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Deconstructing Rothbury:
By Robert E. Martin & Bo White Photos by Scott Baker & Robert E. Martin Editor’s Note: With the 40th Anniversary of Woodstock approaching this August, it seemed fitting for The Review to partake in the recent 2nd annual ‘Rothbury Festival’ to track the evolution of that effusive piece of real estate not defined by physical boundaries so much as by a spiritual & cultural mindset that Abbie Hoffman and John Sinclair once referred to as ‘Woodstock Nation’. The four-day Music & Arts Festival was held July 2-5th in the sleepy burg of Rothbury, Michigan, about 1 hour north of Holland. With a population of 1,150 and approximately 40,000 people descending upon the Festival Grounds, obviously this event was destined to become more than a music festival, but an elaborate social experiment. Due to space limitations, what follows is a visual and verbal account compiled from each of our impressions. For Scott Baker’s account on the Rothbury Experience and an expanded photo journey please visit our online edition at www.review-mag.com Only in its second year, the Rothbury Festival is gaining a national reputation as one of THE major summer music events in Michigan. With the emphasis on Jam Bands like The Dead and String Cheese Incident and heavy-hitters like Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson, the Festival featured over 60 other established & emerging talents like Flogging Molly, Broken Social Scene, and Son Volt. But mainly, it was an excuse to unwind, party, and explore the parameters of a free-flowing alternative culture for four days of experiential living, free from the borderlines of predictability – which is not to say that physical borderlines such as congestion were not an issue. With eight major camping areas surrounding the three main festival stages, it was easily a three-mile trek to get to the various stages. Basically, the ‘camps’ consisted of vehicles parked next to one another in large fields, with tents pitched next to one’s car and makeshift ‘streets’ quickly forming. Port-a-Potties were plentiful and if one was lucky enough to find a shower, it was $10.00 a pop. The crew camping next to our site drove all the way from Boston and a few cars away a couple of guys drove from Las Vegas. Should one have the time and inclination, a series of Festivals similar to Rothbury were scheduled on almost a weekly basis throughout the 12-weeks of summer from Colorado to the Ozarks. After checking into the media tent for our credentials, and with shows scheduled on the trio of stages from 12:30 PM until the wee-hours of the morning over the four-day duration of the Festival, the true revelations at Rothbury came in the form of the mostly 20-30 year-old-crowd cultivating the Hippie vibe of Peace & Love with flags & banners & workshops on ‘Green Living’ and environmental consciousness, right next door to ATM machines and vehicle checkpoints. By Friday afternoon, a full-fledged underground economy had surfaced. A jewelry dealer in one of the camps playing Hip-Hop jams and taking credit cards, while another dude was selling hot dogs from his makeshift grill. Vendors selling ice at $4.00 a bag and running out in a few hours – indeed, with the economy wallowing, it was easy to see how some of these kids could make a sustainable living migrating from festival to festival over a 12-week period. Even more engaging were the tie-dyed clothes and elaborate outfits worn by many attendees – a couple walking around on stilts; young girls in colorful skirts and neon naked from the waist up covered with elaborate designs of body paint; and yes, elevated into a definitive higher form of consciousness. While drugs were obviously prohibited by festival organizers and vehicle checks at the gate stripped attendees of any glass bottles and large quantities of alcohol, with marijuana now a $36 billion underground industry in the United States and a 4000% increase in use since pot was made illegal in 1937, it stands to reason that more than campfire smoke and sulfur from exploding fireworks shells could be found wafting in the air. On any given night one would be approached by somebody sifting through the masses muttering, ‘mushrooms, opium, coke, acid’ and in the muddy campground free-form capitalism prevailed – everything is for sale and the prices are better than from the licensed vendors – coffee, beer, tacos, omelets, no problem – hash, mollies, Columbian – anything goes. Buy some jewelry and get a free beer & lighter. A caste system seemed to evolve almost immediately– the wealthy and entitled had huge campers and RV’s. Some had back stage passes; the middle class sites were neat and clean with expensive tents and rigging for showers. The ghetto was sleeping bag-on-the-ground dirty. The inhabitants did not bathe and were drinking PBR doing speed and smoking cheap dope. They would stay up all night, never sleeping, greeting the morning red-eyed and incoherent, screaming obscenities and selling anything that was not nailed down. They never seemed to budge from their perch or attend the shows. Guess Peace and Love has a down side. Amongst all the mirth, mire and mayhem, one couldn’t miss it, nor ignore it. One had to walk through it every time one wanted to see a show or use a shower or a portable toilet. It took 30 minutes just to reach the gates to the festival, another 20 minutes to find the stage. It was a good workout and proved to be physically exhausting especially in the relentless summer heat that kindled and sparked throughout Rothbury on July 4th. Shade was at premium and it could only be found in all its cooling glory at Sherwood Forest – truly the remarkable respite of Rothbury. A section of tall pines filled with hammocks, soft music, eco-friendly sculptures, totems, and otherworldly lighting orchestrated by laser beams & computers creating a hallucinatory calm that could be enjoyed in its breathtaking glory without the need of any chemical assistance. Mylar installations were hung throughout the treetops, similar to a Cisko exhibition, and with the midnight lightshows and post-show pre-dawn convergences, wood nymphs could be found dancing throughout the forest wearing day-glo neon headbands and body-art. After burning out on the second of two four-hour sets by The Dead (they did six songs in one hour) and retreating to the hammocks of Sherwood Forest, this was definitely the most unique 4th of July experience registered within memory. Son Volt was one of the musical heroes of the event. The leader Jay Farrar helped ignite the alt-country movement with his band Uncle Tuepelo. His show was a countrified tour-de-force with a big full rockin’ sound provided by the prominent use of pedal steel and lap steel, fiddles and organ. The aural landscape is breathtaking and Farrar’s vocals are strong and central to the mix. Similarly, Broken Social Scene turned in an impressive set, replete with memorable hooks, a full-blown brass section, and a strong synthesis of styles. And the Irish punkers Flogging Molly hands down delivered the most energetic and pumped-up set from the mostly jam-band oriented artists featured at Rothbury. The eagerly anticipated Black Crowes performance drew a big crowd and the opening was electric with a percussive groove like Santana doin’ Soul Sacrifice at Woodstock. Good vibe. The Robinson Brothers are a compelling presence. Chris is a fine soulful singer with good range and brother Rich is an exceptional guitarist (influenced by both Nick Drake and Duane Allman). The Dead ended the night and what a night. The Odeum was packed with barely an empty yard of grass visible underneath the sea of people standing throughout the performance. It was spectacular though it started slowly with a pointless meandering jam that segued into Sugar Magnolia. The myth may be greater than the band but the performance was electrifying. By Sunday, July 5th, things are getting ‘juicy’. Get up at 6am, cold from the overnight chill. Coffee. I need coffee. I’m still dressed shoes and all. I get up and walk toward the sun. As my eyes regain their focus and as I look around I gradually realize that I’m not alone. There must be hundreds of people milling about…maybe a thousand or more – they are roaming the site, most are intoxicated or wired on something. A few young men and women who are holding fresh cans of PBR stop to vomit and continue their aimless driven journey. Several women are squatting out in the open to relieve themselves, portable toilets just a few yards away. Some are talking to themselves; some are singing. Some approach me and begin talking an incomprehensible language. They have been up all night without sleep. There is a group of all night ravers and coma-brain road cannibals pounding congas and loudly chanting, a young woman is straddling a giant inflatable phallus with the inscription “Ice Cold Herpes”. She is dancing somewhat rhythmically, curiously lacking the intended erotic tension. I just look at them and turn away… and pick up my pace. I see these young men and women, not much more than children amble away in red-eyed pursuit of an American illusion - this communal spirit of peace and goodwill. I believe it still exists. But you have to look hard for it… real hard. Toots & the Maytals opened up the day @ 1:45pm. Toots is the cat that coined the term reggae. Toots is a consummate showman who uses every trick in he book – drops names, makes dedications, uses call and response, sing-a-longs, shameless self-promotion, and sincere insincerity directed to the audience e.g., “you are so beautiful you look so marvelous…you make me want to SING”. But he’s the real deal. He has the crowd eating out of his hand with “Reggae Got Soul”, Funky Reggae, and a funked-up reggae-fied version of John Denver’s Country Roads. Willie Nelson is like your favorite old chair. It’s broken-in and comfortable, looks a little ragged but that’s OK. And if you kicked it to the curb, you’d sure miss it. Willie may be past his prime but he’s still a skillful acoustic guitarist and his sister is one of the best pianists in country music. He pleased the crowd with all those great hits - On the Road Again, Whiskey River, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain, Mama Don’t Let your Sons Grow Up to be Cowboys, Always on My Mind and so on. Willie is definitely comfortable in his own skin. He can do country swing, blues and jazz…anything. He just can’t sing like he used to. Listening to Willie is like having a good conversation with an old friend. Let me tell you about Ani Difranco. She is GREAT and wonderful and has energy and spunk and is willing to speak her mind. She also writes fantastic songs based in the new realness with a type of clever lyricism that finds multiple truths through paradox and metaphor. She is a fountain of dialectics that can tease you toward accepted wisdom only to debunk it in her very next breath. She is a new age folky who can talk about politics, power and injustice without flinching. She can be wistful, even melancholy then smash your preconceptions with a wicked sense of humor. She is an expert at kidding in the square – using humor to reveal a deeper truth. She pokes fun at those who find themselves hungry while they’re eating their words. Difranco is a known artist yet still somewhat obscure. She introduced her song “November 8th, 2008” with the rap, “I love Barack Obama. How does someone become Barack Obama? He inspired us to become citizens once again and taught us that a world gone mad can grow sane. You’ve risen like the phoenix.” Truth and political commentary in the same breath…so refreshing, like spiritual altoids. Difranco could just be the new Dylan. Speaking of Dylan…this rock god deserves his name. He is a pioneer bold and gutsy. So what if he went back to his roots - 12 bar blues, jazz and grizzled folk. His set could not possibly have meant much to the thousands of teens and young adults in the crowd. They did not seem to know Dylan nor did they seem care to know him. They wandered up and down the hilly amphitheater talking throughout the show and passing around the hash pipe (generously), grinning knowingly and almost ignoring the music. One day - I can hear it now - they will say to their grandchildren, “Yeah, I saw Dylan…he blew me away”. Dylan’s new songs spoke clearly and plainly about our unspoken primal fears of aging and death and even worse, when age mutilates what we have been. And in his next breathless growl Dylan smashes those wordless spiritual longings to bits. He is not going to limp through life. He is going to dance! Like gazing at a mirrored reflection, I can somehow see myself through Dylan’s hoarse half-spoken truths. Much of his set consisted of recent material from Modern Times, songs like Rollin’ and Tumblin’ Spirit on the Water, and Nettie Moore. And I loved his re-worked version of Tangled Up in Blue. I did not know what to expect of Dylan …is he another past-his-prime pioneer like Willie or a grouchy old dog on his last bark and snarl? Both and neither. As a rock icon on par with the Beatles and the Stones, Dylan is supposed to deliver something wonderful…meaningful. And he did. So here’s to Rothbury - a festival that provided us with a glorious dusty dharma.
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