By Jeremy Gerrard

When I claimed my degree from Chico State a few years ago, I cried an emotional goodbye to that pinnacle of American freedom—the summer vacation. Like a runaway cat from childhood, or the popularity of reading novels, I didn’t think she’d ever come back again. But lo and behold, half-assed planning on Wall Street catalyzed a wicked recession, causing unemployment to climb like a terrified squirrel. In the wake I stood a laid-off English graduate student with one pocket full of money and the other with time. So where does one venture with such pockets? Well, when Synthesis offers a press pass, naturally you go to one of the biggest and best talent-laden music festivals to ever grace Mama Earth: BONNAROO.

Held on an almost unimaginably vast farmland in Manchester, Tennessee, Bonnaroo brings about 90,000 people (over nine times the size of High Sierra) from all over the country to a 96-hour non-stop party of camping, vending, dancing and musical amazement. The line to get in stretched out on the highway for miles and miles and miles and hours and hours and hours—but if you asked anybody if they’d wait twice as long to get in next year, “absolutely” would be the only reply. Everyone instantly snaps into a community mindset and wants to share everything with everyone else so no matter what, you’re taken care of, and you’ve got friends. My campsite landed between a group of younger guys from New Jersey with a plethora of beer and a lesbian couple who brought their own shower, an eight-person tent and every kitchen utensil ever invented, among other things. Something told me expectations were about to be exceeded.

The first night, Thursday, warmed up the festival with over 20 smaller bands, the best of which were the high-energy White Rabbits, the honest folk of The Low Anthem, and the brain-mixing, hip-shaking vibrations of People Under the Stairs. Thursday also allowed time to check out the festival’s non-musical attractions. Many booths were set up to discuss unique approaches to green activism, on which Bonnaroo legitimately prides itself; many other tents offered yoga, comedy sketches, movie theatres and some small business pushers from the local area. While soaking in all of the talent and information, I was also soaking in a massive Tennessee downpour of biblical proportions. Of course festival goers were not deterred, and in fact fed off the rain like an electrical current. Downpours in the south have this great advantage where even in heavy rain and the wee hours of the morning, the temperature is still a comfortable 80-something.

On Friday morning, after sharing a few rounds of cold ales with newly arrived California companion Byron Dunning, we set off to “Centeroo” where the stages and other primary action ensued. A hypnotic, crowd-commanding Animal Collective commenced the experience. On our way to find a bite to eat (killer shish kabobs) we fed on a dirty funk jam from New Orleans’ Galactic, complete with a 10-minute horn battle. We would’ve stayed longer but we had to catch at least a sliver of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs before making it back to the “What Stage” for Al Green. All you have to know about Al Green is that he came adorned in a red pin-stripe suit holding a bouquet of roses, distributing them with smiles during soulful refrains and leaving not a dry pair of underwear in the crowd.

TV on the Radio brought as much energy as almost any other group there, rivaled best by Bonnaroo’s most anticipated act of the weekend—the ever-infamous Beastie Boys, who followed the aforementioned TV. Mix Master Mike easily won the individual performance of the weekend, effortlessly twisting and synching his arsenal of effects and beats. That the Beasties hadn’t played as a group in a while showed a few times with hiccups in rhyme and structure, which they used to remind the crowd that they were hearing real live music, “no tapes or recordings,” as Mike D. explained. Any hiccups though were easily compensated anyway, with special guest Nas sitting in on “Sure Shot” and “Paul Revere.” Although most of David Byrne’s set overlapped with the Beastie Boys, we were able to catch enough of him to see some sharp choreographed dancing by the band, piping hot backup singers, and Mr. Byrne himself tastefully chopping up inventive chords in a pink tutu. I turned it in for the night from there, but Byron re-entered the chaos to see Paul Oakenfold and Girl Talk, whose sets closed the night at 4 AM, and who he thought stole the show for the weekend.

We shrugged off the mud and grime of Friday and hit Saturday with glimpses of Wilco, The Decemberists, Elvis Costello, the David Grisman Quintet and The Mars Volta, whose new drummer is a four-limbed percussive monster. I wouldn’t be surprised if his sticks were widdled down to toothpicks at the end. Bravo, sir. Hanging with the big names, but on a tiny stage, were Cotton Jones, whose songwriting put a refreshing squeeze on folk rock, and whose male/female vocal compatibility made your gut smile. Of Montreal were equally surprising, but surprising only to me it seemed, as their crowd was massive, enthralled, swooned and rightfully ecstatic. Backstage we saw Flava Flav get interviewed by Triumph the Insult Dog, and then made it out to hear Bruce Springsteen, who entertained with classic Boss flavor, and even included his stylish rendition of “Here Comes Santa Clause” during the three-and-a-half-hour set. Sunday closed the festival with Andrew Bird, Band of Horses, Neko Case, Coheed and Cambria, another four-hour set from Phish, and Snoop Dogg, who could’ve told the crowd to strip and they all would’ve done it.

The only unfortunate aspect of a festival this size is that you’re guaranteed to miss some great acts. I couldn’t catch Nine Inch Nails, moe, MGMT, Ben Harper, Dillinger Escape Plan, High on Fire, The Lebowski Fest, Public Enemy or Bela Fleck, among many, many others. However, not one band I checked out disappointed. Not one. Bonnaroo is seriously a giant pool of talent that you can either wade in, splash in, dive to the bottom of, look at your reflection in, or swallow up, and whatever your method, you’re guaranteed to be soaked in awe.

No fucking way? According to TMZ’s reports, yes fucking way. The King of Pop is Dead. Long live the King. Rest in peace Jacko, you had one hell of a ride.

From TMZ:

We’ve just learned Michael Jackson has died. He was 50.

Michael suffered a cardiac arrest earlier this afternoon at his Holmby Hills home and paramedics were unable to revive him. We’re told when paramedics arrived Jackson had no pulse and they never got a pulse back.

A source tells us Jackson was dead when paramedics arrived.

Once at the hospital, the staff tried to resuscitate him but they had no luck.

We’re told one of the staff members at Jackson’s home called 911.

LaToya ran in the hospital sobbing after Jackson was pronounced dead.

Michael is survived by three children: Michael Joseph Jackson, Jr., Paris Michael Katherine Jackson and Prince “Blanket” Michael Jackson II.

Who wants to bet his new album will be phenomenal? (And if it isn’t, that most writers will say it is anyway…)

In Memorial, Daniel Taylor’s review of Invincible
is reprinted after the jump.

More after the jump »

Accessing our File Server is usually done with a double click on an alias. Today my computer decided to run some interference on that play.

No? That’s the right user name and password, I pinky-swear.

And then I hit OK about a thousand times. Fuuuuuukkkk… Maybe it’s mad that I wrote naughty words in my correspondence with Apple.

I used to take more time in explaining to Apple just why my programs freeze up and die on me.

Of course they would never get back to me. Now I just get right down to the nitty-gritty.

Does this help?

When you live in a town full of glass houses, you should really limit the amount of stones you throw. In Washington DC one must be extra careful on what you call out, rather than on whom. Take South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, whose condemnation of Clinton’s marital affair make him look even more like a cad in light of his own recent affair.

From Huffington Post:

The standard Sanford has set for other politicians over the years has been fairly high. A member of the House of Representatives during the heyday of the Clinton-Lewinsky affair, he was often a harsh critic of the president for his marital misconduct.

This is “very damaging stuff,” Sanford declared at one point, when details of Clinton’s conduct became known. “I think it would be much better for the country and for him personally (to resign)… I come from the business side,” he said. “If you had a chairman or president in the business world facing these allegations, he’d be gone.”

Explaining his decision to back impeachment articles against Clinton, he added, “I think what he did in this matter was reprehensible… I feel very comfortable with my vote.”

“In politics you can get away with anything as long as it’s what’s expected,” he was quoted saying in a Boston Globe article published in December 1998. “If people expect you to be a rascal, you can be a rascal.”

At another point, however, Sanford seemed to acknowledge that when it came to politicians, skeletons in the closet were to be expected. “This is a human institution,” he said of Congress, in a Maclean’s article from September 1998. “Take it as a given that weird stuff goes on.”

I’ve been staying over at my girlfriend’s house for the last month or so, and since she doesn’t listen to NPR in the mornings I’ve remained blissfully ignorant when it comes to national news. I mean, I don’t suppose I’ve been missing much: protests over Iranian elections, car bombs in Iraq and Pakistan, in this economy memes and so forth. Early into his career as the 44th elected president of the United States it was easy to pedict that Obama’s love affair and subsequent honeymoon with the press would soon end. And while this may have been happening over the last two months or so, it seems that as of Tuesday’s press play-date the relationship has soured.

From NY Times:

“What, are you the ombudsman for the White House press corps?” Mr. Obama said at one point, chiding Jake Tapper of ABC News for trying to ask about two things, including following up on a health care question the president had not directly answered.

As the reporter’s question lingered, the president interjected: “I got it. You’re pitching. I’m catching. I got the question.”

Later, as Mr. Obama talked about the virtues of freedom of expression in Iran, Helen Thomas piped up from her seat in the front row, “Then why won’t you allow the photos from the guards?” (She appeared to be speaking of his refusal to release photographs of abuse of prisoners by military guards.)

“Hold on a second, Helen,” said Mr. Obama, who clearly had not planned to call on the longest-serving scribe in the room. “That’s a different question.”

This Associated Press article also takes Obama to task, shooting down Obama’s “facts” one by one. If this is any indication, it’s going to be a short four years folks…