Steve's Blog

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!