Philadelphia Folk Fest: August 20–22, 2010

If you asked me if I’d like to spend a weekend covered in dirt and sleeping on the ground with 5,000 people surrounding me, all under the pretense of seeing some live performances of people that I’m either only marginally familiar with, or have downright never heard of, you’d probably think that the response would be, “Oh, yeah, sure, that sounds like a great idea.” Except you’d have to say it while rolling your eyes and with a thick layer of sarcasm, because the idea of spending a weekend under those conditions sounds extremely unpleasant, right?

Well, I guess I’m not that normal, and neither is my friend Sarah, because we both spent this weekend at the 49th Annual Philly Folk Fest. It’s difficult to remember exactly whose idea it was; last year, she had told me that she wanted to go, and I was way into it, but the logistics of getting our group of friends together proved impossible, and it fell through. (She ended up going with her then-boyfriend, just so that she could see Iron & Wine – who, by her own account, was terrific.) This year, it was more to go for the sake of going, instead of seeing anyone in particular. Upon looking at the list of performers, the three I really wanted to see were Jeff Tweedy, Taj Mahal, and Richard Thompson – so I immediately bought two combination music/camping tickets for the weekend, and anxiously counted down Friday evening.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get off work that Friday, and Sarah wasn’t able to get to my house until after 8, anyway. So by the time we finally got to the festival, it was around 9 30 and we were both exhausted. (Did you know that carrying two duffel bags full of clothes and effects, as well as a tent, sleeping bag, and pillows, is a daunting task for two people?) On the shuttle bus ride from the satellite parking lot to the actual festival grounds, a seemingly burned out hippie from upstate New York informed us that this was the greatest thing ever, maaan, and we should totally see Gandalf Murphy. I made a mental note as I searched for a way into the damn festival, and where exactly we were supposed to set up; as we slugged our way up hill and looked for a place to set up camp, I was disheartened to discover that not only were most of the good spots were taken, but that light was non-existent, so I would be setting up camp in the dark – never a fun task for a camper. Still, with Sarah’s assistance, and the presence of a drunk twentysomething named Jesse (who offered us both a much-needed shot of whiskey), the tent was set up and the sleeping bag unrolled. Of course, that sleeping bag looked so comfortable, that we ended up not making it out to the stages, though we could hear the music from the stage as we drifted off to sleep.

It was throughout the night that I realized that our chosen spot wasn’t exactly prime. It wasn’t the people around us who bothered me – I was expecting there to be very little actual quiet time, and came prepared with a guaranteed sleep aide (thank you, Tylenol PM) – nor was it the very slight slope that we were set up on. No, it was the convenience of the port-o-potties (or Potty Queens, as they were known) which you’d think would be ideal, but in actual fact turned out to be a minor initial nuisance. The smell didn’t bother me – because I can’t smell! – but the constant slamming of doors as people entered and exited was a little unnerving. But it all became part of the ambiance after awhile, and before long, I didn’t even notice it.

The next morning Sarah and I awoke bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and decided to forgo a shower (as there was a line with six people, and we decided that would be too long) and go off in search of coffee and breakfast instead. We had to wait until 11am for the actual concerts to start, so we just walked around for a bit, scoped out the grounds, and soaked up the experience of being at this festival. The actual campsite is quite nice, apart from the hills that I imagine would be a constant struggle to not slide down in a sleeping bag, with bridges that led to different parts of the farmland. We eventually went to the Ballad Stage, which had by this time opened up, and saw the Jake Snider Band, a peppy, poppy septet who were actually quite good – though not a folk band. I commented to Sarah, “It seems that the definition of ‘folk’ is pretty broad these days.” That’s not a drawback, however, as they were quite good, and ended with a lovely a cappella tune called ‘The Seven’, with the entire band situated around one microphone and harmonizing beautifully.

The heat on Saturday wasn’t that bad, but the humidity made it difficult for us to stay in one place for too long, so we made our way from the Ballad Stage to the Dulcimer Grove, where Carla Ulbrich was entertaining a very small crowd. This proved to be an inspired location, as it passed right by a collection of trees with hammocks set up and people slumbering peacefully or reading. Sarah and I looked on longingly at these people with amazing foresight, and I vowed to myself that next year I will have my own hammock. (Oh, yes I will indeed!) Ulbrich’s schtick was to take popular songs and rewrite them in a parody style, much like Weird Al, except with a more Rated G sound, and I found myself laughing quietly and feeling bad that there weren’t any kids around.

Once her brief set was over, we went off once again, this time into the main grounds to poke around the crafts area. This gave us an opportunity to kill some time and look at the creativity of the locals, which ranged from handmade jewelry to an artist who impressed me, who dips his drumsticks into paint and drums on a stretched-out piece of canvas; this is recorded, and both are sold as a two-for-one package. Sarah and I were hugely amused when a tourist who didn’t seem to “get it” loudly asked the artist, “So, y’ dip yer drumsticks into paint, eh?”

After grabbing some lunch and taking shelter from the sun, we decided to head back in the direction of the tent, but the humidity made it unbearable to actually stay in the tent for too long. So we caught a brief respite in the shade back in the Ballad Stage, where the Ben Arnold Band were playing. We laid on the sleeping bag for an hour and a half and just listened to the music and napped, which might not sound exciting to you, but, as far as I’m concerned, is one of the only ways to listen to folk music at a festival. Midway through the Giving Tree Band’s set, we woke up and headed over to the Martin Guitar Stage, to get primo seats for Jeff Tweedy’s set.

First up was a Portland, Oregon, band called Horse Feathers – and based on my own experiences, nothing bad has ever come out of Portland, and my theory proved to be correct once again. They had a similar impact upon me as the Low Anthem did last year when they opened for Ray LaMontagne: autumnal, earthy music, performed by a band who defies convention (the quartet is led by a vocalist/guitarist, with a multi-instrumentalist who performed mostly banjo, mandolin, percussion, and bowed things, as well as a cellist and violinist). I liked their music a whole lot, and will end up buying their album, Thistled Spring, though I really should have bought it while at the fest. Ah well.

Tweedy, meanwhile, proved to be a charismatic and engaging solo artist, charming the audience with a set of Wilco favorites (‘Hummingbird’, ‘I Am Trying To Break Your Heart’, ‘Jesus, Etc.’, and ‘I’m The Man Who Loves You’, among others) and stories of tawdry and bawdy rock ‘n’ roll moments: “You want rock ‘n’ roll?” he deadpanned to a vocal fan after he finished up a delicate, acoustic guitar-led ballad, before going into an elaborate story of how he was playing with his nephew the night before and was vomited upon after the child consumed too much pizza. “That’s not even the rock ‘n’ roll part,” he announced over laughter. “I woke up this morning and found a piece of pepperoni in my beard, which meant that I slept with vomit and pepperoni in my beard all night. Now that’s rock ‘n’ roll!”

After Tweedy’s set, the humidity and caked-on dirt and grime became too much to bear, so shower tickets were purchased (as well as towels and a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soaps, which I have fond memories of hearing my dad loudly reciting Bronner’s “philosophy” while he took his showers outside at the Cape two summers ago, much to the undisguised disgust of his girlfriend) and as Sarah and I shuffled our dirty bodies over to the showers, we were dismayed to discover the line was three times as long as it had been this morning. This was apparently due to a malfunction with the showers, so to pass the time Sarah and I chatted with the shower goers, and were accosted by two sassy young girls who went painstaking measures to count up the people in line and brashly insist that we’d be waiting for a few hours. “A few hours” equaled about 20 minutes, of course, and let me just tell you that that shower was pretty much the greatest thing ever.

By this time it was early evening, and Sarah and I decided to listen to some music on her iPod while we intermittently napped (noticing a pattern yet?); before long, we walked around once again, and flitted from stage to stage before we ate some dinner and then laid on the grass and listened to the Harlem Blues & Jazz Band, and, finally, Taj Mahal. Mahal is yet another engaging performer, with the legendary bluesman picking soulfully at his guitar and occasionally plucking an electric keyboard, but it was his vocal and facial mannerisms which was the most entertaining.

By this time, however, Sarah and I were struggling to keep our eyes open, so we headed back to the tent early and once again slumbered peacefully. The next morning, we awoke to the sound of rain plitting off the tent, which I hoped would pass as a brief shower, but turned into a full-force torrential downpour – this naturally meant that the campsite had to be broken down, and trying to wrap up a wet tent is never a fun experience. Apart from being a little wet, everything went fairly well, and as Sarah and I scoped the grounds one last time, stopping by the general store so that she could paw through the handmade and colorful skirts, we walked back to the car with grins on our faces.

This morning felt strange to wake up by myself and in a bed, but it felt good to have gotten a good night’s sleep without the banging of Potty Queen doors or drunken girls stumbling over our tent. Still, I’m sad that it came to an end so quickly, but I’m eagerly anticipating next year. Not only was it one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to, the experience of being a hippie for a weekend was enlightening and enjoyable; it also helped that I had the best company I could have ever asked for. It was an experience I’ll never forget, and even though I didn’t bring a camera (stupid, stupid me), I have many images forever burned in my memory.

To answer the question posed at the beginning of this review, “Oh, yeah, sure! That sounds like a great idea!” You can bet that I’ll be going back next year for the 50th anniversary, with a new straw hat perched securely on my head and a hammock at the ready.