A Rothbury Recap - Part IV: Day 3

Having driven 804 miles across the country to a Ranch in northwest Michigan, I found myself completely separated from my ordinary routine. Yet on Saturday morning, I was transported back to my living room couch in Jersey City, New Jersey. I would have never imagined that Day 3 of Rothbury would find me propped in front of a TV, intently playing Guitar Hero. But that's just how Saturday began for me - at the Guitar Hero main stage with a crowd of about 20 others, awaiting my turn for a shot at winning some Guitar Hero: Aerosmith beer cozies and wristbands. We didn't have to wait long, as just a few minutes after arriving in front of the giant Guitar Hero RV I got my chance to play the Black Crowes' "Hard to Handle" against some stiff competition. Following a magnificent performance in which I won, of course, (otherwise I wouldn't be writing about it) and given our utter exhaustion following Friday's festivities, we decided to continue the day by taking it easy in the shade inside of the venue.

The Secret Machines were playing at the Ranch Arena, and we sat off to the side on the lush grass in the shade and allowed the music to provide a background for our relaxation. Their first songs flowed nicely as the early afternoon sun rose in the sky, and as it got harsher, so did their music. They were misfits, like Of Montreal, but their droning guitars and hard indie sound weren’t nearly as pleasant to hear after the novelty wore off. So we retired to a more appropriate shelter from the sun: Big Wildcat Lake.

"Big Wildcat Lake" is quite a misnomer; a more appropriate name might be "Muckbottom Lake" or "Filthwater Pond," but the dock and sand felt good in comparison to the hard ground and trampled grass that we were used to. From the lakeside, we could hear Sweet Japonic playing at the Wagon Wheel, one of Rothbury's only indoor venues (actually a log cabin). Their Allman Brothers sound was perfect for a hot day by the lake, and we sat listening and people watching for a couple of hours. Looking around me, I noticed in particular how many families I saw in the water. There were mothers and fathers on the docks and children doggie-paddling their way through the muck. And it wasn’t just down by the lake. Families sat together in the forest and at the venues. Children played together in the shade with their parents keeping one lax eye on them and another on the stage. Overall, I was stunned at how many young children were at the festival. Rather than judging their parents as irresponsible for exposing them to such a subversive culture so early in life, I found myself admiring their parents’ courage in showing their children how happy people can really come together when they rally around a cause, be it music or environmentalism. Rothbury was a land of imagination, of vivid colors, of men on stilts and women with painted-on clothing, and of strangers being regarded as close friends rather than dangerous kidnappers. For adults and kids alike, the atmosphere was a positive one that is unmatched in the world outside.

Our day continued with some concert hopping: a little Gomez here (an initially boring set that turned into something that I regretted having to leave), some Dresden Dolls there (playing to a small crowd has its benefits -- their energy was astounding for a duo and kept everyone on their feet and cheering), and finally to The Odeum to see Citizen Cope. Cope was hyped as one of the big names of the festival, but his performance had very little production value and wasn't all that attention grabbing. His music is distinctly derived from hip-hop, yet the live show lacked the punchy drums, heavy bass, and sampling (especially on tunes like “Let the Drummer Kick,” which lacked all of its originality) that make the Cope albums so unique and genre nonspecific. All that remained were his irritatingly monotone vocals and a four piece band that struggled to retain the attention of those in the crowd that were not die-hard Cope fans.

Luckily, one bad show does not define a day, or even an hour, at a festival. From Citizen Cope we returned to Sherwood Court to see Medeski Martin & Wood sitting in a tight triangle. How they stay on beat or in the same ever shifting keys is beyond me, but watching them communicate telepathically on stage, treating the vast field as if it were the Village Vanguard or the Blue Note, was far beyond my musical comprehension. Jazz is one thing, and complex enough as it is, but the type of fusion that MMW play is above and beyond the classification of "jazz" or "fusion" and fits into an unnamable category all its own. After they were done blowing my mind, it was Derek Trucks' turn to take the stage with jazz singer Susan Tedeschi behind the mic.

Trucks, a sometimes-member of the Allman Brothers Band (starting officially at age 20, though he had toured extensively with them even before that), is a master of the slide guitar, and his decades of experience even at a young age shine through in every album and every performance. Hazy and exhausted, we laid down on the dusty, hard ground at Sherwood Court, which had been decimated by thousands of dancing feet during the first two days, and were lulled into a shallow sleep in the evening sun. When we awoke, Trucks and Tedeschi were just winding down the set, but I could hear his versatile slide emulating her voice to perfection. I wish that his guitar had been a little louder in the mix, but what I could hear was exactly what I expected. Though I regretted missing any of the set, the nap was much needed. Our night was just beginning.

Dave Matthews Band, a group that I have seen fifteen times now, came onstage with the setting sun at 9:00pm (the sun doesn't finish setting until 10:30pm in Rothbury) and kicked the show off right, with their epic "Seek Up." Guitarist Tim Reynolds is on this tour with them, taking the place of absent keyboardist Butch Taylor, and he served his role well at first. His riffs were short and attention grabbing, but didn't become distracting until much later. During "So Damn Lucky," the anthem by Dave Matthews & Friends (of 2003), Reynolds was given a bombastic solo that encompassed the theme of the evening: over production. Just as their latest two or three studio albums have been far too produced, this show was made into such a noisy and brightly lit spectacle that it took away from the music. The jams were sometimes perfect, as in the highlight of the show, "#41," when substitute saxophonist Jeff Coffin (of Béla Fleck and the Flecktones fame) soloed for at least ten minutes, dancing his soprano and tenor saxes between rhythms and notes, and even directing the rest of the band with him into a cover of a Fleck tune. The band benefited from his soloing, but greatly missed member LeRoi Moore's written lines, which were uncomfortably delivered by his emergency fill-in. Similarly, Taylor’s jazz influence was greatly missed during jams, but his overfilling organ was a welcome subtraction from the rest of the mix. Dave's energy and wit, now cornerstones of the DMB experience, kept the mood light, as demonstrated by his mid-set quip that after the show he planned to sit in the hammocks in Sherwood Forest and "try to touch the moon with my tongue."

The only way to spend Saturday night at a festival, prior to touching celestial bodies with your tongue, is to experience a blowout four-hour set from Sound Tribe Sector 9 (STS9). At midnight, lasers and laptops blazing, they stepped in front of the eager, dance-ready crowd. STS9 is a powerhouse band -- not just because of their five immensely talented members and carefully crafted songs (which often have upwards of four revolving parts) -- but because each member also runs his own samples through a laptop or, as with the drums, a trigger system. Just like Thievery Corporation the night before, STS9 seamlessly blended many different genres from across the globe with American hip-hop, funk, and rock styles (and even some British trip-hop) to create the most danceable music I've ever heard. On top of the music, the show's lightshow and glowstick wars created a visually stunning effect unlike anything I've ever witnessed. Seeing hundreds of thousands of glowsticks fly through the air every time a song changed was like the most head-turning, eye-popping iTunes visualizer imaginable. The party raged on until the wee hours, and at about 2:45, after well over twelve hours of music that day, we headed to bed.

With similarly captivating artists A3 and Crystal Method playing just across the forest, though, STS9 had a constant flow of 40,000 Rothbury attendees at their mercy until 4:00am, when they finally capped their set and sent the exhausted masses back into the forest (only some went back to their tents) for a brief sleep before Rothbury's last day.

Tomorrow - Part V: Day 4!

A Rothbury Recap - Part III: Day 2

"Let's detoxify so we can retoxify..."

And so began Day 2, in a massive yoga class on the grass under the Tripolee Domes. It was a fairly advanced group, and very willing to exert a surprising amount of effort at 10:00am on the day following many road (and acid) trips. I haven't gone into crow pose in years, and my travel-weary body and involuntary groans made me feel geriatric next to the spry hippies that so easily levitated themselves onto their hands.

Feeling physically and mentally ready for the day, there was only one place to go: shopping. The campgrounds and venue were riddled with art booths, clothing shops, smoke shops, glass art, food stands, incense makers, and various other hippie-wares. I got myself a fresh bandana, and then it was on to our next stop: the main stage.

Friday was a day spent at The Odeum, enjoying some of the biggest acts that Rothbury had to offer (so was pretty much every other day). The Wailers kicked it off for us, and what I thought would be a big thrill ended up generating about as much energy as a speech by John McCain (ZING!). Don't get me wrong...it was fun to see Marley's band up there, playing his songs and channeling his art, and they did so just as well as they ever have. "I Shot the Sheriff" sounded as timeless as it is, and the crowd reacted very favorably to the Wailer's Marley-filled set. But the performance reeked of The Police at Bonnaroo 2007, full of call-and-response time wasters and other audience participation exercises that are targeted primarily toward either a) the front row or b) everyone over the age of 50.

We left after The Wailers’ set to go see Sam Beam (of Iron and Wine), who was playing on the smaller main stage at the Ranch Arena. He was stoned...very stoned. His complex play was a little sloppy, and he stumbled over his words a few times; but he took his mess-ups in stride, casually joking with the crowd about his altered mental state and putting on a jovial yet emotional solo acoustic set. I'm not sure why he was booked without the rest of Iron and Wine, but coming off of the sensational The Shepherd's Dog, I'd like to see them do some full-band performances at future festivals. While Sam Beam is inarguably the driving force behind the band, and his songs were charmingly intimate during the solo set, they lacked all of the umph that makes them so memorable and riveting on the album and in most live shows.

Before Beam was able to finish his set, we ran back to The Odeum just in time to see Snoop Dogg, aka Snoop Doggie Dog, aka Snoopaloop, take the stage via a gleaming white motorcycle. He looked -- and I would have expected nothing less -- absolutely obscene in long black shorts, a white t-shirt, and roughly six tons of chains and rings (aka "bling"). His MC was screaming things like "Biotch" and "Can I get a Hell yea?" at the top of his lungs, and continued to do so on the last beat of every song during the performance. From "Gin and juice" to "Nuthin' but a G Thang" to "Drop it Like It's Hot," the hits just kept on coming. Now, I could easily go on a rant about how they all sounded EXACTLY THE SAME (which they did) or about how ridiculous it is to have a grown man yell "BIOTCH" (which was amplified further by an echo effect) to end every song. But I'm not going to. What I am going to rant about is the fact that on at least eight separate occasions, Snoop Dogg and his MC referred to the Rothbury crowd as East Lansing – as in "Wussup, East Lansing?!" or "How ya'll doin, East Lansing?" or "Yo, East Lansing, it's 4:20...who wants to see Snoop light this huge blunt and smoke it in front of ya'll?" (We all did, of course.) There was no evidence that Snoop and his posse had any clue where they were. The festival, called the Rothbury Festival, located in Rothbury, Michigan, is over 100 miles away from East Lansing, where Snoop 'n Crew were scheduled to play later in the week. There's no better way to lose the respect of a crowd than to hilariously and continually refer to them as a place that they're not in. Luckily, everyone was just as high as Snoop, so no one seemed to mind.

The most glaring aspect of Snoop's performance, aside from his complete lack of geographical sensibility, was the overabundance of white people at the Rothbury Festival. From on stage, Snoop must have been completely disoriented as to his whereabouts because of the glare from all the sunscreened, sweaty, hippie-dancing white people...so that should accurately explain his East Lansing confusion.

In a day of headliner after headliner, the next up was one that I looked forward to seeing for only one reason: so I could confirm my already staunchly held beliefs that they are the most overrated band since Nickelback. I am talking about none other than hard-rock-jammers 311. I have never understood what is at all enjoyable or redeeming about 311 and, aside from the mildly pleasant "Amber" (which fans tell me is like the ever-irritating "Crash" to their Dave Matthews Band), I'd honestly rather puncture my eardrums beyond repair than listen to a single note. And a single note is about all I needed. We stayed for two songs before retreating to the shade of the forest around the Ranch Arena to hear Jon Fishman (of Phish) play with Yonder Mountain String Band.

Bluegrass is a strange animal. There's something very eerily Confederate about a banjo and washboard, though there's also something pleasant and provincial. At a festival, it is decidedly the most versatile music, as it is both danceable and kick-backable. It was so kick-backable, in fact, that we fell asleep in the grass after a while and soon decided to move our slumberous party back to the tent for a nap and some home-grilled veggies (it was an added incentive that the in-venue meals were a baseball-stadium-minimum of $7).

We ate and slept for a bit longer than we'd planned, and got back in time to catch the end of Widespread Panic's first set (the perfect appetite whetter), the middle of Of Montreal's overlapping set (indie-rockers to whom I didn't pay enough attention due to my anticipation of the next set), and the entirety of Widespread Panic's second glorious performance of the night.

I'd never seen WP before they closed out Bonnaroo last year, and I was so exhausted by then that it was all I could do to stay awake long enough to make it to their show, let alone actually pay attention. This time it was different. It was night 2, it was July 4, it was set 2, and we were fresh off a nap. If you've never listened to Widespread Panic, that's OK, but if you've never seen them perform you're really missing out. As proof of the incredible show, I offer the following anecdote:

I don't dance. Ever. I'll bob my head and tap my feet, but I'll never get the arms involved, and I'll never EVER turn or spin or cause myself to move in such a way as to risk losing my balance. But from 10:30pm - midnight on July 4, 2008 I could not stop dancing (yes, hippie-dancing, but still!). And I wasn't shy about it either. It started out innocently enough: I looked to my left, saw a beautiful lady, and started to dance with her. We laughed, and my urge to gyrate briefly subsided. Then, as I reached down to pick up the glowstick that had just hit me in the back of the head and position it snugly between my fingers, I began to stir once again. This time it wasn’t with a girl, but with the music. I've never had that urge, and over the course of the next two days I would try to recreate it often, and fail each time. But for 90 minutes on the anniversary of the day our country was born, I learned that sometimes you just need to let go of your inhibitions, grab a couple of glowsticks, and do what feels good. No drug can compare to the euphoria that I felt just swaying and turning and flailing to the music.

That being said, Widespread Panic gets my award for Best Band of the Festival. Everyone expected it, as they're true veterans of the festival circuit, but the performance exceeded my hopes even having already experienced them. Something special happened out on the field of The Odeum that night, and the collective joy and excitement of the thousands in attendance was celebrated in the only way possible: at the exact moment that Widespread panic hit their final note, the sky over the main stage exploded with midnight fireworks. There's nothing Americans love more than getting together to listen to music, eat a lot, litter, do drugs, and blow shit up high in the sky. And baby, we had it all!

After the fireworks, Rob Garza (drum machine) and Eric Hilton (processing and effects), the leaders of Thievery Corporation, took to the Sherwood Court stage in front of what appeared to be the largest crowd that any band had yet seen. The atmosphere was electric, and we were rammed right into the middle of it all. I made a point of noting how many different genres of world music Thievery evoked during their massive set, and when I looked at my notepad after the show, I'd written the following: India, Brazil, Middle East, Reggae, Rap, Latin, Hip-Hop and Japan/China. But their genres more generally encompass jazz, dub, and a mix of classical sounds from the styles and nations mentioned above. In describing the borderless global bliss of a Thievery Corporation show, I defer to my own expertise on the subject. This time around, they were playing to a crowd at least ten-times the size of the 9:30 club, and they came into Rothbury as a dark horse for “Best Performance.” The buzz the next day said it all. Thievery put on THE surprise performance of the festival, pleasing clubbers and jammers and Sherwood Forest dwellers alike. The bass was soul-piercingly loud in a way that made my heart beat along with it, and the glowsticks, which were flying high by the thousands, let me know that my fellow Rothburians felt the same way. Most impressive was TC's lineup on stage, which consisted of (in addition to Garza and Hilton) two percussionists (one on bongos and accessories, and one on congas), a sitarist/guitarist pulling double duty, a bassist, and alternating singers: one for Middle Eastern pieces, one for Hindi pieces, one for Brazilian and other Latin pieces, and two groups of three rappers and Rastas for -- you guessed it! -- rap and reggae. Oh and there was a belly dancer for good measure.

We were transfixed from start to finish, and when the show was over at 2:00am, though the dance parties would rage on into the morning, there was nothing for us to do but go to bed, in the hopes that Day 3 would provide us with even a fraction of the awe-inspiring music that did Day 2.

A Rothbury Recap - Part I: The Mission

"Rothbury is committed to harnessing the spirit of the music festival community into a durable social movement. Rothbury is created by people who are passionate about music, and about live music in particular. We are captivated by the unique experience that a perfect musical moment offers; when we transcend beyond individuals and into a collective. It's a connectedness that invites palpable inspiration and real opportunity to create a lasting change. This is the Rothbury mission."

A twelve-hour car ride from DC, through Maryland, West Virgina, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Michigan, including a 9-hour-plus chronological discography of The Beatles (a la the trip to Bonnaroo 2007), thunderstorms, fireworks, coffee, and Cheez-its...

Thus began a journey to the Double JJ Ranch in Rothbury, Michigan. In its inaugural year, the Rothbury Festival 2008 set out to improve upon the modern festival's massive environmental impact and, even further, on the festivalgoers’ overall consciousness of our collective and individual environmental footprints. Rothbury’s goal to "throw a HUGE party...with a purpose" showed through in every aspect – from the hundreds of composting and recycling bins, to the sugarcane and corn-based cutlery (compostable), to the pocket ash trays, to the use of clean energy and carbon-offsetting, to the daily Think Tanks with popular artists...You can find the entire extensive and impressive commitment here: http://rothburyfestival.com/festival/our_commitment.php

Thousands of tons of garbage and millions of tons of cigarette butts are generated each year at Bonnaroo, Lollapalooza, et al., and given the current hot-button issues of climate change/global warming/overall planetary destruction via human ignorance and ineptitude, Rothbury attempted something truly valiant: get a bunch of people together who talk the talk, and get them to walk the walk.

Despite the environmentally sound premise, Rothbury was a party and festival first, and a forum for social change second. For four days in early July, upwards of 50,000 people from all 50 states met on Michigan's west coast and partied hard. Drugs were overabundant, beer and liquor flowed from dawn to well beyond dusk, and glow sticks littered the air and ground in the hundreds of thousands. (I'll get to the music in due time – see Parts II – V, soon to come, for day-by-day breakdowns.)

Producer Jeremy Stein and Madison House worked hard to follow through on their promises of eco-consciousness and thoughtful celebration, and people seemed willing to comply at least with the simplest aspects of enviro-friendliness. Listening to artists speak during Think Tanks, properly disposing of waste in compost and recycling cans, and making do with the mere one napkin that came with each food purchase came easily to the masses. But cigarette-butts, used glowsticks, and Nitrous Oxide balloon waste were rampant in the campgrounds and the venues.

I was surprised to see how easily people made small adjustments, but also how difficult it was for us to stop our own self-destructive behaviors at the behest of our environment. I'm not sure that there's a remedy for the Nitrous balloon problem (other than...not inhaling Nitrous from balloons or even (GASP) throwing them away after using them?), but the aforementioned ash trays were not as accessible as they could have been. If the festival provides an ashtray to every participant upon entering the site next year, that will be one less thing – or, rather, thousands fewer things -- they'll have to clean up.

For a first-year festival, the organizers did well to provide enough shade (via "Sherwood Forest" and tents scattered across the site) and interactive elements (creating "recycled" artwork over the course of the four days, providing batting cages and other sports, having a Guitar Hero RV...the list could go on for days) to keep the entertainment-hungry crowd more than occupied. Between six stages (and one secret stage in the forest), hundreds of organic food and clothing shops, and spinning monkeys (you'll have to attend next year to figure that one out), even the most weathered and cynical festivalgoer was entertained and swept up in the Rothbury moment.

I hardly consider myself a wily veteran when it comes to music festivals. This was my second, and almost certainly not my last. The "come as you are" and "love everyone as you love yourself" vibe was spiritually infectious, to the point of non-drug-induced euphoria. I only hope that Stein manages to keep the same feel for next year's festival (which is confirmed in the planning stages as of today). Rothbury is undoubtedly a new institution in American music festivals, and it has improved on key components that other festivals lack: fantastic weather, environmental sustainability, and four days of non-stop, mindblowing music.

Tomorrow -- Part II: Day 1