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“If someone gave you $5000 and you had a free week to do whatever you wanted, what would you do?” asked Gina, the ranch manager where we board our horses. We were talking while Tara finished brushing Li’rica. “Fly to Austin and listen to all the music I could cram into a week.” My response was immediate. I love Texas music. Austin is the hotbed of innovative folk, Americana, roots-rock, alt-country and even industrial music. For years, I’ve wanted to attend the Kerrville Folk Festival, but it’s always presented over Memorial Day weekend -- a time we’re usually working in London at the Mind Body Spirit Festival. Later, on the way home, I told Tara about the question and my answer. “We could go to Kerrville this year?” she replied. The idea was certainly tempting. We had turned down this year's London invitation because Hunter was graduating from grade school during the time we'd normally be gone. But camping is the only sleeping option and Kerrville is between Austin and San Antonio. It would be impossible to carry all the necessary camping gear on a plane. Driving to Texas and back would take too much time. Inspired to attend a festival, I checked out the California festivals. My kind of music is offered all over California at major music festivals almost every summer weekend. I’m tempted by six festivals, but settle on one to be held on the edge of Yosemite National Park over Memorial Day weekend. Some favorite artists will be appearing. “Who wants to go camping?” I ask Hunter (14) and Cheyenne (12). I explain how the festival will work. There are lots of activities for kids. We’ll stay in touch via communicators, sleep in a tent, cook on a Coleman stove. In the early 80s, Tara and I camped regularly in Mexico and Arizona with our sons, William and Travis. But as Mexico became more dangerous, we drifted away from the activity. The younger kids had heard all our camping stories, but they'd never had the experience. Hunter and Cheyenne voted to go, “As long as we don’t have to listen to your music all day, Dad.” The festival really wasn't offering Tara's preferences in music, but she agreed to go. Cheyenne wanted to go with me to pick out camping gear. “You and I can do the cooking, Dad,” she said. “Okay.” Wednesday--May 24, 2000: We drive six hours to Oakhurst, California to stay overnight with Tara's sister Amy and her husband Marc. Amy has a new horse, and Tara can't wait to check him out. I guess "horse-loving genes" run in the family. Thursday--May 25: We leave for Yosemite at 7:30 AM. My wife grew up in the Bay area and lived in nearby Fresno from ages 12 through 15, before the family moved to Alaska. This morning, traveling through rolling hills dotted with oak trees, Tara is reminded of her teen years riding horseback through similar terrain. Everything in our lives somehow relates to horses. Although I don't share Tara's intense feelings, I've owned horses most of my adult life, feel at home on horseback and always enjoy riding. Two hours later, we've ascended into tall pine trees and arrive at the festival entrance. Our tickets are exchanged for metallic wrist bands that will allow us to attend all the activities for the next four days. “Camp wherever you can find a place,” says the entrance man handing us a schedule. While we’re waiting for traffic to clear, I ask him about how many people are already here. “Over 500 cars were waiting to get in when we opened at 7:00 AM,” he says. We easily find a shaded site in the trees and set up camp. Cheyenne helped me pick out the tent and together we did a trial setup in our Malibu backyard. So she is the professional tent setter-upper today. All around us, other people are making camp. A few yards away, a young couple from San Diego carry a regular double-bed mattress into their tent. “Life’s tough,” I say. “Bad back,” he says. His name is Lucky, his girlfriend is Shelly. He admits to being a “Deadhead,” but he also loves bluegrass and the other music presented here. We take a family walk around the festival grounds. The temperature is in the mid-eighties, and the sun flickers through the trees creating a surreal golden glow. A water truck lumbers along the narrow dirt roadways, spraying to minimize the dust. People of all ages ride past us on bicycles. Never have I seen so many men with ponytails and/or beards gathered together in one place. Everyone is friendly, helpful. Throughout the camping areas, people are picking on guitars, mandolins, banjos or playing the fiddle. Every few yards we hear new music. We also hear the term “old hippies” over and over. If there is a predominant dress theme, it has to be tie-dye t-shirts and tank tops. Most of the 4000 people attending are from Northern California. There are virtually no other races represented. Because California is such a racially diverse state, this seems unnatural. There’s a general store, a dining hall where the children can attend evening dances, and a small amphitheater for workshops with the performers. The lake area is primarily for the kids -- a music stage, swimming and many activity booths. Hunter and Cheyenne are delighted to see so many other kids their own ages. The main music stage has been erected at one end of a large meadow surrounded by tall trees. Along one side of the meadow are tented booths offering drinks, festival t-shirts, ceramics, music and tie-dye clothing. Outside the meadow are food booths: vegetarian, Caribbean and American food, pizza, ice cream, and popcorn. A specialty coffee booth offers espresso and cappuccino, plus our favorite -- Chai tea soy lattes. |
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The festival, mid-morning, from the stage. Can you spot Tara in the third row? |
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Much to my surprise, the camp showers spew warm water. I get into a conversation with the guy showering next to me. He created the acoustical music website for Southern California from which I receive concert announcements at my e-mail address. We talk in musical shorthand.At 4 PM we’re allowed to carry our chairs out to the huge tarp in front of the stage in music meadow. The music begins at 5:15 PM -- three bluegrass bands will proceed tonight’s headliner, Natalie MacMaster. Tara is no fan of bluegrass, but she seems to delight in the ambiance of the event. She is also studying astrological printouts and making notes in the margins. A few nights ago, she dreamed about how to decipher some new planetary configurations relating to geographical astrology. The dream information is proving workable. Everything she can relate to known facts is accurate. Between songs she tells me about her findings. “Your love of Scotland is all related to liberty in your chart,” she says. Anyone who has read my last book or perused my 1999 Scottish travel journal at this site will understand the accuracy of the statement. “It shows here why you're uncomfortable in France,” she says. “Your divorce aspects are high there. See” All I can see is astrological symbols that might as well be Greek, but you will probably never hear me endorsing France. “In Alaska, you feel as if you’re literally imprisoned ... see.” True. The only places I feel at home are Scotland and the American Southwest, from Texas to Southern California. “You mean even our regional affinities can be explained by astrology?” “Absolutely. Your astrological happiness aspects are in the Southwest. Your harmony aspects are in Malibu.” “Probably related to past-life experiences, right?” “To some degree.” As dusk settles, the temperature drops. Soon, instead of shorts and t-shirts, we’re wearing winter coats. It snowed here in Yosemite last week. Natalie MacMaster’s set begins at 9 PM. She takes the stage with a five-piece band, jumping, twirling, her blond curls flying, as she plays the fiddle with musical wizardry. A native of Nova Scotia, most of the music reflects the Scottish heritage of her Cape Brenton Island home. Tara and I are mesmerized. Natalie’s keyboard player does an Irish dance, to the delight of the audience. Following the set, we run into Hunter and Cheyenne in the food booth area. They’re accompanied by a pretty girl Hunter’s age. My son is beaming. He introduces us to Haley. They’ve attended a teen gathering to meet new friends and plan the weekend activities, which include opportunities such as broadcasting on a pirate FM radio station, tie dye and hemp necklace classes, nature hikes, creating Henna tattoos, ongoing music at the bandstand, and the evening dances. In our tent, Tara zips our sleeping bags together so we can cuddle. The ground seems harder than I remember it being when I was younger. I wish I’d purchased a blow up mattress, which I considered but rejected as “wimpy.” |
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Tara drinking Lucky's home-brewed beer at the campsite. |
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Richard and Tara cooking breakfast. |
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Friday--May 26: We awaken to discover we’ve slid down hill a couple feet during the night. But we managed to get a complete night's sleep. The sun is shining and we hear people in nearby sites getting up. Although my physical body feels a bit stiff. Being here, doing this, is joyful. Doing what is joyful, keeps you youthful. Sure, your body ages in keeping with natural law, but your mind and spirit can remain forever young. I've often written on the subject. When you are youthful you are adventurous and you experience aliveness and excitement in whatever you do. Only someone youthful will take the risks that make life worth living. If you allow yourself to become old in spirit, you begin to fear losing and start to trade growth opportunities and challenges for security and comfort. The dread of loss makes you a prisoner of fear, and thus you lose your freedom. Seek the joy that will allow you to remain youthful to the very end of your life. This joy is not generated by people and things outside yourself -- that feeling comes and goes as outside conditions change and is of no lasting value. True joy is found deep within yourself; it comes from being who you really are and doing what you are here on earth to do. Part of who I am, who I've been since my grade-school days, is someone who loves the kind of music being played here. Day to day, I feel I'm doing what I'm here on earth to do, and this morning that includes finding us good chair placements on the meadow, and enjoying a hearty breakfast. Rather than cook ourselves, we walk back to the Blue Sun Vegetarian Cafe, which offers a tofu scramble that entices Tara. I choose their broccoli and eggs concoction. The kids are quickly off to meet their new friends. Tara and I sip tea at a picnic table and people watch. Shelly, our campsite neighbor walks past. “Camping is so tough,” she says. “You wake up and have to walk down here for your cappuccino.” |
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Richard, Hunter and Cheyenne eating in camp. |
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It’s 7:30 AM. We’re surrounded by a sea of tents scattered over a good portion of the 300-acre campground. Breakfast smoke curls through the tall pines. Young children ride up and down the road on their bikes. A fiddle and guitar duet can be heard in the distance. The festival staff opens the meadow each morning at 7 AM. You place your chairs anywhere on the huge tarp within marked lines. Some people sleep in a line at the outer gate to assure the best front-row positions. The chairs remain where you place them all day. If you’re not using them, anyone can until you return. It’s a good system. The musical discovery of the afternoon is Paul Thorn -- a folk singer from Tupelo, Mississippi who has toured with the likes of Sting and Marianne Faithful. His song about a Pentecostal stripper generates huge applause. After the set, I buy his CD. (www.paulthorn.com) A group called Lil’ Band O’ Gold is another unknown -- Louisiana “swamp pop” according to the lead singer. They’re loud and generate a lot of dancing on the sidelines. But you can have the horns. Tara and I cook lunch, which includes some fresh squash we purchased at a roadside market on our way into the mountains. Yum! The kids eat with us and are quickly gone. Tara and I then take a walk down to the lake, past the yoga classes being held in the grass. A rapper band is on the kid’s stage. Our children like rap-metal, so this is much too tame for them, I am told. At the amphitheater, we sit in on a few minutes of a workshop with four members of the Lost Highway bluegrass band. At the general store we buy a couple more camp chairs, because ours must remain all day on the meadow. The store stocks ice, basic necessities and some goodies. Tara’s cell phone can’t get a signal, so we’re cut off from the world unless we want to stand in a long line to use four phones with five-minute limits. I find phone isolation a positive feature of this festival. I’ve always been fascinated with the concept of bonding. People who attend our retreats bond with each other, often becoming ongoing friends. Their shared experiences and common love of metaphysical concepts manifests the bond. Here, I sense the same thing as we talk with others. The festival is a unique experience, and a common love of the music creates a bond. Two artists were primarily responsible for me choosing to attend this festival: Norman Blake and Ray Wylie Hubbard. At 5:45 PM, Norman Blake takes the stage. He is the finest flat-pick guitar player in the world and one of the best old-time traditional singers. I’ve been a fan for nearly 30 years, but this is the first time I’ve seen him in person. He's as low key and good as I expected. Mike Henderson and the Bluebloods offer straight ahead rock and roll with a touch of delta blues. At the coffee stand, the guy next to me asks if they have any earplugs for sale. “Not what you came for?” I say. “Right,” he says, shaking his head. He is clearly upset. According to my thinking, the only reason he could be upset is because he had expectations of approval or control. In this case he wanted to control the artists the festival booked to appear. I wouldn't buy the Blueblood's CDs, but obviously a high percentage of the attendees are loving the music. Sure, I'd love a festival of just my favorite artists, playing just my favorite music, but that isn't realistic. Expectations will always generate frustration. Ricky Skaggs and Kentucky Thunder is the featured act of the evening. This is the fifth bluegrass act and Skaggs blows away those who have come before him. His band is one of the tightest I’ve ever heard and the talent of some of the individual band members is phenomenal. I’m impressed and so is my wife. |
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Ray Wylie Hubbard's workshop. |
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Saturday--May 27: Cheyenne and I cook breakfast. The eggs turn out fine, but we have more to learn about potato pancakes. “Maybe it’s the elevation,” Tara says kindly, but after a tiny taste, she turns down a helping. Hunter looks from his mother to the pancakes and declines. Cheyenne and I eat them, but half way through the meal, she asks if we have any “Pop-Tarts” in the food boxes. After cold showers (I’m amazed at how fast I wash my hair), the kids are off to their activities. Tara and I catch the last half hour of Norman Blake’s “Flatpicking and More” workshop at the amphitheater. Ray Wylie Hubbard follows. His workshop is titled, “Inspiration + craft + purpose = prosperity.” To me, Ray’s music is as good as it gets. He’s also very metaphysically oriented, so we especially enjoy his personal stories and the opportunity to enjoy his music in this intimate setting. He explains that he’s doesn't want a red Jaguar in his driveway. To him, prosperity is being able to pay his bills by doing what he loves to do -- write songs, create albums and travel around the country playing his music. He stresses two things: 1) creating without concern for the commercial results -- letting your creativity come from your heart, and 2) letting go of the fears that keep you from doing what you really want to do in life. (www.raywylie.com) At 12:30 PM Ray takes the main stage in music meadow. The audience loves him. After the set, he signs my t-shirt promoting the pirate FM radio station broadcasting the festival on 88.1. We skip a Toronto band combining folk, jazz, rap, blues and funk to have dinner at the food booths. Tara has stir-fry vegetables I choose Caribbean chicken, beans and rice. |
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Tara at the top of the meadow before the music begins. |
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The afternoon is for lounging around camp until 4:30 when we walk to the amphitheater where Henning Kvitnes is conducting a workshop on Scandinavian folk music. He has 14 albums on the market and I enjoy the songs, but he needs to learn to finger-pick instead of pounding his guitar. At some point during the afternoon, I realize how sunburned I am. Tara gives me her standard lecture about using sunblock not just once, but two, three, four, twenty times. At 5:45 on the main stage, Mary Gauthier is a delightful surprise. Originally from New Orleans, she now runs a successful Cajun restaurant in Boston in addition to being a singer songwriter. “The festival flew us in,” she says. “First time I’ve ever flown to a gig.” Her songs are passionate protests and stories from the fringe of society. Openly gay, she finds easy acceptance here. She tells of the number of Texas executions while George W. Bush has been governor and says, “I think it should be a campaign issue.” The audience cheers. She then sings a song about a woman who was executed. When her set is over, she receives a standing ovation and returns for an encore. (www.folkzone.com/marygauthier) At Tara's encouragement, I purchase her CD. We eat dinner and relax in camp, then return to the meadow for the last half of Linda Tilley & The Cultural Heritage Choir. Tara enjoys the African American music, described in the program as a “spiritual experience.” I probably feel like Tara does during the bluegrass sessions. But I can't deny the group's talent. The featured act of the evening is the John Cowan Band. The music is rock with touches of R&B, bluegrass and gospel. I love it. Tara feels only so-so about the intensity, but she is impressed with John’s incredible voice. We all fall asleep around midnight in the tent listening to music coming from the various campsites around us. We should probably make the rounds and enjoy the music (some of which is every bit as good as what’s happening on the main stage), but the long day and hot sun have done us in. Thankfully, we seem to have adapted to the hard ground and sliding down hill is simply part of our sleep experience. Sunday--May 28: Rather than cooking again (we all recall yesterday’s potato pancakes), we decide to eat at Blue Sun. A Sunday-morning revival is taking place at the lake with three of the top bands performing. We’ll skip that. The morning is for relaxing at the campsite. Tara does some meditations listening to her CD player with headphones. I read Everyday TAO: Living With Balance & Harmony by Deng Ming-Dao (Harper Collins). I'm fascinated with the Deng's writings on "play." For attending this festival is the ultimate play for me. What is life without play? Yes, we know we are supposed to work hard and to be disciplined if we are to live our lives well. But it takes a hard-hearted person to deny play to anyone. Maybe the hard-hearted are simply the unfortunate few who seldom have fun. Those who follow Tao believe in fun and play. Through play, the letting go of our restrictions, the lighthearted association of disparate and 'irrational' elements, the turning over of establishments are made by people who study carefully and put in a lot of hard work, but those who follow Tao would rather celebrate the accomplishments of those who got their best ideas while lingering, or taking a bath, or eating breakfast, or taking a walk, or sipping tea, or just doing nothing. A smart person takes play seriously, for in the act of playing is the possibility of going beyond established borders. And Tao, while it is everywhere, is most likely to be found outside of borders. If you want to be with Tao, it is better to put aside all this 'important' and 'significant' and just play. Be natural. You'll arrive at Tao a lot sooner than if you make a 'special effort.'" We attend Radney Foster’s appearance in the meadow at 1 PM. I enjoyed Foster and Lloyd before they broke up and disappeared. Today, Radney reappears solo with lots of new songs about love and betrayal. He says, “New Orleans is a good place to get over a marital breakup.” The best discovery of the festival is Buddy and Julie Miller. I’m familiar with their backing vocals, but I’d never really tuned in to them as solo performers. Although they often sing backing vocals on each other’s albums, they release separately -- Julie as a rock artist and Buddy as a country artist. Their 7 PM set is INCREDIBLE!. Julie is a free spirit with a haunting voice. They both have a new fan (www.hightone.com). The festival ends with a two-hour Boz Scaggs blues set--a return to his roots. Boz was the only music Tara was really looking forward to in coming here. I’m surprised at how much I enjoy it. |
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Monday--May 29, Memorial Day: We enjoy a typical American breakfast in the main dining hall, where amateur singer/songwriters are performing. Sadly, their efforts can barely be heard over the din of breakfast conversations. After breakfast, we find Hunter and Haley chatting on the deck of the general store. Hunter clearly doesn’t want this to end. They will stay in touch via e-mail. We meet her father and mother. Her mother is from Holland. The conversation turns to talk about that country and seeking out my family roots in Zutphen a couple years ago. After a slow stroll through the festival grounds, we return to our site and break camp. I thank Tara for being such a good sport. She says she enjoyed the whole experience. On my personal enjoyment scale, only the festivities surrounding the opening of Scottish parliament (self rule for the Scottish people) in Edinburgh last July could compare. “Did you have fun?” I ask the kids. “Yes! Can we go to more festivals?” they want to know. “We’ll, there are lots of camping/music festivals. Victorville, June 16-18,” I say glancing at Tara. “There’s one in Calabasas June 23-25. The High Sierra festival is June 30-July 3. Then there’s a songwriters festival July 29-30 in . . . “ “Richard,” Tara says. |
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