First, the rules:

Let’s Make a Band:
1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

3. http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

You then take the pic and add your band name and the album title to it, then post your pic.

Here are my results:

1. Tilda’s Yellow Shoulder, apparently some kind of bat.
2. “fact, they do so” (”Many people would sooner die than think; in fact, they do so.” — Bertrand Russell)
3. The photo

I think that this band is a 70’s soft rock revival band, a la Midlake or the Bees. That’s my best guess.

I spent way too much time doing this.

Tonight I’m going to see the Silver Apples in concert at the Empty Bottle. This has been a good year for seeing bands that I never should have had the opportunity to see. I’ve already written about Roky Erickson. Now I’m going to get to see someone nearly as important.

The Silver Apples were a duo formed in New York in the late 60’s. They were comprised of Simeon and Danny Taylor. Taylor played the drums. Simeon played…well…he called it the Simeon. It was a sort of keyboard that he built out of surplus military oscillators tuned to various frequencies. Simeon couldn’t read music or play the piano, so he had them hooked up to color-coded telegraph keys and pedals. He made odd ‘boops and bleeps’ as he called them, while Taylor drummed like a robot.

Before we go on, perhaps you should hear what the very first song on their first album sounds like.

Silver Apples, “Oscillations,” mp3

Their first show was at a music festival that the Fugs were also playing at. There were something like 10,000 people there in New York City, ready to listen to some groovy hippie music, and then this band comes on. I can only imagine what people were thinking. I hope at least a few realized that they were hearing an entirely new form of music being played in front of them.

They broke up after recording their third album. They reformed about eight years ago, and then Simeon broke his neck after their bus was run off of the road. Then Danny Taylor passed away.

Somehow Simeon is still playing tonight.

I’m psyched. Their music still sounds like it comes from the future to me.

There are many good and bad things about these systems of tubes we call the internets. The list of bad things goes on and on (Ron Paul, kiddie porn, the fact that companies make you visit their websites to report problems rather than let you talk to someone), but he list of positives would take up many many hours of typing.

One of the things I find most charming about the internet is how it provides equal access for people. Anyone can write a blog and get it read, anyone can accidently upload naked pictures of themselves and get themselves fired from Disney. Anyone can make a video and have it seen by millions of people around the world. OK Go is a great example of that. They make one funny music video, people watched it and liked it, and now they are getting name checked by Common on his new album.

Inevitably someone is going to try and exploit this idea of the Everyman making it big. It happened once with the YouTube videos for lonelygirl15. When it turned out she was fictional, a product of filmmakers trying to parasitically feed off of the cultural zeitgeist, people turned against her and them.

It’s happened again. A singer named Marie Digby has been posting videos of her playing cover songs on her guitar in her living room. The way the story goes is that the videos came out, people began watching them religiously, she got on song on the TV show The Hills, scored a spot on Carson Daly’s show, radio airplay, and finally she got a record deal with Hollywood Records.

A complete lie.

According to an article in the Wall Street Journal, it was all cooked up by Hollywood Records executives. Apparently she was signed with them back in 2005, 18 months before she began appearing on YouTube. Carson Daly and radio DJ’s introduced her music by saying ‘they just sort of found her on the internet,’ which was a complete lie, because she was booked on those shows by Hollywood Records. Her MySpace page claimed she was unsigned (it’s now been updated to say ‘major’ label).

Why does this bother me? Marketing has always tried to hitch on to whatever trend was popular at the moment, and this wasn’t the first time an artist has misrepresented themselves for publicity. I think what gets me about it is not only the fact that she was lying and her company was lying, but others participated in this.

I don’t view Carson Daly as any bedrock of integrity, certainly. But he chose to make a flat out false statement on his show, one that as a producer on his show (and someone who, believe it or not, actually knows a bit about music) absolutely knew to be false. I find that reprehensible, to help further propagate this marketing campaign that that Hollywood Records has started.

Again, I’m aware that this is a pretty small problem in the grand scheme of things, but how would you feel is you found out that something you enjoyed for its intimacy and amateurishness turned out to be nothing more than a product? I’d feel pretty cheated.

Before I sat down to write this, I watched a couple of videos by Marie Digby. Her song choices are pretty lame (Hollywood Records had a plan that she would sing cover songs so people would find them while searching for the real song), but she has a nice voice and she’s very easy on the eyes. Maybe she’ll become a star, who knows?

I won’t be listening.

His music changed after he was released. No longer songs about drugs or love or heartbreak, now all he talked about, all he sang about, was monsters and monster movies. He believed himself to be an alien, and had a statement to that effect notarized. He sank deeper and deeper into madness, and when he was looked up by filmmaker Keven McAlester, his teeth were rotting out of his head and he sat around his cluttered house all day, surrounded by junk, with dozens of radios and tvs all tuned to different noises. McAlester made a great documentary about him, also called You’re Gonna Miss Me, which is worth checking out.

Roky has made a remarkable recovery. His singing voice is still in fine form, and he performed with passion. I did notice that he would watch the lead guitarist, who would give him cues when to do certain things, and when Roky would solo, he would turn his back to the audience. People there didn’t care how he did it, they just went nuts over him (myself included). Roky would only say to the audience, “Thank You!” which he must have said two or three times after each song, but it was a happy, grateful Thank You, the Thank You of a man who is really happy to be there, and really means it. He even said, “We’re having a great time!” but seemed like that was too much for him to say, and quickly darted back away from the mic.

Every song he performed was from his post-asylum career, and so I heard songs like, “Two Headed Dog” and “Bloody Hammer,” but he also sang “Starry Eyes,” which was just about the last non-monster song he ever wrote. I had no expectation that he would perform any 13th Floor Elevators material, but one of the last songs he did was “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” and I have to tell you, it’s one of my favorite songs in the world, and hearing him sing it live, after years of thinking I’d never get to hear it that way (Roky’s recovery is only a couple of years old), it was exciting and emotional and one of those great moments you are sometimes fortunate to experience when you are really passionate about music.

Wow.

I’ve seen Roky Erickson.

If any of you are fortunate enough to have Lollapalooza tickets he’s doing a set there, too, but I’m glad I saw him at the bar.

Prince I get that he plays 4,968 instruments. I understand that he is incredibly prolific, innovative, and is great to dance to. But I hate his tinny drums, his whiny voice, his Casio keyboards and most of all his quote unquote dirty sexy lyrics. And the fact that he insists on spelling “to” with a “2.”

U2* My most hated band, led by my most hated frontman. He must have done something good in a past life to have died and come back as Jesus Christ. Plus, they could have Brian Eno as a producer, and still suck. With Bono’s histronic singing, the Edge’s monotonous guitar work, and their misguided belief that ‘catorce’ follows ‘tres,” I am always surprised how much credit critics and fans give them. And their names? What the fuck is with their pseudonyms? Is Bono a Sonny and Cher fan? Is the Edge supposed to be tough?

The Police*Speaking of pseudonyms, should we be frightened of Sting? Is that supposed to be a scaaaaary name?

Guns’n'Roses I’ve never really been into any of that hair metal crap (although with all honesty, I did have a Def Lepard period in junior high), and most of my peers that listen it now do so ironically, barring those people in New Jersey or Peoria. But G’N'R is that one band that everyone seemed to think rode above the pack, and was worthy of artistic praise as well. Yawn. I actually prefer Velvet Revolver, mostly because I don’t hate Scott Weiland’s voice like I do the caterwauling of Axl Rose (another pseudonym…I’m seeing a pattern here that never occurred to me before).

The Eagles I’ve rarely had more sympathy for a movie character as I had for the Dude in The Big Lebowski when he leaves the Malibu police station after being beaten by the sheriff, only to be stuck in a cab playing the Eagles. Ugh. Music for people who are afraid that they might be challenged.

Since I was here, writing about how I was missing the first couple of acts, I missed the first couple of acts. I missed Ken Vandermark, which was okay. Not because I didn’t want to see him, but because he lives in Chicago, performs regularly, the fact that I’ve seen him before, and that he will be performing again today as well. I also missed a bad called the Twilight Sad, but since I’ve heard they are kind of a downer, perhaps it was best that I didn’t start my day on a melancholy note.

A Slow Start

I caught a few minutes of Voxtrot, yet another American band that imitates Brit pop. I never understood why so many American (male, always male) singers affect a British accent when singing, and why nobody calls them on it.

Next up was Grizzly Bear. A friend of mine insisted that I go and see them, and I enjoyed the show, even if it wasn’t the most high energy show. Recordings of them had led me to expect a two-dimensional Beach Boys rip-off, but they showed that they took more than the idea of lush orchestration to create a sort of wistful, fragile art pop. Worth checking out, I think, although a little too low key for the festival.

Battles Tear It Up

Low key was not the case of the next group I saw. I have heard one song from Battles before, but it didn’t give me any indication of what I was going to see that day. Battles is a four piece weirdo disco/punk/prog/rock group. I’m not sure how to explain them other than that. Everyone but the drummer played keyboards as well as their other instruments, the sparse vocals were treated to sound kind of like the Chipmunks on acid, and one minute you’d be dancing, the other shaking your head, wondering what the hell they were doing. Battles will probably be my find of the festival (unless someone blows my mind today).

After Battles had blown my mind, I sort of wandered around for a bit. Being broke, I merely window shopped at the WLUW record fair, and avoided the printmaking area all together. My budget allows for food and a couple of beers a day, no more.

Not a Rip-Off

One of the many good things about the Pitchfork festival is the fact that water only costs $1 a bottle. That’s cheaper than in some convenience stores. The people that run the festival know a few things well. First, it’s not good if your fans are passing out from heatstroke because they can’t afford to pay $4 for a bottle of water. Second, too much corporate presence (a necessary evil that is required when putting on something as big as this) will kill the vibe. All advertising has been kept to a minimum, and you won’t really see ads anywhere near the stages, which like at Bonnaroo are not corporately named. Third, keeping the ticket proces low guarantees maximum attendance and attitude. No one can accuse you of selling out when the prices are $50 for all three days.

Fourth, and most importantly, the only beer sold is Goose Island, a Chicago brewing company. Beer is only $4, which is about what you’d pay in a bar. Hell, a six pack of their IPA can run as much as $10 in a store, so I consider that a deal.

There was a little tent set up from Whole Foods, selling reasonably healthy snacks, with all of the proceeds being donated to the Lill Street Art Center (so money well spent there). I ended up having veggie sushi, a banana, and a box of cherries for my dinner, which is the best meal I’ve ever eaten at a music festival. Iron & Wine were performing a the closest stage, but they were making me sleepy, so I just stayed put and chilled out.

Your Ass: Mastodon Kicks It, Clipse Makes You Shake It

Across the way, I heard Mastodon begin. That’s not due to my acute hearing (which after years of rock music isn’t so acute anymore). Everyone heard Mastodon, because they are fucking loud. I’m not sure why Pitchfork invited a metal band, but they provided a nice, high energy contrast to the either sleepy or very intent members of a few bands I won’t mock here. I kept my distance (and saved my hearing, I’m sure) and watched them from a distance. Not really my kind of music, but Mastodon will always have a place in my heart, because they provided the music for the opening of Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theaters.

After that, the Clipse. They were one of my top groups to see at the festival, and they didn’t disappoint. While I found the GZA show the night before to be unfocused, low energy and disorganized, the Clipse came bounding out on to stage full of energy, putting on one of the best shows of the day. I don’t know if it was because they had an audience of thousands watching them, or if they found it amusing that the audience of thousands were primarily white (considering that they often refer to whites as crackers in their songs), but the Clipse had smiles on their faces, talked with the audience, boasted about having the album of the year (a sentiment I agree with), worked the crowd into a frenzy, and left everyone wanting more. Now that’s what a hip hop show is supposed to be like.

I haven’t heard any of Dan Deacon’s music yet, but I was told he puts on a good show, so I headed over there for that. Unfortunately, he put on such a good show that the cops shut it down almost immediately, due to overcrowding. The same happened to Girl Talk, who I’ve now missed seeing twice this summer. Perhaps they need a larger third stage than the tent in the alley, especially if they are inviting guests of this caliber to it.

I caught a little bit of Cat Power. Chan Marshall looked like she was high on something. Half the time she was wandering around the stage aimlessly, singing to the band or hiding in the wings, other times she was walking out to confront the audience. She was in great voice, but I found her performance to be a little unsettling.

And finally, Yoko Ono.

Yoko Ono

I’ve heard great things about her. I’ve read great things about her. But what I’ve heard I just didn’t understand. Her show didn’t start off promisingly, with a video that went on and on about an art piece she was doing, involving flashing lights and universal love. The video must have lasted ten minutes, and left the audience restless and bored.

She came out and started chatting. A lot of talking between songs for Yoko. When the band finally kicked in, they were a lot louder than I expected. It must have been the loudest rock band in history fronted by a 74 year old woman. I was going to type that Ono sang, but that’s not really the word for it. She more vocalized in a strange, quavering vibrato along to the music, and it was just plain weird. I just didn’t get it. I sat there listening for the first couple of songs trying to understand what I was hearing.

Then I got it.

It was like the clouds had moved away from the sun. If you’ve ever heard what Ono sounds like in front of a band, you’ve probably been wondering what she was doing. That’s because you, like I was, were thinking of her as a singer. Don’t. Once you accept the idea that her voice is an instrument, it makes sense. Think of her voice like Thurston Moore’s guitar. It’s an instrument soloing over the backup. Really. I’m not making this up.

As if to prove the point, Thurston Moore himself came out and performed a few songs with her, and they were perfectly matched. Her music went from weird and unpleasant to profound in just a few minutes of watching here, and I count myself lucky to have seen her live.

I’m getting ready to head out to Day Three.

I’ll keep you posted.

It’s time for y’all to bust out your tight jeans and ironic t-shirts, because the Pitchfork Music Festival is in town. It lasts from yesterday (Friday) to Sunday, and features a lot of bands that none of us have heard of, and a few we have. Last night the festival was opened by a reunited Slint (pictured above) plaing their seminal album Spiderland in its entirety. They were followed by the GZA performing all of Liquid Swords and Sonic Youth performing Daydream Nation. Sataurday and Sunday feature more traditional sets from Clipse, Cat Power, Of Montreal, Steven Malkmus (the prototype for the majority of the male fans there), the Klaxons, De La Soul, and in an odd (but appropriate) choice, tonight’s headliner: Yoko Ono. Yes, Yoko Ono. I have it on good authority that she will have a number of guests on stage with her, and will be backed up by Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore and Chan Marshall of Cat Power. We’ll see.

I have to get running now. I’ve already missed Ken Vandermark, the Twilight Sad and Califon, but I might be able to catch some of Voxtrot’s set before heading over to Grizzly Bear (don’t worry, I barely know who they are either). I’ll keep you posted on the event.

Follow me, because I’m going to lead you on a little guided tour of Bonnaroo 2007.

After some confusion with driving down in a caravan or not, we decided just to drive down and meet our friends on Thursday morning outside of Nashville. We were supposed to be a caravan of four cars, and the plan was to all drive into Bonnaroo together to ensure a big campsite (they allow groups to park together, and as your campsite size is determined by the number of cars you have, well, the more the merrier).

We left Chicago at about 8:30 or so, and arrived 533 miles later in Nashville at 5:30 in the AM, after a few pit stops. We crashed at Melissa’s hotel room for a couple of hours, and then headed on to Bonnaroo.

Last year Eric and I made it to the Bonnaroo entrance at 11 am, waited about an hour in line, and then got one of the best camping spots available, so we figured that it would be a good idea to arrive at the same time this year. It…uh…didn’t work out as well.

What looks like traffic was actually cars lined up for miles and miles. It took us at least three hours to get in, waiting in line. We left Nashville with over a third of a tank of gas to drive 45 miles, and when we finally rolled into the campsite, the needle was almost on the peg, and the gas light was reminding me that I was probably in trouble for getting out of the area.

Along the path, some locals had ways to make money, from selling cigarettes to showers to trips to Walmart.

It was hot. I knew it was hot, and I had just read the night before that Manchester was experiencing a drought, and so I knew it would be dry, but the dust was truly something else. It felt like I was in a hippie version of Dune or something.

Our campsite? How far away was it from the activity area (Centeroo)?

Remember, the whole area is something like 700 acres. That’s big. It was a hike, to say the least.

We set up our campsite (which ended up with seven cars), and got to it.

There was a lot of music there. I personally saw The Flaming Lips, The White Stripes, Regina Spektor, Lily Allen, DJ Shadow, El-P, The Police, Widespread Panic, Ben Harper, Franz Ferdinand, Ornette Coleman, The Decemberists, the Roots, Galactic, Gillian Welch, Sasha and Digweed, Feist, Gogol Bordello, Brazilian Girls, Rodrigo y Gabriella, Tortoise, and more.

Some highlights and lowlights.

Fuck Tha Police

I hate the Police. More to the point, I hate Sting. I have no opinion about Andy Summers (other than he’s an adequate guitar player), and Stewart Copeland is okay (I now understand why people keep telling me that he’s a great drummer…’cause he is). But I hate Sting’s smug sanctimonious attitude. He’s a lot like Bono, giving off the impression that he’s doing you a favor by allowing mere mortals into his presence. Ugh. I hate him. The only thing I’ve ever enjoyed watching him do was being beheaded in Dune.

So apparently either no one told Sting, or he ignored them, or he never bothered to find out who these 80,000 people that were attending the show (surely the largest crowd he’ll have in North America, right?) actually were. He kept referring to everyone as native Tennessee residents, when very few were. Some people came from great distances to see him perform, and the least he could have known was that not everyone lived there.

The band jammed out on every song, and their fans (about 79,999 people, plus me) danced and sang along, but apparently not to Sting’s satisfaction. His idea of jamming was to keep repeating “EEE-OOO! EEE-OOO!” and make the audience repeat it along with him over and over again.

And then they ended their show 45 minutes early. I don’t understand what kind of arrogance would allow you to headline one of the largest music festivals in the world, not know or care where you were, and end your set almost an hour short. Someone who worked for the festival remarked that the Police were aloft in their helicopter before the lights had even gone down.

I went into that show with an open attitude. People whose opinion I know and respect have told me repeatedly what a great group the Police are, and I was willing to give them a chance.

I was unimpressed (except for Stewart Copeland’s drumming, which really was very good).

God Bless the Flaming Lips

And now we have Exhibit B, the Flaming Lips.

Contrary to the Police, the fLips tried to start their set an hour early, so excited were they to perform. After the Police had finished up super early, and I was waiting for an unnamed friend to mellow out from his acid trip enough to head over when I heard what I thought was a PA playing ‘War Pigs’ by Black Sabbath. Apparently the fLips just were really amped up to go on and just started playing, but were forced by Bonnaroo to tell the fans it was only a sound check. And then they had to wait to officially start their show. And when they did…Jeeezus!

There was a giant UFO that landed on stage, and Wayne Coyne came out in his giant hamster ball. Giant balloons bounced around the audience, there were dancing girls in costume on stage, crazy images on the video screen behind the band, a confetti cannon that Coyne repeatedly shot out over the audience, laser pointers that were handed out by the band (Coyne referred to them as ‘cat toys,’ asked audience members not to shine them at each other ["people might freak out"] or at them band, but shining them at him was okay). The laser pointers were especially funny for a few reasons. One, they are banned at Bonnaroo, and the fLips gave out what must have been a thousand of them. Second, they were given out for a particular planned moment in the show, when Coyne held up a mirror and had everyone shine the pointers at it. It created a thousand rays of light through the dust and smoke, and was beautiful. Third, they figured in an unplanned moment in the show, when Coyne inflated yet another giant balloon to send out over the audience and everyone shined their pointers at it. It looked like it was filled with a thousand red fireflies. Even Coyne remarked, “That’s really cool!”

He talked to the audience. He thanked everyone for being there, for participating, for being alive. You could tell that he really was happy to be there, and wanted everyone to have a great time. He started sing-a-longs that for once didn’t seem obligatory. They played two encores.

And then they got back in their UFO and flew away.

That’s a fucking show.

Other Stuff

-Ornette Coleman performed. If you don’t know who he is, well, follow the link. In short, he is one of the towering legends of jazz, the creator of free jazz, and at 77 still an energetic performer. I stayed for the first 45 minutes of his show, then left to check out the White Stripes. Apparently just moments after I left, he collapsed from heat stroke. It’s understandable. He’s 77, and performed in a suit on a 90 degree day. He was rushed to the hospital, and is said to be doing fine.

-Perhaps as a rebuttal to the Police, or maybe just because they don’t want to stop playing, Widespread Panic performed an over three and a half hour set to close the festival. My brother in law is a huge fan of them, and was excited for me to finally see them in concert. I was struck by a few things about them. First is that I always imagined the lead singer to be a big bearded mountain man looking type, just by the sound of his voice, and amusingly enough, I was right.

The band is a lot older than I thought they’d be, some of them having grey hair and all. I always pictured them as being in their 30’s, but nope. They’re also the homeliest band since Blues Traveler (the bassist looks like he should have been in Tad). But they put on a great show, proving that not all jam bands need to sound like Phish or Grateful Dead clones.

But at about two hours into the set, I was falling asleep. It wasn’t the band’s fault, because their show was vibrant and inventive. It was just four days of no sleep catching up with me. So, I excused myself at what I thought was one of their last songs and began to make the long, long trek back to the campsite. Well, it wasn’t their last song by a longshot. They played for almost another two hours. In fact, I made it all the way back to camp, stopping for snacks on the way, sat around with my friends for a little while, and went to bed, and Panic was still playing. Kudos to them.

-I only caught a little of the Brazilian Girls show, but I was there just in time to hear a song called, “Pussy, Pussy, Pussy, Marijuana,” which went over well with that crowd.

-Oh, and the most exciting part. I met Jim Jarmusch! He was giving a talk about his work on Sunday afternoon. I overheard someone mention that he was going to be at the cinema tent, and I thought, ‘Yeah, right. He’s the quintessential New Yorker. Like he’s really going to come to the biggest gathering of hippies in the country.’ Besides the fact that you’d think they would have advertised his being there.

Well, uh…he was there. Bill Plympton and D.A. Pennebaker were there too, on different days. I expected Jarmusch to be cynical and aloof, judging by the interviews I’ve seen with him, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Although he didn’t have a problem mocking the Police for their crappy set or Michael Bay for his crass movies, he couldn’t have been more friendly and open. He answered questions from the audience with good humor and patience (especially from the audience members who were high on a variety of drugs, which was most of them). He gave away prizes to audience members, told stories and jokes (a good story he told: One morning on the set of Broken Flowers Bill Murray just walked out of the house they were filming in, located in a suburb of NYC, and into a neighbor’s house, entering without even knocking or anything. Jarmusch and the crew watched him in shock, asking, ‘Did Bill just walk into a stranger’s house?’ He returned in about half an hour bearing a plate of cookies. Apparently he just walked into their house while they were eating breakfast. The family looked up, and Bill Murray was in their kitchen. They asked him, ‘Aren’t you Bill Murray?’ and he said he was. They made him breakfast, and then gave him cookies to take back to the set.)

Jarmusch even went over his time limit, messing up the cinema tent’s scheduled showings of his films. He was having a great time, it seemed. I had gotten there 90 minutes early to see him, as he is one of the major, major influences on my work. I wouldn’t had even bothered him had he not just stood there answering questions and signing autographs. So I went up there, intending on just shaking his hand and thanking him for his contribution to my life, when I realized he would probably take a picture with me (he was with other people). I got my camera out, and it died. I started panicking, and realized that I had brought more batteries with me. I managed to get the package out of my bag, but it was one of the kinds that you need scissors to open. I didn’t have any. I didn’t even have keys. Freaking out, I started asking around, and no one had anything sharp on them either. But I managed eventually to get the damn package open, get the batteries out, get the camera ready, and then Jarmusch was told that he had to leave the stage. But he stayed for a moment longer, was friendly to me, and posed for a picture.

I was so awestruck and nervous that my hands were shaking. I don’t get like this around celebrities at all (I’ve waited on a bunch, seen a bunch more, and I usually leave them alone), but this was like meeting Orson Welles for me. Here’s the picture.

I had a great time at the festival, but it would have been worth it just for that moment.

Leaving

Remember the empty gas tank? It was on my mind the entire time we were there. There was no way we were going to be able to wait to leave like we waited to get in with that much gas. But it turns out that there was a silver lining to camping a thousand miles away. Turns out out campsite was all the way by the entrance, and we could sneak out through a field in the back and skip almost all of the traffic. Well, not all of it. It still took us maybe 45 minutes to get to a main road. We had the computer in the van telling us how much further we could go on what little gas we had left, and I watched it go from 21 miles down to 7. We sat there idling in line, and I was waiting for the moment when the engine would just sputter and stop, and I would be forced to walk the five miles to a gas station.

But we just made it. When we finally made it to a gas station, we only had half a gallon left in the tank, which is essentially fumes. You can’t imagine my sense of relief.

We gave a lift to a guy that hitched a ride down to Bonnaroo with Melissa back to the Nashville airport, and then headed home. We saw a few odd things on the way.

A tank being towed, oddly not by the military. Who owns a tank?

Three giant concrete tubes being transported. From this angle, they resembled the Bonnaroo logo (or so we thought).

And finally, what I look for every time I go on a road trip, a Chizek truck. It’s not my family (the spelling is a little different), but it’s always funny to see these on the road, and imagine that I’m the heir to a shipping fortune.

—
For more pictures of the festival, go to my Flickr page.

It’s hot here. It’s very, very hot. Heat index into the mid ninties. The kind of heat you don’t want to even drink beer in, just sip on the warm water in your Camelbak (if you’re lucky) and hide in the shade made by one of the three trees in the concert area.

I saw the Police last night. My brother in law turned to me mid concert, noticing that, while I was watching, I was doing so with my arms folded.

“Isn’t Sting like the number two most hated person on your list?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. I mean, he’s not Bono, but on the pompous-ass-o-meter, Sting scores a near perfect 9.8. And the Police? Well, they sounded fine to me, I guess, but I wasn’t converted at all. And they ended their set 45 minutes early, the babies.

But then I went and saw the Flaming Lips, and they were everything they were supposed to be. While the Police jammed their songs out to annoying lengths, the fLips brought a spaceship and giant balloons.

I’m going to see Jim Jarmusch speak in a little bit. It wasn’t advertised, so it was a nice treat to find out that he’s here.

It’s hot. I can’t wait to take a shower and relax.

But, on to the show!