you asked for $93 worth of gas."
"No," I shook my head urgently, "I was asking for 93-grade gas!"
"Oh. I was wondering why you needed so much gas!"
At that point I punched him in the face, then the police came to take me away. When I snapped out of my Scrubs-like fantasy, I asked, "So, can you revoke the charge on my card?" Turned out he couldn't, as the transaction had already taken place. He also didn't know how to use the machine to credit me back the difference, nor, as we were to learn, did his manager. Finally an offer was made, to charge my card again for the gas bought, then give me $93 in cash.
"What took you so long?," Joe asked when I finally got back to the car. I repeated the story, showing them the wad of bills. Joe chuckled. "Tennesseeans," he remarked, then drove us across the street for lunch.
I had never been to a Krystal before, but apparently it's the South's answer to White Castle, which I also had never been to. I had the sampler: a mini-buger, a mini-chicken sandwich and a mini-chili-cheesedog. Disgusting, yes, but filling and comforting. No one can really expect anything more from fast food.

5:30pm - Dinner. By the time we were heading back through Roanoke, we were all ready to eat. Since every Bonnaroo trip must include at least one stop at a Waffle House, it went unsaid where we needed to go. Matt knew where the closest location was, and apparently even knew our waitress. The waffles, of course, were delicious.
Once back on the road we were making good time, listening to hip-hop, reading, napping and quoting Spinal Tap.

10:15 - Home. Late on a dark and quite Monday night I finally was home. Matt and Joe dropped me off at my apartment, and they also helped me bring my stuff inside, then we said goodbye. I kissed my beautiful wife and baby. Then I took a shower.
After almost a week of being away--after four solid days and nights of spectacular music, art, comedy, dancing, food, friends, spectacle and experiences--, I found myself lying in my own bed with my wife beside me. I needed to get some rest before returning to work in the morning... but my mind was already thinking about what might be coming in another 362 days.

PART III: Saturday

Saturday is an intense day. You've barreled through two days already, and whatever your Achilles' Heel is-- lack of sleep, undernourishment, dehydration, heatstroke, system toxicity-- it's taking its toll. Still, you want to push through because you'll be sorry if you don't. Also, Saturday is the cornerstone of the weekend. The biggest bands, activities and surprises are brought out today. Either you're here to be a part of it, or you're not.

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10:30am - Wake up. Wait, is that watch correct? Never before at Bonnaroo had I been able to sleep past 8:30. Here's the key: it was not hot as hell. The sky was overcast and drizzling intermittently, so in the tent it was rather comfortable. I felt amazing. Still, I now had two hours less for my accustomed morning routine, so I had to get up and moving.

10:45 - Chill at camp. I joined others under the canopy and made myself a bowl of cereal. The first bite told me the milk had gone bad. Ew. The less said about that, the better.

12:00pm - Leave for Centeroo. It had begun raining again, so on went the slicker. Rain was actually a good thing for me as it meant less people would be standing outside at the Which Stage, my first stop.
Outside the Sonic Village (which features an intimate stage for additional artist performances and interviews, a bar, and a used record store), a busker's show was just beginning. A Snidely Whiplash type with a plastic mustache was announcing to all the "Skirt of Mystery": a young woman with a comically oversized hoop skirt, standing a good six-and-a-half feet in all. Gatherers and passers-by were invited to stick their hands into the Skirt, and the announcer would ask them to describe what they felt. "Something gross and slimy," one would say, and the young woman would give an offended look. "Small and furry," another would say, and she would be flattered. The naughtiness was not subtle, but they were enjoying themselves. Plus, being in an environment with such frequent diversions makes for a constantly thrilling time.
After stopping by the merchandise tent to pick up my annual t-shirt and leaving empty-handed (they must've sold out in record time), I headed to Which Stage for more bad news. According to the printed schedule, Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings were to play at 1:30. Just before 1 'o clock, an entirely different band took the stage. It was a half dozen African-American dudes, most of them carrying brass instruments; they were the Soul Rebels Brass Band.

1:00 - Soul Rebels Brass Band. I couldn't say I really got into them. I'd say this was in part because they didn't seem to differentiate themselves from other New Orleans brass bands in terms of style, repertoire, arrangements or soloing. But this was also because THEY WERE NOT THE BAND SCHEDULED. Thus, I was more preoccupied with trying to figure out what the hell happened. I found a security dude, but he was very insistent that he had no idea why the schedule was changed or what the new schedule was.
The likely answer, by my reasoning, was that it was all Kanye West's fault. See, West was originally booked by the fest to play on Sunday evening, closing out the second stage before that night's headliners. One ego trip led to another, and he was moved to the main stage early Sunday morning, at 2:45am, so that he could perform his "Glow in the Dark" show; this was done not two weeks before the event.
The understanding is that West's crew wanted to use Saturday morning to set up as much of his massive stage set as possible. Need more time? Ok, we'll just shoo the first band off to another stage. And that's how the Soul Rebels ended up playing for me. (By the way, this is all just a precursor to the Kanye-tastrophe that would happen that night).
My other assumption was the the Soul Rebels would only play for an hour, and the Dap-Kings would be on at 2. Fortunately, that turned out to be the case.

2:00 - Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings. What fun! This band has the classic soul down pat. They've got the sharp-dressed band, the hip-cat chit-chat, and they even kept the tradition of warming up the crowd by playing a couple instrumentals before the frontwoman was welcomed on. And as a frontwoman, Jones is a fireball, owning the stage with her wry grins and forceful belting. Great songs, tight band, good times all around.
I left a little early (or on time, depending on which schedule you're going by) to make time for more experiences.

3:00 - Little Feat. How the mighty have fallen. Little Feat, when founded 40 years ago by the late Lowell George, was on the road to recording some of the greatest rock albums of all time. George's genius was a deceptively simple amalgamation of rock, country and soul, and had assembled around him a stellar group to support his emotive voice and guitar solos. The group was huge, and it was all because of Lowell George (one rumor says that while George was working with Frank Zappa back in the late 60's, he played for Zappa his song "Willin'", and was then fired for being too talented).
After a handful of these albums, George died unexpectedly of a heart attack. However, the remaining members continued on, writing and recording under the same name. They remained true to the original sound and attitude, but the genius is just no longer there. And as the years pass since their leader's death, the group has moved further and further into mediocre jamband territory and frequently resting on their laurels.
All the same, the show inevitably had its redeeming qualities. After all, this is still a great group of musicians, and of course their catalog of songs is alone enough to make up for any shortcomings.
I stayed for about twenty minutes, then left. On my way out, they began a cover of "16 Shells from a Thirty-Ought Six". I laughed to myself, noting that it has been less than 24 hours before that I heard that same song, in the same tent, during the SuperJam. The spirit of Tom Waits was indeed settling upon Bonnaroo.

3:20 - Wandering. The sun had since come out, and now it was getting downright hot again. I decided to refresh in the fountain. On my way, I passed by This Tent, where Abigail Washburn & The Sparrow Quartet was playing. It sounded very nice, but I wasn't in the mood to stop. Sorry!
While walking all over the newly saturated earth, my shoes (Crocs) got pretty muddy, do I decided to stop by the Fountain to wash off. It was a busy part of the day, but I enjoyed the cheerful bustling. When I finished washing up I threw my backpack on, prepared to head off and took one last look around. I'm very glad I did so, because it immediately struck me that all this time I had been standing just a few feet away from Jónsi Birgisson, the singer and leader of Icelandic post-rock group Sigur Rós (who would be performing that night).
I was mostly surprised to not have noticed him before because he was the sore thumb of Bonnaroo's hand jive; Jónsi is a fey waif, pale as snow and has a very lazy right eye. He wore many more layers than the rest of us, carried a nicely embroidered black parasol and had a small entourage with him. I very much wanted to greet him and tell him what a fan I was, but I considered his notoriously shy demeanor and thought the better of it. I also tried to clandestinely take a photo of him, but it didn't come out, so you'll have to take my word on all this.
My next show was approaching, so I headed to That Tent. On the way I stopped at a vendor for something to supplement my packed lunch. It seems that when it comes to vendors, you can expect them to overcharge and yet they always charge even more than you think they will. In other words, you might have what you think is a reasonable price and then add on 25%, but then they add on another 25%. It's like they know what you're thinking and know what they can get away with... they're always one step ahead. That's all I'll say on the matter.

4:00 - Mastodon. I was very much looking forward to seeing this band play, but there was some trepidation as well. I had never been at a full-fledged metal show before (not counting the few minutes spent amidst beer-guzzlers at Metallica the night before), and didn't quite know what to expect, from the band or the crowd. Perhaps it was for that reason, or because it was rather crowded in the increasingly hot tent, or perhaps I was just getting burned out on music for the day, but I wasn't getting into the show. I tried to watch the first few songs patiently, and seeing the tatooed dudes up there thrashing away at their intricately complex brand of metal was enjoyable, but felt my interest waning.
It was around the third or fourth song that something struck me. It was another person. Actually, it was a wave of people in front of me, moving backwards quickly to make room for the mosh pit that had just opened up towards the front of the stage. I barely had a moment to grab my backpack and get out of the way. Then I watched as kids slammed into each other a few feet ahead.
This all may sound like a terrible bother, but in fact it was kind of exhilarating. Watching the violent kinetic movements brought the concert alive, even vicariously. I pulled out the trusty digital camera (oh, I was sure my wife would kill me later), and began to move throughout the throng of spectators, attempting to capture tiny moments that would encapsulate what I was experiencing.
I had heard the argument made that mosh pits and slamdancing are not mindless, brutal and dangerous acts, but that people involved in a mosh pit actually have an intuited understanding of boundaries, and even a mutual respect and camaraderie; it's a community atmosphere. I never really believed it, but in that moment I began to see it. Guys who fell a little too hard on someone in the circle would apologize. People took care of where their limbs went, and not to cause any real injury. It was almost like a team sport. And as I worked my way around with the camera, people gave me space, helped protect me, and a few even told me they were impressed with my fearlessness. I bear witness: the vibe of the crowd is very different, and in a much more relaxed and respectful way, with a mosh pit.
After a while, I took the opportunity of the constantly shifting crowd, and moved to the front of the circle. The back half of Mastodon's set was very good, and new songs were premiered throughout. When the show ended people filtered out, and I was able to grab the rail in preparation for the next show, Zappa Plays Zappa. I couldn't believe my luck, but I was going to be front and center. Actually, I was next to the guy who was front and center. I think his name was Josh. In any case, the second best spot in the house combined with a unique experience at Mastodon made up for missing BB King on the main stage (which was my biggest conflict of the weekend).

5:15 - Impressions.While waiting for the show to start, I got to know my neighbors. To my right (not "Josh") was a stout, older dude in a faded concert t-shirt and ill-fitting cap. He stared intently, at everything. We introduced ourselves to each other and immediately began talking Zappa. He told me about the times he saw Frank play, and that he'd seen ZPZ last year. I said I hadn't, but was a big fan, and segued into Lowell George and Little Feat. He talked about when he saw Little Feat back in the day. I sat down and began talking to others nearby. One guy said he was a huge fan of Captain Beefheart. The older dude chimed in about the time he saw Beefheart. Although this happened several times, it didn't take long to realize that this was a person who who spoke past you, who used you as a soundboard for his stories.
Not only that, but his singular goal was to impress others with his concert-going experience. I pitied him. He had spent his life going to concerts, but now is no longer a young man, and so he lives on his moments of the past. I suppose this is not so different from anyone as they age-- we all earn the right to dwell on the significant moments in our past, whether good or bad, inspiring or shameful. But something about assembling a lifetime of going to concerts seemed to me to be such a waste. I've seen my share thus far in my life and will certainly see many more. But God help me if that is my life. Witnessing music played live can be an indescribable joy, but at its core it will always be mere entertainment. It leaves nothing concrete with you, and only continues to exist as a memory. One needs much more than passive entertainment to achieve what could be considered a meaningful, worthwhile life.
Let me say, I was fully aware of the significance of this epiphany occurring to one, smack dab in the middle of a weekend of concerts. I am aware of it now, while writing this recap. It is not one bit less true. God, grant me the strength to devote my life to more important activities than just entertaining myself.
Pardon the tangent. Back to the topic at hand.

5:45 - Zappa Plays Zappa. Fifteen years after Frank's death, his son Dweezil has taken up the Zappa mantle and assembled a top-notch touring group with the purpose of re-creating his father's 70's concert aesthetic with exhaustive perfection. Dweezil, the spitting image (and voice) of Frank sans the iconic mustache and soul patch, spent months testing various axes, rigs, strings, picks, even playing techniques, to achieve the exact same guitar tone. He memorized many of his father's solos, not an easy feat when dealing with the founder of the "freak out". His backing band, all studied thirtysomethings, share that painstaking attention to detail. In fact, if a complaint were gleaned from such a stunningly precise performance, it might be that Frank and his band were never that tight. Oh they were all virtuoso players, but one never caught them in moments of serious technical concentration. A 70's Zappa show was raucous, rabid and randy.
But it's the best Zappa experience anyone in the 21st century will get, and it's damn good. The setlist was a study of Frank's mid-70's records, meaning that it was meant to affirm the hardcore fans in the audience as opposed to those who knew "Valley Girl" and the Nanook Suite. Deep cuts included "Imaginary Diseases", "He Used To Cut the Grass", "Broken Hearts are for Assholes" and "Willie the Pimp". As part of ZPZ's touring principle, they featured a guest artist who was a one-time member of Frank's band, and so it was our treat to be entertained by the inimitable vocals of Mr. Ray White. And lest I leave an unfair impression, the show had its wild moments, such as the reenactment of "West T-Shirt Nite", from Zappa's pseudo-rock opera Joe's Garage. However the show could really be epitomized by Dweezil's default demeanor: during his extended guitar solos, he would settle into himself, allow his fingers to run on autopilot, look out into the audience and blissfully smile at nothing in particular.
When it was over I began to pack up my stuff. I was surprised to find that my Inforoo buddy Jamie had been standing just a few feet behind me the whole time. As it also happened, we also had the same show in mind to check out. So, off to The Other Tent we went.

7:20 - Levon Helm & The Ramble on the Road. Helm, as you (should) know, was the drummer for The Band. He also shared vocal duties and penned many of their best-known songs. And for his drumming skills, I think it fair to say that he was a model of the drummer as an unbreakable backbone. He was never showy; rather, he was solid, in every sense of the word. Now, Helm is now 68 and rather frail looking, perhaps owing to his long battle with throat cancer (which has also weakened his once strong voice). However, Helm brought his A-game, as well as many friends and family. He played drums, mandolin and sang with exuberance. During one song break, Helm thanked the crowd for their support, and invited everyone to come up to Woodstock, NY, and visit him at one of his fabled Midnight Rambles.
Jamie and I decided to leave after a few songs, but once out of the tent we realized we had different places to go, so we said goodbye and decided to meet up at camp before the headliner. Jamie went to What Stage to catch Jack Johnson. I went next door to This Tent.

7:45 - Iron & Wine. Here is perhaps my favorite artist of all performing today during the daytime, and yet I deliberately missed their show and only appeared in time for the encore because there was nothing else of interest going on. Such is the distinction between a great recording artist and a great live performer. I had the opportunity to catch Iron & Wine at their first Bonnaroo appearance, in 2005, and was quite disappointed. They were riding the success of their album Our Endless Numbered Days, and I was as well. But the show amounted to little more than slightly rearranged songs, minimal crowd interaction and enough downtime between each song that whatever momentum threatening to arise was easily defeated. I wasn't looking to re-live that. But since it's been three years since, and, gosh, their releases in the meantime have been sublime, I figured I had nothing to lose.
As it happened, I showed up just before their encore. A sizable portion of the crowd had left and so I slipped into the mass towards the front just in time for Sam Beam--the embodiment of Iron & Wine--and a female counterpart to reappear on stage, acoustic guitar in hand, and perform a tender "Resurrection Fern". Even the poor guy that puked over the front rail and had to be carried out couldn't kill the mood. A very nice performance, but when I think back on what I witnessed instead of this show, I am happy with my decisions.

8:00 - Back to camp. Dinner time. As had by this time become the norm, I was greeted by other Inforoo campers already lounging under the canopies. I fixed myself a hearty soup and settled down with them. Good time had been had this day, and we all respected the unspoken rule that you do not mention that the weekend is coming to a close.
Most were interested in going to the headliner, Pearl Jam. I was as well, but the show wasn't even scheduled to begin until 10:15. So we hung out, drank some beers and passed around some of the junk food still left over from the Inforoo Brunch. In time, we dispersed to prepare for the late night. While for me that meant packing my backpack appropriately, for others it meant stocking up on glowsticks or decorating one's self with all manner of accouterments. One member of our clan, whose real name no one knew and who we just called "Dude" (a shortening of his Inforoo handle), lamented that he really wanted to wear a dress. Alyssa happened to have a little black number, and after some negotiations it was handed over. Dude looked smashing, and serenaded me with "Private Dancer". It was as good a time as any to get going. We all left as a group, but before we even got to Centeroo we had already lost Dude. Oh well, I'm sure a pasty redheaded stoner in a cocktail dress will be fine wandering around here. We'll see him tomorrow.

10:30 - Pearl Jam. We decided to settle down on the grass near the back of the field. We took turns sitting and relaxing, and standing and watching. I lit another cigar, and annoyed people around us with my smoke. For their part, Vedder and company played some classic hits and even opened them up for a little jamming. And of course Vedder had some words to say about the nation, the war, the election. I prefer someone like Frank Zappa not just because of the difference in music. One of his live albums was titled Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar.
Pearl Jam lived up to their reputation, but when they broke for their encore, our group decided it was time to go secure a good spot for Sigur Rós.

11:15 - Encounters. We moved quickly through the winding path to That Tent. It was simply ludicrous to put this group in a tent; I thought that before, and when I arrived and saw the number of people already waiting--two hours before the show was scheduled to begin--I was convinced. The back half of the tent was sitting, and the front half was standing: an odd sight. I led the way for the remaining three members of our group, and we began to gingerly step over and through the anxious (or sleeping) hipsters. We began to penetrate the standing front half. Slipping between cracks, looking ahead for reasonable spaces. Excuse me, excuse me.
"Oh, come on!"
I turned. Next to me was a taller, somewhat burly guy in a flannel shirt. He faced me, but looked defiantly away from my face.
"Is there a problem?", I asked calmly.
"Nevermind, just go." He slouched and let out a passive-aggressive chortle.
"No, it's alright, man. If you have a problem, I'd like to know." Of course I knew what was bothering him, but I wanted to work it out. I felt like this could go somewhere.
"Do you really think you're going to get that much closer if you get in front of us?", he asked, finally looking me in the eye.
"Maybe a little farther, if there are spaces. Look, we're not trying to get in anyone's way--that's not what I'm here to do. I'm just looking for unoccupied spaces to stand, I'm not trying to bother anyone."
"Yeah, but we've all been waiting here, man! I got here an hour ago, so why should you be allowed to get in front of me if you just showed up?" He shook his head in exasperation.
"Hey, I respect that. You deserve a good spot, but I'm not looking to put you out so I can get a good spot for myself. I'm not one of those guys. I only want to move up when I don't think I'll be bothering anyone."
"Yeah, but... eh, whatever, man. My name's Brad, by the way." He extended his hand. I was happy to take it, and I smiled.
"I'm Steve."
And so we hit it off. We started discussing Sigur Rós and what songs we wanted to hear. We talked about who we had seen so far. Brad introduced me to his friends, and I introduced him to mine. I learned he was from northern Virginia, and we discussed good music clubs in DC. Soon we were all getting along famously, and so my group stayed there and enjoyed the show with them.

Sunday, 1:10am - Sigur Rós. Two hours of delicate, minimalist, ethereal post-rock featuring bowed guitar drones and largo falsetto melodies. The stage was dimly lit by five large, white, incandescent spheres. A string quartet, Amiina, performed for most of the concert, as did an extended brass section. New songs from the since-released new album were performed to an enthusiastic crowd. It was achingly beautiful, and unquestionably a high point of Bonnaroo 2008. But it was so very delicate. This was really driven home by the major sound problems towards the beginning of the show, and by Jónsi's confession, in response to said problems, that they were, "very tired." The Sigur Rós concert was a snowflake in hand, where one is awed by the beauty but frightened of destroying it.
When the show was over I said goodbye to Brad, who had been weeping drunken tears of joy, and to the rest of my group who were dispersing to various late-night attractions. Without any strong proclivity, I decided to take my chance on the acid trip taking place over in This Tent.

3:00 - Ghostland Observatory. I was less interested in this costumed duo's self-consciously quirky take on thumping electro-rock than in their famed visuals. In fact, I was already enjoying them high up in the sky the moment I left That Tent. When I finally approached, I saw a non-stop strobe almost entirely masking the band, dry-ice smoke billowing out the sides of the tent, and just a crap-ton of lasers. Kids were dancing their asses off. Stepping inside, I found perhaps the highest per-capita volume of glowsticks I had ever seen. I moved to the center of the back rail and perched, eye level with the solid bed of glowsticks being waved in the air. It made for a fantastic tableau, so I spent some time capturing it. When a guard told me to get off the rail, I decided it was probably time to get on.

3:20 - Mysterious sightings. Passing near the deserted fountain, I spotted a monster. I was shaped like a beetle but bigger than a car, it was blue with red dots, and it had many horns and a trunk. It moved slowly through the active fountain, its hulking mass pressing between the poles. Was it a demon? A mythical creature? A bunch of people inside a costume propelled by a bike? Take a look at the blurry photo I took and decide for your self.

3:30 - Kanye We-- wait, he hasn't started yet? It was purely out of curiosity, but going to What Stage to see Kanye's "Glow in the Dark" show was a huge mistake. Passing through the walkway between the the main stage area and the rest of Centeroo, I could already sense that. Shouldn't I be hearing him by now? Shouldn't I be seeing light bleeding into the night sky? Instead I heard canned music and a darkened stage, with the two large video screens framing it announcing "Kanye West - 3:45am". Well, that's an hour later than planned, isn't it? There were already tens of thousands lounging loitering, standng in groups, waiting, waiting. Booing could be heard all over the field, like crickets on a hot summer night, and occasional fervid chanting of "Kanye sucks!!" would erupt. Many were just leaving. I decided to as well.

3:40 - Run into Ryan. I noticed that the Lost and Found was still open, and on a whim decided to check there for my lens cap. There I ran into Ryan, an Inforoo moderator, and his female cohort, who were turning in a wallet they had found. We spoke briefly about our nights thus far. I told him how beautiful Sigur Rós was, and he told me about the great set by Phil Lesh & Friends (who had played on Which Stage starting at 12:15). Except that Lesh, who was scheduled to play for four hours, ended his show at 2:45, explaining to the crowd that they were told to stop at that time so Kanye could play without interruption from the second stage. He seemed not too happy about the situation, Ryan explained. I paused, then pointed out that Kanye hadn't even begun yet, and Ryan and his friend were taken aback. So, we collectively deduced, Phil Lesh, a jamband icon and longtime friend of the Bonnaroo festival, was forced off stage 90 minutes early so as not to interfere with the Kanye West show that, an hour later, still had yet to start? This was not looking good at all.
I'll admit to feelings of schadenfreude right now, being ambivalent about Kanye's music and put out by the complications he resulted in the festival. I was looking forward to seeing how this all would turn out for him. Is he a volatile enough musician to just not show up? Will people riot? Could this even be the moment when Bonnaroo jumps the shark? As I said goodbye to Ryan and his friend, I pondered this.

3:55 - A little story. On my way to nowhere in particular, I pulled out my cigar, which I had extinguished and stowed when leaving Pearl Jam. Looking for a light, I approached a young guy standing near a lamppost. He supplied, and I thanked him, but before I walked away he asked, "Have you seen my brother?"
I waited for him to continue, which apparently he didn't initially think he would have to do. But seeing that I perhaps needed more information to go on, added, "he's about this tall (holding his hand up to his head), and he looks like me."
I scanned my eyes across the farmland, across the eighty thousand attendees. "No," I finally said, "I'm afraid I haven't."
"Well, if you see him, will you tell him I'm looking for him?"
"Will do," I replied, and, thanking him again for the light, headed off suppressing a bemused grin.

4:00 - Stop by Arcade Discotèque. Here's a place always worth stopping by. The Arcade Discotèque is an enclosed tent that hosts an impressive arsenal of video games, ranging from your classic 80's arcade monoliths to modern XBox 360 stations equipped with "Rock Band". Nighttime is for the second half of its name, with live DJs spinning and bodies hopping on a glowing, technicolor dance floor.
When I showed up, DJ Motion Potion was working feverishly through mash-ups of modern hits, and the number of dancers attested to his success. Suddenly the music stopped, and Motion Potion got on the mic.
"So, right now, Kanye's over there playing, and you all are here with me. So, I just want you to know that I appreciate all of y'all who decided to get it on here instead." The crowd cheered.
Motion Potion then jumped back into the mix with one of Kanye's hits. As I headed back out the door, I looked up towards the area of What Stage. Still no lights in the sky, still no music to be heard. I just laughed and shook my head. They'll find out the truth in the morning.

4:20 - Chali 2na. The last location with live music for me to visit for the night was The Other Tent, which through the night had played host of an impressive list of hip-hop acts both classic and fresh. Currently throwing down rhymes was Chali 2na, of the now defunct group Jurassic 5. According to the schedule, there would be a very special surprise guest with him, and that guest turned out to be New Orleans jazz-rock quintet Galactic. A pleasant treat, but not all that special or surprising considering Galactic had played every Bonnaroo but one, and last year's performance even featured Chali 2na as a guest. Still, hip-hop with a live backing band is a rare pleasure, and Galactic is among the best of their kind. For his part, Chali 2na was on his game, and his unmistakable basso delivery had the people moving.
As I left, Kanye's presence was at last filling the night sky. I took one last long stroll around Centeroo, taking in the nightlife and thinking of next year, then went to the main stage to watch the biggest car wreck ever.

4:45 - Kanye West. Where to even begin? Yes, he began two hours late. The sun was rising... that particularly made the whole "Glow in the Dark" thing a bit lame. In fact, Kanye's LED stage and set pieces struggled in competition with the rich colors spreading across the farm's vast horizon. The crowd was much lighter than before; clearly many had left for other shows or straight to bed. As for the man himself, he really worked hard. He hopped and pumped all across the stage, but sadly that just emphasized the emptiness and unequivocally proved that he cannot hold his own alone. In between the crushingly loud songs the semblance of a plot jerked ahead as Kanye's female spaceship talked and flirted with him.
It did not take long to decide I would be better off sleeping.

5:00 - Nighty-night. I was finally back in my tent. As I lay my head down and quickly drifted off, Kanye sang me to sleep with a little lullabye called "Golddigger."

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Check back soon for the close of the Bonnaroo recap, Part IV: Sunday and Departure!

[Wednesday] [Thursday]

I have friends, and some of them came with me to this High Zero concert. That's because the Saturday matinee is a unique show among these unique shows. It involves compositions... of course, ones that deal in experimental improvisation. This year's was comprised of two by local auteur Jenny Graf Sheppard. Both were hit and miss.

The first piece was titled "A Performance of Experimental Archeology by the Stone Carving Oraclestra". This involved five so-called "readings" by a quintet of veiled women dressed in white, ululating and moaning. They would culminate in a phrase made ominous by lack of context ("DO IT NOW") and splitting reverb. Then one would hit a rock with another rock, and hand it to the recipient of the reading. Between each reading a small group of High Zero musicians performed.
The performance, in addition to being overlong, suffered from a lack of focus. On one hand it strongly suggested a genuine attempt at divination and matters of the occult, but on the other there were more light-hearted elements that betrayed and muddled the presumed intent of the whole thing. Meanwhile, the vocalizations of the prophetesses were unimpressive in their experimental character. Some were more inventive than others, but unfortunately the main prophetess, who was also the loudest, was content with a small selection of whoops and moans. Also, the performance was riddled with minor but obvious goof, suggesting that the performance was not altogether planned very well. The better moments came during the group's interludes, however their music was not wholly different from the sets heard on any given High Zero evening. In the end, this piece was kind of asinine.

In order to prepare for the second piece, we were given an hour-long intermission. When we left the theater I wheedled my wife and friends into filling out their survey forms that were included with the programs. These get entered into a box, one is drawn at the end of the day's concert, and that person wins two copies of a special tenth-anniversary High Zero DVD. I wanted that DVD.

With lots of time to spare, we headed outside and around the way to an Ethiopian-operated cafe. We headed back with time to spare, and we used it hanging out front of the theatre at one of the High Jinx events called "Toys That Make Noise". Although it essentially consisted of a motorized singing doll (with a haunting resemblance to JonBenét Ramsey), I still wished I had brought a few of my daughter's kookier pseudo-musical toys and join in.

In time the theatre doors were opened, and we all quite literally entered into the second piece, "Threshold for Action and Sound". The need for such a long intermission was immediately clear: we were led through a gateway onto the theatre stage, which had been turned into a dining room by the placing of plastic-board tables, folding chairs and other atmospherics. Several musicians were scattered around the space, being clandestinely conducted by an unidentified man in one corner. We were going to have dinner, and our choices as we ate would determine the what's, who's and how's of the music. Two menus were offered, one vegan and one non-vegan, and they were segregated to stage right and stage left, respectively. As it happened, half our group went vegan and half went non. I went non.
We sat at a table with, as it turned out, several of the weekend's artists who were not performing in this piece. Across from me was Ms. Adorno, as well as others such as Bill Nace and Audrey Chen sat nearby as well. We were encouraged to pick the courses on our menu in any order, although we ended up simply going down the list. We had a bread and cheese course, servings of kimchi, deviled eggs, and finally tiramisu for dessert. I would like to point out that the food was not great, but I'll grant that its quality should be incidental to the success of the musical piece (also considering that this is a free meal at a shoestring performance event, one should not expect culinary excellence). Unfortunately, the music itself also became incidental, as unnoticeable as the humming of the ventilation system while we all ate, drank and were merry. It was a fabulous and unrepeatable experience, excitement and playful inhibition giving way to many shenanigans best left unlisted. The joy was in the time spent there, with like-minded folk. The music was ignored. And so it must also, like Sheppard's first piece, be deemed a failure. But thank you for a lovely time.

The drawing happened immediately after, in the lobby, and wouldn't you know it but one of my friend's name was called (actually, the one who needed the most wheedling). He gave me one copy of the DVD and kept the other. I felt as if I had just pulled of a bank heist.

By the time we were outside, another High Jinx was beginning. Someone read millennia-old Roman poetry, and attendees were encourages to move to the sounds. It was called "Latin Dance". We took the opportunity to bust a move or two.

Finally, it was time to go, and to say goodbye to High Zero for another year. As my wife and I walked back to our car, an audience member strolled ahead of us, intoning through a well-worn tuba. The spirit was in him, and now he was going out into the world, prophesying to all nations. I was comforted by that thought.

[Wednesday] [Saturday Matinee]

Back again, and this time with a good parking spot.

Thursday night at High Zero began with a Special Set from one of the festival's 10th Anniversary Artists. Her name is Olga Adorno, she is 71, she is from Nice, France, and she specializes in "spontaneous performance". That's quite a statement to make— I mean, isn't that what all these artists here do? Isn't that the point of the whole festival?
Turns out that Ms. Adorno, a woman who was pivotal in the 1960's New York beat scene and their notorious "happenings", didn't so much utilize the idea of improvisation (as the musicians did) as embody it. Every new moment in the (albeit onerous) 45-minute performance was palpable as Adorno chose how it would play out. It was ontology, manifested. That's all I can say; to describe the actual elements of her happening would cheapen it, and miss the point.

A non-intermission followed, then Group One began. This performance set the pace for a consistently great evening. The key to this group was an impeccable rapport. Each member was clearly attentive to his or her peers, and moved as a group from one idea to another. At times San Fran trumpeter Liz Alibee and Philly violinist (and member of experimental rock group Normal Love) Carlos Santiago would face off with staccato flourishes. Other times drummer Paul Neidhardt (and fellow UMBC music alum) and guitarist Bill Nace would match para-musical sound for para-musical sound (and as I suspected from the night before, I did indeed miss out on Nace's playing-- by laying the guitar flat on his lap and attacking it with foreign objects like crochet hooks and toothbrushes, and applying feedback liberally, he creates a rich symphony of distinct noises. He also played on Saturday, and in all the combined time that I watched him perform I don't think I ever saw him touch the strings with his bare hands).

Another solo set followed, by Magali Babin. She performed the night before, but to recap: she's from Québec and her instrument is "amplified metal". This appeared to involve pairing up various metal objects-- tinfoil, ball bearings, mixing bowls-- with various types of mics-- contact primarily, but also pickups and more traditional types-- and also various digital processing-- looping, reverb, pitch-bending. An art so focused on the tiniest details of timbre and the slightest changes between them did not work well in a group setting, so a solo set had great prospect. While Babin lacked a serious inventiveness (or perhaps it was more a problem of execution), she still achieved some lush moments. And overall, I should add, a more subdued performance helped the course of the evening move along without exhausting itself.

Group Two followed closely in the footsteps of Group One, with less effective results. Drummer Tony Buck, from Berlin, was solid, implementing all types of gear, orthodox and not, to create sounds from his set, yet he also showed serious chops during passages of more traditional playing. Arrington de Dionyso (leader of the group Old Time Relijun) played bass clarinet with the fervor, and spasticity, of a jazz player. The hitch may have been local artist Audrey Chen. While her cello techniques were interesting, she spent equal time laboring through harsh, histrionic vocals. Her efforts weren't bad, strictly, but when compared to other musicians who specialize in avant-garde voice (Jaap Blonk was a highlight of last year's festival), she appeared uninspired. Still, the group hung together well, and even achieved two separate collective stops, the four-minute-mile of group free improvisation.

Group Three capped off the night, starting later than when the night before ended. This group was unusual in that it appeared to have been more deliberately formed, for it was comprised of five horns and reeds players (John Berndt on alto, Liz Alibee on trumpet, Rose Hammer Burt on baritone, Samuel Burt on Bb and bass clarinets, John Eaton on alto) and one drummer (the wunderkind Chris Corsano). The result inevitably skirted free-jazz terrain, but the players consciously moved beyond the Ornette tradition and kept the music grounded in the avant-garde. The music began with an excited blast from Berndt and everyone followed suit, which was already a refreshing departure from the usual process of timid looks about the stage giving way to hesitant squeaks and blurps. As it happened, Berndt often appeared to be leading the group in a certain direction, but being one of the founders of the festival he knew exactly what was needed (Berndt also founded the emindent Baltimore design firm The Berndt Group. It's always strange to remember that these crazy cats often have straight-laced day jobs). Another unique aspect of this set was the absence electronic sounds-- all the performers worked with acoustic instruments. And I would be foolish not to mention the talents of Corsano, who was simply all over the place. And when the time came, the it all ended perfectly, with the tiniest of reprisals and then silence.

It was past midnight, and I headed home wondering what surprises would come alive at the special Saturday matinee show.

[Thursday] [Saturday Matinee]

This weekend is the tenth anniversary of one of the most exciting and unique musical events in the world, and by that measure that makes it one of the best reasons to live near Baltimore. It is the High Zero Festival of Experimental Improvised Music.

So, here's the rundown. For one extended weekend in September a group of several dozen musicians from near and far assemble to play sets of completely improvised music. The performers, their disciplines and their aesthetics all vary greatly. These concerts take place every night, plus a special matinee show on Saturday. But that's not all; the weekend also includes an opening night event with special performances; several scheduled talks, lectures and master classes by the musicians at local colleges and other organizations; and finally the highly radical and often dangerous High Jinx, which speaks for itself. By the way, the whole thing is produced by the Red Room Collective, who work very hard to prove that Baltimore is among the most vibrant cities in the world for new music.

So that's the gist of it. I wish I had posted all that before hand, so that I could just get right to the recap of the first night. Fortunately, we can get to that presently.................

I arrived late, because I couldn't find my earplugs. These are special, high-end earplugs that are designed to reduce all frequencies relatively evenly, so that the sound quality is not compromised. I usually bring them to concerts (as a piano tuner, protection is critical), and I learned last year that the sounds at High Zero are just as threatening. Anyway, I didn't find them, and I was running late. The low point of the evening was shelling out $11 for parking, because I didn't have the luxury of searching for a spot on the street.

Upstairs in the Theatre Project, all manner of so-called "humans" were mingling. Joy and contentment was in the air. This is where you go to be yourself, but only once a year.

The theatre is small and stubborn, all black with steeply tiered seats. I like to sit in the second row... close, but not too close. You never really know.

The show began, as usual, with a solo set. Tom Boram is half of Baltimore's experimental electronic duo Leprechaun Catering. He is older than he looks, with shaggy black hair and beard (with a pinch of pepper), and he wore a red-and-black ensemble with a tailcoat. His listed instruments were "synthesizer, voice", and neither were played. Boram began with a soft, largo click. He began to tap dance (yes, he was wearing tap shoes). He hopped sprightly around the stage, then crossed in front of his setup, revealing that mics had been planted in the area to catch the taps, transfer them to his ranks of circuit patches where they would be processed with effects. It became a rich melody of acoustic dance and digital glitch. He soon settled down to an upright studio piano, opened to reveal how the strings had been prepared. This also ran through his rig and treated with effects, further exponentially removing the original piano tone. Notes knocked, swooped, yelped. Balloons were taped to the top lid of the piano, and Boram would occasionally grab a pin and attack, bursting several in one swipe.
It was over all too quickly: that's my only complaint. This was the perfect way to begin the festival weekend, with something even veterans could not expect.

Boram's setup was struck, and Group One began without intermission. It was a pretty good performance, but never quite took off. Pedal steel guitarist Susan Alcorn had some unique ideas, but did very little beyond soft textural contributions. Canadian Magali Babin played "amplified metal", but the subtleties were mostly lost among her peers. Rose Hammer Burt was a more traditional free improviser on baritone and soprano saxes, which actually came as a refreshing change of pace. Robert van Heumann, from Amsterdam, was the most interesting performer, but I had philosophical reservations about it. His tools were a laptop, small mixing boards and an adapted joystick. His modus operandi was to take the sounds produced by the other musicians (he must've been patched into the soundboard), process them and replay them. It was always a surprise to hear a quick flurry of sax notes, then a second later hear that same flurry, distorted or echoed or shifted in pitch. It was live, improvised sampling; it was meta-improv. But is that OK? After all, he is simply taking the ideas that the others had already stated and putting it in his own voice. I suppose that's pretty much the same argument against sampling in general, but for some reason it only began to bother me in the moment. I suppose part of the problem was that it reminded me of a bratty kid, repeating what you said back to you in a whiny, mocking voice, his face a scrunched with resentment.

Group Two took the stage after an intermission, and proceeded to drag the evening down further. All three musicians did a respectable job. Guitarist Carson Gerhart indulged in several homemade effects pedals and other instruments. Electronicist Michael Muniak (boyfriend of a friend of a friend), sat in the middle, arrayed with devices that toiled in non-melodic noises. Philly-based trombonist Dan Blacksberg favored extended techniques over simple atonality. The problem seemed to be that the three never really coalesced into a trio, and it felt as if they struggled to find a point to their playing. At one point, Blacksberg accidentally dropped his Harmon mute while manipulating it in the bell, and although he played on as if nothing happened, that unplanned action seemed to shock and invigorate the group. If even for just a bit, an electricity ran through us all. Sometimes circumstances beyond one's control are necessary for development.

A matter of seconds into Group Three's performance, it was clear that they would be the best performance of the night. It was a stellar group, and all local folk. The VIP was M.C. Schmidt, who with his life partner Drew Daniel make up the acclaimed experimental electronic duo (yeah, another one) Matmos. Last year they moved here from LA, and we are pleased as punch that they have assimilated themselves into the local scene, despite already having an international audience. Schmidt was a kitchen sink player. He moved recklessly between vocalizations, goofy synthesizers and live sound effects. He put marbles in his mouth and dribbled them into a steel thermos, and cleverly varied the act to achieve more than one sound. He conducted half of an argument. He pushed things off his table. (This makes sense, since foley recordings and musiqué concrete are Matmos' forté.)
The other two musicians worked hard to keep up; John Eaton was less interested in his alto sax than in the pickup mic inside, and Alessandro Bosetti used his laptop and homemade keyboard to play snippets of foreign language plays and poems (I think). Ideas were going everywhere, like marbles scattering across the floor, which also happened.
During the intermission before the last set, one of the performers, Ric Royer, handed out a sheet titled "You Will Play Too". Here is an excerpt:

It has been said that the audience that connects with 'this kind of music' is an audience that projects themselves into the set... As my contribution to this set, I am not only testing this hypothesis, but the audience to go one step further in their level of engagement: I am asking you to perform.

On the back of the sheet was a list of fifteen instructions, "some more open to interpretation than others." Royer had corresponding numbered placards, and would be holding them up during the performance. I was so down for this.
Also during the intermission, M.C. Schmidt took a seat next to me. I took the opportunity to thank him for his performance, and to also tell him that I am a big fan of Matmos. A personal highlight.

When Group Four took the stage, Royer sat at a table in the middle. Reclining in his chair, his legs crossed, he waited eagerly and with visible mischief for the right moments in which to brandish his numbers. We all did, too. 11, we made kissing sounds. 7, we pounded our hands and feet on anything nearby. 1, we began humming, and slowly crescendoed into a positive din. 5, we whispered. 9, we all switched seats. 13, the instructions were simply "O", and I decided to shout it in various inflections (Oh? Oh. Ooooooo!! Ooooohhhffff.... O, ho ho ho HO!!!)
A friend recently told me that he doesn't enjoy improv concerts, not because he can't tolerate the music, but because he wants so much to join in that he's uncomfortable being just an audience member. This made sense to me, and while I still greatly enjoy attending these concerts, I often felt that tug of creative self-expression, the exhibitionist's drive. For this, the opportunity to participate in the music for Group Four was more than welcome: it was cathartic. All the same, I couldn't help but feel there were some fundamental problems with the act of making the audience into a participating performer. In essence, the two are mutually exclusive. One engages and appreciates music differently when one is creating it and when one is observing its creation. One listens differently, as well. When I became a conduit of sounds, my attention was mainly focused on my job, and I became less aware of the music coming from the performers onstage. Perhaps you've noticed that thus far I haven't even mention who the others were (one was Robert van Heumann again, the other was a guitarist names Bill Nace, of whose intriguing approach I could only barely be aware). So while I enjoyed getting a chance to make some music, it gave me an appreciation for the times when I remain an audience member.

The set, and the night was over all too quickly. I drove home blasting jazz on NPR.

Later that night, as my eyes fluttered behind their lids, I improvised my own reality of how Thursday night would be.