Vancouver Folk Festival Days Two and Three: some photos and stories

Alejandro Escovedo and Allan MacInnis, by Erik Iversen, not to be reused without permission

All other photos by Allan MacInnis, not to be reused without permission

This was my first time at the Vancouver Folk Festival, and I hope it won't be my last. An immensely positive, moving experience, previously written about here (an Escovedo-centred preview) and here (my review of day one with a few flash forwards into day two).

I loved the idea of tweeners, the short sets between the main stage concerts. The photo above is of is Bella White. I missed her main set, but glad to have seen her at least a little - my favourite tweener who I didn't already know. (Ford Pier and Fortune Block both did tweeners, too). The Vancouver Fiddle Club tweener was another treat, and surprisingly deft for a bunch of young folks. I think I heard them after dark one night, jamming in a tent while I was stealing away from some main act or other, and while I didn't investigate, I loved the idea of that - kids in a tent, after their show at a folk festival, playing the fiddle together. 

There were few points during the festival where the skies were not threatening to rain, but we only encountered a few drops here and there, getting off pretty lucky. I've heard tales of the Young Canadians performing "Hawaii" to drenched outdoor crowds - which is pretty damn fitting, really - and I personally stood in the rain at a Lollapalooza once while the Violent Femmes broke into "I Hear the Rain," but I think sitting on the ground would lose some of its blush if it meant sitting in a puddle - even if you had a tarp!  

It is curious to me how vast the chasm was between what to me were the too-earnest, too overt politics of SGaanaGwa - who, despite some very cool Haida harmony vocals, actually used words like "colonialism" in their lyrics, which made them feel more like speeches than songs - and the bad decision of Asleep at the Wheel to start their set by covering Bob Wills' "Cherokee Maiden." which is one of those 50's novelty songs that offputtingly paints a cute face on genocide (just as well they performed on different days - Asleep at the Wheel was on Saturday, SGaanaGwa on Sunday). 

Songs like "Cherokee Maiden" (or my personal favourite Bob Wills' "novelty genocide" tune "Running Bear") probably need to be retired from public performance. They're inoffensive on their own, maybe, if you erase all trace of the overall context in which they were written, but sometimes the context is important. Maybe the vibe in Texas, where Asleep at the Wheel hails from, is different, but if we're taking down statues of the first Prime Minister because of his association with residential schools, probably we can afford to take down a few songs, too. It wouldn't have lessened the charms of Asleep at the Wheel's very trad country swing (personally I prefer Petunia and the Vipers, but I'm biased towards locals)..

On the other hand, without her songs ever feeling like she was speechifying, it was really nice that Allison Russell started her Saturday concert by smudging herself and her band. I only saw a few songs of that, feeling exhausted from writing notes and running around the festival grounds, so I ducked out early, also missing the New Pornographers, just as I had missed Taj Mahal and would later miss all but a minute of Five Alarm Funk. 

Not only did I leave early every day, the better to bus and train back to Burnaby, I also arrived late on Sunday, as I had spent much of that morning preparing my notes for publication of part one - thereby missing half of the South Stage workshop with Frazey Ford, Allison Russell, and Clerel, which saw the three supporting each other trading off songs as lead vocalist, including some covers. Shortly after I arrived, Frazey did a Dylan song she's been known to do, "One More Cup of Coffee," with a cute, smiling lyrical flub for "Your loyalty was not to me but to the stars above" ("your something was... something... to the stars above," she sang, shaking her head, and all of us chuckled. Such moments can actually bring you closer to a performer, humanize them.)

Clerel, also an artist whose main performance I missed, covered Smokey Robinson's "Cruisin'," but I had to look it up on Google as he performed. His voice was powerful and beautiful and I was glad to see him getting some press as I hung out at the media tent, waiting for an interview that never happened (I only got to talk to Fortune Block, but truth be known, I'm relieved; my backlog is enormous). 

Allison got the biggest laugh of the set, or at least of the part I saw, by pointing out a "Vancouver fun fact" about Sade (apropos of a cover of "By Your Side"), saying that Sade lost the Grammy that year to Nelly Furtado! Never dig get the name of her fiddler ("violinist?") - Allison introduced everyone but sometimes I was in the middle of making a note about something else and didn't write things down, presuming it would be on the Folk Fest artist page... but there was some very trance-inducing stuff coming from her on Sunday, especially. And such great hair! 

Frazey seemed to have more fun dancing on the smaller stage with Allison and Clerel beside her than for her own mainstage concert. She was in a sober blue pantsuit that I liked much better than her pink stripy thing (it looked more comfortable, too), but my photos don't really do it justice. I couldn't see Allison at all that day - she was hidden by a tree where I sat on the fringes of the accessibility area. She's the person I am most interested in checking out music by, after the fest is over, the artist (beside Fortune Block, whose CD I bought, more on whom later) who came as the most delightful surprise... but her CD rack was empty in the Neptoon tent.

Frazey talked at one point about "the joy of raising healthy kids" after having had a somewhat traumatic childhood, which it sounded like Allison could identify with. It fit the overall vibe of the festival, which was quite healing and healthy - though I loved that Frazey joked about bringing the vibe of the day down by ending the workshop with a fairly cranky original, "Done." But of course, nearly everyone got up and danced for that. Me too, behind my new tree-friend.

Afterwards, passing the East Stage, I snapped a couple of quick photos of Quote the Raven, a Newfoundland duo who were doing a song I quite liked, I believe called "Already Gone" (no relation to the Eagles song of that name). It doesn't appear to be on their bandcamp or main page, but it was a potent tune, with the right blend of lyrical warmth and emotive wit. Later, as I was walking my wife around the grounds, I ran into them and snapped a photo; why not?  

Food Truck time followed fast with Erika joining me late (she missed Frazey, who is a favourite of hers, but caught Witch Prophet and the Escovedo/ Pier/ Fortune Block workshop). We tried the Baja Fries at Dos Amigos, which a friend had previously recommended, but I think they should have called it "Mexican poutine," since it was basically cheese, salsa, and a topping over fries. It was yummy, regardless. It was the only meal where I forgot to ask for more sauce, but went down easy enough. 

I have one more big thing planned, probably for tomorrow, about the Escovedo/ Pier/ Fortune Block workshop, which came next (I had already interviewed Fortune Block by that point). It was great, and Escovedo told a compelling story about his father, apropos of his song "Wave," but sometimes it is just too hard to take notes - you kind of have to be there. He also did "Sensitive Boys," dedicating it to the Kinmans for that performance; it was (I think) the one song he repeated in both sets, later on (at the main stage) dedicating it to those we have lost along the way.

Apparently the last time Erik Iversen was at the Folk Fest, he was sitting with Sherri Decembrini (it was also the last time Art played Vancouver, too, back in 2018). I can find no obit of her online but gather her death was a freak accident, a fall. Erik commented he'd wished he'd gotten photos of her. 

There was a lot of heaviness hanging overhead, really, lots of thought to the fragility of what we have (I kept thinking of a Robert Duncan line, springing to mind for no real reason: "How tenderly they must attend these friendships or all is lost/ All is lost/ Only the faithful hold this place green"). It only meant that we needed something like this even more.  

Once in place in the East Stage audience, ready for the workshop, I found myself in a moment of slight conflict with the woman in front of me, who turned in her lawnchair to give me a stern look when I whooped too loudly, too close to the back of her head. Afterwards, I ended up showing her the scars up both my forearms, by way of explanation: "I wasn't being a jerk - I've had surgery recently and can't really clap, so I whoop!" (I tried to whoop less loudly from then on). It prompted some reflection about aging. I was born too late to ever be a hippie or a boomer, but if my cancer stays away, maybe I'll be around in twenty years' time and still making it out to the festival. It was nice to see that there are in fact tons of people in their 70's and upwards who came out. There were plenty of young families, many with children, who came out too, but I'd say the majority of the attendees were 60+. I wonder how many of the older attendees get out for exactly one live music experience a year: this one? 

It must be pretty amazing for them. 

Venturing back after the workshop, I find myself on a mission to deliver Ford Pier to where Alejandro was posing with Brent Kane for photos by Erik Iversen. I collected Fortune Block for this, too. More on that tomorrow (or soon). I did take advantage of chatting with Mr. Escovedo to let him know that I was the 5 o'clock interview that his manager had briefly scheduled, then cancelled at Alejandro's request - wanted to mention that perhaps we could do it later, but it didn't have to be later that night. I'm still game. 

He was very happy to have a photo with Ford and gave me a  nice "gracias" comment on Facebook when I posted it.  

Erika, during her time there, was happy to peruse the clothing, but neither of us could find things we like that fit. After the workshop, I helped load her back out - she just wasn't up for the whole evening, has a dress pattern of her own that she's working on. I was very glad to have shown her the grounds, though. Less glad about helping carry her lawnchair back to the car, but I'm glad she didn't have to carry it twice! 

On returning, I headed into the beer garden in back, searching out de-alcoholized beer. I spied Beau Wheeler at a table with friends.  When I waved, they enthusiastically say "Dude!" and run up to me for a hug, while I ponder what the gender-neutral equivalent of "Dude" is. Comrade? Pal? My wife and her brother call each other "Dude" but it didn't seem right to reciprocate with Beau, so I think I just opted for "Hi, Beau!" (Previous interview with Beau here - there is a new album underway! I wonder if Beau will be open to our next conversation including a bit of a "gender-neutral 101" element?).

When I mentioned that I have a Dayglo Abortions piece in my backlog, Beau told me a great story (one of those 'ask them about it later' kinda stories) about their first rock concert, where the Dayglos headlined, but it was the opening act, a metal band, that made the biggest impression, because the crotch of his string-tied spandex pants was altogether too close to Beau's face. The whole time. I have had my face too close to Randy Rampage's crotch, at that Vancouver Complication reunion gig - I was right up front when he led a large ensemble in the Stooges' "No Fun" and whether I wanted to contemplate the bulge in his jeans or not, it was RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME. But - though Rampage was the singer in a couple of metal bands - Annihilator, Stress Factor 9 - there is no reason to think Beau and I have had our faces in the same crotch. The idea amused me, though, so I did ask, "Was it Randy Rampage?" I think the answer involved the sentence "It was a long time ago..." 

All the water dispensing stations were staffed by volunteers, who would turn the spigot for you, so as to prevent transmission of diseases. At one point, I raised my (full) cup of water and said something silly to the fellow who'd poured for me, saluting his service. I got a laugh. The water areas seemed to be mostly located in the back of the main area; having a water dispenser nearer the main food truck area would have been welcome, too, though I guess fewer drinks would have been sold. 

If I had quibbles with anything about how the fest was laid out. it was the lack of signage. There were a few around, natch, but a few more boards in the trees telling people where the main stage, east stage, south stage and west stage were could have made the experience of navigating the grounds a bit easier. Having already been lost on Day One, then getting more oriented on Day Two, I found myself at my most discombobulated on Sunday. At one point, I had to make my way from the west stage to the east stage, at the furthest extremes of the festival grounds, while I was still prepping for the Escovedo interview I thought I had scheduled for 5pm. I was lost in thought about questions - I wonder if he knew Townes? (More on whom later, too). Somehow, I stopped following the trails and started just following music, and found myself not at the East Stage, but the South Stage, where Lache Cercel's Roma Jazz Ensemble was playing. (I hadn't thought I would be able to catch any of that, but I've gone to see him at East is East on Main Street which is a great experience, if you've missed out. Not sure when he plays but it's fantastic, as is the food). Happily, I found myself there just in time to listen to a Stephen Nikleva-led number, off Square Moon, and lingered for a while as I tried to orient myself. But then I couldn't remember which way I wanted to go from there, and ended up heading back to the main stage area instead of the East Stage, so that I finally arrived at the Escovedo/ Pier/ Fortune Block workshop just as it was getting underway.

Didn't think of it until just now, but Mr. Chi Pig, one of the last times I saw him at Pub 340, cracked wise about the shirt I was wearing on Sunday, saying "Nice blouse - it reminds me of my grandmother's tablecloth." But Chi could be acerbic, and I got a chuckle out of it myself. I mean, I see his point. I am glad that Ford namechecked him a few times - more on that later, too, but Sunday the 17th was the second anniversary of his death. 

As for getting lost, a bit later on, having thrown down a plastic-wrapped pillow and my backpack amidst the tarpers, I found myself lost in a maze of tarps and lawnchairs, trying to get back from the beer garden with my water and San Pelligrino to the area I had marked, going through the inevitable paranoia that someone might have run off with my pack. But no one did. It took me quite some time to find my spot, but in this case, extra signage would not have helped!

 

Once it came Escovedo-time, I found an even better patch of grass to throw down on. A partner in journalism has informed me that the mad dash to stake out territory in front of the stage has been referred to as the "Birkenstock 500," but I saw no evidence of territorial squabbles or hysteria to claim space. 

If fact, the person to the left of me actually offered to let me sit on their tarp! And I got joined in my square by another fellow who just sat on the grass beside me. Knowing I would soon leave, I ended up giving him my plastic-bagged pillow when I started making my way out, during "Castanets," the final song (I think) of the main set (I actually submitted my first Setlist FM setlist for this concert. Do tell if I've missed anything). 

I gather that "Castanets" was a song that Escovedo dropped from performing for a couple of years when he discovered George W. Bush liked it, but I'm glad it's back, it's a rocker. He commented between songs that his chorus - "I like her better when she walks away" - was not meant as anything negative, merely "an architectural observation." I had actually found his charisma almost menacing at the workshop, initially - he has a very powerful stage presence - but he proved to be a very warm and friendly performer, with chatty stories of doing mushrooms in Victoria with Los Lobos and playing Vancouver with his punk band the Nuns. His side of the Escovedo 101 story - his history in Vancouver - will be fun to get, someday. He genuinely seems to have loved his experiences here.

...And as for everyone sitting down, Escovedo accomplished the unlikely, instructing the audience for "Always a Friend" to get up and dance, or do something - "Please don't just sit there." It sure worked! He got everyone clapping, too; often clapalongs can seem cheesy, but for him, it was like the performance extended way out into the audience...  Even the lawnchair-settled couple in front of me got up and danced and clapped. 

Escovedo's encores were the Modernettes' "The Rebel Kind" - he gave shout outs to John Armstrong and Randy Carpenter, who co-wrote it - and an intense "Like a Hurricane," which he described as "the Canadian national anthem." Second best performance of that song I've ever seen (the first was Neil Young and Crazy Horse at the Fuji Rock Festival, with enormous candles lining the stage, flames flickering in the wind... 

I poked around the Neptoon tent for another few minutes after Alejandro had finished, and could see as I was leaving that plenty of people were up and  dancing to Five Alarm Funk, too, thank god. Going to see them and just sitting there would be wrong. 

But by this point I was bracing myself to negotiate the trails to the exit. I stopped and asked a volunteer, "What about lanterns? I was told there was some sort of lantern processional?" Amusingly, they appeared in the distance, coming towards us during this very conversation. "Here they come now!"

(I guess they guide everyone back out, but I only saw them going in one direction, as I went in the opposite, but I stood there trying to get a few good photos.)

I got lost in a slightly different way on the way out, even despite the lanterns. I was nowhere recognizable, anyhow, and seemed far from the main entrance. It was dark, I dunno., but I had to walk a few blocks to fourth. I'd charged my phone just enough at the Neptoon tent that I could use my GPS, and eventually I found myself back at 4th and Alma, listening to Alejandro Escovedo's Real Animal on my headphones until the charge died again.  

To close the circle, I stopped into Fresh Slice, then walked from 4th to Broadway (the third time I'd made the trek that day - because my wife had driven me back to the main gate after we got the chair back to her car). I'm working on a big, final piece on Fortune Block and that Heartworn Highways workshop, more on which tomorrow, or soon. but otherwise, that's it: my attentions must then turn to Eugene Chadbourne's concert this Friday at LanaLou's. And Saturday, for free, at Central City, though we're emphasizing the Lana's gig more, because that's the one that needs a nice big audience!  

Eugene has played the folk fest a couple of times, I think. Definitely once, because I considered going. He's in town right now, in fact, so if you see someone on the street and think, "Is that Eugene Chadbourne?" well, it might just be. For the Friday show, Red Herring opens at 9, Eugene goes on at 10. I'll be at both. See you there?

Vancouver Folk Festival day one: Friday, July 15th (and a little bit of Saturday, too)

Allison Russell smudges her band, main stage, July 16, 2022, photo by Allan MacInnis (unless otherwise noted, all of them are, and are not to be reused without permission, okay?). 

Went to the folk festival this weekend. I am posting this, about Friday, on the morning of day 3, Sunday. I don't know what I will write yet about Saturday, but the lineup for day 3, today as I write this, is here. There are still tickets available. If you are reading this on Sunday morning, you could still come see a workshop with Frazey Ford, Allison Russell (who is stunning and essential, if you've missed her - it was my introduction to her music last night) and Clerel. You could choose between Lache Cercel - hot Roma jazz and swing, probably featuring Red Herring/ Petunia/ former Ray Condo guitarist Stephen Nikleva, and Witch Prophet ("an evolution of Toronto based, Ethiopian/Eritrean singer-songwriter Ayo Leilani," the artist's guide explains). I loved Lache when I caught him at East is East, so I'm gonna do Witch Prophet, myself - the video on that page is very compelling and I'm  not going to get another chance, but follow your own heart, here, folks. There's lots else I'm not even mentioning - including Bill Henderson and Claire Lawrence from Chilliwack - like, THE BAND CHILLIWACK - in a Haida ensemble called SGaanaGwa, (Is the underlining a stylistic thing, a linguistic convention, a Haida thing or...? I have no idea but I am glad at this juncture that I only have to write it). 

And of course, the headliner tonight is Alejandro Escovedo, a legend with connections in the Vancouver punk scene, more on whom here. Here's Bruce Springsteen recommending him and playing with him, playing a song of Escovedo's superb Real Animal. Maybe that would be a good starting point for some people? 

Seriously, if you can afford it, you should come out. It should be a magnificent day. It was cool and lovely yesterday, neither raining on us or scorching us. You will find a space (hopefully on the inside of the fence). Buy at least one meal from a food truck, so you can have that experience. My report from Day One follows. 

Some packing aside, my experience of "arriving" at the Folk Festival on Friday more or less starts with Fresh Slice pizza. You get off the #4 bus at Alma and there it is: Satan's welcoming embrace, an invitation to lower your food standards in the name of your pocketbook. Ray Davies could, if he wanted to update the Kinks' "Low Budget," sub in "I'm eating at Freshslice" for "I'm shopping at Woolworths." I mean, do Woolworths even exist anymore? 

It's surely the most diabolically placed Fresh Slice anywhere. They might as well put a sandwich board out that reads: "Worried that your budget will not carry you through both lunch and dinner out of food trucks? Would you rather spend your money on merch? Come on in!" 

Truth is, Fresh Slice has risen in my estimation since my mouth surgery. Those reading this who do not follow my blog regularly will find it relevant to note: I have had a repeated experience of tongue cancer and glossectomy over the past few years, each time losing a bit more of my tongue ("take it, take another little piece of my tongue now, baby") and as of December, had most of the left side of the blade of my tongue removed and replaced with grafts from my wrists, leaving me with a newfound speech impediment and some difficulty in chewing and swallowing, because my graft has neither muscle nor nerves (save what few have regenerated since December). It took me a couple of months to be able to handle a slice of pizza at all, and there's plenty out there now that I do not eat...

My "new normal" here, which I am still not completely acclimatized to, will come up again, but one impact of the surgery of immediate relevance is, the criteria of what I will eat has shifted. Things need to be easy to chew, easy to swallow. Fresh Slice, while not the most inspiring pizza, fits both of those categories. The butter chicken - probably their tastiest deluxe pizza - and the plain with garlic sauce I can eat with confidence, though I elect this time for ham and pineapple, the better to take on a bit of fuel to carry me over. 

Next step: find the entrance (I really am a total noobie here). Turning down 4th, I see someone following their GPS, the unmistakable tethered-to-the-cellphone walk. Two older people, themselves lacking such a device, but also apparently en route to the folk fest - they're carrying a large umbrella and bags of stuff - check in with him and fall into place behind him, but are just far enough ahead of me that I cannot overhear their conversation. ("Are you going to the folk fest?" is surely their opener). 

A noob in a bunch of noobs. A little noob processional. I fall into line myself, following at a discrete distance.

The strategy works, though note to GPSers: the GPS - I eventually checked mine, too -  if you look for "Jericho Beach Park," it will direct you towards the Jericho Beach entrance, which is 13 minutes past where the folk festival entrance is. I am pleasantly surprised when I find myself at a gate much earlier than I anticipated. I put the phone away for awhile. 

It is early on the first day - distant soundchecks echo - and there is not much signage visible as yet. I have been told to check in at the special media area at Will Call, but I do not know where Will Call is, and do not realize that the gate I have arrived at is - as seems to have been the case - not the Main Gate. Alas, I make a poor decision - seeing the older couple, the people I have been following, entering through a gate at the corner of things, I talk to the volunteers there first. They ARE letting people in at this gate, whethere it is the main gate or not. It does not seem unreasonable to start at the first gate I arrive at). 

Ask my wife: I am directionally challenged.

The volunteers are friendly but they don't know what to do with media. No one says, "It's probably at the main gate," and direct me that-a-way. I spiel my spiel in my awkward slurry new voice and they direct me to the "Service" gate. The people at the Service gate also do not know what I am supposed to do, so they direct me into the media area proper, which is a tent inside the festival. I know from the instructional emails I have received that this is not where I am supposed to pick up my pass, but I figure they will know. I briefly explain myself to people in the lantern tent. The media tent, they direct me, is next door. "This isn't media, this is lanterns." 

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have had that pot cookie, but - wrong place or not - it helps me to take a minute to enjoy some lanterns. 

(I am editing this on Sunday morning, and note: I am not sure what is done with the lanterns. Do they just hang in the lanterns tent? Is there a ceremonial lighting of the lanterns? There is a sign that reads "Come carry a lantern" - do people just check them out? Note to self: figure out what is done with the lanterns. They're quite delightful).

Media is helpful. A very friendly person walks me back towards the gate where my media pass awaits. I observe that no one I have spoken to has known where this is (I do not add, "And I'm a bit stoned"). 

"I would say after two years off we're a bit scattered!" this person says with a smile. I thank them abundantly for the directions. There is some amusement to be had explaining to the gatekeeper that I need to exit the festival to collect my pass. "How did you get in without it?" 

She lets me back out. "I am the gatekeeper, I am important," she jests. I chat convivially with everyone I see. 

There is a man bearing plywood - as sure a badge of authority at the fest as one could want - who mentions there have been many changes this year. "We used to have six stages." Later I will learn that they used to have a kitchen; now it's all food trucks. These changes make no impact on me, but it's interesting to contemplate, given how huge the fest seems, that it apparently used to be bigger.

In any case, everyone is friendly and helpful and I enjoy exploring: Look, there's a swamp! Are there frogs? 

None that I could see, though later, I will hear one. 

There is a merchant with silk shirts and bamboo kitchenware who announces he is retiring, everything is on sale. For all I know, he's been saying this for five years - it's a good line; people like a sale, especially a closing out sale - but, like, he's gonna retire eventually. I'm tempted to go back next year just to see if he's still there. 

 I look at his shirts - because I love a good Hawaiian shirt. There are Tommy Bahamas, many of them, at prices I can afford ($59.95 each, or two for $100? Is that what I read? Tommy Bahama's sell for around $200 new, so this is a fab deal, but they are all XL. There are a couple of 2XLs of other shirts, but not silk, not Tommy. I've lost a lot of weight with my surgery, but I still need that 2XL upgrade. I try on one shirt to confirm that I am still not a mere XL.)

There is a tree that looks like, if you were on powerful acid, it might grow faces and start speaking at you. An ent, or something. This is all, you understand, a new place for me: I've lived in Kits and explored many parks and beaches, but never this one. 

 

I make it to the East Stage for Sinnoi, a Korean electronica-meets-jazz avant-garde quartet, whose stage setup was bracketed on the one side by a fellow on a laptop (Godam) and Jung-seok Lee on a large koto-like stringed instrument. This surely must be the "geomungo" spoken of in the festival guide (now online only, it appears), except when singer Bora Kim refers to it, it sounds enough like "conga" that I am surely not the only one who scanned the stage looking for a hand drum that I'd somehow missed. 

Sinnoi's music ranges from a sort of dreamy, minimalist glitch electronica (with jazz bass and virtuosic, breathy, at times achingly beautiful vocal stylings), to something a bit more assertive, even slightly jazzy, slightly funky, slightly proggy (though not belonging to any one of those genres per se; perhaps Koreans have a better language to describe what we were hearing?). I know nothing of the musical context from which Sinnoi emerges, know nothing of Korean traditional music or the avant- or jazz scene there, but they remind me of my time spent exploring the Japanese avant garde scene, and I find myself thinking of Onna Kodomo, Ayuo, Haco and occasionally Bondage Fruit, not that Sinnoi's music sounds like any of these exactly, either.  

It's an interesting window into a culture, encountering their traditional musics and instruments through a very contemporary window. I am pleased to learn that Korea has an avant garde scene that supports music like this, since the Korean cultural exports we get here on the West Coast seem to mostly involve excessively spicy food, hyperviolent (and occasionally quite twisted) movies and K-pop. 

Bora Kim is particularly compelling as she sings, though her nerves come through when she speaks (this comes through later with Frazey Ford, too, a little, though she was not negotiating English as a second language. It's rather sweet to see nerves, uncertainty, confusion. We are all, every one of us, out of practice at all this, and it actually serves as a bonding point). "This song is called 'Han River,'" Bora announces at one point before a fairly somber, soundscapy cut, and I note as a (now probably former) ESL instructor and tutor that she could use some L/R work ("Han Liver" is just not the same thing).

Once, before my surgery, I could have helped her. 

The Han River. by the by, is the river the monster emerges from in Bong Joon-Ho's The Host, but also, I think, contains in its name a reference to an important cultural concept in Korea, "Han,"  "an internalized feeling of deep sorrow, resentment, grief, regret and anger" that students of mine have connected to the experiences of Koreans under the occupation of Japan and the divisive, painful, and still unfinished Korean war.

Apparently - I learn from the vocalist's introductions - the double bassist is the leader, Won-sool Lee (the catalogue gives it as Won-soo Lee, but "Lee" is a family name in Korea, and they are otherwise putting family names last. It is not always easy to have the right instincts in these matters). He looks like the jazzman he apparently is, playing with that fingery intensity; Kim looks like she's at a classical music concert, and the laptop fella and geomungo player look pretty much like former students of mine, though they aren't. 

I'm enjoying it - just sitting on the ground, on a combination of a towel and a waterproof jacket - but the urge to explore is stronger. My wife said something about wanting silk. I can still hear the music from the nearby merch tents, where there are dresses made from recycled saris, some silk, on sale. The fabric is terrific, and - were these $10 each? Did I read that right? They were very affordable (if too small for Erika). 

Apparently one of the many changes this year is the absence of the artisan silk merchants who used to set up outside the festival proper - near the beach, on the far side of the gates, where the "cheap seats" are logs of driftwood. It must be sad viewing the festival from the wrong side of the fence!

(In fairness, it does look like there ends up being quite a "wrong side of the fence" crowd later in the evening. The view is crap - the main stage is too far to view from this distance - and the sound is getting a bit echoey, but, y'know, for the broke or extremely thrifty, there are worse places to be on a weekend evening. I could see this being a very pleasant scene, actually!).

Delightful things happen just wandering the grounds. An immeasurably cute young duck, seeing me at a bench, comes running up from the swamps, thinking I might have food, and extends its beak towards my empty hand as I sit on a bench checking in with my wife. Seeing I have no food, it wanders off elsewhere. I reach out my hand again hoping to convince it to come back ("so I can take a picture") but the duckling is like, "screw you, deadbeat, pay me or no photo." Even if I wanted to, I have no food.

Wandering further down the trails, I spy the merch tents. The CD tent is run by Neptoon, and I see they have  a combination of artists' merch and - Satan, get thee hence - boxes upon boxes of used CDs. I had chatted with Ben in the store the day previously and bought the one used Alejandro Escovedo CD they had on their shelves. Ben, at that point had thought they just had The Crossing on CD, but I'm very pleased to see that they also have it on vinyl, and better yet, Burn Something Beautiful, too. 

This photo is by the merch guy. Didn't get his name!

This is the Escovedo I am most keen to own, exactly the album I am hoping to find, as it features members of my most-beloved Seattle rock group the Young Fresh Fellows (who really need to play a show up here sometime) and REM's Peter Buck, all of whom I believe also had done things to support Robyn Hitchcock around this time (to say nothing of the Minus 5). It's a fine team and a rockin', energetic album, kicking off with one of my favourite Escovedo songs, "Heartbeat Smile." $40 no longer seems like an outrage, more like, "That's what vinyl costs nowadays." I grab it. And The Crossing. Merch budget blown (on Saturday, I will make room for Fortune Block, more on whom later; they will be doing a workshop with Escovedo and Ford Pier on Sunday). 

I discover that it's just pleasant to walk in a park filled with so many friendly, happy people. It feels a bit alien - a taste of normalcy, after two very strange years indeed, made even stranger for me by cancer ordeal. A few people wear masks, but mostly the vibe is quite relaxed. This is what community should feel like. This is not how living near Metrotown, as I do, feels. I can see why this festival becomes a way of life for some people. 

Plus there's food! 

I miss some music to survey the food trucks. Again, my recent survey makes ease of chewing more of a factor than it once was. I explain at the fish and chips truck - Mama's, is it? - "I've had tongue surgery - is it possible I can get extra tartar sauce?"

They oblige me. I like it when my main complaint about a meal is that there's a lot more to it than I was anticipating. Yes, it cost $35 with drink, but that's a huge portion. 

I chat with a fellow fish-and-chipper at a picnic table, where we sit in corners not spackled with crow poop, about how - we agree - we would have gotten only one piece of fish if we'd realized how big they were. I use the word "ordeal," he uses the word "commitment." We both are very well fed by the end.

Remember the friendly, cute duck? As I eat, three crows, reminding me of the Mexican hoodlums from Orson Welles' Touch of Evil, saunter over menacingly as I stuff in another french fry, almost like they're trying to convey, "Give us a chip or Hector up there will poop on you." (There is a crow directly overhead in the tree). You half expect them to break out switchblades, a little corvid gang. I do not play their game, however: as I wrap up, I take the remaining food across the field to be composted. Poop falls near where I sit - "spack!" onto the tabletop, a little grey pyramid - but nothing gets in my food. 

There's a lot of goose poop everywhere, too, so watch where you sit! (This seems to be cleaned up a bit by day two - perhaps there are behind the scenes goose pooper scoopers surveying the grounds?).

Again, to flash ahead to Saturday, I try the chicken teriyaki, which is good but lacking the carrots in the photo. They have no qualms about my "extra sauce" request. A friend I spot (who does not wish to be identified) recommends the Mexican food truck, Dos Amigos, which has some sorta spicy chicken thing served on French fries. Mexican poutine? She didn't seem sure what it was either. 

The one quibble about the food area - if you have trouble getting down on the ground, as one fella with a cane who was awkwardly two-fisting some meat skewers and a beverage, trying to eat while holding his cane - there weren't that many picnic tables to be had! I ended up just sitting on the ground, myself. Overall there was a lot of consideration for the differently abled, but that's one area the fest could maybe improve on next year.  

Back to Friday: as I finish my meal, I still have not figured out where anything but the main stage and the east stage are, and nothing is happening at the main stage, so I saunter over to the East Stage again. The volunteer introducing the next act, Housewife, gets their name wrong, calling them Housewives, which places us on some sort of slippery slope to "the Wives," the other name of the notorious, all-male Toronto punk band the Battered Wives). Housewife is very different, a Toronto indy-rock unit, 3/4s female or non-male or however you're supposed to do that in the move towards a non-binary world (there has to be a politically correct way to say "it's not all dudes," which matters when it comes to bands, since so many of them are all dudes, still!).  

Housewife begin their set with some pretty conventional songs, then start getting a bit more musically ambitious as their set progresses, and a bit more discordant; they are much more interesting for it. Maybe they just grow on me. 

They seem to have a feminist angle to some of their music. One song seems to return to a refrain about "keeping your ___ off my body," where the ___ is either head, hand, or hands. I have never been very good at hearing lyrics in a live context, but I assume it is tied into recent developments in the United States. They also ask us if we like the colour orange, but I can make out too few of the lyrics to figure out if the song is about the colour orange, or perhaps some sort of Every Child Matters reference. It could have been. 

Housewife is a kind of depressing name for a female-fronted group to adopt, but I like what they do plenty, especially as their confidence grows.

At one point, one of the guitarists takes the mike to tell her Mom she loves her, "but please stop filming our set, I'm really nervous up here!" The Mom does a little theatrical mea-culpa routine for the chuckling crowd and puts away her phone. The guitarist giggles along with the audience at all this. It's a sweet moment. 

The singer also quips that "The air is so much fresher here than in Toronto! It's amazing!"

But quickly I'm discovering that the folk festival is only partially about the music - maybe moreso this year than others, since we're all kind of green at this, again. Just being around so many people in a comfortable environment, giving each other space as needed, supporting each other, listening to each other, not getting aggro with each other... "being normal again" is as much as a draw for a healing city as the bands, and seems even sweeter because I'm pretty sure a lot of us are aware that this could all end again soon. The media and government aren't being very active reporting on COVID but I'm sure I'm not the only person who feels how fragile all of this is. How it might all go away again real soon. 

Maybe I'm just in denial. I'm just enjoying a day in the park. 

Then I start meeting actual friends. Fiona Morrow of Montecristo is there with her son Sacha. We talk about upcoming music in the city, discuss a possible article (my Doug and the Slugs one went well enough, my first thing for them since my surgery). Fiona, who has been here before, fills me in on the politics of the main stage - the lifers have all by now set up their tarps in front of the stage to stake the prime ground so they can sit in their folding chairs while dancers and less committed onlookers hang out on the sides - a fairly accurate assessment of the main stage layout. Frazey Ford, later, will make jesting reference to this, saying something like, "Get up and dance, you goddamn tarp-dwellers!" 

(But to flash ahead a minute, I discover on Saturday that if you're just one guy with a pillow for his ass, the tarp dwellers are very friendly and willing to let you tromple through their area in search of a spot of green to throw down on. "As long as there's grass, you're good," one tarp dweller tells me. I end up lying down on the margins between tarps, giving my back a break during Asleep at the Wheel. No one is aggro. The view is much better. A few people step over me, some while dancing. In the end, I kinda get the sense that, entitled or not, the tarp-dwellers are doing it right, in fact. It seems like a kind of shame that there are so few people dancing in the front of the stage, but their lawnchairs do look comfortable, and they sure aren't blocking anyone's view, which is usually what happens at concerts - everyone has to stand for two hours or more because the people in front stand, making everyone else stand. Doesn't work that way here). 

On Friday, I end up one of the people on the margins, sometimes sitting on my jacket and towel combo, sometimes actually dancing (a little). The view isn't bad from the side, either, though.  

Do I want to haul a folding chair on transit all the way from Burnaby? Is there room among the tarps for me?

Hmm.

With apologies to the Brothers Landreth, who make very professional, smooth, fairly traditional country rock - I spent their entire set hanging out with a friend I have not seen in ages, Judith Scott, formerly of Sister DJ's Radio Band (playing guitar in the top pic here), and Mom to Emile of the Real Ponchos (who turns out to be working the media area on Saturday, and who informs me that the band is still active, even though one guy is now a married lawyer (or something like that). Judith and I have not seen each other since the first Red Herring reunion show at the Prophouse in - what was that, 2013? She taps me on the shoulder, we hug, and find that we have much to talk about, including the insanities of COVID. (I am delighted to learn that she has followed, on my blog, the stories of the death of my Mom, my cancer struggles, and my current weird new tongue. And my marriage! She's up to date on all of that, so we can just talk about the craziness of COVID. 

We both find ourselves describing a similar experience, witnessing a kind of culture war,  a chasm opening up between what seems two broad, irreconcilable factions in our society, and I think she feels as marooned between them as I am, able to see both sides, and saddened by the failure of communication. She's been avoiding crowds a bit, so coming to the festival is a big deal for her, her first time back in the world. 

Anyhow, Judith and I got to share our impressions of all this. It's too complex to do justice to here. Both of us have questions and concerns and a sense at awe at the strange time in our lives we are beholding. And while our conversation had ended well before Ford Pier - as the middle Ford between Robben Ford (the only performer whose vibe I did not enjoy) and Frazey Ford - took the stage to do a few in-between songs, it turned out that the whole conversation with Judith was just building up to a really witty, really well-worded quip by Ford, after he performed my third favourite song on Gormful in Maya, "I Can't See You." "What I like about that song is, those freedom convoy schmos could sing it, too, and they wouldn't have to change a word." 

I am going to cheat here and flash ahead to Saturday, because I got some great photos of Ford in action on the smaller stage, and talked a bit with his ASL interpreter, Ally, about how she deals with off-the-cuff lyric translations, more on which later. Ford himself, later, confessed to being curious what the ASL signs might look like for "bleeding out my ass." More on that to come, but Saturday's show may have been the best Ford Pier thing I have seen  I did not ever think I would hear "Lions And Tigers And Bears" again live, so thanks for that, Mr. Pier! 

During Ford's tweener, Fiona, camped behind me on the margins of the stage, remarked, "Hey, isn't he one of the people at Red Cat?" I gave her some of Ford's history and played her a clip of some Buttless Chaps: "You've seen that guy there, too."

Then Frazey Ford took the stage. I wandered and checked out different vantage points, leaving one spot I'd staked out for dancing, because - curse of the Vancouver festival crowd - a cluster of people elected to have a loud conversation about a foot from where I was. (To the extent that there was any aggro in the day it was from me, giving them and their flappin' gums the stinkeye, but I decided on so doing that probably you just have to be live-and-let live at the Folk Fest about such things. I still think it's obnoxious to talk near where people are listening to music - Judith and I sat very far to the margins, so as not to interfere with people who were digging the Brothers Landreth (they also do something today, did I mention?). But - hey, this gives me a chance to see the back area, where people had a hammock staked out and children were playing with frisbees. A chiller vibe, all told. 

I was impressed that from a sound-and-dancing point of view, Frazey could be a li'l speck up there and it still was quite listenable. At one point, in wandering around the margins of the crowd, I saw a woman who looked like my friend Judith, who DANCED like my friend Judith, but who visibly was NOT my friend Judith, then adjusted my view and realized that in fact, Judith was dancing WITH this woman, right beside her on the field behind the sound tent. 

My camera battery had died at that point, or I would have snapped a pic. Note to self: bring charging cable! I did get a couple of shots of Frazey Ford, however.

I do not know what to say about Frazey's performance, 90% of which was devoted to U Kin B the Sun, with her set being somewhat surprisingly absent my favourite song by her, "Done," which has maybe the best rock video ever made on the streets of Vancouver. I *believe* (but am no authority) that the only song in the set from Indian Ocean was, in fact, "September Fields." There might have been one other.

She seemed at times shy - at least I thought I heard nervousness in her voice at addressing a crowd as large as that spread before her - and at times quite confident in her humour and irreverence (see above, re: "goddamn tent-dwellers"). She was also always very grateful and expressive, telling the crowd she loved them. At one point, in introducing her song "Money Can't Buy," she dropped a casual f-bomb, and I had the delight of watching two children, who had been dancing and cartwheeling near me, start to giggle that Frazey "sweared," while one of their Moms  explained that yes, it was "a part of her vocabulary" and - though I saw more the gestures than I heard the words - probably said something like, "I still don't want to hear it coming from you!" 

I love that Frazey swears. I sometimes dance around the apartment when Erika is listening to her and insert the odd textural "motherfucker" into the song. I would like the Lilith Fair crowd much more if they said "motherfucker" more often. 

I'm quite serious. 

The East Stage emcee!

By this point my back was getting sore. I elected to duck out before Taj Mahal, which I am sure will scandalize my friend Judith to no end, since Taj was the draw for her. I stuck around long enough to hear Fortune Block do "Hot Dogs in Heaven," which they wrote, they explained, as a tribute to John Prine ("the night after he died we got really drunk and wrote this song" - or something like that). More to come on them - I sat down on Saturday with Richard and Amber at the media area and did a mini-interview, which I suspect will be the only interview I do. It was pretty fun, though. 

Waiting at the bus stop, a few miles from where Taj had just started, I was delighted that a fellow festival attendee pulled up in an Evo and said "Are any of you going downtown?" I got a car ride right to Burrard Station. Thanks, Eleanor! (She really recommended Allison Russell, later today, to me, and I Alejandro Escovedo to her). 

Oh, and by the by, Judith stuck around for Taj, and wrote about his performance, in an email to me now, "Re taj. I have a giant fan crush and he can do no wrong. I danced when he asked for dancing girls, I wiggled when he said to wiggle. I danced and listened to the whole set from near the back with a warm glow in my heart. At one point near end I went to the front and gazed at the dancing festival goers, young and old, bathed in the lights from the stage, and I thought everyone looked like they were being seduced by him! So happy to be in his presence again."

There are still passes for the festival's final day, I believe! More information here. It's truly delightful.