FOLK ONE, FOLK ALL
The last day of April. Somewhere outside of the Twin Cities. The sun was shining and the weather’s boring. I was on my way to the 2004 Minnesota Folk Festival, an immaculate beacon of hope amidst a series of self-destructive, world-loathing summer festivals.
The origins stem all the way back to the beginnings of time. An era the elders refer to as the Sixties. An age when all was cool and rebellious, even a bunch of sissy folkers. In fact, they were regarded by many as prophets of a new age, leading this lot to believe in such Hare Krishna nonsense and holding an annual folk festival to worship the likes of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. Not to say there’s anything wrong with that. Per se.
And although the general idea of the festival didn’t appeal to me, what awaited me was something entirely ridiculous.
As I drove over the tall, steel bridge into Hastings, I experienced the atmosphere do a full 180 degree turn from big city life to rural madness. The road through town was filled with treacherous farmers, stopping into town to pick up some toilet paper. These were the type of people who’d just assume shoot you and shove you into the manure as smell you’re city blood. These people were not to be trusted and, as such, I stayed inside my car and zipped through town at nearly 80 mph the whole way.
Once outside the river city, I kept the long trip at bay with smokables. My destination was the Little Log House Showgrounds, where I was to judge a songwriting contest. 32 people from 9 different states were participating. The prize was 12 free hours of recording time in Minneapolis’s Source Emission Studios. For the next two days, these silver banshees of the folk community would battle it out for the sake of the good ol’ days.
The road wound to and fro until finally I found myself in a large field of dandelions, stretched far as the world. They flowed over the rolling Minnesota hills deep into the blue yonder. It was a remarkable sight. The perfect place for a festival.
I parked my truck in the field and staggered out into the fresh morning air. A breeze gave me a stir.
I talked my way through the entrance and proceeded into the showgrounds. This is where everything became surreal. This wasn’t a mere showgrounds by any traditional stretch of the imagination. Oh, there was a horse rink with bleachers and the like, but beyond that, there was a schoolhouse, a pond, a train depot. Model T’s, a 50’s era gas station, old farm equipment. A frontier post office, sherriff’s office, and doctor’s office. It was like something straight out of a bad film.
The owner, apparently, purchases buildings that are going to be torn down and moves them, brick by brick to his backyard. Eventually he built this entire town.
Beats what some people do with the money.
I wandered down to the vendor area. The usual group of cowards and superstitious rejects were there. The Celtic enthusiasts, the beer drinkers, the rib eaters, the coffee drinkers. Everyone of importance was represented, pushing their out of date hippie wears on the unsuspecting public. I did notice that there were no pipe sellers.
Nonetheless, I retired back to my truck and poked a couple. Now, I was ready for drink.
I procured my complimentary drink tickets by telling the vending lady that there was a giant spider in her hair and made my way to the beer trailer.
A rough looking man in his early fifties served me up some swill Milwaukee brew and I thanked him with a scowl.
Suddenly, 3 very large men, all looking like Dom Delouse, escorted me to a new form of hell: the songwriting contest. Here, I was forced to endure four and a half hours of hillbilly guitar playing. Sometimes they’d augment their sound with a banjo or flute or mouth organ, but usually it was just the pulsating twang of the country geetar.
This boring and sometimes erratic niche in the sonic disruption we know a music industry was so finite, so ludicrously small, that the people involved were oblivious to the realities of the changing world. The only thing they understood was that the year was sometime after 1974 and after all the pot settled, they could play an instrument.
Some brief glimmers of hope emerged. A fellow from Brooklyn, New York by the name of Ned Massey stunned the audience with a blend of Irish drinking songs and pop country. A Minneapolis native simply named Ellis brought a jazzy twinge to the fray with her pro-lesbian innuendo. But far and away the best performer of the day was a sharp-looking yuppie from Santa Fe, New Mexico named Jaime Michaels. His song “Lavender Moon,” made the audience stand up and cheer, almost giving one old man a massive coronary.
Finally, after I began gnawing on my own tongue, the 3 Dom Delouse clones ushered me back into the cloudy afternoon.
I spent the next few hours drinking and decided to return to the sanctuary of Minneapolis. This country air was giving me a headache. And the “radicals” were giving me the willies.
I walked back to my car, waving to the promoter, pretending like I’d be back for day two, when I noticed an honest-to-God Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac.
I lit a smoke and groaned.
Sometimes, life’s too funny.
The last day of April. Somewhere outside of the Twin Cities. The sun was shining and the weather’s boring. I was on my way to the 2004 Minnesota Folk Festival, an immaculate beacon of hope amidst a series of self-destructive, world-loathing summer festivals.
The origins stem all the way back to the beginnings of time. An era the elders refer to as the Sixties. An age when all was cool and rebellious, even a bunch of sissy folkers. In fact, they were regarded by many as prophets of a new age, leading this lot to believe in such Hare Krishna nonsense and holding an annual folk festival to worship the likes of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. Not to say there’s anything wrong with that. Per se.
And although the general idea of the festival didn’t appeal to me, what awaited me was something entirely ridiculous.
As I drove over the tall, steel bridge into Hastings, I experienced the atmosphere do a full 180 degree turn from big city life to rural madness. The road through town was filled with treacherous farmers, stopping into town to pick up some toilet paper. These were the type of people who’d just assume shoot you and shove you into the manure as smell you’re city blood. These people were not to be trusted and, as such, I stayed inside my car and zipped through town at nearly 80 mph the whole way.
Once outside the river city, I kept the long trip at bay with smokables. My destination was the Little Log House Showgrounds, where I was to judge a songwriting contest. 32 people from 9 different states were participating. The prize was 12 free hours of recording time in Minneapolis’s Source Emission Studios. For the next two days, these silver banshees of the folk community would battle it out for the sake of the good ol’ days.
The road wound to and fro until finally I found myself in a large field of dandelions, stretched far as the world. They flowed over the rolling Minnesota hills deep into the blue yonder. It was a remarkable sight. The perfect place for a festival.
I parked my truck in the field and staggered out into the fresh morning air. A breeze gave me a stir.
I talked my way through the entrance and proceeded into the showgrounds. This is where everything became surreal. This wasn’t a mere showgrounds by any traditional stretch of the imagination. Oh, there was a horse rink with bleachers and the like, but beyond that, there was a schoolhouse, a pond, a train depot. Model T’s, a 50’s era gas station, old farm equipment. A frontier post office, sherriff’s office, and doctor’s office. It was like something straight out of a bad film.
The owner, apparently, purchases buildings that are going to be torn down and moves them, brick by brick to his backyard. Eventually he built this entire town.
Beats what some people do with the money.
I wandered down to the vendor area. The usual group of cowards and superstitious rejects were there. The Celtic enthusiasts, the beer drinkers, the rib eaters, the coffee drinkers. Everyone of importance was represented, pushing their out of date hippie wears on the unsuspecting public. I did notice that there were no pipe sellers.
Nonetheless, I retired back to my truck and poked a couple. Now, I was ready for drink.
I procured my complimentary drink tickets by telling the vending lady that there was a giant spider in her hair and made my way to the beer trailer.
A rough looking man in his early fifties served me up some swill Milwaukee brew and I thanked him with a scowl.
Suddenly, 3 very large men, all looking like Dom Delouse, escorted me to a new form of hell: the songwriting contest. Here, I was forced to endure four and a half hours of hillbilly guitar playing. Sometimes they’d augment their sound with a banjo or flute or mouth organ, but usually it was just the pulsating twang of the country geetar.
This boring and sometimes erratic niche in the sonic disruption we know a music industry was so finite, so ludicrously small, that the people involved were oblivious to the realities of the changing world. The only thing they understood was that the year was sometime after 1974 and after all the pot settled, they could play an instrument.
Some brief glimmers of hope emerged. A fellow from Brooklyn, New York by the name of Ned Massey stunned the audience with a blend of Irish drinking songs and pop country. A Minneapolis native simply named Ellis brought a jazzy twinge to the fray with her pro-lesbian innuendo. But far and away the best performer of the day was a sharp-looking yuppie from Santa Fe, New Mexico named Jaime Michaels. His song “Lavender Moon,” made the audience stand up and cheer, almost giving one old man a massive coronary.
Finally, after I began gnawing on my own tongue, the 3 Dom Delouse clones ushered me back into the cloudy afternoon.
I spent the next few hours drinking and decided to return to the sanctuary of Minneapolis. This country air was giving me a headache. And the “radicals” were giving me the willies.
I walked back to my car, waving to the promoter, pretending like I’d be back for day two, when I noticed an honest-to-God Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac.
I lit a smoke and groaned.
Sometimes, life’s too funny.
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