Another Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Weekend

Weather forecast predicted showers Saturday for the music festival in the park, but I let not that prognostication slow down my intrepid quest for euphoria in the rough...

When I saw the poster for this year's festival--a pig wearing a bowler hat and smoking a pipe-- it resonated well as a simple amusing design and it gave me an idea for verbal self-defense if necessary. In a couple of years past I have noted, and have had to deflect some myself, voracious pot mooches. They scan the crowd for innocent self-provident smokers and their companions who observe the quaint but seriously out-moded custom of passing the pipe. Acceptable perhaps for lovers and kissing cousins, for most others I tend to forfend. who wants to absorb the saliva of strangers? Particularly with this moocher type who just wants to hoover-up everyone's stash despite his having had plenty already. And as Mr. Carlin once observed, you can't get stoned twice, you are just wasting your stash. The surplus THC is like air traffic circling waiting to land.
Once you have had three to four deep inhalations of smoke, held for ten seconds or so, of high quality medical grade marijuana, you are high as you can get. Actually if you wait a minute after just one hit it's enough for a lot of people. If you smoke more you won't necessarily get higher you will only be stoned longer. I say necessarily only because if you switch to another variety of marijuana you can add nuances of different THC genetic fibrillations and arguably get higher. I tend to make blends that are comprised of both Sativa and Indica varieties and usually have strains that contain both.
So if such a character should have asked me for some of what I was smoking, and if then he didn't quietly accepting my right to refuse his demand, I might say, "Hey, you look familiar...isn't that you on this year's poster?" With relief, the snappy comeback wasn't required.
The preceding digression was in fact very much to the point concerning Hardly Strictly. A classical musician from San Diego I met at the N-Judah stop Sunday night, remarked to me, "I was surprised at the sheer amount of marijuana being smoked at the festival." I told him one of my favorite moments was when they announced from the stage that tobacco smoking was completely prohibited but that medical marijuana smoking was permitted everywhere in the park.

Saturday turned out to be sunny and the air and the greenery seemed freshened by the rain. Looking out over the crystal clear Bay as I inclined down Bancroft, I saw no more weather clouds looming to the West. I set out on my hejira carrying my food and water.
A lot of young people waited on the train platform most looking more like old time hippies with post-mod incongruities. The country herbal hippies were headed for Hardly Strictly but a another fascinating group were headed to the Love Parade and event in downtown San Francisco. These were even younger than country-types and were festooned in more glittery and garish apparel--the drug of choice for rave-style dance events such as this one tended toward the artificial energy variety.
In the Muni station a different crowd than the weekday commuters filled the waiting area. No seats at first for my already achy skeletal-muscular system. But I happily stood among really attractive teen-aged girls wearing, as one did, outfits like a fishnet shirt over a bikini top, eye-catching make-up, and short-short skirt. Everyone was smiley and a wee bit excited.
"You young folks ought to give seats to the old folks. You'll get to heaven faster," said somebody-- maybe it was me. Anyroad, I scored a seat among another contingent of two girls laughed about it when I sat with their cute boyfriend. He sullenly left his leg rubbing against me--it's all barely sublimated sexiness with this crowd.
When their stop came up and off went the crystalline revelers, an old Chinese guy who spoke fairly good English sat next to me and asked what they were about. I said they were going to the Love Parade. "What is the meaning of that?" he asked. It's about love-- they are young and sexy and they love each other.
At long last we were out on Judah and I knew my proper stop--the previous day I'd gotten off too early 31st street and had to traverse a little of the kind of hill and dale in the park that I try to avoid. Young athletes abounded as I rounded the polo field to hit the Star stage. It was relaxed and roomy as I joined the crowd in front of Chris Hillman and the Desert Rose Band. This was a one-off reunion and it was immediately clear there was no rust on them--they sounded unmistakably like musicians who play all the time--in other bands though not this classic line-up. Hillman sounded great and really stirred up great feeling when he played songs he did with the Byrds ("You and Me") and with the Flying Burrito Brothers ("Wheels") both among the turntable hits in my home for decades. His lead guitarist was real virtuoso and played those perfect country runs like a speeded-up special effects phenomenon.
I had my shortbread cookie made with canabutter washed it down with a jar of coffee. In no time the music was having a profound effect and that elusive and endlessly compatible euphoria set in, The world once again seemed a very lovely and welcoming place.
Which is not to say it is always a utopia at the festival. While at that spot I was mildly put out by cigarette smokers in the thickets upwind and then some miscreant lit a long-burning cigar in there. Then a wispy haired hippie crone camped nearby with an increasingly nervous pit-bullish dog. I petted him and tried to chill him out a little but there is no peace for a dog in a large crowd with amplified music unless he has been so-trained.
Next up the fine Del McCoury band and their state-of-the-art bluegrass. Their song "Moneyland" perfectly fit the current state of affairs in which tax-payers are being forced to socialize the losses incurred by Wall Street greed-monsters who made immoral private fortunes out of their pyramid schemes. I stood and cheered it from my hillside spot and Del nodded to me in acknowledgment. Bluegrass stars are down-to-earth people.
I sat down and resumed my lunch of garden fresh tomato, cuke, and carrot slices, with some Ryvita sesame crackers. I noticed a little girl with her family the next blanket observing me, I said hi. You can bring spirits, beer, wine, whatever--but I wasn't drinking, people enjoyed their pot right and left--but I wasn't smoking. Perhaps she wondered about this old guy who clearly enjoyed the music and danced whenever possible, what was my secret? She wouldn't have noticed the massive cookie I ate when I first arrived here.

The set drew to a close with widespread dancing and as it did all the spaces between folks seemed to become filled. The next set was to be Planet Drum led by Mickey Hart of the Grateful Dead and tie-died and tangled haired youngsters filled every available space in anticipation of it. The commotion frightened the nearby dog to the extent that he was shivering, cowering and growling. I said so to the lady who pretended not to hear me. But the guy behind her nodded vigorously with a frightened look of his own on his face. Hardly Strictly should really take a look at their policy on dogs because people will do the dumbest things.

I made my way to the center of the festival on Speedway meadows. My objective was the Arrow stage where the venerable country swing aggregate Asleep at the Wheel fired-up their theme song "Miles and Miles of Texas" as I approached the stage front. It was all dancing at this stage and the band was happy to cause some revelry. One tipsy gal dancing with her friend tried to get me to contact dance with her but I was doing my best just to be able to stand and groove. I finally said that maybe if I had a drink... "Oh you don't need a drink," she pestered. At last she found a willing partner and let me be. Very cool steel pedal player with a cocked cowboy hat looked like the real Texas roadhouse thing and played that way too. I stayed for most of their set before setting out to see an hear Steve Earle.
Using my round the white tent approach I got fairly close to the Banjo stage. "Here's one I'm going to keep singing until it comes true," he announced before performing his paean for peace in the Holyland, "Jerusalem". To be honest it began to seem to me that I had heard him sing most of the songs he was singing here before. I began to fade toward the Western horizon before his set was finished. I could hear him in the stirring moments that I turned to look back as I got farther and farther way. You see first the Banjo stage then both the Banjo and the Star stages still lit up still emanating music as you move toward the far end of the meadows into the shadowy areas of the park. "This Land Is Your Land" followed until I crossed the hillock and descended to the polo field with only the moon and stars for company.

Every night after returning I have diner, a bath, and rest up watching a film. By Sunday I awoke in sort of an achy state of grace and after a brief wavering period I am bound for my trip. Breezy and cooler but under full sunlight I left wearing my trusty all weather-coat with the lining zipped-in--it sometimes makes for overly warm or somewhat encumbered travel, but it is my clothing, shelter and stand-by for the maritime end of Golden Gate park in October. Travel was freaked-out only by a crowded N-Judah train that despite it's destination sign knocked-off around Kezar stadium. The disgruntled crowd stood waiting for the next crowded train in no great mood. Fortunately it had room for us and I found myself in conversation with an 80 year-old German-American man who urged a lot of health and body-care ideas on me. Heard his story of moving to Canada, then San Francisco in the early sixties where he bought a house despite low wages in those days. He takes a ferry to Marin for a hot-springs and spa--seems very glad to meet with cordial conversation. I try to be at least a minor saint and offer a sympathetic ear to those whom fate puts in proximity.
Then I am the last of the apparent Bluegrass pilgrims to climb off way out at 33rd avenue. A brilliant day over the park and, down another street, on the glistening ocean. Once again I hook a turn a the end of the Polo field to the Star stage where I can already hear "Friend of the Devil" the old Grateful Dead chestnut being performed by another old chestnut--Elvis Costello. If I count carefully I can remember how many times I have seen him play since the first time in 1978. Yet he's always good and often great. To his credit he made a Country LP way back around 1980 so he can't be called a roots Americana band-wagon hopper.
The hillside where I easily settled-in yesterday has become quite heavily-populated for his set but I found a suitably rustic spot with a fair view. It felt like a balcony seat off above the stage.I'd had a wee bit of caramel before setting out but here it was time for my cookie--an oatmeal-raisin with it's little "medical use only" sticker. Elvis brought Emmylou to join him on "Love Hurts" the perennial weeper she recorded with Gram Parsons. The energy level seemed to climbing or was it just my confections coming on? He hit a predictable peak with his classic version of "What's So Funny 'bout Peace Love and Understanding?" Its author Nick Lowe had played here yesterday, unwitnessed by this reporter.
Then, with a good deal of pomp and circumstance, Elvis brought out thirty or forty members of a Welsh male chorus. Their voices got to come in for half of the end of the song. Costello certainly doesn't lack for taking himself quite seriously.
Next up was Gogol Bordello-- crazed punked-up Hungarian Gypsy sword-dance music of which I am no fan. They seemed an unfortunate choice to me and like Planet Drum yesterday brought in a younger wilder crowd as if this scene needed another demographic hoard. But One accepts and moves on, in my case to the Rooster stage where the gentleman who calls himself Iron and Wine was playing. The new hard-line traffic control of the one road makes for horrendous chose points at the few built-in crossing points. This was only schoolyard fun compared to the traffic on the path that leads up the hillside over the Rooster stage. I was much too high for such sluggish situations and used my all-terrain boots to make better time in the margins. But the whole area including my old strategic post over the side of the stage was packed. So I just continued my hike around to the back of the bowl around Marx Meadows to a vantage over the back of the stage. Quite plainly I could see and hear the lone singer strumming acoustic guitar and facing away from me toward the crowd. I found the least precarious spot to camp and enjoy my fresh vegetables and Ryvita. A little girl and a smaller boy had wandered from their guardians to play on the hillside opposite from me in the ravine. It's steep with plenty of sharp cuttings around I watched them a little. After a while the little boy had hurt himself and was crying--I wanted to help him but it meant climbing down then up, and would probably only end up scaring them.
Iron and Wine sounded fine, a really good voice is actually quite rare. Most in hearing range would affirm that they were hearing one then in what is probably the prettiest setting of the festival. From my perch it was inevitable that I would contemplate the larger picture as well as simply digging the music like every one else. Just then in my revery a couple climbed up from to the edge of a cane break of reeds across from me. They was some distance away but very plainly visible, when suddenly the girl's pants went down and buttocks gleamed in the sunshine.
I laughed wagged my finger humorously then held up and read my program while she squatted. People bring in beer and other liquids and sit in the crowd and drink all afternoon. She was down a long time--maybe this was as far as she could make it. I might have been more huffy if I had never sneaked a leak in this park. Poor girls--its seldom as easy for them urinate without facilities.
As Gogol Bordello frenzied attack echoed down the meadow from the distant Star stage. I packed-up for my next Stage--the Arrow with Pegi Young and if we were lucky her husband Neil. On my route I stopped for one song by Loudon Wainwright III. He had a good draw and they were eating his wry educated humorous song schtick right up. Some respect to him but I caught him in Northampton once over thirty years ago. That was kind of enough. I recall I boldly asked him from my seat in the crowd where he was from. "Katmandu, Nepal," he fibbed.

Back along the dusty trail, I trudged to vantage point over the side of the Arrow Stage. Soon deciding that this wouldn't do and if Neil came out a stampede for good spots would ensue. So down I plunged on a risky slope that had the advantage of depositing me decidedly in advance of the crowd. Pegi Young came out with a very fine tight band. I was especially impressed by her steel pedal player who was an obvious master. The bass and drums were equally propulsive as well-- these were all cats who were part of the rural California professional musician crowd that Neil Young played and recorded with. Neil however didn't turn out to be waiting in the wings but I stuck with them even in light of Pegi's sort of middling gifts as a singer.
Next to me in front of the stage was a small group of rather obnoxiously bellowing space hogs. Their whooping and growling seemed less in response to the music than an unneeded attempt to enforce excessive territoriality. The alpha figure looked like a Jim Henson version of a wild boar. Pegi finished a song and said it was a cheerful song about the war. "About what? What did she say?" he bellowed a few times. "The war," I said. "The what?" he belched. "About the war," a girl replied no doubt hoping as I had to shut him. "The war?" his stupidity seemed boundless.
"By that she means the invasion and occupation of Iraq," I told him. "Call it anything you want," he replied seeming defensive. I realized that he and his companions, who continually came and went were all very Jewish. He then resumed his oblivious charging about his claim. soon he was joined by a guy looking like he was trying for a combination Old Testament desert prophet and a Rastafarian--scraggly beard, dreadle-locks, shirtless with various identity signifying adornments. He faced the boar and began hopping up and down while they zoomed off each other. I realize that in all my Hardly Strictly history there have been quite a few obnoxious characters spotted in my vicinity but that these were hands-down the least pleasant. I shifted to another area of the crowd nearby.
And after some last coffee and Turkish dried apricots I had renewed energy enough for the traditional closing set my Emmylou Harris. I used my tried and true method of circling the white tents to slip into the crowd quite close to the high Banjo stage where she came on with a band playing all traditional bluegrass instruments--each an accomplished master. Emmylou was as always queen of the scene--Gillian Welsh, who for some reason was absent this year, may well be princess but Emmylou reigns. Dolly Parton is kind of a superstar who transcends the genre the way Eric Clapton is a rock star not a blues guitarist.
Again the issue of a nearby sixty-year-old hippie lady--the velvet, the jewelry, the long dyed hair--with a nervous muscle dog. This one was better than yesterdays but clearly was ill at ease toward the front of a assembly of forty-thousand people. I understand why an older woman might feel safe having a sturdy canine companion living near Haight-Ashbury with its transient population, but what they have to bring them not only to a huge festival but to the middle rather than just to the edge of the crowd, is beyond me. This dogs habit was to shoulder against everyone with a confused urgency. It was time to migrate again but before I did I once again tried to say something to her but she showed little inclination to listen so I left her to impose other peoples fun and safety not mine. The trouble with anarchy is that too often people will do the stupidest and least considerate things when they have the liberty.

Regardless of such thoughts, forgiveness is my religion and I wasn't going to let any trivial matter obtrude on Emmylou's heart-felt Gospel songs and just living-life songs rendered with her subtle and exquisitely expressive voice. As always I stayed until the very end, after benefactor Warren Hellman came out to join them on banjo, after the light began to retreat over the sea, and after the security guys gave up the front-most lawn for dancing. I was the first one there and as I busted my achy body moves I saw Emmylou looking down chuckling and beaming. Then one of the security guys an older black, a Southerner I expect who digs this white country music played by masters, he started dancing a buck-and-wing move similar to the one I fallen into. Ah, but then it was over, the bright lights were on and someone was chattering good-bye on stage.
I turned around and started making my long walk out of the park.