Bonnaroo hearts are won in the fields

We could go on and on about the tents, their intimacy, shade, etc., etc.  But that’s what clubs are for. 

Ben Harper, from the What (main) stage, late Saturday afternoon, right after “Burn One Down:”

That’s the most impressive cloud of outdoor smoke I have seen in my life.

Here’s this huge cow pasture, blanketed with pot heads, hippie couples and their wild mohawked children, blue collar locals in lawn chairs, beaded women weaving their hips, the lone dad-rocker soaking it all in…a hodgepodge of unbridled community.  And then the music. 

I don’t need to describe the magic of the festival.  You know it.  You’ve done it.  But there’s something different about Bonnaroo.  Everybody’s in it together, getting their asses kicked by the heat and the camping and the music, together. 

When Harper and The Innocent Criminals tore through a set of bongo-infused jam rock, declaring this “the greatest festival on Earth,” those in the crowd didn’t even have to acknowledge it.  The frisbees kept afloat, the guitars maintained their thrash and the moment simply existed.  “Steal My Kisses,” “Ground On Down,” “Diamonds On The Inside,” didn’t make a difference.  Even with the guest-additions Ziggy Marley and John Paul Jones, the moment seemed pre-destined. 

The Police only reconfirmed the vibe.  Stewart Copeland did try to make an epic announcement of their arrival, judo punching a giant gong, but the opening licks of “Message In A Bottle” transported minds back to the moment.  Truly, it felt real, raw, as if the trio never split, two hours of classic magahits that sounded fresh from the studio, thousands upon thousands of the hodgepodge screaming along with Sting. 

If this harmony was to be threatened, in any form, Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips took the festival warlord prize.  I managed to infiltrate the back stage of their midnight set and catch a glimpse of the mischief/madness.  Among the dressing of aliens and superwomen, there was a man in a yellow jumpsuit straight out of E.T. handing out hundreds of individually wrapped laser pointers, whispering instructions to several different crew members.  At this point I decided it best to be among the crowd, witness the chaos. 

Sometime Coyne beats his gimmicks a little too hard (vibrating panties?), but I’ll have to admit, descending upon a stage in a crowd-surfable bubble via giant spaceship made of lights, all while allowing thousands of fans to shoot laser pointers into your eyes, goes way beyond playing tricks.  Of course the crowd ate it up, bringing inflatable Frankensteins and life-size glowstick people.  And fuzzy-haired Wayne was all smiles during psych-pop faves like “Flight Test,” “Free Radicals,” Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots.” It was freakish, but festival power to the nine. 

As 3 a.m. tolled and The Lips continued to jam, the crowd held still thousands.  The tired splayed blankets over the dirt, hands supporting heads to the skies.  The energized danced fits of laser pointer, glow-stick fury.  The fields were alive and the rock continued.

Widespread, you’re up next.