by Sean Maloney
Early word in the press tent was that Kanye West disappointed the 'Roo crew with an untimely, five-o-clock-in-the-fucking-morning set. Rumors were rampant: The patchouli-and-devil-stick contingent were pretty sure that Kanye had conspired to cut Phil Lesh's set short, and the pinkos were convinced that he was chilling with Obama. But more likely than not it just took a while to set up that crazy stage.
Whatever the reason, he played almost two-and-half hours after his already rescheduled slot, and the kids were pissed. But he's Kanye, and he gets to do whatever he wants. That dude drops hits more often than some of these people take showers. Seeing him play "Jesus Walks" as the sun came up over Coffee County was almost enough to make a heathen like me consider almost believin' in some sort of higher power. (And when I say "higher" I don't mean...oh, you know what I mean.) I guess calling it a religious experience is pretty redundant, but my brain is goo and I can't think of any other adjectives.
The rest of Saturday was pretty much par for the course: Chromeo were rockin', Sigur Ros was boring and The Coup's performance was so badass I'm going write a whole post about them once this fucking hangover wears off. I started the day with Red Bull and whiskey at 10 in the morning and 24 hours later I got to squeeze in a drunken disco nap on the press tent couch. There isn't enough aspirin in the world right now to make my head stop thumping.
To the genius that introduced me to the free booze tent behind the porta-potties, next to the buses and the radio station: Good lookin' out. Thanks. My liver loathes you.