The
gathering stormclouds, in a tumultuous dance, hanging gloom
indiscriminately across our vast countryside like drapes of depression;
rain tenaciously fighting to break through the steel-coloured clouds;
monstrous gusts of wind roaming the hills as carnivorous ghosts: seemed a
perfect day to take in a blues festival.2 hours of driving,
guided by a GPS that seemed to have a fondness for the likes of Davis
and Franklin, led us to find a small town devoid of even the subtlest
remnants of bustle. Tattered advertisements of an impending blues
concert seemed to be the X on our treasure map but the lack of any and
all liveliness made us believe that perhaps we were chasing some sort of
mythical sea serpent.
Townsfolk are peculiar entities; totally unaware of their town’s idiosyncrasies that an outsider, an intruder, a tourist, a conquistador sees as overwhelmingly stark and blatantly obvious. Through unintended dustbowl-dry humour we were directed to what would, in fact, be our final destination. A destination of so many tired and wayward pilgrims: the local Walmart.
Sure enough, the muddy field just beyond the parking lot held a makeshift stage and was dotted with local vendors’ booths. Bacon-wrapped sausages, bacon-laden hamburgers and potatoes on a stick were all available in large quantities. Perhaps the strangest vendor was in a tent representing a local massage therapy clinic, offering massages right there in the tent, on full display. I saw no takers.
The rain sparsely came down in temporary moments of droplets as refugees, but the blackness of the clouds grew only darker. The Tonkas were the first band to take the stage; two gentlemen with over one thousand producing credits between them. Colour me impressed. As an opening band they did admirably. No one ever wants to be the opening band in a field concert. No one’s listening, usually. But this crowd was apparently very fond of raucous Bo Diddly tunes – can’t fault them on that. The duo did well, brushing through old blues staples while adding in some twists. Would not have thought Nine Inch Nails’ 'Hurt' would make a decent blues song, but there it was. A highlight came at the end of the set when they were raging away on the final note, and the bass player started to kick the shit out of the back of his double bass, thundering chaos out upon the civilians. I liked that.
After a few desperate and ultimately failed attempts by the sun to make its presence known, the second band took the stage. They were from Toronto but were named as though hailing from Tucson. The lead guitarist resembled Ted Nugent so uncannily that I was sure we’d all fallen through a rabbit hole into a terrible MTV reality show about former rock stars being current fucking idiots. Music was alright. The lady they had singing with them had an incredibly powerful voice. Too strong for most of us to endure for over an hour. We imitated the sun and wandered away in search of warmth and food.
A wing shack stuffed full of drunken ladies and fat bikers would not normally have been my choice for renourishment, but there was little to no other options. It’ll do. There was a rustic ambience complete with fake and real road signs. Pictures of Willie Nelson and Wendel Clark lined the walls. We squeezed into a side booth. Introduce: disgusting coffee, ignorance of their own menus, a lack of spatial awareness and discouraging attempts at humour. I got to wondering why the waitresses were dressed like Edward R. Murrow. The food was decent, but the alcohol was better.
We staggered out into the cold. For as accumulative as the cumulonimbus deities had been all day there had been surprisingly little rain. We acquired additional jackets and returned to the fairground in time to catch the last few songs by an exceptional harmonica player and singer, David Rotundo. At one point I’d left to locate the portable lavatories and, unbeknownst to me, Rotundo had vacated the stage and was walking amongst the crowd. As I pushed through to find the bathrooms I came face to face with a skinny man exorcizing demons through his blues harp. He walked past me and jumped up on a table and, with a small crowd gathered around, finished a blazing cover of Dylan’s 'Shelter from the Storm'.
It was at this point I became aware of the various types of people that had gathered in this field. Drunken hillbillies, of course. Old hippies, no doubt. The occasional chain smoking Frenchman. But there was a small section of young hippies that were bewildering and entertaining to watch. One young woman, in a wavy long lacy white shirt, had even brought a hula-hoop… to a blues concert. Shades of those tired old Woodstock images you see plastered all over VH1. Seemed fitting, seeing who the last band of the night was: Canned Heat.
After an excruciatingly long sound check, and a much-welcomed visible night sky, Canned Heat emerged and jumped right into 'On the Road Again', one of their biggest hits. After the song was completed, a few not so loyal observers packed up and headed out. The rest of us stayed, in awe of the psychedelic virtuosity of a group of guys who’d been touring for over half a century. When the clouds behind the stage had deteriorated completely, they left the Big Dipper hanging above the blues band, pouring out interstellar psychoactivity upon us poor old lonely souls.
After some more "crunchy grooves", they broke out 'Going Up the Country'. And when that song finished, observers left in droves. They got what they wanted: the nostalgia of reliving reverberations from radio waves long since jettisoned from the face of the earth. They weren’t interested in new material or long instrumental songs about hallucinogenic drug trips, they wanted comfort. Fine, go find it.
The entire night ended with a killer drum solo, a few chords in addendum, tiredly manic applause, then silence. A quick walk to the car, 2 hours of driving to get home, and a lovely fall into an awaiting bed. I woke up the next morning humming a blues riff, glad to have weathered the storm.
-Jeremy Maloney
Townsfolk are peculiar entities; totally unaware of their town’s idiosyncrasies that an outsider, an intruder, a tourist, a conquistador sees as overwhelmingly stark and blatantly obvious. Through unintended dustbowl-dry humour we were directed to what would, in fact, be our final destination. A destination of so many tired and wayward pilgrims: the local Walmart.
Sure enough, the muddy field just beyond the parking lot held a makeshift stage and was dotted with local vendors’ booths. Bacon-wrapped sausages, bacon-laden hamburgers and potatoes on a stick were all available in large quantities. Perhaps the strangest vendor was in a tent representing a local massage therapy clinic, offering massages right there in the tent, on full display. I saw no takers.
The rain sparsely came down in temporary moments of droplets as refugees, but the blackness of the clouds grew only darker. The Tonkas were the first band to take the stage; two gentlemen with over one thousand producing credits between them. Colour me impressed. As an opening band they did admirably. No one ever wants to be the opening band in a field concert. No one’s listening, usually. But this crowd was apparently very fond of raucous Bo Diddly tunes – can’t fault them on that. The duo did well, brushing through old blues staples while adding in some twists. Would not have thought Nine Inch Nails’ 'Hurt' would make a decent blues song, but there it was. A highlight came at the end of the set when they were raging away on the final note, and the bass player started to kick the shit out of the back of his double bass, thundering chaos out upon the civilians. I liked that.
After a few desperate and ultimately failed attempts by the sun to make its presence known, the second band took the stage. They were from Toronto but were named as though hailing from Tucson. The lead guitarist resembled Ted Nugent so uncannily that I was sure we’d all fallen through a rabbit hole into a terrible MTV reality show about former rock stars being current fucking idiots. Music was alright. The lady they had singing with them had an incredibly powerful voice. Too strong for most of us to endure for over an hour. We imitated the sun and wandered away in search of warmth and food.
A wing shack stuffed full of drunken ladies and fat bikers would not normally have been my choice for renourishment, but there was little to no other options. It’ll do. There was a rustic ambience complete with fake and real road signs. Pictures of Willie Nelson and Wendel Clark lined the walls. We squeezed into a side booth. Introduce: disgusting coffee, ignorance of their own menus, a lack of spatial awareness and discouraging attempts at humour. I got to wondering why the waitresses were dressed like Edward R. Murrow. The food was decent, but the alcohol was better.
We staggered out into the cold. For as accumulative as the cumulonimbus deities had been all day there had been surprisingly little rain. We acquired additional jackets and returned to the fairground in time to catch the last few songs by an exceptional harmonica player and singer, David Rotundo. At one point I’d left to locate the portable lavatories and, unbeknownst to me, Rotundo had vacated the stage and was walking amongst the crowd. As I pushed through to find the bathrooms I came face to face with a skinny man exorcizing demons through his blues harp. He walked past me and jumped up on a table and, with a small crowd gathered around, finished a blazing cover of Dylan’s 'Shelter from the Storm'.
It was at this point I became aware of the various types of people that had gathered in this field. Drunken hillbillies, of course. Old hippies, no doubt. The occasional chain smoking Frenchman. But there was a small section of young hippies that were bewildering and entertaining to watch. One young woman, in a wavy long lacy white shirt, had even brought a hula-hoop… to a blues concert. Shades of those tired old Woodstock images you see plastered all over VH1. Seemed fitting, seeing who the last band of the night was: Canned Heat.
After an excruciatingly long sound check, and a much-welcomed visible night sky, Canned Heat emerged and jumped right into 'On the Road Again', one of their biggest hits. After the song was completed, a few not so loyal observers packed up and headed out. The rest of us stayed, in awe of the psychedelic virtuosity of a group of guys who’d been touring for over half a century. When the clouds behind the stage had deteriorated completely, they left the Big Dipper hanging above the blues band, pouring out interstellar psychoactivity upon us poor old lonely souls.
After some more "crunchy grooves", they broke out 'Going Up the Country'. And when that song finished, observers left in droves. They got what they wanted: the nostalgia of reliving reverberations from radio waves long since jettisoned from the face of the earth. They weren’t interested in new material or long instrumental songs about hallucinogenic drug trips, they wanted comfort. Fine, go find it.
The entire night ended with a killer drum solo, a few chords in addendum, tiredly manic applause, then silence. A quick walk to the car, 2 hours of driving to get home, and a lovely fall into an awaiting bed. I woke up the next morning humming a blues riff, glad to have weathered the storm.
-Jeremy Maloney
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