Back from Bonnaroo

The rain had started to fall as Kenny Rogers belched "The Gambler" over the patchouli-scented jam of Trey Anastasio and his merry band of Vermountaineers(?). By the first day, the campgrounds already resemble a combination of post-apocalyptic stronghold circa Escape from New York and an immense trash dump. So on Sunday, the smell and sight of the numerous garbage had started to make itself known to even the highest concertgoer. I know that this introduction reads like its going to be an expose into the nastier side of Bonnaroo, but trust me, it isn't. The most interesting thing about the whole experience is how every single person that I encountered on the last day of Bonnaroo was content or even elated. This was after the music had ended, and persumably, most of the drugs.

Is it possible that Bonnaroo elicits such a happy and complete experience because we create joy in the epitome of grime, sweltering heat and bad trips?

When people tell their stories, they usually don't talk about how they threw up on the person in front of them at Snoop Dogg or how they had to miss Kings of Leon because they freaked out in a crowd. Those stories exist for almost everyone that goes, but they line the cupboard, only to be brought out if a contest of hardcore-ness breaks out. The stories you hear are always the same. It was a religious experience. It's paradise. You should have been there. YOU HAD TO BE THERE.

I want to make a case for the negative aspects of Bonnaroo. The sun that makes a home right over your skull is daunting. When it rains, everyone is happy for about ten minutes, until they realize they camped in a tent. Beers cost more than a six-pack. Using the bathroom is the roughest chore because I've constantly seen the world record broken of how much human waste can be piled up in one place. All of these factors are magnified by the fact that I am voluntarily paying to be there. But we persevere, and we thrive like Romans.

Only in the face of so much negativity can pleasure be so fulfilling and refreshing. Now I'm not saying that some of this pleasure isnt chemically enduced/enhanced, but to the temporary residents of Bonnaroo, that doesn't matter. The rush of endorphins one can get by drinking with friends and watching a great band is only amplified by the fact that only two hours ago, that person was hunched over in a chair running off of a cigarette and 2 hours of sleep. It's this drastic transition that allows for the high to take on a higher meaning. Surviving the inferno of daytime Bonnaroo presents a conflict that pushes our boundaries of comfort, so when we rise to occasion, our victory becomes memorable and in our microcosms, epic.

Most people never let the high stop. Whether they drink it away, let guitars sing it away or blast it to the moon with psychs, the negative only serve as small obstacles to a greater goal. With their power being dampened, the struggles of living outdoors merely serve as catalyst to reaching the summit of life experience.

So when everyone is smiling at the end of Bonnaroo, it's not just because we danced and tripped to the soundtracks of our lives; it's also because we survived the Everest of music festivals.