Woodyfest Find #3

Anthony da Costa keeps winning awards. Last year he won both the Kerrville Folk Festival's New Folk competition and Falcon Ridge's Emerging Artist award. Little wonder. Riding home from Woodyfest, listening to his CD, my husband says, "That's amazing that he can write like that and he's what, 17?" I had to remind him that Jackson Browne wrote "These Days" when he was the same age. Some people just have "the gift". Add Anthony to the list.

Showcasing down at the Brickstreet, Anthony played an impressive set. Songs of love, loss, music and political relevance mixed with easy stage banter that eludes most younger artists. His sense of humor showed through and personally, I really like that. But what really blew the crowd away was his cover of "Draft Dodger Rag" at the Phil Ochs Tribute set on the main stage. He learned the song just that afternoon and nailed it that night, solid. The delivery was perfect, reality injected with wry humor. Phil's sister, Sonny Ochs, just beamed. He did Phil proud. Keep an eye on Anthony da Costa, we're going to be hearing a lot from this prolific, gifted young musician.

Lonely, but not alone

As evidenced by previous posts, I'm prone to being a victim of my moods. This morning something snapped, heading into church no less. I found that no matter how I tried, I could not pay attention to the readings. My consciousness drifted in and out of the sermon. Like a child, I drew pictures of wildflowers on the bulletin. Here I was, surrounded by people who really do care about me, escorted by a most loving spouse, yet in the mist of all this, the intensity of my loneliness was like a weight on my heart. While I recognized the emotion, the feeling of isolation, the reaction of withdrawal; it's something I was unable to shake. Perhaps it will wane in slumber. Perhaps it won't last. But how? Why? I'm tired; I'm torn. It's with me still.

Woodyfest Find #2

Jimmy Davis has been around a lot longer than that baby face of his leads you to believe. His album debut was back in 1987 and he hasn't looked back. Jimmy camps along his tour; saves money, meets people, sings and writes inspired by surroundings, memories, histories, imagination and new friends along the way. Sounds like a perfect fit for Woodyfest, doesn't he?

Jimmy was a Woodyfest virgin when he hit The Brickstreet stage on Thursday. Tough slot, Thursday afternoon. The weekend not quite started, hardcore festival goers filling the venue. With just his trusty Martin and the mandatory abbreviated set list, he stunned the crowd and left them wanting more. A natural storyteller, he regaled us with stories of his family and the inspiration sparked from talking to Jim Dandy as intros between songs. That storytelling flare shines through his songs as well. Vingnettes draw you in until you want to snuggle under his grandmother's quilt, or hide out in the Devil's Den like one of his characters. Besides crafting some great songs, the man can play. All too often solo acoustic players have a timid or sloppy attack; Jimmy's knows better. He's a seasoned and strong musician who knows when to charm a note or nail a chord. It was a pleasure to be introduced to his music. I know I'm in line for Jimmy Daddy's Acoustic Songs II. Check out Jimmy's tour schedule and if he's in your town, don't miss him!

4th of July

Sometime between work, drive, and Woodyfest, there was the 4th of July. Amazingly, the 'fireworks' setting on my little Optio W30 really does work when you use a beach chair umbrella as a monopod. The fireworks at my friends' party out in the country were pretty astounding. They couldn't even fit the booty in a wheelbarrow to get it down the road to shoot off.... no, it was such a cache that they had to take the pickup. It was better than many of the fireworks displays put on by my hometown when I was a kid.

Bethalto used to have a "homecoming" fair on Labor Day weekend and a some-other-kind of fair over 4th of July. I guess it still does. Midway, games, mud, wood chips, funnel cakes, contests, etc. Our church always had this big food and beer booth (Catholic, of course) and ladies from the 140 Club would fry up about a million of their famous chickens to serve. Parishioners were expected to donate either their first fresh tomatoes to sell as sides or their first born children to serve and clean. Like bingo slave duty and mandatory fashion show babysitting, I mostly got out of having to help, being the precociously mouthed wild card that I was. Unfortunately, the tomatoes were sacrificed for our Lord's luncheon sales. This left me time to ride the tilt-a-whirl and play skee ball until my money was gone, then sneak off to the arboretum to hang out under my favorite trees and read, write or sketch until it was time for the fireworks. Poor little fireworks. A few roman candles and about eight sky-worthy shells; maybe a few peonys and if we were lucky a couple of spiders. But it was what we had and we ooooo-ed and aaaaaahhh-ed like it was New Years in Chinatown. Sometimes, I guess it's okay not to know any better, if only to preserve what's left of the magic.

Woodyfest Find #1

One of my favorite things about the Woody Guthrie Free Folk Festival is discovering new artists. Could be someone truly new, just on their first record. Could be someone who's been around for a while, but under my radar. Could even be someone who's been at the fest before, but had a gig at the same time I was working or seeing someone else at a different venue. No matter what the situation, I always drive home listening to CD's by folks I'd never listened to before. This year was no exception, the new crop was fresh and tasty! Here's the first find that totally blew me away.

Alexinder Gunn is just 21 years old, but writes like he's lived a lifetime or two already. Maybe he has an old soul, maybe it's other-worldly wisdom, but he sure has a lot to say and I am happy to listen. His songs can be ethereal, touching, achingly sad and full of heartfelt hope all at the same time. "I Know Your Here (A Song to Woody Guthrie)" is his fitting tribute to one of his many influences. It captures how many a musician feels, especially at Woodyfest. Listening to Alexinder, you know he is real; you can hear where the music comes from. When you watch him play, and he closes his eyes and slightly tilts back his head to hit that high note, you are captivated by his voice and emotion; drawn in to his world. And you won't want to leave. Click on the link above to check out some of his tunes. You will not be disappointed.

Happy Birthday ,Woody! aka Woodyfest: part 1

Been gone so long..... not long enough.

The Woody Guthrie Free Folk Festival was blessed by weird magic this year. Most folks suppose that Woody and Bob Childers were up there arranging it. "Oh, c'mon, God, give 'em a break, it's Woody's birthday for, uh... your sake!" At any rate, juju aside, The rain came and went, came and went again, and for five days the show always went on. From the beginning Wednesday night with Country Joe McDonald's Woody Guthrie Tribute, (and yes, the encore was indeed THE cheer and Rag), straight through to Judy Collins' ethereal main stage wrap-up set, and Sunday's "Hoot for Huntington's", there was good luck, great music and wonderful friends. Saw lots of Woodyfest first timers that we hope will be back next year, and hung out with long time once-a-year buddies, catching up, talking shop and sharing memories. Photos from the fest will be posted on Eye Spye and more stories from Okemah to come.

Back to the real world. Dang.

Blogging off to festival land

It's that time of year, July. Hottest month of the year. Hey, I have an idea! Let's go to Oklahoma where it's even hotter.... Yeah, I thought these people were crazy, holding a five day music festival in a hot state, in a hot month; you can just see the glue melting on those acoustics' bridges. But then I went. Woodyfest is different. It's free except for camping or evening outdoor venue parking and the artists all donate their time, only travel and lodging are paid. It's a labor of love in the name of Woody Guthrie. Held in Woody's home town of Okemah, the whole thing is a trip. Though small by folk fest standards, it's perfect for what it is and the time and space available. Three main venues and a fourth for ongoing open mic, main campground pickin' all night long, quieter lakeside camping, and friendly people everywhere. Really friendly. Amazingly friendly. Did I say they were friendly? Not quiet used to that living in the city. So if you wander on down to Woodyfest next week to see Judy Collins, Country Joe McDonald, John Gorka and a host of regular, rotating and new artists, you will be counted as friends. Not to mention have one hell of a good time. Stop by the CD sales booth and say hey, that's where I'll be. Until post-fest, summer up!

This Old Guitar

Most players have an outdoor or camping guitar. It's "the beater". Already mojo'd up with dings and scrapes, another would only add to its character. Mine is my oldest guitar, a late '60's or very early '70's "Jadee". My parents bought it for me already well used back in '75 or '76; my first cannon. A Gibson Hummingbird copy, a big dread with a big sound. Back then I didn't know a lot about guitars, except that mine sounded a lot better than most of my friends'. Now I know why.

Extensive internet searches have brought up nothing for the Jadee moniker, but the history of Japanese copy guitars of that era is getting to be well documented. This guitar is solid top, back and sides, grain goes all the way through, no laminates. Adjustable bridge, like many early Sigmas, typical of that period. Logo and decoration all inlaid mother of pearl. The headstock still has the Gibson mustache, so it is said to be pre-lawsuit. Interestingly, the label, while stating "Made in Japan," also says, "Constructor de Guitarras. Jadee. Modelo No 684.6". Made for a Spanish speaking market? Or like the Ibanez, just trying not to be so Asian? Many factories were putting out amazing product during this "golden age" of Japanese production, guitars that blew the socks off of the lesser entry-level price point instruments made in the US.

But the best feature is how it still plays. The action has always been low, the neck profile slim as well. It's always sounded warm; matter of fact, that's how I got into buying D'Addario Phosphor Bronze strings, to edge up its brightness. After all these years, the bridge was just beginning to lift, so earlier this year I took it in for a glue job and had new tuners, a new saddle, and some fret replacement done. Probably spent as much on it as my parents originally paid for it. A total bargain. While I love my Martin, my Sigma, my Ovation and even that 2 x 4 of a Fender 12-string, this old guitar has a part of my heart. Don't think I'll ever let it go.

Love of the game

Baseball is not my game, but I respect it. I understand why people are into baseball. Having played ball in school, I certainly understand the players' love of the game. And that is what you get to experience at a independent league game; you feel their love of the game. They play their hearts out, hoping for a break, not making much money, and loving it.

Last night the Gateway Grizzlies played the Evansville Otters. It was a hitter's delight, 24 between them both. Not that the pitching was poor, it wasn't, these guys were just connecting like crazy. We were right on the third base line, and in Frontier League parks, that means you're just a few feet from the action. Even for someone like me, who usually finds watching baseball to be slow and tedious, when you can watch the players' faces, hear their chatter, feel the energy as they round third and their disappointment as the pop fly that was lost in the lights is miraculously caught, well, the game takes on a new angle. It's like you're part of it. It makes you love the game.

If you've never been to an independent league game, or a farm club series, find one near you and spend the evening in fun and amazement. There's games, raffles, sometimes music, give-aways, the food and beer is cheaper, (BTW, the food at the the Grizzlies home, GCS Stadium, is way above average. Get the pulled pork or pulled chicken nachos, yum!) there's stuff for the kiddies to do, and of course team swag to buy so you can share your new-found passion. You won't be disappointed.

Can I have some of your purple berries?

Years ago I planted a row of blackberry slips along the fence in our backyard. Now they are a thicket. Even though I prune out the old canes and train the new ones on trellises, it’s hard to keep up. On a summer day I’d swear you can actually see the shoots growing, trailing their way along the ground. It’s always a desperate chase to catch them before they are set in their ways.

Last year there was a killing frost in April. Not many berries. This year they seem to be making up for lost time. In spring the briar had so many blossoms that it looked to be covered in snow. Now the vines are heavy with fruit. Blackberries ripen in succession; at first just a very few to tease the taste buds. Then the fruit begins to flush. Every other evening, an hour of my time is devoted the berry patch. Glossy, black fruit hides under leaves, eluding all but the most thorough examinations. The quiet time lets the mind wander, songs with berries bubble up and I sing to the birds as I pick. Wooden Ships, Blackberry Wine, Raspberry Beret, and tunes of my own making about thorny briar berries. It is relaxing, it is itchy, it is tasty. By the time I’ve finished, my hands and lips are purple, just as they were as a child when I picked boysenberries and ate more than I brought home. Now there’s more in my basket than my belly. Berries for ice cream, berries for trifle and berries for pie. Especially pie. Mmmmmm. Pie.

Summer Solstice

The longest weekend of the year. Summer solstice. A perfect day to float down the river, unhurried, stopping to swim, enjoying everything Mother Nature has to offer. Even with my usual proclivity to sleep late, we were on the river by 9:30 am.

With rains aplenty this spring, the upper Meremac was running well and very inviting. No portaging this trip. We put in somewhere above highway O, and hit some riffles almost immediately. The kayaks required very little paddling, allowing attention to wander with the wildlife. Birds dotted the trees like living Christmas ornaments; red cardinals, indigo buntings, yellow goldfinches and painted cedar waxwings sang and dived, eluding the camera lens but dazzling all eyes.

Further downstream was Fishing Spring. Had it been 90 degrees or more, the wading would have been more easily tolerated, but at a balmy 84.... well it was still worth the frozen toes. Water flowed from a small cave, ran from under a ledge and boiled up from the rough sand making a odd snow-globe of the pool's edge. Together they produced quite the spring branch, tumbling over rocks out to the river. Not to mention cooling the main channel down enough to make us float on down to the next gravel bar before taking our next dip.

One of our favorite river games is "guess the ruin" or "ruins stories". Most Ozark streams have several old cabins, ruins of defunct resorts, forgotten stairways leading to the river, and abandoned camps lining the banks. Some are documented, many are mysteries ripe for creative exploitation. Floating by these, we spin yarns of vacationers tripping out by rail or in model T's on old Route 66. Gangsters and their molls hiding out in the cool shade of rock-walled resorts, families escaping the city's heat at fish camp, company picnic grounds returned to forest years after a flood, the scenarios are endless. Some ancient structures, like this one, are actually a part of a going concern. Although seen from the river to be unused, this amazing rock wall and staircase seem to be a part of the still-active Cobblestone Resort. It didn't stop our imaginations from running wild.

On the way home, the skies cracked open and poured. We'd made it off the river just in time. After stopping at Supersmokers for BBQ, there was still enough daylight to put the boats away, unpack, clean up and hang out on the porch to sing the sun down. A day as close to perfect as possible. Such is the magic of the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year.

Maudlin

Maudlin. Why I spend time in such a state is both a mystery and admittedly my own fault. I think too much. Things bother me. I dwell. Realization should grant power over the situation, and often does; rational emotive therapy and all that crap. However, the reality is that I’ve always felt deeply. Whatever it is cuts right to my bone. Delight, pain, rapture, despair, stillness, loss, hunger, satisfaction…. if boredom can be experienced passionately, I’ve done it. Makes for inspired artistry in times of creativity, or just a mess in the absence of muse or diversion.

So when that bittersweet sentimentality creeps in and lays heavy on my heart, it tends to settle in and stay a spell. Like a bad relationship, it’s symbiotic. We feed each other an addictive diet of romanticized sorrow that circles back and spirals around us, steeling a bond that shouldn’t be. It lurks behind my outwardly comic demeanor, visiting when I’m alone, unoccupied and unsuspecting. It colors my pallet with deep purples and midnight blues, pushing my brush into the pigment again and again to darken the circumstance.

And I know it. I feel it happening. Like watching the drama unfold in a seven hundred page sixteenth century novel, I am strangely removed, yet intimately involved, in the plot of my own life. This duality is an enigma, almost as impossible to convey as the feeling itself. Eventually, something unknown will pull me away and for a while I’ll be free. Until the next time.

Water

Water. The river, the ocean, the pump, the tap. A mostly legal vice. One I'm not giving up.

RuralGurl goes ink. Read the guest column here.

Just a sliver off a full moon

Tonight there's just a sliver off a full moon, a night on the cusp of magic. It drew me out to play suspended diminished chords in moody progressions by candle light on the porch. Dreamily, eerily, the music washed over the garden in waves, pulled like the tide over a thousand miles away. Dissonance, resolve, dissonance, resolve, dissonance. Never ending. When a breeze took the candle's flame and I was left alone with the moon, the song found its voice. Some progressions are only complete when they are left incomplete. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

Make Love Stay

It's June, the brides are swarming like bees. Picking out gowns, registering at every store imaginable, making lists of love songs for the DJ to spin.

So many songs account the first blush of love, just as many detail the pain of love lost. Same with movies, books, etc. Then there is the rest of us. Common knowledge holds that the honeymoon doesn't last forever. It's up, it's down, it's fireworks, it's an icebox, it's exciting, it's boring, but it is. While most would have us believe that we are either wildly, passionately in the throes of heated romance or dead, there have been thoughtful, touching tributes to trying to make it through. Dan Fogelberg wrote, "Now that we know the fire can burn bright or merely smolder, how do we keep it from dying away?" Jeff Tweedy of Wilco sings that "You're gonna need to be patient with me."

But perhaps the most brutally honest depiction of making love stay was in the 1946 movie called "The Best Years Of Our Lives." Middle-aged Milly is speaking to her husband who has recently come home from WWII, after her 20-something daughter told them that they didn't know what it was like for her, because their lives had been perfect, they'd never had any trouble. First she says to her daughter, "We never had any trouble...." and then she turns to Al, her husband of 25+ years, "How many times have I told you I hated you, and believed it in my heart. How many times have you said you were sick and tired of me, that we were all washed up? How many times have we had to fall in love all over again?" And the look in their eyes reveal every word as truth.

Having once been a starry-eyed bride-to-be myself, I know that looking forward and seeing something less than idyllic just isn't on the agenda. But later, "when the lonely nights are over" and you're wondering "how do we make love stay?" you'll need to be ready to fall in love all over again.

Barefoot

One of the great pleasures of my life is walking barefoot in the grass.

Of a morning, coffee warm in hand, still in my white summer cotton nightgown, I'll head toward the garden. The dew is on the grass, cool against my toes. Breeze gentle on my bare arms, sun already warming my back, I check the blackberries. Fruit is already on the vines that I twine around the trellis, soon it will be ripe and luscious.

In the evening, sun waning, the grass is warm beneath my feet. The sun of the day tells its story in the blades, tickling my ankles as I make my way toward the herb garden. There's oregano, parsley and rosemary for the pasta, some dill and chives for the salad. Their fragrance wafts ups as I snip and gather, inspiring recipes not yet dreamt.

As the moon rises and the white flowers bloom, the dew falls. Moonflower perfumes the stillness and the lightning bugs appear like ghosts from the other side. The grass on my feet is once again cool, soothing after a long day. It restores me like a hymn to the darkness. For a while I'm whole.

Wine Whine

It's no surprise that the wineries are calling to me. They combine much of what is right in my world. Working with the land, often family owned operations, craft in the making, art in the vinting, aroma, texture, creativity, food, calming vistas, conviviality, usually some music and a good wine buzz is just icing on the cake.

While cozying up in front of a crackling autumn fireplace with your sweetie and a glass of port is softly romantic, the warmer months let the wineries shine. Colored bottles sparkle in the sunlight. Birds sing and swoop to perch at table's edge, waiting for a crumb. Picnic blankets are spread on lawns, lovers resting heads in laps, watching clouds and stealing kisses. Laughter peals and ripples from group to group, that giddy sound that only a cocktail of sunshine and champagne can bring. Acoustic music wafts over the hillside and people sing in spite of themselves, suddenly unconscious of inhibition, and it's beautiful.

My husband and I had our third date at a winery. On a little patio covered with vines, dappled sun peeking down on us, he got me drunk on champagne, fed me strawberries and held my hand while we took in the sweeping view of the Augusta vineyards. It was the first of many winery trips that year, that decade, this lifetime. Eventually, I learned to love complex wines, and I learned to navigate our complex lives. But when we go back to the wineries, we're free of all that. It's just pure pleasure. No wonder the wineries call to me.

Jill of all trades

Like most folks, I'm not really an expert at anything. Music, cooking, gardening, art, photography, lit and (gasp!) "management" I am pretty darn good at, but throw me into a room full of people and I can hold my own with all but the most pretentious of the narrow minded.

At one point I'd entitled my Monster resumé "Jill Of All Trades". While a person should feel good that they know enough many about many different subjects to jump in and be useful almost anywhere, being well rounded is no longer a sought-after characteristic. Not in the job market, not in life in general it seems. Pity. Folks who are well read and have varied life and/or job experiences are far more interesting, vibrant and valuable. They provide bang for the buck at work and are more fun to have a beer with after the whistle blows. Diverse, yet well rounded coworkers can find common ground on which to build relationships with one another. This in turn creates a culture of acceptance and teamwork, something employers always say they are striving for.... but are they? Like the Tootsie Pop commercial says, the world may never know.

Today it smelled like summer

Today it smelled like summer
Heat radiating from the warm moist ground
Like the fire from my skin where last we touched.
It's been so long since the endless days
Of lying in grass and dreaming at clouds
Waiting for sunset on the water
To bring us the moon.

I cannot fear the summer
Hours of sun to heal the pain of winter
Like the time that passes to mend my jagged soul.
It's been laid open for these hard months
Of restlessness and wondering in silence
Wishing for winds on the water
To somehow bring you back.

Rain Songs

Rain. The love/hate relationship continues. Depressing, refreshing. Flowers, floods. Welcome, stop. "If the rain comes they run and hide their heads, they might as well be dead, if the rain comes....."

Since we did not have a camping trip planned for the holiday weekend, I'm a bit surprised that it rained. Usually, merely packing the tent into the truck brings on storm clouds. We've camped through a tornado in Arkansas, flash floods in the Ozarks and driving rain wind sheers that flattened the tent in Oklahoma. Canoed and kayaked in the same. We've had to find a hill to park on to tip the accumulated water out of our boats on top of the truck. Today's picnic under a park pavilion during a downpour and hail storm was just par for the course. Seems the rain and I are inextricably intertwined.

Here comes the rain again, so rock me on the water before the deluge while I listen to the rhythm of the falling rain. I'm covered in rain, 'cause the sky is cryin' like a box of rain. And it will rain when I die, when it will be the ashes, the rain and I.