Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts
By Alyce Wilson
We made it to the Philadelphia Folk Fest a bit later on Sunday, with the idea of getting there in time for the evening concert.
When we walked into the festival grounds, everyone was standing at the top of the hill, with their tarps and chairs, waiting.
Now, we'd learned yesterday about their odd habit of clearing the entire festival area between the daytime activities and the evening concert, but only secondhand.
As we'd been leaving on Saturday to go grab dinner, we'd seen a bunch of people sitting behind a taped off area, outside the main gate.
"Were you bad?" I asked them. "Are you in detention?"
A bearded guy who looked a little like Michael Keaton answered me. "No, we're waiting to go back in, after they clear the area." There's a lot of men at the folk fest who look like Michael Keaton.
And Saturday night, at the end of the day, we'd seen a funny montage somebody put together of people racing into the fairgrounds with tarps and chairs, set to the William Tell Overture. They looked ridiculous, and it left a funny feeling in my stomach. I shouted, "This is what you look like! Don't do this tomorrow!"
But my warnings had been in vain. At the signal, they poured down over the hill, grabbing the "best spots," setting up their tarps and deck chairs and coolers and sun umbrellas. My sister and I, who were just buying iced cappuccinos, sipped them and said, "Damn. Look at that." Tsk-tsk.
After the stampede had ended, we meandered back to the area, off the right side of the stage, where we'd ended up the last two nights. We found a decent spot, put down our tarp and listened to the end of a jam session between Freebo, Mark Erelli and Disappear Fear.
The people watching was ripe where we were, located at the exact end of one of the "aisles" the folk fest organizers had marked with yellow tape. One of our favorites was The Cowgirl. She was about six foot tall and wore black jeans, a black vest and a black hat, her long black hair spilling down her back. The first time I'd seen her had been in the dark; she'd been leaning against a fence post, facing away.
"Look at that cowboy," I'd said to my sister.
"That's a cowgirl," she'd informed me.
In the daylight, she was using the alleyway as her catwalk, strutting back and forth. All of our friends, male and female, agreed that she was fun to watch.
The first act on the main stage was April Verch, a fiddler who also turns a mean clogging step. My sister and I were on our feet to the danceable music, bopping back and forth like we had the previous two nights, when a loose amalgamation of young and old folks had made our section the "dancing section."
"Down in front!" I heard. No, that wasn't possible.
"Down in front!" You've got to be kidding me.
The middle aged women standing next to us shared a look of bemused scorn, one of them mumbling under her breath as she sat down about how some people needed to get the bug out of their butt. We commiserated with them, lashing out at what we felt was the uptight feel of the festival.
One of the women was busy pointing out men for the other one: always bearded, gruff looking types. Then she would collapse in giggles as her friend shook her head and said, "No."
"You don't want that one," we agreed when they pointed at one middle aged guy with a lobster tan and long gray hair. "He's the one who asked us for a group hug last night after the BeauSoleil concert and then asked us, 'So, are you two... good friends?'"
"We're sisters."
"Even better." Ewwww!
After we sat down we couldn't see April's fancy footwork, because it was still too light for the projection screens on which they usually project live video of the performers. Still, we gave her a dancing smiley face.
Next up was Bob Franke. He got a neutral smiley. To be honest, by the time we marked him down, neither of us could remember him. But this might have coincided with running into my friend who had told us about the folk festival. He'd been volunteering at the festival all weekend but we hadn't yet seen him. He was wearing a straw hat and seemed nervous about it. "It's not me, is it?" he asked.
"It looks fine." He needed it, too. The sun had given him a face full of freckles.
I found out after he left that I'd had a piece of portabella on my teeth the entire time I'd been talking to him. Oh, well. What are old friends for if not to ignore a piece of portabella on your teeth?
Disappear Fear and John Gorka both evoked smiley faces. Disappear Fear was a modern folk act, with plenty of harmonies. John Gorka was good, old-time Sixties brand folk.
Pinmonkey was a half-frown. They were a touch of bluegrass, but not quite enough to make them interesting. We did some wondering of the festival grounds, running into one of my sister's best friends from high school, who was there with her new girlfriend and also with her ex-girlfriend and her new girlfriend. The four of them were hanging out at some cafe tables, smoking and trying to look cool. We invited them to join us at our tarp.
Partway through Kathleen Edwards, another friend drifted by. This friend, who was wearing a long hippie skirt and whose distinctive messed up dreads were tied up, medusa-like, on back of his head, was someone we'd been talking about earlier in the weekend, my sister having just developed an old roll of film with him on it. He'd just found his way to the folk festival an hour ago, and was happy to join us and sit with old friends.
Kathleen Edwards got a smile for her music and a frown for her cocky attitude, saying things like, "I notice I'm the only musician who brought amps. It's not a folk festival now, is it?" Shortly after she said this and tore into what she thought was a rocking tune, I saw a little boy walk by, holding his ears.
The Nields, who came next, were playing when my sister's friends finally made their way to our tarp. Even though our tarp was on the small side, we all managed to find a spot. Of course, it was easier given that there were two couples among us who cuddled up and took up less collective space.
One friend borrowed my sewing kit to alter her pants. She'd hemmed them up to the knee to show off her new tattoo (a naked woman with a belly that looked like the earth), and now that it was getting cold, she wanted them to be true pants again.
The Nields quickly won us over. They were a sister act and had some amazing songs, filled with humor. One of our favorites was a song about "the enemy called pants," where they held up some striped children's pants and one of the musicians told us how much her daughter hated wearing them and yet, at her age, was incapable of giving voice to her true feelings. Hence, the song.
That song alone contributed to their score: two and a half smileys.
There was an air of anticipation as they broke down the stage and prepared for Ani DiFranco. For once, they didn't make any announcements or fill in with music. Just thousands of people, humming excitedly.
And then, she ran out onto the stage, wearing an olive tank top, her hair in long dreads. Just her and a guitar, but she filled up the stage with her presence. Amazing.
To put it simply, I was awed. She's not only an amazing songwriter, spilling raw truth, but she's an energetic performer who takes risks with her guitar playing, such as hitting an off-key note to underscore a point. She was a storyteller, a poet, a goddess of song.
"We love you!" I screamed between songs.
At one point, she complained about how "It seems like you're all way out there and I'm right here." I knew what she meant. The reserved seating section was, well, reserved compared to the whoops and laughter coming from the rest of the hillside. "But we're all here, right?" she asked. It's all good.
There are no smiles large enough to describe that experience.
Afterwards, we bid our friends good-bye with hugs and waited in a huge line (more like a mass) to wait for the Magic Bus to return us to the outside world. A kitchen worker walked around with a tray, handing out slices of juicy tomato which, he said, were just going to get thrown out.
A man who looked nothing at all like Michael Keaton walked up the side of the crowd shouting, "Who doesn't want to go home?" I think he was planning to stage a sit-in, gathering everyone who said yes and camping out on the grounds until next year.
It sounds like a great idea, until you realize you'd have people yelling at you the whole time to get down in front.
More
Folk Festival Fun:
August 23, 2003 - Folkfest Fun
August 24, 2003 - Folk Needs Funk
Moral:
Don't let anyone ruin your fun.
Copyright
2003 by Alyce Wilson
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