Why Bonnaroo could never, ever happen in Boston
Commentary
When I went to Boston Calling, I hopped on the T from work and took the Red Line to Park Street. I followed the sound of music to the open plaza where Boston Calling was just getting underway. At the end of each night, I took the T home to my apartment where I cooked a late dinner, showered, watched some Netflix, and slept in my bed.
None of these comforts existed in Manchester, Tennessee this past weekend. (Well, showers did, but they emitted a trickle of water that smelled as though it had been sourced from a long-abandoned, egg-boiling plant on the equator.)
In a couple of very small ways, Bonnaroo is a bigger Boston Calling: similar artists, sponsors, and people looking to have a good time. So why pay so much more money for tickets to travel down there and to be hot, dehydrated, and overtired? Because beyond those baseline similarities, there’s a world of difference between the two festivals. And something like Bonnaroo could never happen here.
On the complete flipside to Boston Calling, I drove 17 hours total to get from Boston to Manchester, stopping along the way to pick up my fellow festival-goer, Deirdre, in New York.
We got very, very lost as we approached the campgrounds and ended up in the backwoods. There were rolling fields and hay bales, and even though we were losing precious daylight, we slowed down to appreciate the view.
When we finally arrived, we finagled a parking spot and tiny place to set up camp, wedged between two trees.
As we hurried to the venue, Deirdre commented on a passing group’s blinking neon bracelets. They greeted us with “Happy Bonnaroo!’’— and one of the girls pulled a band off her wrist and gave it to Deirdre. We walked into the festival with them, where they gave us the lay of the very, very large land.
And that’s the first time that I really knew I wasn’t in Boston anymore: People were so, so nice.
Obviously, Bostonians are great. But, on a day-to-day level, we’re not all that friendly.
In Tennessee, though…it’s a different world. Throughout the weekend people smiled at me. Not in that awkward “cover your teeth with your lips in kind of a smile but more of a grimace.’’ I mean actual, beaming smiles. Strangers shouted “Happy Bonnaroo!’’— and conversations began out of nothing.
As someone who sometimes avoids coworkers on the T, this was a befuddling phenomenon.
On Friday, I woke up in a groggy sweat, wondering why I thought it was a good idea to sleep in a latex oven on earth riddled with tree roots and divots. Here, the perks of Boston Calling seemed tempting. The ability to jet home and rest up for another day of sun would have been nice.
But in removing yourself from the festival, you lose something: The feeling that we’re all in this together. As you wait in line for the port-a-potties and catch the eyes of your fellow campers, you’re both thinking the same thing: “I can’t believe I paid to go through this.’’
Once you’ve parked and set up camp, you’re in it for the haul. And you need that time to get familiar with the grounds. As soon as we walked into “Centeroo’’ on Thursday, I realized that the previous night, in the dark, had given me no context for just how big the festival was.
Most of it was just wide-open field with bodies sprawled on the ground — whether they were sleeping or passed out is unclear. The campsite was a city of tents packed together for what looked like miles. The flat landscape was broken by a ferris wheel, a fountain, and alleys of vendors. We got iced coffees at a barn that I couldn’t find again for the rest of the weekend.
The luxury of being able to stand in the same place all day does not exist at Bonnaroo. Whereas Calling has two adjacent stages and no overlapping artists, Bonnaroo has 8 stages and presents you with the dilemma of whether you want to see Hozier or Bleachers.
And this revealed in me another uptight Northerner quality. My instinct was to run between acts. To look at a schedule and say, “LOOK AT ALL THE AWESOME! I MUST HAVE IT!’’ Instead I reigned it in and pretended to be as chill as my fellow music lovers, ambling from stage to stage.
I like to think that at least part of other’s chill came about through elicit substances, and that I’m not a totally neurotic Bostonian. Because there were a lot of people who were in some…altered states of mind.
It is, in short, a hot mess. I saw a man in an inflatable blue bodysuit a-la Violet Beauregard in her blueberry phase, and plenty of women with no top except a concentration of glitter. Boston Calling has its share of questionable attire, but the craziest thing I saw there was a man with a mohawk made of dreadlocks. The craziest thing I saw at Bonnaroo was probably a staff with a mannequin head on top.
Everyone is sweaty, grimy, and exhausted. No one is planning on getting up to run errands tomorrow, and that makes a huge difference.
As I left on Sunday, I realized that I hadn’t seen a building in four days. I hadn’t touched brick, or concrete. I hadn’t eaten food that wasn’t the same temperature as the 90 degree weather (who doesn’t love melted peanut butter and hot clementines?). I’m sure this is a lot of people’s personal hell, but it was great.
Was I glad to be back in my own bed last night, after four nights of camping and 34 hours of driving? You bet. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
Related Gallery: Behind the scenes at Boston Calling
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