Last night I was at the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival. I almost didn't go; I was tired after work, it was hot. I drove twenty minutes towards home and then executed a neat u-turn somewhere in West Stockbridge.
I went back to see Greg Brown. There's a funny parallel between this and Solid Sound, earlier this summer. Like Wilco, I last saw Greg Brown in concert in Wisconsin--at the Cedarburg Cultural Center, when I was in, what, 9th grade? 10th, maybe? A long time, ago, anyway. It was mostly old people, save my friend Marlo and another kid from our class. The man in front of me was in dire need of a belt.
I've also been to Falcon Ridge before, when I was in elementary school and my parents won free tickets to camp there for the weekend. I got bit by a donkey. It's a story I've told repeatedly, though maybe not here. I do not remember who any of the performers were, though my parents tell me Greg Brown was there then, too.
Again like Wilco, Greg Brown's a musician that I've been listening to since high school, maybe even since eighth grade (which was when I started listening to music as a conscious thing). He's probably been in the background of my life longer, because my parents introduced me to his music.
I go through phases with music, but I have a CD of my favorite Greg Brown songs that always finds its way back into my car's sound system--last night, driving home in the dark on Route 22, northward-bound when everyone else seemed to be going south, it was there. And then there are individual songs: listening to Vivid on loop when I was in New Zealand; Rexroth's Daughter was my most frequently played song on iTunes freshman year of college and long after. Senior year of college I had the lyrics to Walkin' Daddy pinned to the back of my desk. And there are others, too many to name (what about My New Book? what about Billy from the Hills?).
Would it fly if I said I think Greg Brown is one of the best American songwriters, full stop? Because that's probably about where my thoughts on him lie. I might say one of the best songwriters, but he writes from a distinctly American perspective--he merits recognition for that.
Last night he performed with Bo Ramsey on electric guitar, under a sheet of dark sky hemmed by the hills of upstate New York. Sometimes I sat up and watched; sometimes I lay flat on my back on the itchy blanket of hay meadow, looking up at the sky. Was it worth turning back for? Oh, yes. Have I gone to far too many concerts this summer? That might be true, too. I should probably be trying to understand what makes live music worthwhile, but for now I'll settle for remembering the ragged cheer the crowd let out when Greg Brown took the stage. And, from other festivals this summer: someone in the crowd when Wilco was performing at Solid Sound throwing hundreds of glow necklaces into the night sky like shooting stars. Hot air balloons ascending into the air while Emmylou Harris performed at the Green River Festival.
We're human. We're alive. Sometimes we just want to celebrate.
I went back to see Greg Brown. There's a funny parallel between this and Solid Sound, earlier this summer. Like Wilco, I last saw Greg Brown in concert in Wisconsin--at the Cedarburg Cultural Center, when I was in, what, 9th grade? 10th, maybe? A long time, ago, anyway. It was mostly old people, save my friend Marlo and another kid from our class. The man in front of me was in dire need of a belt.
I've also been to Falcon Ridge before, when I was in elementary school and my parents won free tickets to camp there for the weekend. I got bit by a donkey. It's a story I've told repeatedly, though maybe not here. I do not remember who any of the performers were, though my parents tell me Greg Brown was there then, too.
Again like Wilco, Greg Brown's a musician that I've been listening to since high school, maybe even since eighth grade (which was when I started listening to music as a conscious thing). He's probably been in the background of my life longer, because my parents introduced me to his music.
I go through phases with music, but I have a CD of my favorite Greg Brown songs that always finds its way back into my car's sound system--last night, driving home in the dark on Route 22, northward-bound when everyone else seemed to be going south, it was there. And then there are individual songs: listening to Vivid on loop when I was in New Zealand; Rexroth's Daughter was my most frequently played song on iTunes freshman year of college and long after. Senior year of college I had the lyrics to Walkin' Daddy pinned to the back of my desk. And there are others, too many to name (what about My New Book? what about Billy from the Hills?).
Would it fly if I said I think Greg Brown is one of the best American songwriters, full stop? Because that's probably about where my thoughts on him lie. I might say one of the best songwriters, but he writes from a distinctly American perspective--he merits recognition for that.
Last night he performed with Bo Ramsey on electric guitar, under a sheet of dark sky hemmed by the hills of upstate New York. Sometimes I sat up and watched; sometimes I lay flat on my back on the itchy blanket of hay meadow, looking up at the sky. Was it worth turning back for? Oh, yes. Have I gone to far too many concerts this summer? That might be true, too. I should probably be trying to understand what makes live music worthwhile, but for now I'll settle for remembering the ragged cheer the crowd let out when Greg Brown took the stage. And, from other festivals this summer: someone in the crowd when Wilco was performing at Solid Sound throwing hundreds of glow necklaces into the night sky like shooting stars. Hot air balloons ascending into the air while Emmylou Harris performed at the Green River Festival.
We're human. We're alive. Sometimes we just want to celebrate.
1 comment:
Yes, let's celebrate!
This post makes me miss you unbearably.
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