Last night we went back to the Fiddler’s Dream to play a gig. We were the third act of four, and certainly the least traditional of everyone there. I think we made a pretty decent splash, even though we deviated a LOT from their normal fare.
A discussion of how the previous generation of folk musicians needs to welcome and encourage the new generation has become a more frequent topic of conversation recently. I’ve never heard it really crop up at a meeting of the Baltimore Songwriter’s Association or the Songwriter’s Association of Washington, but it was on the agenda for the Houston Association of Music and among the folkies at the Fiddler’s Dream.
Differences in language and in metaphors and in general attitudes toward performance are pretty prevalent, and getting the younger generation not to look at the older generation with contempt and getting the older generation not to see the younger generation as an underserving threat seems to be the challenge. Well… one of the challenges.
It was good to hear that conversation being had as it allows me to identify a little more clearly with the folk community – something I’ve always felt rather alienated by.
Of course, Gen Xish as I am, child of grunge and caught in angst I think I somewhat glory in my perceived unacceptance and often amplify it through my own preconceptions – but it’s certainly not ALL imagined or some self-fulfilling prophecy.
Last night was a great example of a neo-folk act (am I accepting that label? I don’t know) being dumped into a folk show and winning over an audience that probably really wouldn’t have been interested in our press descriptions.
The first artist was traditional to the extreme, a folk artist who drew his inspirations from his logging town home and the surrounding pine forests.
The second artist really fascinated me – the elected vice-duke of the hobos, or something – he swapped between a five-string banjo and a dramatically detuned 12-string and delivered his tales in a wizened monotone that reminded me heartily of a grizzled Bill Nighy. Lined and worn, he told tales of old friends riding the rails and holding up banks. I hope I can get Heather to retell THAT tale, because her memory will do it more justice. Ask her about Road Hog.
Unfortunately I missed most of the fourth act, as after our show I got into a big conversation with the arch-duke about the history of folk music and its future. We’re very different creatures, saying very different things, but we’re both almost religiously dedicated to a certain DIY aesthetic and fiercely independent, and though separated by probably about almost 40 years of age – very supportive of one another’s art – and both operating without the socially demanded safety net of a 9-5 profession.
It was an interesting note.
Oh, and I saw another bunny herald in the desert in the night. My minions are true and devoted.
Riding the desert highway West in Arizona. We can’t turn left without a passport and we’ve ceased to understand the languages on the radio. Heather can pick things out, but we’re close enough to Mexico for the road crosses to have changed. No longer simple tokens, they are shrines with tiny shelters built and piled stones, flowers and wreaths. For all that Mexican culture is slow and “manana”, they show respect for their dead in a way that America has forgotten.
I’m sad that we had to leave Arizona so swiftly. With the torrential rains we’d been running inside to avoid, the whole desert should be blooming soon. With outstretched arms, the anthropomorphic forms of sagaro cacti should soon be clad in colour and the hummingbirds with be wildly shimmering as they sin in plain sight over and over and over again.
I’m slowly compiling a list of things to do next time. We’ve been rushing – it’s just impossible to take everything in – and we’re hoping to be back out here again in the winter. I’ve been absolutely in Love with the whole Trip, and this part of it has spoken to me in a whole other tongue of dust and rust and hobos and mountains and a harsh beautiful reality that reminds me of the coloured stones of Baltimore City but without the crime.
1) White Sands in New Mexico
2) I’ve got to go back and pick up the alien Jedi shirt that I wanted from Roswell
3) At some point I need a LOT of money to get a rattlesnake belt and maybe some real cowboy boots. Flaming for preference.
4) Some of the medicine wheels and mounds of the Native American sites out here – we’ve been racing through the Reservations and I’d like to spend some time there.
5) Bury a secret stash of weapons for the coming Machine Apocalypse and Judgement Day.
6) Do a real photo essay on weird-ass cacti.
7) Yosemite in California.
8) Las Vegas, Nevada.
9) some of the dinosaur sites in Arizona
10) Meteor City and the crater nearby so Alex doesn’t have to threaten me anymore.
11) see a damned Live armadillo.
12) the Grand Canyon
13) the other end of the Petrified Forest
14) being my passport so’s we can turn left
15) the Pacific Coast Highway must go under our tires.
16) I need to take Heather to Winchester House.
You know… stuff.
