I’m currently reading Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, which was written by James Agee in 1936 and chronicles his experiences with the white tenant farmers of the South. It’s anthropology, but Agee is such a flat-out amazing writer that he’s doing a lot more than just making dry observations. I was particularly struck by this passage, where he describes a performance by a trio of black sharecroppers who are on their way to church when they’re collared into singing for Agee and his partner, photographer Walker Evans, by the landowner they work for:

“It was as I had expected, not in the mellow and euphonious Fisk Quartette style, but in the style I have heard on records by Mitchell’s Christian Singers, jagged, tortured, stony, accented as if by hammers and cold chisels, full of nearly paralyzing vitality and iteration of rhythm, the harmonies constantly splitting the nerves; so that of western music the nearest approach to its austerity is in the first two centuries of polyphony. But here it was entirely instinctual; it tore itself like a dance of sped plants out of the three young men who stood sunk to their throats in land, and whose eyes were neither shut not looking at anything; the screeching young tenor, the baritone, stridulant

in the height of his register, his throat tight as a fist, and the bass, rolling the iron wheels of his machinery, his hand clenching and loosening as he tightened and relaxed against the spraining of his ellipses: and they were abruptly silent; totally wooden; while the landowner smiled coldly. There was nothing to say. I looked them in the eyes with full and open respect and said, that was fine. Have you got time to sing us another?

\”Rosie\”

“Their heads and their glances collected toward a common center, and restored, and they sang us another, a slow one this time; I had a feeling, through their silence before entering it, that it was their favorite and their particular pride; the tenor lifted out his voice alone in a long, plorative line that hung like fire on heaven, or whistle’s echo, sinking, sunken, along descents of a modality I had not heard before, and sank along the arms and breast of the bass as might a body sunken from a cross; and the baritone lifted a long black line of comment; and they ran in a long and slow motion and convolution of rolling as at the bottom of a stormy sea, voice meeting voice as ships in a dream, retreated, met once more, much woven, digressions and returns of time, quite tuneless, the bass, over and over, approaching, drooping, the same declivity, the baritone taking over, a sort of metacenter, murmuring along monotones between major and minor, nor in any determinable key, the tenor winding up like a horn, a wire, the flight of a bird, almost in full declamation, then failing it, silencing; at length enlarging, the others lifting, now, alone, lone, and largely, questioning, alone and not sustained, in the middle of space, stopped; and now resumed, sunken upon the bosom of the bass, the head declined; both muted, droned; the baritone makes his comment, unresolved, that is a question, all on one note: and they are quiet, and do not look at us, nor at anything.”

Now that song in the middle there is not the song they’re singing, but it was the song that immediately came to mind when I read this description. It’s from Alan Lomax’s recordings at Parchman Farm, a prison, from 1947-48, so a good decade after these words were written. Agee’s just flat-out great. I really recommend anything he’s done.

Do me a favor and watch this video, or at least as much as you can stand.

Good. Now Avril Lavigne’s been pretty much reprehensible as an artist from the get-go, what with her faux-punk posture, Hot Topic fashion, and terrible songs. And I don’t even really care whether she’s punk or not, which seems to be what most discussions about her on the Interweb focus on. Whether you consider punk a lifestyle, a fashion, an ethos, what’s really atrocious about Lavigne is the disgusting way she packages bullshit and sells it to pre-teens.

“Sk8er Boi” was bad enough with its straight-out-of-Hollywood storyline about seeing the real value in someone—at least as long as that value is sticking with a boy until he becomes a hot rockstar. The central idea of the song is not that people should be valued for who they are, but rather that nerds might one day be famous, so stick with them because then you’ll be rich and famous, too.

But that was nothing compared to “Girlfriend,” which strives to be bubblegum pop but comes off more like those sticky black dots on the sidewalk that used to be gum. The song is straight garbage, a cheerleader-retread of The Pussycat Dolls’ “Don’t Cha” for the teen set. A song about being a vindictive, backstabbing, man-stealing slut is just pandering to the lowest common denominator of teen girlhood, and it’s a shame to see yet another reinforcement of the idea that relationships are competitions—that it’s all a matter of who’s better. You can see it played out on Jerry Springer any day of the week, but those people actually believe it, whereas Lavigne, Inc. is just preying on that fact to sell records.

But the video. The video is what really messed me up because in it, Lavigne plays three roles: The blonde alterna-cheerleader, the raven-haired tough girl, and the red-haired librarian-in-training who gets the shit kicked out of her. So the message of the song is shallow, but the message of the video is deep: To get the man you want, all you have to do is put on the right costume and crush the undesirable you, the one who just happens to be wearing glasses. Because what guys want is the blonde cheerleader or the vampy goth chick, and nice girls don’t have a shot. For putting out an image that’s so non-conformist, Lavigne sure seems interested in selling you a bill of goods that comes with an approved set of makeup, outfits, and hair dye so you can be just like everyone else.

And I know I’m late to this party, what with all the controversy already over her perhaps plagiarizing the song from The Rubinoos’ “I Want to Be Your Boyfriend,” but what can I say? The video’s on nearly endless repeat at the gym.

Alison Krauss and Robert Plant

“Kanye sucks!” was the chant started by the crowd. Several concertgoers wore what seemed to be freshly tie-dyed t-shirts, “Screw You Kanye” printed on the back. I can’t believe that this sort of anger is typical of fans of the folk team led by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss.

Playing on the same stage where about twelve hours previous the most underwhelming, disappointing, angering show of the festival took place, Plant and Krauss settled the crowd, their music bringing back the hippyish jive of Bonnaroo. By now exhausted from three full days of headbanging (Metallica), crumping (Lupé Fiasco), raving (the Disco Biscuits), and ranting (Kanye), much of the crowd sat cross-legged, smoking their, um, cigarettes and passively letting the music come to them.

The set was a much-needed sedative, a solid way to bring about the somewhat more relaxed final night of Bonnaroo. For a couple hours Krauss and Plant didn’t so much rock the audience as cajole it. Though they were the quietest act to play the main stage, by no means were they the least engaging. Fans chanted along to the songs they knew and nodded happily to the ones they didn’t. As the concert progressed, the sun went down and a merciful breeze slowly cooled what had been a day of unavoidable, ninety-degree heat.

‘Denouement’ is the word, I think. The end that isn’t quite the end, but which brings about the ultimate conclusion. Krauss and Plant provided exactly this, whetting our appetites for more music that evening, but readying us for the final end of the festival.

Derek Trucks and Susan Tedeschi’s Soul Stew Revival
Derek Trucks is Johnny Lang on steroids. He plays his guitar quickly and effortlessly as a heavily caffeinated person might drum his fingers on a table. Except that he’s a virtuoso, conjuring sexy riffs instead of dull nervous thuds.

Though certainly proficient, the ten-odd piece band behind him was negligible. There were two full drum sets, a guy on maracas, singers, back-up singers, back-up guitars and so on. But they were the candles to Trucks’s birthday cake. And everyone knew it. Each completed song received its obligatory applause, but the crowd was wildest mid-piece, whenever Trucks completed his requisite guitar solo.

Like Johnny Lang, Trucks has reserved his talent for that impressive but under-attended musical genre – blues. It seems, though, that Trucks has no interest in hit singles, or any sort of recognition whatsoever. He came on stage in a non-descript button-down flannel shirt, and spent most of the set with his shoulders hunched, hiding slightly behind his long, blond hair. Not once did he step in front of a microphone to sing, instead letting other members of his group lead the songs. No – I’m convinced that all Trucks wants to do is play his guitar. Thankfully, he does.

Death Cab for Cutie
Like Vampire Weekend a few evenings prior, Death Cab for Cutie put on a surprisingly conventional set at Bonnaroo on Sunday night. Maybe ‘surprisingly conventional’ is a poor term. I think that really, at heart, these are conventional bands. By which I absolutely do not mean they are boring bands. Rather, they are groups solid on their fundamentals, but with not a lot in the way of flare. They’re kind of like the Detroit Pistons of pop. Maybe it’s the sheer size and enthusiasm of their respective (if overlapping) fan bases that suggest something unusual is going on in their music. At heart, though, these are well-practiced bands that turn out solid music and put on solid shows – just without very many surprises.

So yeah, Death Cab played a restrained, well-paced set, with the typical hit songs (”I Will Possess Your Heart,” “Crooked Teeth”) thrown in, but not highlighted.

As previously mentioned, after four days of romping, the masses at the festival were clearly by now a bit tired. It was more like the audience was appreciating the music than connecting with it.

Widespread Panic
Widespread Panic was the only headlining act enlisted this year that had anything to do with Bonnaroo’s roots as a jam-band festival. Which is not to say that Bonnaroo hasn’t strayed before, signing on acts like Radiohead or The Police for the main stage in previous years. This diversity is of course a good – a great – thing. But for this year’s festival, perhaps feeling the competition from other festivals like Coachella and SXSW, it seems a concerted (no pun intended) effort was made to bring in big names that might be a bit incongruent with Bonnaroo’s general vibe. There were Metallica, Pearl Jam, and Kanye West. Widespread Panic weren’t even announced until about a month before the show. Maybe strangest of all was that their show had the smallest draw (though less people actually saw Kanye, more people showed up initially).

Wanting to beat the traffic rush home, many ‘Rooers had already packed their tents and left the farm before Widespread Panic took the stage Sunday night. Nevertheless, I have to believe that in years past WP would have been a can’t-miss show. Maybe the overall aura of Bonnaroo is changing – there’s something disconcerting about seeing kids in tie-dye shirts and dirty dredlocks drinking Milwaukee’s Best. It’s as if the festival has been handed down from hippies to faux-hippies, college kids that revel in Phil Lesh and Friends, but don’t know a single song by the Grateful Dead.

As for the set itself, it was a jam session. Widespread Panic took the album-length versions of their songs and elongated them two or three times over. “Up All Night” and “Ain’t Life Grand“ figured as the overall favorites, I think. The lights were synchronized to the music, and the large screens on either side of the stage highlighted John Bell’s intricate finger work on his guitar.

But the crowd did seem a little listless…distracted…impatient. Maybe it was the imminent multi-hour drives that most people would have to endure the next day (or that night), or maybe it was exhaustion, but several groups filed out before Widespread Panic was even halfway done. One can’t help but to notice the symbolism – one of the only true, old school jam bands to play the festival was one of the most shrugged off performances. As they exited the stage to mild cheers, one wondered if it might be their last time in Manchester.

“Man, fuck that fucking asshole Kanye West,” said White Dude with Dred Locks. It was about 4:30 am, and, like many others who’d shown up at Bonnaroo’s main stage late Saturday night, he was leaving without having witnessed a performance. Precisely at that moment (which was, as noted, at approximately 4:30), the lights went out on the stage, which by now was about half a mile away, and Kanye’s show began. WDDL let out a resigned, “Aw, fuck,” – and then walked back to the show.

This seems indicative of Mr. West’s career – there’s something irresistible about him, something which draws listeners despite their misgivings about the producer/rap star. I am and I know many people that like him more as a novelty than as an actual artist, but who all the same would never turn off his song if it came on the radio.

Originally scheduled for a prime-time show, a few days before the festival his set had been switched to a 2:45 am start time, in order “to allow Kanye to fully present his critically acclaimed ‘Glow In the Dark’ show,” read the email sent out to concertgoers. At 2:45, the two giant screens on either side of the main stage said that the show had been pushed back to 3:00; at 3:00, it was pushed back to 3:15; at 3:15, to 3:30; and after 3:30, the screens just said, “Coming Up Next: Kanye West.”

It wasn’t until about half-past four that he actually took the stage. Nevertheless, over ten thousand fans stuck around to hear the guy. Reportedly…I wasn’t one of them. Typically I don’t have a problem with waiting for rap artists to perform. It’s just part of the game at this point, I think – I waited a couple hours to hear the Wu-Tang Clan last winter, and have endured mysteriously long and remarkable pauses at shows by The Roots and Outkast. But the wait for Kanye was different. It transcended into the realm of condescension.

First of all, the fifteen-minute delays were simply insulting. We could see the tech people on stage setting up, and could see that the set wasn’t nearly close to being finished. Then there were the underhanded slaps in the face. On a separate stage, Talib Kweli was performing from 2:15-3:00, and after him Chali 2na of Jurassic 5. I’m fans of both, and by the time four o’clock rolled around I regretted not having caught their shows. Exacerbating this, though, was the fact that Talib and J-5’s recorded songs were being played as the pre-show music at Kanye’s venue. “I could have seen this live,” I kept saying to myself.

At 4:15 it appeared as if the tech crew was making no progress, and I headed back to my tent. I didn’t turn around, though, when the riff for “Stronger” started emanating through the atmosphere. I have my limits for novelty acts – it’s one thing to be a couple hours late, it’s another to be a couple hours late when the start time is 2:45 am. If you’d like a formal review of the show, you can find it here – it’s probably much better-written than anything I could have done even if I had caught the performance.

It appears that under the aegis of hip hop diva Kanye West, fellow Chicago rapper Lupé Fiasco is learning how to perform. About a year ago, shortly before the release of his latest album The Cool, I was able to see Mr. Fiasco play as a mid-act artist at a Roots concert. Maybe it was simply because he was sandwiched between two sets by one of the greatest all-time live rap bands, or maybe because his hit single “Superstar” hadn’t yet become ubiquitous, but Lupé seemed tentative at the time, unable to control the crowd or the stage.

This summer he’s touring as an opener on Kanye’s “Glow in the Dark” tour. “There is a new yardstick for the size of the universe,” Jon Pareles wrote of the tour for The New York Times. “It is approximately equal to the size of Kanye West’s ego.” He went on to write that West’s cocky demeanor may be the key to his success as a performer.

Whether he’s picked up tips from West or not, Lupé played a confident, charismatic set Saturday night at Bonnaroo, leading the crowd in sing-alongs of his own songs. Mixing equally from The Cool and his first album Food and Liquor, Mr. Fiasco pranced back and forth across the stage, supported by a seven-piece band (not including the various back-up singers that emerged throughout the night, including Minneapolis native Matt Santos).

His interludes were a little too talky, as he spent a bit much time introducing each song in some clever way, but once he got to the actual music he thrived. Fiasco and a hype man criss-crossed on stage, shouting lyrics and trading chest bumps. The energy level remained high – and not in the drug-induced way of so many nighttime Bonnaroo concerts.

Most impressive, though, was Lupé’s trust in the crowd. It’s rare, I think – at least in mainstream hip-hop – to see such a young performer twist and tweak his songs so vastly in concert. Usually the impulse is to win over crowds by playing them what they know, how they know it. But renditions of “Kick, Push,” “Daydreamin’,” and “Superstar” were satisfyingly broken down, elongated, and improvised upon. It always adds a fresh touch to a show when an artist is willing and able to rearrange even his most standard songs, and it seems Lupé grasps the necessity of rejuvenation, making him one of the most promising acts out there today.