By Sunday attendance had dropped as people had left early and those that were still there were mostly zombies. Bonnaroo had taken any kind of energy we had, and we were ready to be on our way back to where we came from.
I started my day with The Head and The Heart. The folk-rock group has garnered huge popularity over the past few months and I recently (admittedly late) bought their album. They’re not particularly special as far as their sound, but they represent what a mishmash of people can do when gently pushed in a particular direction. They’re relatable and humble and talented, and I’m curious to see how they grow.
I left The Head and The Heart in a pretty good mood, only to have that increase immensely upon hearing Mavis Staples. Regardless of your religious affiliation or feelings towards religion, it does not matter. Mavis Staples is a legend. “Now, ya’ll, it’s Sunday, and this is about as close to church as you’re gonna get.” It was true. Between her gospel songs she would express thanks for all of our “sweet spirits” coming out to see her. Not once did she refer to us as people, always spirits. For that hour she was everyone’s grandmother, our Southern, religious grandmother who told the best stories and wouldn’t tolerate us not participating. We did anything she asked, she had that command and presence on stage.
I had a gap in my schedule and went back to my campsite finish packing and to move my car closer to the exit. I found an umbrella among my things and that made all the difference the rest of the day, I wish I had found it earlier in the weekend.
I caught a glimpse of Junip. I don’t know if it was the heat, or how far away I was, or perhaps technical difficulties, but I had a difficult time hearing them and ate lunch instead.
I was tempted to go ahead and leave, but was determined to see The Strokes. I didn’t want to end on a mediocre note. So I watched the Cold War Kids’ set. It started slow, really slow. It took them about forty-five minutes to get things rolling, but by that time the crowd had grown and Cold War Kids had picked up the pace. It was clear their first album was the favorite among their fans.
The Strokes were fifteen minutes late. The audience seemed to have mixed feelings about waiting so long in addition to the time they had already spent scrounging for standing room. When The Strokes did take the stage, Julian Casablancas told us how great Beirut was—he was late because he had been watching Beirut’s set. Having seen Beirut myself, I understand, and there seemed to be a common approval of his choice. “They always give you a hard decision like that at these things, thanks for coming to see us,” he said, though it seemed that he wished he was still there himself, he reiterated this throughout their set. However, it didn’t detract from how fun they were. They didn’t waste time, they hurled one single at us after another and were done, fifteen minutes early. Short and sweet, but certainly not disappointing.
As with everyone else, I was in a hurry to leave. I had made plans to visit my sister and leave some things with her in Asheville. I arrived much later than I had anticipated—getting lost and then stuck on interstate 74 will do that to you. I finally arrived around 3:30 am and took a shower. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a shower more, or been so disgusted by my own filth.
She and I got breakfast downtown before I had to leave to return my rental car and catch my ride back to Richmond in Knoxville. That drive was much smoother, as was the ride back to Richmond, though tight it certainly was.
I slept well that night, still in awe of how fortunate I was to meet and know such generous people that all contributed to getting me home, and how lucky I was to make it to Bonnaroo at all.
