Click here for a free download of the Scissormen's "Tupelo." [From
Luck in a Hurry, out on VizzTone September 2.]
The first bourbon and cola of the day tasted like victory. Not just because it was noon, although cocktails at noon usually imply a healthy laissez faire agenda, but because
my band the Scissormen had successfully traveled the long road to Bonnaroo.
It wasn’t exactly the road to Kiev. The roundabout route we’d taken through the Tennessee hills to avoid festival traffic was scenic and pleasant. But this road trip from Nashville to Manchester had taken three years of mailing CDs, lobbying, networking, and as much prayer as a secular humanist can muster. And somehow, we got the call.
The timing was good. After nearly four years playing our own revved up take on Mississippi hill country blues from coast-to-coast (and France) in every coffeehouse, juke joint, blues bar, punk club, and occasional festival we could, we’ve signed a deal and have a new album called
Luck in a Hurry coming out nationally on September 2. And Bonnaroo looks good on a band’s resume.
The truth is, it feels even better, especially when you’re used to chugging heavy miles between one-nighters in a mini-van and dining at Subway.
We played on Friday the 13th, the second day of the Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival. After hitting the artists’ check-in station, where we were issued our artists passes and lunch and dinner tickets, the Scissormen crew―drummer Jason Frazier, our merch team Laurie Hoffman and April Larson, and me on guitar―were shuttled to the Artists Relations trailer at the festival site, where we transferred a couple guitars, a gig bag, cymbals, a case of T-shirts, and a couple boxes of CDs to golf carts and were in turn shuttled across the Centeroo zone―the heart of the 700-acre festival grounds―to the Troo Music tent.
There, we cased the joint: a big canvas space that fit maybe 400 people with some spillover, a beer bar along the back wall, and a couple tables. The stage was medium sized―about 16’ by 10’―and comfortable, flanked by nice stacks of p.a. speakers and stocked with a backline of Fender, Vox, Eden, and Peavey amps. Cyrus the soundman was a friendly old pro. We told him we’d be back in plenty of time for our early afternoon set, then stashed our gear behind the stage and headed back across the field―on foot this time―to Artist Hospitality.
Little did we know that behind its security-guarded gates was such an oasis.
Danny Clinch, the big time rock photographer, was there taking pictures of artists large and small. Sponsors were doling out gimmie hats and t-shirts, lip balm and beer glasses, even sneakers. Some were selling headphones and sunglasses at sharp discounts.
There was also an ice cream truck. Yes, an ice cream truck, handing out an endless supply of free cold treats to performers. And an air conditioned tent with two bars―one for cocktails, one for beer―plus an iced tea bar, free cigarettes for the puffers, and a masseuse to work out those pre- or post-show kinks.
Obviously it was time for a little communion with Jim Beam. We’d meet several more times before the day was done, but it was time for lunch in the artist mess tent, where a sumptuous salad bar was a prelude to some delicious Greek food: vegetarian moussaka and barbecued chicken and onions.
Best of all, there wasn’t a single grumpy face in sight. Bonnaroo truly has a pervasive mellow vibe, even among the staffers who have a lot to handle with 80,000 people and nearly 150 bands performing over four days.
There was just enough time to eat and have a drink, with a quick pass by the coffee bar to grab a cookie and a cup of coffee.
Now it was time for the best part: the show. We trekked across the hot Centeroo grasslands past giant bobble-headed hippie sculptures hoisted aloft on poles, past shirtless guys and girls in bikinis, past pizza and samosa stands, and the sound of the Drive-By Truckers drifting off the Which Stage.
At the Troo Music Lounge,
NYC’s the Postelles were ripping through the end of their set, rocking hard to a clutch of fevered fans up front. And then it was our shot.
Jason set about rejiggering the drum kit, a basic Mapex renter. Laurie and April found a table near the front to set up the mailing list, our two indie CDs, and T-shirts, and I had at the amps. With drums and guitars tuned and ready, we had a few more minutes―and I had another bourbon and cola―to kill before we took the stage.
People were still spilling into the room as we fired up. I began belting out an old Son House tune―“John the Revelator”―a cappella, then paused at the half-way point as Jason fired up the drums to a brutal tribal beat. I waited until just the right spot and dove in with my slide.
What can I say? In all modesty, we were great. It was one of those shows where everything was in the groove―the music flowing, the audience and band synched. Jason played like a locomotive, which is an absolute necessity considering I’m likely to go off on 10-minute guitar-solo-propelled trips into the audience, walking over tables, playing with ash trays and cigarette lighters, and chasing any damn improvisational impulse that comes along. The tent filled up and people spilled out into the grass outside. They howled and so did we. It was an hour of unison high madness and communion. And then it was over.
The moment we left the stage the golf carts awaited as did a throng of well wishers from across the country asking us to come play their hometowns. And if I have my way, we will after
Luck in a Hurry comes out this fall.
With the guitars, merch, and other goodies stowed, we mounted the carts and were whisked back to the Scissormen minivan, and then, within 45-minutes of leaving the stage, were well and fairly paid in a pleasant transaction. All that was left to do was hang out for the rest of the day with our artists passes dangling around our necks, getting us preferential seating for Chris Rock—right after a delightful New Orleans dinner of shrimp-and-andouille gumbo, blackened prime rib, red beans, and a half dozen different types of cakes, plus, of course, more Jim Beam and cola.
I could get used to this.
Photo Credit: Will Jordan/Carpe Diem Photography