Friday, February 14, 2014

Bonaroo Night: A Fragmented Memory

OK. So I was hesitant to put this out because it isn't finished. It's part of a bigger project that I have been working on.

So here you go, Bonaroo Night: A fragmented memory.

A bona cove of mine called me up on the palarepipe to ask for a lift downtown. He needed a ride to this bijou indiemusic bungery so he could vada one of his fave bands jogger a show. I cackled I would park him a ride there if he payed my cover and bought me a beverage. He said he was bona so I zhooshed myself up, beat my eek and headed out from my place in Mobile to pick him up from his place out in West Irvington.
I got to his place and waited on him to get his drag together then we off trolled to the city. It was just a quick trip from his place in Irvington to Mobile. The word that was heard about was the acts were gonna start joggering at 10:30. Turns out that was when the doors opened. Since we had just got there at 10:30, we were in for a bit of a wait.
As the room started to fill with omis and palones,  the delicate aroma of patchouli and nag champa began to waft about, mixing with the smell of stale beer and industrial strength floor cleaner. Some neo punk wannabe-Icelandic metal noise band takes the stage and starts beating and banging and clanging about. The slowly growing crowd bobs their heads to the beat of the skinny bearded drummer.
Various fauxipsters just stand around with their clear plastic well drink glasses of cheap tap beer and their bottles of over-priced Stella Artois. One omi chain smokes e-cigarettes and exhales vapor as the next act warms up. This skinny chicken with floppy blonde curls, lookin like he just turned legal, sips his fancy Blue Moon hand crafted alcoholic beverage as he leans on the table in front of me. He bobs his head as his palonefriend grinds back into him as she ogles the guitarist in the next act. Her bonadrag is a man’s suit jacket, silk knee length flower print skirt, knee-high faux leather boots and over zhooshed riah. Chicken is suffering for his fashion in short sleeve polo and jeans, shivering against his beard as people go in and out to smoke and letting in more and more of the chill December air.
The second act gets started and he is a cute  bearded omi solo act. He has some kind of electric geegaw that he uses to record a track, sets it to playback on a loop,  then picks up another instrument and joggers that one until he has his baseline, and then his melody. Then he plays the main parts on either his guitar or his drums.  He gets along pretty well like this then low and behold he breaks out a theremin and begins to jam. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a hot furry omi covered in sweat rolling on stage joggering a theremin solo that makes In-Da-Gadda-Da-Vida look tame.
The older omis and palones cluster around the balcony overlooking the stage like so many overstuffed crows. Their palaver cackles during the breaks between acts.  A heroin-thin couple stumbles together through the crowded dance floor. One swayback omi in the too tight maroon pants and dirty white t-shirt wanders around with them.
The main act sets up and the crowd shuffles around loosely forming groups based on varying degrees of intoxication as the room on the dance floor fills up with omis and palones. My friend works his way closer to the stage, chatting up a badge cove taking pictures “of the band for Facebook”.
A strange omi in a black faux leather coat, newsboy hat and ill fitting jeans sits down on the stool next to me and starts spinning around and around and around, like a child on a playground carousel. I studiously ignore his naff flirting as I write this.
This strange droog thing with a foot long unkempt beard, oversized Grateful Dead Wool sweater-hoodie and too long cargo shorts that show off the tattoos on his calves and Jesus sandals shuffles and sways by holding his colt45 malt liquor on his way to the pisser.
The main act starts to play and guitar riffs and drum beats blast the room. The crowd coagulates on the floor in front of the stage. The tiny lead singer bounces wailing out lyrics of song after song. The band whips melody into beat into boom in a grand blend of sounds reminiscent of Pink Floyd’s Astronomy Domine only with balls.
The crowd bounces and sways to the syncopated beats and wails and guitar riffs from the band. I don’t think I have ever seen so many men wearing women’s sweaters or flannel. Such an interesting cross section of decades reflected in this Mobile, Alabama hipster-wannabe fashion. I am certain I saw clothing from the 50’s thru the 90’s. The two things that almost every guy seemed to have tho were facial hair in various stages of growth and Buddy Holly glasses.
The night gets late and eases over into morning. The band wraps up their show and the crowd starts to fade into the night.