Whether it's your first Bonnaroo or you’re a music festival veteran, we welcome you to Inforoo.
Here you'll find info about artists, rumors, camping tips, and the infamous Roo Clues. Have a look around then create an account and join in the fun. See you at Bonnaroo!!
Response from Coachella info ppl about swapping shuttle for camping(or just adding camping to my existing order).
"They are not sold separately nor valid unless used in conjunction with a festival pass from the same order. You'd have to buy a festival pass/camping spot together. If there are any left when passes go on sale next year."
I'll just grab a room and look for ppl to split with.
Another life taken too early by the scoopz game. Shine on you crazy diamond.
NEW JERSEY - Some time around daybreak.
Launchpad McQuack wandered around his opulent, magnificently appointed yet desolate penthouse. He had been so close. Almost had it all! Festival Snob, Festival Owl...mere pretenders, frauds! It was HIS information, his festival scoops! For years, he sat on the sidelines and watched as these modern Aristippuses basked in the glory of his hard work. HE was the one with the connections, HE was the one with the knowledge, yet he was forced to watch as others were welcomed into a lifestyle of almost unimaginable hedonistic pleasures simply from stealing his information and making it public. Well, this was his chance. He alone knew that LCD Soundsystem was reuniting. He alone knew that Coachella was going to book Guns N' Roses for a headlining act. This time, HE would be the one to control the information.
And it had almost worked. For a brief time, HE was king. The money, the fame, the power, and the women...oh yes, Launchpad stroked his perfectly manicured chinstrap beard as he reminisced on all the nubile festival waifs who had practically broken down his door in an orgiastic frenzy, clawing, kicking and biting one another in an attempt to reach him. "Oh Launchpad, tell us more about how Panorama will destroy the New York festival scene!" they cooed. "My dears, wouldn't you rather hear about who might play GOVERNOR'S BALL this year?" he'd replied. The ensuing coitus bordered on violence and nearly left him a cripple. But now...all gone. Like Icarus of old, Launchpad had grown too bold, and flown too close to the sun. All because of Consequence of Sound, and it's devilish handyman, the Festival Snob. Launchpad started by simply confiding in a few select persons, but soon realized that this did nothing to advance his stature. What did it matter if only a few people knew his genius? From where would the accolades come? So, he expanded his inner circle. Relished in the attention. Soon, he had a cadre of more than 40 confidants, all of whom disseminated his information, while praising his vision, his insight, his connections. And for a while, he was close to Godhood.
But then...THEN! That bastard Festival Snob, playing at Judas, ran to his corporate masters with the LCD scoop. And overnight, it all simply...disappeared. A hurried headline, feverish denials...and now, the glory and infamy belonged to Consequence of Sound, and that disgusting worm Alex Young. To make matters worse, Launchpad's sources, dismayed at the attention the matter received, cut him off. He left messages at the usual drop, stood on his rooftop and flashed the signal to the East three times, requesting a meeting...but nothing. He was alone now. The scoops had dried up. The money? Gone. The fame? He'd be lucky if he wasn't pelted with eggs and rotten tomatoes while walking through the streets.
Slumping on the floor, Launchpad took out a carving knife, and began to thrust it aimlessly into the air. He suddenly realized that he had been muttering the same words, over and over again, for lo these last few hours. "Festival Snob....Consequence of Sound....Festival Snob...Consequence of Sound...." He paused, and looked at the knife in his hands. Yes. He knew what must be done. They would know his name.
1000 miles to the West, the lumbering creature stirred in his bed, his arms draped around two comely maidens, their hands resting on his generous midsection. He felt it - the disturbance. Festival Snob, moving swiftly and surprisingly dextrously for someone of his size, climbed out of bed. Though the many bottled of Armand de Brignac from the evening before should have left him groggy, he had never felt so alive. He stared out his bay windows, to the sun rising in the East. "Launchpad," he whispered. "Let him come," he continued, taking an ornate katana down from the wall. "A pretender to the throne. I, and only I, know that THE CURE is headlining Bonnaroo." He tilted his head back and laughed, a shocking, Godless sound which frightened the maidens awake. "Nothing to fear, my dears," he assured them. "I will keep you safe from the coming storm."
Launchpad McQuack wandered around his opulent, magnificently appointed yet desolate penthouse. He had been so close. Almost had it all! Festival Snob, Festival Owl...mere pretenders, frauds! It was HIS information, his festival scoops! For years, he sat on the sidelines and watched as these modern Aristippuses basked in the glory of his hard work. HE was the one with the connections, HE was the one with the knowledge, yet he was forced to watch as others were welcomed into a lifestyle of almost unimaginable hedonistic pleasures simply from stealing his information and making it public. Well, this was his chance. He alone knew that LCD Soundsystem was reuniting. He alone knew that Coachella was going to book Guns N' Roses for a headlining act. This time, HE would be the one to control the information.
And it had almost worked. For a brief time, HE was king. The money, the fame, the power, and the women...oh yes, Launchpad stroked his perfectly manicured chinstrap beard as he reminisced on all the nubile festival waifs who had practically broken down his door in an orgiastic frenzy, clawing, kicking and biting one another in an attempt to reach him. "Oh Launchpad, tell us more about how Panorama will destroy the New York festival scene!" they cooed. "My dears, wouldn't you rather hear about who might play GOVERNOR'S BALL this year?" he'd replied. The ensuing coitus bordered on violence and nearly left him a cripple. But now...all gone. Like Icarus of old, Launchpad had grown too bold, and flown too close to the sun. All because of Consequence of Sound, and it's devilish handyman, the Festival Snob. Launchpad started by simply confiding in a few select persons, but soon realized that this did nothing to advance his stature. What did it matter if only a few people knew his genius? From where would the accolades come? So, he expanded his inner circle. Relished in the attention. Soon, he had a cadre of more than 40 confidants, all of whom disseminated his information, while praising his vision, his insight, his connections. And for a while, he was close to Godhood.
But then...THEN! That bastard Festival Snob, playing at Judas, ran to his corporate masters with the LCD scoop. And overnight, it all simply...disappeared. A hurried headline, feverish denials...and now, the glory and infamy belonged to Consequence of Sound, and that disgusting worm Alex Young. To make matters worse, Launchpad's sources, dismayed at the attention the matter received, cut him off. He left messages at the usual drop, stood on his rooftop and flashed the signal to the East three times, requesting a meeting...but nothing. He was alone now. The scoops had dried up. The money? Gone. The fame? He'd be lucky if he wasn't pelted with eggs and rotten tomatoes while walking through the streets.
Slumping on the floor, Launchpad took out a carving knife, and began to thrust it aimlessly into the air. He suddenly realized that he had been muttering the same words, over and over again, for lo these last few hours. "Festival Snob....Consequence of Sound....Festival Snob...Consequence of Sound...." He paused, and looked at the knife in his hands. Yes. He knew what must be done. They would know his name.
1000 miles to the West, the lumbering creature stirred in his bed, his arms draped around two comely maidens, their hands resting on his generous midsection. He felt it - the disturbance. Festival Snob, moving swiftly and surprisingly dextrously for someone of his size, climbed out of bed. Though the many bottled of Armand de Brignac from the evening before should have left him groggy, he had never felt so alive. He stared out his bay windows, to the sun rising in the East. "Launchpad," he whispered. "Let him come," he continued, taking an ornate katana down from the wall. "A pretender to the throne. I, and only I, know that THE CURE is headlining Bonnaroo." He tilted his head back and laughed, a shocking, Godless sound which frightened the maidens awake. "Nothing to fear, my dears," he assured them. "I will keep you safe from the coming storm."
Why don't you publish a short story?
Thank you for quoting that. I would've hated to miss it.
Truly went out in fashion while he was at the top of the game. We've lost two great members in very little time, but they'll be back... Hopefully
What the hell are you talking about?
I see you are new around here. Don't forget to bring an ez up and goldbond to your first bonnaroo. don't be afraid to reach out and speak everyone at bonnaroo is your friend! god bless brother.
I see you are new around here. Don't forget to bring an ez up and goldbond to your first bonnaroo. don't be afraid to reach out and speak everyone at bonnaroo is your friend! god bless brother.
Unfortunately 21 Pilots seem even more likely now since they have no LA show on their summer tour that was announced today. Also how is band playing arenas and sheds now?
Unfortunately 21 Pilots seem even more likely now since they have no LA show on their summer tour that was announced today. Also how is band playing arenas and sheds now?
Eh, the rumors list right now is 10-15 bands, all of them are solid or flat out awesome except 21 Pilots. I can live with that.