Dispatch from Bonnaroo: Calling (out) the Police

[Maybe the heat and humidity are getting to Buzz Bands man-on-the-scene Jeff Weiss -- he seems to be loving all that is Bonnaroo:]

Hey, Bronson, here we go again ...

4:15 p.m.

By Day 3, a twisted calculus begins to emerge out of the madness that is Bonnaroo. A weariness like you’ve never experienced begins to set in. Shooting pains stab your knee with each step. And you start to empathize with the hippies collapsed (or maybe just lying down) in the ocean of dirt. But out of these tired tribulations, a strange sense of order begins to make itself known; astonishingly you start to fit in. You realize that a bandanna is eminently necessary to cover your face from billions of dirt particles. You start to understand the almost incomprehensible vastness of the concert, its labyrinth of tent cities, vendors and drug dealers scouring the streets like "Blade Runner" gone hippie. You start to consider the possibility that Bonnaroo might be the strangest places you’ve ever been and also one of the best.

Of course, booking bands like the Hold Steady make such conclusions seem logical. After all, few bands seem more appropriate to play Bonnaroo, considering the Hold Steady’s pre-eminent status as America’s best Saturday night band, with Craig Finn’s erudite but unflinchingly honest lyrics heavily bent on illustrating the confusion of being a teenager just trying to get drunk and high. Considering half of this festival is confused teenagers trying to get drunk or high, the kids could relate.

Running through a 1-hour 15-minute heavy on material from last year’s brilliant "Boys and Girls in America" and 2005’s "Separation Sunday," Finn & Co. turned in a typical Hold Steady show: full of bone-crunching drum hits, shouted rapped vocals, blistering guitar solos, and the occasional declaration that “the Yankees suck.” It felt like what rock 'n' roll was meant to be. And when the set ended, the crowd erupted into some of the loudest applause of the weekend to the delight of Finn, who couldn’t stop thanking everyone for their support. To cap it all off, the band’s bassist started tossing cigs into the crowd of adoring fans, took a slug of Jim Beam and walked off-stage with the crowd still losing their minds.

5:45 p.m.

Ween are not a jam band. Not even close.

However, thanks to their prodigious knack for improvisation and powerful guitar solos, they’ve certainly have fooled the jam nation into adopting them as one of their own. Indeed, there’s nothing more hilarious than watching a bunch of 16-year old girls in dreads dancing frenetically, mouthing the chorus to “Baby Bitch,” seemingly unaware of the sarcasm dripping from Ween’s gonzo lyrics. But like Hot Chip, Ween’s songs retains a core emotion and genius to them, making their tunes more than just wry, snide jabs at life. A four-piece on stage, with a drummer and a keyboardist, Dean and Gene Ween showcased their uncanny ability create songs of the most disparate genres and somehow make them their own. From the reggae pop of “Voodoo Lady” to the huge guitar workouts of “Spinal Meningitis” Ween are master impressionists capable of taking the sum of their influences and transcending them. At times in their sprawling set, the band lost a bit of focus, indulging their weirdness side to its most extreme levels, but each time you’d be ready to take off they’d suck you back in with a awe-inspiring guitar lick aptly illustrating why the hippies have adopted them as one of their own.

6:30 p.m.

I only caught the last 30 minutes of Spoon’s set, but once again Britt Daniel proved why he’s indie rock’s most consistent songwriter. Their stage show might not reach the realm of the transcendent like the other top acts in indie rock, but its not far from it, thanks to the fact that since 1998’s "Series of Sneaks," it’s near impossible to find a bad Spoon song. Obviously not heeding the sweltering late afternoon heat, Daniel wore a black shirt and skin-tight purple pants, and spit vocals with a rock star’s swagger. The crowd roared the loudest for the band’s poppiest track, the nearly saccharine “Way We Get By” (ah, what placement on The O.C. used to get you) and even the usually stoic Daniel had to break out into a smile.

7:30 p.m.

Aren’t Franz Ferdinand supposed to be over? I mean, it’s 2007 and that whole “angular” guitar thing is so so 2004. Apparently, someone forgot to tell Alex Kapronos & Co., who in their first U.S. appearance in a long while delivered one of Day 3’s most memorable set. Possessing the magnetic charisma of his fellow Scot, Stuart Murdoch, Franz frontman Kapronos, had the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand and even Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips came out to the side of the stage to watch in awe at the Glasgow-based four piece. For a band that sold a million copies of their debut, Franz retain a certain eagerness to win over the crowd that few bands of their ilk have. Songs like “This Fire” turned the crowd into a frenzied mob and with their guitar pyrotechnics, Franz displayed a beefier richer sound that belied their pop heart. Out of the entire school of bands that descended from Gang of Four/Wire etc. a few years back, Franz are clearly the best. Label them an MTV pop band at your own risk. These guys are one of the top bands in the world, versatile enough to win the approval of both the TRL set and the jam-band kids.

10:30 p.m.

Am I too young or something? Was their a period when fusing white-boy reggae with sanitized punk riffs was considered visionary? Because honestly, I can’t see myself having liked the Police when they were actually in their prime, let alone on this tawdry excuse for a reunion tour (does Sting need more money for his tantra classes?). If the operative cliché is mailing it in, the Police barely sealed the envelope and applied a stamp. Sonorously running through a greatest hits list, the band could’ve cared less to be at Bonnaroo. At one point, Sting asked the crowd if “we were in Nashville.” At another he chided them for not being loud enough and admitted to being “disappointed.” Then again, this is Dead territory, a place where bands play for the love of the game (and presumably, the hefty appearance fee). In a weekend, where you had to fight to get bands off the stage, the Police couldn’t wait to leave, only playing for an hour and 15 minutes (despite being allotted 2 1/2 hours). An encore? Forget about it. Sting was probably already back in his room, sipping a glass of Chardonnay, mumbling epithets about the “bloody hippies.”

No time to waste. It’s time for Bob Weir and Ratdog now.

Indeed,
Jeff

Photo of Sting performing at Bonnaroo by Jeff Gentner / Getty Images.

Comments

[MARC]

THE POLICE WHERE GREAT AT DODGER STADIUM. THEY PLAYED FOR A LITTLE MORE THAN 2 HOUR'S. GREAT GOING POLCE.