Bonnaroo
In June 2009, four young Canadians drove to a field in the middle of Tennessee for Bonnaroo — an annual celebration of music, art, and acid trips.
Matt ran his fingers through his hair, rocking back and forth and shaking his head slowly in his hands.
I looked over. “Calm down man. Nothing’s going to happen. We’ll be fine.”
“Look, there’s nothing you can say that will calm me down right now. I’ll be calm once we cross the border.”
Matt kept repeating it on the way to Bonnaroo. “This is Hamsterdam.” He said it when we stopped for gas and greasy food at a truck stop in southern Ohio, he said it while we sat on the balcony of a motel two hours from Manchester, Tenn., and watched rain so heavy it turned the canopy into a waterfall, and he said it while we idled in a 6-mile line of cars on the interstate shoulder, waiting to finally enter the festival grounds.
Part 2: This is Hamsterdam (cont.)
Greg had a rule about buying drugs at Bonnaroo.
“Always buy from people who are fucked up,” he said. “If they are, it means the shit is good and they aren’t a cop. And you can negotiate a better deal.”
It made sense. If you were looking to get drugs from complete strangers, asking people who were on what you were looking for was a good place to start. Even if they weren’t selling, they would at least be able to point you in the right direction — provided they still knew which way was up.
Part 2: This is Hamsterdam (concl.)
Matt had one goal at Bonnaroo (beyond the music): he wanted to get more fucked up than he had ever been before.
The benchmark was set back in 2006, Matt’s first Bonnaroo: shrooms, hash, opium, and four tallboys of Bud, all at once. “It was like an orgasm, only I was vomiting,” he said on Thursday night, backlit by the Silent Disco as we wandered past, getting acquainted with Centeroo.
Part 3?
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