Safety third

I didn't plan sufficiently for attending the GrassRoots Festival last weekend, but maybe that's the whole point.

Spontaneity. 

Safety third, as one woman's t-shirt said.

Taking just one day off for the four-day shebang was just plain dumb. But I didn't know. I knew it'd be cool, but I didn't know I'd be hooked. That first day was so ... intoxicating (and it was an alcohol-free day, too, bizarrely enough) ... that when the option arose to come back for another day, I forgot I'd made other plans and decided to blow my budget and do it again.

Here, let me try to convey to you why you should make the trip to next year's festival and, in the process, remind myself of why I loved it so much.

KARMA. The parking is free. The shuttle bus is free. These people are nuts. Have they forgotten that this is New York, and patrons are to be squeezed and screwed at every opportunity? 

The shuttle bus is obscenely air conditioned. I wind up sitting next to a guy in a floppy hat named Rainey. Rainey's from North Carolina, down by Fayetteville, and we compare notes. Is this your first time here? (Yup, and yup.) Did you ever go to the Eno Festival? Where did you go hiking? Which do you like better, Topsail or Wrightsville Beach?

He's not sure he's happy in North Carolina, and I try to tell him what fond memories I have of being there.

He's a sweetheart, but he's not so sure. Still, it's a treat to reminisce about North Carolina with him. Hanging Rock State Park; Eno River Park; what's that state park down by Buies Creek, I ask him? Raven Rock, right? (How is it that I can remember Buies Creek, home of the Campbell Camels, but not the name of the park?) We laugh and shake our heads at the coincidence of running into someone who knows about the same stuff. 

He has driven up here, alone, for the festival. His kids, 19 and two 16-year-olds, wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with their dad, couldn't abide this music. Rainey knows no one up here, but has attended the sister festival in N.C., the Shakori Hills fest, over in Chatham County, so he knows he'll enjoy this one. 

I tell him I admire his courage.

With a big grin, he tells me his car broke down and he was late getting here, but he's here now and it has all worked out just fine.

We get to the gate and laugh and smile and marvel at our good fortune and wish each other a happy festival. 

MORE KARMA. Bagged ice, hard to come by at the campground. On Day 2 (which was actually Day 3 for real festivalgoers), I schlep some in. No big deal. Not like its contraband or anything. I don't think there IS such a thing as contraband at this festival. A friendly guy pitching an evil-looking camouflage tent sees me walking with my bag of ice and shouts, "Hey, where'dja get the ice?"

Ahh, I brought it from home, I say, shrugging my shoulders and smiling.  Sorry!

I get to the tent and dig around to find the keys to the car, where the cooler is stashed. My ineptness gets the better of me and I cannot find the freaking keys. 

Here I am, on an 85-degree day, and no place to stash the extra ice.

So on the way to catch the shuttle bus to the festival, I bestow the ice upon Mr. Cabela'sTent. He wants to pay me for it and I just smile and laugh and shake my head and walk away. 

SAFETY THIRD. What are the odds that my partner-in-festival-attending-crime and I would agree on what should be first and second? Without even missing a beat. 

(Have you noticed a problem here? We're talking about a music festival and I haven't even begun to talk about the music. Which truly was the best part. Or maybe the festival WAS just as much about the people, now that you mention it.)

OK. More about the music in the morning, then.

She is my inspiration

... well, sort of.

For starters, I can tell you that Lucinda Williams is an outie.

Yes, it was that hot and her t-shirt was that tight when we saw her play the other night at the Grassroots festival down in Trumansburg.

Lordamighty, that girl ... . 

She reminds me of some of the, shall we say, more adventuresome girls I knew in junior high (Kir and Kerri, you're not on the list, believe me). From time to time, I'd seen pictures of Lucinda and I knew that surely a picture of her is in the dictionary under "rode hard and put up wet."

But that's not the inspiring part.

She's written some great songs, and aided by lyric sheets, she cranked out a few of them Thursday night. She can put together a fantastic band -- great guys who make her sound like a million bucks. She's a captivating temptress of a singer ... even when she's a little under the weather and easing the rasp with jello-shooter-cups of honey. Toward the back of the stage, a jug of Maker's Mark and a Dixie cup are at the ready.

And she wasn't even fazed by the boorish gaggle of young gentlemen who thought Lucinda and all of us down in front would appreciate the simultaneous smoking of two or three cigars during the entire show.

Nope. Here's the really endearing thing about L.W.:

She has love handles.

Woo-hooo!

(The dorky ads on Facebook call it muffin top, which must be some 21st-century construct from a movie I missed or something.)

I know that's cheesy and catty, but here's a performer who obviously doesn't have a personal trainer. 

At least she's no hypocrite.  She's who she is – bed hair and Chuck Taylors and all.

And that suits me just fine.

We're all for more soul

Our friends over at the Music Critics Association of North America are rousing a little rabble this week:
"Having writers on staff qualified to report and comment on local classical musical activity -- and the other arts -- should be as important as having good reporters cover athletic events or town hall meetings. Critics are among the writers who help to give a newspaper its personality, its value and, we would argue, its soul."

Those of you who know the likes of Chris Shull, John Pitcher and Scott Cantrell know that to be true.

Why didn't we think of this?

This Fourth-of-July-celebratin' list of songs about (regarding, mentioning, referencing) every single state is pretty cool. 

The Texas ones are the best.

Maybe it's catching on

So, what would it be like if newspapers covered the arts the way we cover sports?
Somebody must have lit a fire under those crazy Brits, from our friends at MPR.
Tell me what you think.