The Guthrie Folk Music Festival:
A Journal

At the Festival

It was rainy in Okmulgee in the morning, but that only felt good to my skin. I was off to Okemah for another day of free music. Again I took the snaky back road, marveling at the many simple houses standing alone on a horizon of structurally-empty greenness, so unlike rural New Mexico and its clusters of adobe houses and trailers closely occupied by mostly blood relatives. Rural OK looks as if one could stake out a piece of land, and then build a modest dwelling smack in the middle of the site.

This section of Oklahoma, pretty much like the other sections of Oklahoma, is rural and modest. It's modest because it doesn't have much to show except its native growth and vegetation, and a grand ever-changing sky, but these are substantial features. It is a beautiful space in a lush, almost juicy way. The earth itself in Oklahoma changes unpredictably from all shades of fine red powder to loamy brown. There are ponds and lakes and at least two state parks within an hour of the Okemah-Okmulgee 30-mile radius. The little towns are so poor that they are preserved somewhat by lack of interest! There are old brick streets, old mansions next to shacks, old downtown hotels and bank buildings. Some of them are being regenerated (not actually gentrified) but many are not. I like looking at these old buildings and regularly stop to check them out.

The general commercial and popular disinterest in Oklahoma is exactly what makes the Woody Guthrie Free Music Festival such a joy. And while the Fest is not by any means overcrowded, it's not sadly lacking for attendance, either. Hundreds of people came, if not thousands, and for those who made area motel reservations early ñ a month or more in advance ñ there was nothing at all inconvenient about driving, parking, eating or sightseeing. While I wish the Coalition financial success, I think that maintaining a steady but slow growth is crucial to their success. And for those of us who "for reasons that don't matter," are already participating in this unspoiled jewel of celebration, let us be thankful for each glorious day.

The plan for today is to sit in the air-conditioned, re-splendored Crystal Theater and listen to sets of music by people I'd never heard of until now. The crowd size varies, all free and very relaxed. These are the players that are not on the Pastures stage yet, but may be in upcoming years, and are worthy of being listened to. Many CDs are being sold in the lobby. I made notes of who impressed me a LOT: Bob Childers, Susan Shore, Mike West.

Mid-afternoon, back in the truck cruising around Okemah, thinking about the politics of air conditioning. If one can afford air conditioning in Okemah, one can control his or her environment in an important way. I sense it can make the difference between a pleasant summer, and a feeling as if one is in hell. About all you can do is rest your bones in the arms of the sofa on the wide old porch, fanning yourself with the mail, or else coop up indoors in stifling heat, which might be fatal. I turn off the a/c in the truck and roll down the window. A wave of wet air washes over my body. I keep the window down for the duration, and acclimate to the climate. This is one of the advantages of solo travel, because I'm pretty sure I would have been voted down on this by any traveling companion. It feels technically uncomfortable, but intense, my hairline rains with sweat beads and I much closer to the folks on their front-porch cabanas.

Mary Jo Guthrie Edgmon, Woody's younger sister (r) with Darcie Deaville

I roll up to the Festival "headquarters", a vacant storefront on the main drag. Mary Jo Guthrie Edgmon, Woody's younger sister, is there signing folk-art posters that she sells to benefit the Coalition. She is a beautiful lady of a certain age, wearing a pert little hat and a cheerful aqua outfit. There are three different limited-edition prints for sale, each depicting a phase of Woody's life. First is Okemah, then Pampa, TX ("that's the time I spent with him," Mrs. Edgmon explains) and Woody in New York.

I choose the first print in the series, her depiction, in stick figures & primary colors, of her family's days in Okemah, almost a hundred years ago. She signs my poster, "To Bonny You are special because you like my brother and my nephew." Arlo. "But I like you, too," I say, and she laughs & squints to see if she has any more writing room.

Back downtown, the Red Clay Rangers are playing in the Brickstreet Café's upper room, and I listen to them while eating a homemade Reuben sandwich and drinking Corona beer. All these guys are veteran Oklahoma pickers, some of them interning in J.J. Cale's band. Once again I'm struck by the amazing music I am hearing, and the gentle and happy people surrounding me.

I drive slowly back to the Pasture by 6:30, to catch Darcie Deaville's set. There seem to be more people arriving earlier tonight than last night, probably because it's a Friday. Darcie is an Austin fiddle player who writes most of her own stuff and singing some times about being an abused child. Her newest CD is called "Tornado in Slo-Mo", and I already own it. "My Grandpa took me upon his knee," she sings, "and I'll never forget what he did to me." The crowd leans in and nods collectively. Darcie's a sturdy, down-to-earth woman, and she is her purest self onstage. I love her fiddle playing. I love her strong, happy legs, the hems of her pantaloons showing from under her denim skort. She is a Guthrie Fest regular.

The next three acts are from the east coast. Vance Gilbert is first, a Boston area singer-songerwriter. Besides behind talented, handsome and slim, Vance is black. "Hey, where are all the black people?" he asks. I had been wondering that too, I saw many faces of color in the town Okemah but I don't think I saw a half-dozen at the festival. He is wearing a silky tropical shirt and the kind of trousers that can only be worn well by someone with a flat stomach. His first song is about interracial love, marriage, and child-bearing, and then the end of the marriage. Then Gilbert sings a love song he wrote for - I mean about - Ellis Paul, who is fourth on the bill. This Ellis Paul guy is a hit among the women volunteers working the Crystal, too. When I told them earlier that I was planning to write about the Fest, they said, in true Okie modestly: "If you DO like Ellis Paul, we would appreciate you mentioning him." Then they blushed, all of them. And I did.

Don Conoscenti is up now, and I've seen his name printed in entertainment schedules all over the place. His bio says that he now works out of Colorado. Attired in blue satin pants, he is a master of all instruments, and has a very soulful voice. He invites Vance up to play a tune or two, and each compliment the others' outfits. And now, the one I was most curious about - Ellis Paul.

He is tall and slender and very-very Bostonian. "He's a male Ally McBeal," I thought. He apologizes to us for his "gay lawyer haircut". Hmm, I was right on the mark. His songs are inventive and lyrical. At the end of his set, he promises that he will return to Okemah for each and every Festival he is invited to, no matter how famous he gets. He gets a heartfelt standing ovation.

-> page 3: conclusion - Jimmy LaFave's set and the All-Star Finale

Hugh Blumenfeld, Editor
hugh@balladtree.com