I’m a week removed from Bonnaroo, and I think I’ve finally regained my hearing, caught up on some much-needed sleep, and scrubbed all of the mud out of my toe-webbing. 

As I write this, it’s Sunday night and I’m being slapped by what a difference seven days make.  Approximately 170 hours ago, I was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Bruce Springsteen backstage at the Neko Case concert; tonight I spent my time disinfecting my dog’s face after he made out with a dead squirrel.  Sigh.

By last Sunday--the final day of the festival--the crowd had thinned considerably, the vendors were debating whether to stay open or go ahead and pack up their batik skirts and bootleg tees, and the entire place had taken on the slightly gamey smell of an abandoned zoo. 

Lineup wise, the schedule was the most schizo of the week, with Ted Leo’s political punk competing against Todd Snider’s Nashville-honed turns of phrase and the delicate folk of Elvis Perkins getting doubly drowned out by the incessant thrashing of Dillinger Escape Plan and shouts of “EVER’BODY SAY HELL YEAH!” coming from Citizen Cope’s set on the Which Stage. 

Later in the afternoon, someone propped 72-year-old Merle Haggard onstage, a dude who illustrates his name better than anyone this side of the Garbage Pail Kids.  Neko Case followed shortly thereafter, with a tight set stacked with songs from her latest, Middle Cyclone.  I admittedly gave less than my full attention to Ms. Case because HOLY CRAP, Bruce Springsteen and his equally handsome, equally underbite-d sons were backstage and I was too busy staring a hole through his sideburns. 

Anyway, after having a few days to reflect on my first Bonnaroo (and making BitchBuzz’s first US festival footprints!), I have a few tips for my fellow festival goers, especially those who are hitting Glastonbury this weekend. 

Basically--and my Tide to Go & I learned this the hard way--you shouldn’t wear white to a rock festival unless you’re David Byrne.  You also shouldn’t wear anything that you don’t want to stain or that you don’t want someone else to stain for you. 

Despite seeing reps from several well-meaning women’s magazines, the idea of “festival fashion” is an oxymoron, for attendees and performers alike.  From my perspective, it was more of a festival free-for-all, as I found myself frequently sandwiched between women in “I Heart Intercourse” tees and more than one dude dressed as a Ghostbuster.  Basically, on the first day everyone looks like the lead singer of an indie rock band, but by day four, they all look like less-lucid versions of Joaquin Phoenix.

The styles of the bands themselves ranged from the natty suits of The Decemberists and Okkervil River to Of Montreal’s body paint and animal masks.  The overall winner, though, had to be Erykah Badu’s Charlie Chaplin meets the Unabomber ensemble. 

The one accessory that everyone agreed on? Rubber wellies, which I wish I’d had the sense to bring with me and a well-meaning trip to Wal-Mart yielded nothing but the frustration of, um, being inside a Wal-Mart.  Thursday’s five inches of rain left the grounds soaked and slippery for several days and after the four hundredth time I had to bend over and extract one flip flop from a puddle, I wished I’d jammed my feet into something more substantial. (Also, do try to avoid getting trench-foot!)

I did manage to bring a packable hooded Gore-Tex jacket which was a lifesaver during the sudden summer thunderstorms on Thursday night.  It also would’ve made a suitable burial garment had the tornadoes that the National Weather Service breathlessly warned us about made an appearance in the press tent. 

You should also score a set of earplugs before you present your ticket at the front gate.  Since there are several shows going on at the same time, every band is trying to be louder than everyone else, at the expense of the audience’s tympanic membranes.  For reals, if you’ll be hitting five or six (or 11 or 12) shows a day, this is crucial.

I bought a pair of reusable ones from Etymotic Research that fit snugly in my head without having to be mashed and mangled or jammed into my ears like I’m trying to stuff a turkey.  They’re designed for musicians, so you can still hear everything from the beats to the between-song banter without walking out of the tent feeling like you’ve been kicked in the skull. 

Finally, in addition to other essentials like anti-bacterial hand wipes, sunglasses, and Tylenol, stuff a wad of toilet paper in your pockets or your purse.  Even though Glastonbury kindly offers free loo rolls at the Information Points, that doesn’t help when you’re squatting in one of their trademark “long drop” stalls and don’t have a viable wiping option. 

My only other tip is to start drinking early.  No, not any beverages that sponsor a football team.  Start pounding water before you get roasted by the sun (or wallow through the mud) and try to alternate adult beverages with H2O throughout the day.  It’ll make a difference when you’re endlessly hoofing from one side of the map to the other, especially if you plan on dancing your way through the lineups on the John Peel stage. 

Oh, and if you see festival headliner Bruce Springsteen, tell him the mud-covered girl who stared at him for two hours in Tennessee said hello.