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Notes from the Road
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date: 6/10/00
Anyone who's ever been to Kerrville comes back talking not so much about the music but the magic. Kerrville converts - or "Kerrverts" - compare the three week folk event to a religious experience. Of course the concerts are the presumptive reason for the festival, but more than any other summer event, Kerrville is much more than the shows on stage. It's the legendary campfires, the lazy days taking refuge in the shade, driving off in clouds of dust to some watering hole for a swim, watching the weather come in like a breathless rider.
Located in the hill country west northwest of San Antonio, the Ranch turns into a kind of tent city or refugee camp for nearly a month. The regulars are an eclectic family of hobos, crafts gypsies, runaway teens, Rainbow Gathering regulars, singer-songwriters, and die-hard coffehouse-type folk fans. I've been back for a week. But the memory is vivid.
I was met at the airport by Alan, a long-time volunteer, in a yellow Kerrville shirt, sandals, long hair and a beard. He was hard to miss. We waited for Maine singer Martin Swinger and Irish folk legend Tommy Sands. We all had an animated conversation about teaching songwriting that lasted the entire trip to the Y.O. Hotel where we were all staying, courtesy of the festival.
It was nearly 4pm when I arrived at the hotel and my set was at 6pm. In the Kerrville tradition of informal guest appearances, I'd invited Georgia musician Don Porterfield to play bass with me onstage. He plays for many songwriters, including Pierce Pettis, and I felt lucky to have him joining me to kick off the festival. So instead of going to my hotel room, I ran over to his room - giving us a little over 20 minutes to practice before we had to drive to the Ranch for the sound check. No problem. I realized within a verse and a half that Don had learned every riff and rhythmic change-up from the tape I'd sent and that we were mentally/spiritually in synch. We went through the rest of the set at the sound check and in the green room (a small trailer) and as the crowd started to fill the theater, we had ourselves a good time.
One of the great pleasures of the evening was hearing Diane Zeigler step out again after taking a several-year hiatus to raise her two children. Mom and dad, Jeffrey Sather, were in rare form. Zig also has a fine new CD (see my review).
Diane Zeigler is back with a vengeance - a new album and a main
stage set with hubby Jeff Sather.
It was also fun to hang out backstage for the later band sets, which tend to cap off the main stage shows with a high energy that lasts long into the early morning hours.
Backstage for good times with the Augie Meyers band.
Beyond the gates of the theatre, you enter the sprawl of the campgrounds. On weekends, the large crowds flock to the legendary campfires where mainstage players often join in the circles. Pumped up from our set and the first night's excitement, Don and I gravitated to the open public space by the main battery of outhouses. This is central area - hard by the head and smack in the center of all foot-traffic heading to the campfires - is a traditional spot for louder, rowdier music, spontaneous jams, uninhibited hippie dancing, and, if you're lucky, performance artists like Chris Chandler, who basically launched his career from this all-too-appropriately-placed soapbox. Sure enough, this night was prime time. New-face Shane Bartell played and danced like a one-man bacchanalia, davening, kneeling and spinning on the ground as he strummed. Even Ann Feeney, intending only to answer nature's call, rubbed her eyes and stuck around to see what the ruckus was. To cap it off, Chris Chandler finished off a beer and consented to perform one of his outlandish raps. "I usually perform this one to 'People Get Ready,'" he said, trying to help us imagine the musical background. But I was on it, giving him the laid-back version I'd performed just the week before with Ruthie Foster. The assembled crowd eagerly joined in for the chorus and we were off. Chris launched into his poem and each time he finished a section, he'd motion me in with a subtle "come on" wave of his hand by his hip and I'd we'd sing another verse. It was like we'd all rehearsed it. A typical Chandler show - the crowd is always bigger when he ends than when he starts.
By about 3am the mood had mellowed and the crowd began to wander off. Don had retired and so my friend Mary Melena and I made our way up to the rarified air of the Crow's Nest. There, on top of the high hill, we found Chuck Brodsky, Steve Fisher, and the zen-like sylvan sage, Brian Cutean, among others. The night was uncharacteristically black and starless and for the next hour a series of quiet, contemplative songs rose out of the dark. Without a ride back to the hotel, I ended up crashing in Mary & Daryl's camper.
I woke around 9am, 4 hours being an unusually good night's sleep for me at Kerrville, and spent the morning at the Kerr-tree Store, where Anne Feeney, miraculously awake, had been serving up coffee since 8. Songwriter Dana Robinson, one of this year's New Folk finalists and a widely-admired interpreter of authentic old-timey music, showed up somewhere around 10. We spent a couple of hours dreaming up a folk musical - a dramatic show that could feature classic American folk songs in a way that would make them relevant and immediate again - giving them the force they originally had before becoming nostalgic bits of Americana.
Days fly at Kerrville - as short as the nights are long. At about 1pm I finally made it to my hotel room for the first time. The untouched bed looked forlorn, but there was no time to sleep. A quick shower, a few dustless hours of schmoozing by the pool, and it was time for dinner and then off for another night of music.
Friday night's show featured blues player Ray Bonneville, the Texas Celtic group Clandestine, and Tommy Sands. As planned, I caught Tommy backstage after his set and we had a cup of coffee together, talking Irish politics and the uses of music. (See my article on Tommy Sands and the "Music of Healing"). I also got an invitation to play at the following morning's Shabbat service at the Threadgill Theatre. 10:30AM.
My post-show adventures were in stark contrast to the rowdiness of the previous night. I made my way all the way back to Camp Coho where I found Gary Martin sitting alone under the big blue tarp. I asked him what kind of whiskey he'd brought this year and he took out "A Bot'le 'o the Best" - a distinctive single malt from Scotland and a ballad to match. We traded traditional songs for a couple of hours before moving to more contemporary stuff. A few people wandered by, but soon left, looking for more action. You could hear the occasional cheering at nearby Camp Nashville and Camp Cuisine where the "power campfires" are - song circles where people play to be heard. Only one person stayed, and if I ever see her again, I won't recognize her until she sings. Then I'll know with certainty. Gary and I bid each other adieu at around 4am and once again I headed up to the Crow's Nest for company. There Chuck Brodsky and I found ourselves alone, talking of his recent marriage and our trips to Israel and other subjects that suited the hour. Then, once more without a ride to the hotel, I borrowed an extra sleeping bag from Chuck and slept out under the stars on a lawn chair.
Unfortunately, there were heavy clouds between me and those Texas stars and at around 8am, it started drizzling. I awoke, completely refreshed, and wandered back down to Camp Coho for a cup of coffee, a pastry, and the hope of some morning music. Camp Coho is so named because it used to be inhabited by a contingent of songwriters from the Pacific Northwest. But for the past few years it has been the base of the folks who run Uncle Calvins, a concert series in Dallas, and some of the best cooks in the world. They bring an entire kitchen and are happy to trade meals, drinks and shade for what musicians have to offer - songs.
There I met up with a red-haired Californian fiddler named Michelle. Together we played some old fiddle tunes - I only know a few and "Whiskey for Breakfast" seemed somehow appropriate as one of them. Then she taught me the difference between a hornpipe, a reel, a jig and a slip jig - a long-overdue lesson for which I am eternally grateful (anyone else want to know?). Well, it was getting on 10:30 and I had an appointment (a rare thing at Kerrville), and as I left, I introduced myself by name. Michelle turned out to be Michelle Feldman, and so I invited her to join me at the Shabbat service. It was a lucky thing. We were the first participants there, and while a crowd collected to wait, we did our part to pass the time. And somewhere on a documentary piece of videotape filmed by KUT, which we hope ends up on the cutting room floor, Michelle and I spontaneously create a morning-air-shattering wake-up call to prayer: "Calling All Jews":
...All you Texans and Virginians
Come on up and make a minion....
It's my last hurrah for this year. By 11:30 am I'm off to the airport. Next time, I promise myself, I'll stay longer. Next time...
Check out the special festival site.
Hugh Blumenfeld, Editor
hugh@balladtree.com
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