Saturday
By: Jason Earle
I’ve been on the road for a week and a half- up with the sun and on the way to Music City.
The few hours between leaving Bonnaroo and returning are a blissful scene in slow motion. My love is staying at a cool, quirky hotel in East Nashville. I love this town and don’t know why I keep talking myself out of moving here. Holding what you got is easier but not always right.
For this moment, I am holding lightning in a bottle. We hit a Mexican grocery and load up on snacks I wouldn’t have considered otherwise. Water, coffee, wine, some beer- that’s been my beverage rotation for many years. I am borderline obsessed with the chips I like but rarely venture outside my go to brands.
Today my cart is loaded with chicken wings, orange sodas, and flavors of chips my limited Spanish is powerless to speculate as to their impact on my taste buds.
Lost in a blissful haze we head back to the hotel to catch up on the last week of time together. We are starving and these snacks are not going to get the job done. I look up places to eat lunch and find a funky, very East Nashville eatery. The chicken wings are the size of an actual wing of a bird. A man walks in with baby miniature quails he lets my love hold. It’s an odd juxtaposition, eating fowl while holding the most adorable example of it.
There is a vintage store across the street with a bar in it. We have sets to catch back on The Farm but also there’s cash to be hemorrhaged on outfits. An hour later, and several hundred dollars poorer, we are on the road back to Bonnaroo.
The author in a fabulous hat.
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I spend a lot of time alone at festivals. Some of that is by choice. I like to be able to do what I want when I want and have missed opportunities chasing someone else’s desires. There is also a lot to be said for going to a show with someone who is passionate about an act you know nothing or little about and otherwise would not have cared to see.
My love wants to see Sean Paul. There are some scheduling conflicts for me, most notably Jon Batiste. We could do our own thing for an hour or two, but I am interested in this swell. Sean Paul is playing the This Tent and his crowd is doing the same. You know more Sean Paul songs than you think you know and they are a blast live.
There are two non-negotiables left on the schedule- Gregory Alan Isakov and Cigarettes After Sex. The latter is a shared interest in present company. The former is one of those bucket list acts like Interpol a day earlier. No FOMO and pace thyself. There is an hour between those last two must dos. Anything else is gravy.
Gregory Alan Isakov’s drummer is in sepia. The rest of the band in other various states of equally charming lighting. What stands out in this moment is the love being exchanged. Isakaov is the maestro of romance here tonight. Couples gazing into each others’ eyes, embracing. When people rave about the culture of Bonnaroo, this is what I think they mean. It is for sure what I mean.
My love brought stick-on googly eyes with her. She is gifting them to people as a “third eye.” We grab dinner and of course her choice is significantly better than mine. I grab some lackluster chicken tenders while she charms the pizza slingers with optical accessories- pressing these plastic eyes into their foreheads and posing for pictures.
Cigarettes After Sex is up soon. We both need a change of clothes and a quick rest. As part of my lessons learned from last year I bought foldable rocking chairs and can’t overstate the benefits of this decision. Set up your camp to be comfortable.
Cigarettes After Sex sits draped in black and white in accordance with their well known aesthetic. She nuzzles her nose into my neck as we share drinking in one of several bands that overlay our taste. There is little in this world more blissful than being in love while sharing live music.
Tomorrow is another big day and we just want some time together. Quick stop at Red Hot Chili Peppers, who are outstanding in this moment, then headed back to camp. Damn near perfect day.