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"Bonnaroooooooo!"
This triumphant cry erupted from the mouths of many of the 80,000 stinky, sweaty attendees of Bonnaroo 2007, an annual music and arts festival held on a 35-acre farm in Manchester, Tennessee. I, too, shouted this exuberant cry several times this past June, as I spent the 14th-17th in the South losing my Bonnaroo virginity. Veni, vidi, vici: I camped; I saw life-changing shows; I perspired. (A lot.)
I didn't really know what I was in for when I decided to go to Bonnaroo. It was my first big music festival: I wanted to go to Lollapalooza with friends in 2006, but our plans fell through, and I dreamed of going to Coachella this past spring, but I wasn't really in the mood to overdraw my checking account--even for Sonic Youth and Spank Rock. So when my grandma offered to buy my Bonnaroo ticket as an early birthday present, I was more than thrilled. My parents doubted my ability to survive camping, but I forced myself into thinking it would be fine. Fine, camping was not, but the experience was amazing nonetheless. The word amazing has been cheapened through overuse these days, but I really was in amazement, and not just at the music.
With big names like The Police, Tool and The White Stripes performing, music is indubitably a huge part of Bonnaroo's attraction. I mean, it is a music festival. Still, at Bonnaroo, the music almost becomes second to the other sights: the people. Most attendees are twentysomething, with a few middle-aged burnouts sprinkled here or there, and they run the gamut from casual hipster to enormous hippie. A turn of my head, and I was greeted by naked chicks on parade (their chests usually adorned with cleverly positioned body paint), guys--presumably under the influence of psychedelics--doing freaky dances with glowsticks, men selling glass pipes from suitcases. I soaked in the sights like a sponge, as it is so rare to see such public displays of inhibition not only accepted, but encouraged. Obviously, I was not around to have the pleasure of attending Woodstock '69, but I'd say Bonnaroo is the closest our generation has to such a hippie haven.
I wish I could say I was a true hippie during Bonnaroo, but I won't lie. I like to shower. Predictably, by the second afternoon on the campground, I took a travel-sized bottle of Redken shampoo and about five bottles of spring water to my head in an attempt to scrub away the unfortunate byproducts 95 degree temperatures and the infamous Bonnaroo dust clouds. Not only was my vanity frowned upon by other 'Rooers, but my hair was yet again filthy the second the heat became unbearable and I resigned myself to standing under the communal mushroom fountain in the festival area. Despite its fountain appearance, that thing was more like a volcanic eruption of backwashed sulphur and dirt. Refreshing, yes, but clean? I don't think so. And don't even get me started on the Porta-Potties or the state of my fingernails by the end of the weekend...I might cry.
Though vain little me found becoming a mound of greasy dust close to unbearable, Bonnaroo was worth it. And not just for the eargasm that was the delicious Ben Harper killing Zeppelin's "Dazed and Confused" with John Paul Jones (I still can't get over that one)--I'm talking about the sense of liberty that pervades the festival. The air at Bonnaroo may be hot and dusty, but the atmosphere is unmatched in the outside world. The privately-owned festival is basically self-governing, and what a government it is. It's like an alternate fucking universe, as far as I'm concerned, and I almost think I feel that way because I go to Northwestern.
As far as schools go, it's definitely left-leaning, but, at times, the atmosphere can seem less than liberal. It's not to say that it's stifling, but the challenging academics can make it seem like classes are really all there is to life. Well, until it's time to get trashed at the Keg, only to wind up sleeping your hungover ass through your 10 am class, thus perpetuating the cycle of stress. It's easy to get sucked into the routine, and I think a wake-up call is probably in order for most of us. Bonnaroo was that for me.
And I don't know, maybe I'm the only Northwestern student who was left dying for a breath of fresh air...but whatever the cause, last year left me in desperate need of relief. And relief I did find at Bonnaroo, mostly because it shook up my routine. Bonnaroo showed me that the life of a true hippie probably isn't for me, but also that I don't want to live a life of routine.
A note to Northwestern's rising seniors (as well as the entire NU population): take a lesson from the free spirits I saw at Bonnaroo. Some pretty tight schedules are run here, but life doesn't have to be all facts and deadlines, numbers and dress codes, GPAs and job offers. Bonnaroo may not be everyone's bag, but for me, it showed me an alternate definition of the "real world." I think we all should have the right to choose what we want the world to be for us. If a place like Bonnaroo exists, there has to be something for everyone. One suggestion though: don't take my advice to the extreme and become one of the fifty-year-old burnouts I saw on the Bonnaroo campgrounds. Once you hit forty, the dreadlocks don't really work for white dudes.
Contact Devonie at d-mccamey@northwestern.edu
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