Rothbury Music Festival: Post 1

By caballero on Fri, Jul 3, 2009 5:40 pm

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I wish I could say I saw a couple more cities on my way to Rothbury, Michigan. We—Spencer, Mills, Maysa, Keith and myself—drove from Allston to Michigan in about 17 hours, passing through Cleveland, Detroit, Lansing and a couple other places along the way. After making it through a 20-hour bus ride in Argentina a few years ago, I've learned to appreciate all the things you see along the way during a road trip that you miss on a plane.

But needless to say I missed Detroit, Cleveland and most of Michigan. I did get a chance, however, to see the parking lot of a rest stop in southwest New York state, when Spencer and I, in true team spirit, managed to lock the keys in the car after we stopped to take a bathroom break. The rest of it I missed, as I was crumpled up in a twisted heap of flesh and half-sobriety in the back seat of an green Chrysler Town and Country called Shrek. By trip's end, I was reduced to sitting in Buddah-like meditation, trying best to keep hold of a modicum of sanity in the back seat (my new spot after being usurped from the passenger side front chair by eight or so 30 racks of Keystone Light).

So upon arrival in Rothbury, Michigan, from where I'm writing this in the confines of the well-stocked (i.e. open bar) media area behind the Sherwood Court stage, anything from then on was going to be good. The 2nd edition of the four day festival is a fascinating clash between progressive ecological ideas and rampant fuck-all consumerism, if you look a the subtext. If not, it's a music festival/shit show of epic proportions. I've only been hear for roughly 24 hours, but I've seen both up close so far.

I've seen the Cool Kids rock a big crowd better than I thought (and maybe they thought) they had any right to. I've seen myself pay for a $10 burrito in which, after some slack-jawed yokel lazily throws some food in there, I have to roll up myself, because said yokel explicitly tells me he doesn't know how. I've seen a guy peddling vials of Tang while swearing it was top-drawer blow. It's only been a day, but I feel like I've seen a lot, perhaps foreshadowing a long weekend.

Maybe I should step back a moment. For those who don't know, the Rothbury Music Festival is like Bonnaroo or Red Rocks or any other one of those massive hippie fests/drug parties out in the middle of nowhere in which everything costs an absurdly high price in the name of the environment and thus and so. It's a bloated beast of a festival, spreading itself out over a couple hundred acres of rural country in central Michigan. It's still on the up-and-up in terms of competing with Bonnaroo and some of the other big festivals (this is only it's second go-round), but there's nothing to suggest it won't be up there soon. This year's line up includes Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Disco Biscuits, Damian Marley & Nas, STS9, The Dead, The Black Crowes, Guster, Girl Talk, Chromeo, Broken Social Scene, Les Claypool, Pretty Lights and the String Cheese Incident, among others.

Anyone who knows me knows that unshowered in a field full of hippies isn't probably the first place you'd find me. Thus, I'm writing from the open bar.

Let's start with the basics. Walking around the campsite was like being let loose in West Baltimore, except everyone's real friendly. Any drug you could possibly need—from ginseng to weed to every kind of pill and powder, real or fake—is on sale, and a quick stroll down the aisles of cars and tents is how you window shop. Imagine if the irritatingly over-eager people who work at the Apple Store shoved down a fistful of downers before coming into work and you'll get an idea of the caliber of dealers plying their trade at Rothbury. There's a lot of mumbling, stuttering giggles and a general sense of disappointed parents somewhere. Thinking myself a cultured and refined man I'd thought I knew every possible selection on the menu, but the amount of bizarre merchandise available surprised even me. Chalk this one up to inexperience at huge multi-day music festivals, but I didn't think anyone was really into snorting heroin anymore. One more thing I need to learn.

The first show of the first day was Toubab Krewe, which was a huge disappointment. Not because they were bad, but because I spent the majority of the afternoon believing I was about to see 2 Live Crew work their magic on a crowd a couple thousand deep. Give Luther Campbell those odds and watch how many titties jump out to catch some fresh country air. “Big Booty Hoes” from the Friday Soundtrack was one of the first hip-hop records I knew by name and lyrics and probably had irreversible effects on all my future relationships with women. With the storm clouds of flesh and lecherous drunk behavior gathering, the forecast called for an epic shit show.

Imagine my surprise when instead of a creepy uncle flocked by upper-echelon hood rats I see a bunch of white guys from Asheville, North Carolina banging out on percussion, trying to play Malian music (as in from MALI. Get it). This dedicated, talented group of musicians infuriated me with their lengthy instrumental jam sessions, if only because they weren't 2 LIVE CREW. Once I got over this, I tried to appreciate this pleasant, non-skank music on it's own merits. Namely, the collaboration between the rotating three-man percussion section and kamenlengoni (I looked it up), an African instrument that looks and sounds like a gene-spliced cousin of a guitar and cello. Some songs had structure, others seemed like they were the guys just showing off, but as often happens with a band like this, it didn't really matter either way. They cut into a mean version of “Billie Jean” and that was that.

The rest of the night was a bit hazier. There was a $5 slice of pizza, a Disco Biscuits show and the disappointment of having lightsabers confiscated mixed in there somewhere, but I can't really say how or in what order. Having slept and eaten a bit, today's looking like a more conscious day, but I don't make any promises for tonight.