Bonnaroo 2006 Day Three

It's Saturday morning at Bonnaroo, and my friends and I are sitting under a shady spot at That Tent, waiting for Swedish psych-metal stars Dungen to take the stage. A pretty girl from Alabama gently touches my back, which has become a scaly wreck of red patches juxtaposed against the fish-white skin covered by my halter straps.

"Oh my God," she drawls. "How'd ya do that? Poor thing."

"I don't know," I moan, shuddering as her finger stabs into my vertebrae like a hot poker.

The best thing about Bonnaroo, aside from the music, is that people are incredibly friendly. We've befriended everyone from our Deadhead neighbours to gleefully wasted teenagers waiting for the portapotties.

Dungen take the stage and I'm immediately glad that we made the long trek to Centeroo for their early set. They have a gorgeous sound, mixing poppy, angelic harmonies with chugging metal riffs and spiralling solos that make me wish I had indulged in a wake-and-bake with our neighbours. Their heavily accented attempts at stage banter are all the more charming.

"You having good time at Bonn-a-roos?" asks lead singer Gustav Ejstes. "Nice."

After Dungen wrap up, we fill up a plethora of Nalgene and water bottles at a perpetually lined-up cleaning station. Saturday is a huge day for the festival as the three artists everyone's been waiting for — Elvis Costello, Beck and Radiohead — are all playing in succession at the What Stage. We know we'll be camped out for at least nine hours in the sun, and fluids are essential.

The field is surprisingly sparse when we arrive at What Stage, so we're able to grab a prime spot about 30 feet back. The Imposters ascend the stage exactly on time and as their black-suited frontman follows on their heels, I feel myself officially losing my shit for the first time this weekend.

Joining the band onstage is New Orleans producer and songwriter Allen Toussaint, who's brought along his own personal bitchin' horn section. Between songs, Costello explains that their relationship dates back to the mid-'80s when they collaborated on a cover of Yoko Ono's "Walking On Thin Ice" — definitely the first of many "What the fuck?" moments that will come this afternoon.

They play a host of shimmering soul songs from their album The River In Reverse along with some of Toussaint's other compositions, and I think I'm in love. This is definitely the most inspired collaboration Costello has ever engaged in. Burt Bacharach, who? Costello also has some hard words for the American government, calling them "jackasses" in their dealings with Hurricane Katrina, which swept Toussaint's home out from under him and forced him to retreat to New York City. At one point, Costello brandishes a tiny Dubya statue with the word "KNOB" written beneath it, much to the crowd's delight. By the time he's led the Imposters through a cluster of hits like "Pump It Up" and "Allison," a crowd equivalent in size to the population of Des Moines, Iowa has congregated.

Costello's a pretty tough act to follow, unless you're Beck Hansen. Along with his band, Beck succeeded in not only one-upping Costello, but out-weirding every other performer of the weekend. You may have heard about the events that transpire during the current Beckstravaganza, but I'll attempt to relate them as accurately as possible, considering that he pretty much reduced my mind/temporal reality to tapioca pudding.

As the band open with a blazing rendition of "Devil's Haircut," all eyes turned to the Jumbotron-style screens on either side of the stage to be greeted with the sight of a mini-band of marionettes that were being controlled on a mini-stage by professional puppeteers. Each puppet was styled like a member of the Beck ensemble. This alone sends most of the audience into palpitations, but apparently isn't sufficient for Beck, whose set includes the following:

1)  The introduction of a black-tie wearing percussionist whose sole job during "Black Tambourine" is to bash said tambourine and regale the crowd with some of the dopest nerd-dancing this side of a Spike Jonze video.

2)  A switch to acoustic guitar, during which the band seat themselves at a conveniently placed onstage dinner table, snacking on salad and chatting amongst themselves while their bandleader performs The Flaming Lips' "Do You Realize?" and makes fun of Radiohead.

3) The band interrupt their repast to engage in some serious dish and water-glass percussion, reaching a cacophony that results in a stadium-sized roar from the audience.

4)  The disappearance of the band and the broadcasting of a video starring the puppets, who, through voice-overs from the band themselves, muse on the "hippie smell" and comment on the hairy legs of various females attending the festival.

5)  The reappearance of half the band and two giant suited bears — one of whom displays a suspiciously Beck-like rapping style — who wrestle each other to the ground during "10,000 RPM."

6)  And finally, the onstage emergence of a series of giant boom boxes, each one progressively larger than the other, until the de-costumed Beck declares, "We are going to blow this shit out," and closes the show with "E-Pro."

The sound from the field that follows the band's departure was more or less beyond description.

If it's difficult to describe Beck's contribution to Bonnaroo, then an attempt at properly recounting the Radiohead set is even more futile. From what I've heard about some of their recent shows, there's surprisingly little deviation for this festival outing. The band members' faces are refracted through voyeuristic security camera-styled images onto giant blue-lit shards at the back of the stage. During "There, There," the stage explodes in a flood of red light. For the rest of the time, Thom Yorke and co. are awash in shades of blue and white.

There's no question of the band's proficiency. Every song is note-perfect and, more surprisingly, Radiohead seem pretty damn happy to be here. Even Yorke, whom I've always found to possess an impenetrable stance of twitchy aloofness, is borderline goofy, periodically chirping out "Bonnaroooooo" like an owl on mescaline. The set list surprisingly lacks new material. I was looking forward to finally hearing "Bangers And Mash" live and am disappointed that it isn't played. In contrast, they play almost all of OK Computer, and the second set and two encores are rich with old standbys. Still, it's hard to be grumpy about the sense of communal rapture that comes from 80,000 people singing along to "Fake Plastic Trees" and "The Bends."

I leave three hours later feeling the way I always do after seeing Radiohead. They're the one unifying band of our generation — indestructible and timeless. But I have to admit that these sensations are slightly negated by faint inklings of boredom and emptiness. For the best band in the world, I think they're capable of better.

My friends are exhausted from the day, so I set out myself amidst a sea of hardy post-Radiohead types to check out another legend of New Orleans, Dr. John, in his reincarnated "Night Tripper" persona at Which Stage. The Tripper appears in what can only be described as a giant native headdress replete with horns and some kind of animal pelt draped over his shoulders. As he busts out a set of swirling, trippy blues jams, a beautiful black woman clad in a white robe dances and cavorts around his piano in throes of ecstasy. Fantastic. I lean back with a Budweiser and allow the music to knead my tired muscles.

About halfway through this, I swagger over to the Other Tent to check out yet another gypsy-punk ensemble, Balkan Beat Box, who give'er but are entirely indistinguishable from Devotchka from my burnt-out perspective. Maybe someone can start a gypsy-punk supergroup called Devotchkas In A Bordello Box. Following this, I take in some hula-hoop burlesque performed by an underage girl (yes, there is such a thing) and sword-swallowing from New York's Bindlestiff Family Circus. They are an appropriate opener for the Dresden Dolls, who come out face-painted, corseted and fish-netted. I'm drunk and more than a little exhausted at this point, so I only stay for about 30 minutes. But every song I see the Dolls play, from "Girl Anachronism" to "Backstabber," absolutely brings the house down. They're definitely one of the more offbeat bands playing the festival, and I'm happy to see the tent is full for them. Tired but blissful, I stagger back to the campgrounds, get lost within a myriad of tents and pass out by a fence.