It's in the Mix: A story of FloydFest
Warm summer rain falls softly upon my reddened face. My toes, now brown, squish feverishly in the mud, attached to feet that just won't keep still. "The Atlantic Ocean, she's a mighty fine pond, and the Piedmont steppe, and just beyond... the Blue Ridge Mountains calling me back home." The field erupts into a roar of cheers, and my dancing feet twirl me around, allowing the first glimpse of my new surroundings. They have come. Faces by the hundreds, smiling, clapping, and dancing in their ponchos, raincoats, and mud boots. Despite the rain, the mud, and the exhaustion felt from a weekend full of adventures, they have come. Drawn by the music reverberating across the mountains, their umbrellas and hula hoops move in time, while young children splash in puddles in front of the stage. Echoes of well- known choruses surround me on every side, hooded figures in all colors bob up and down, and feet pound the earth in unison. Near me a mother dances with her young teenage son. They spin around on each others' arms with smiles that nearly leap from the sides of their faces. There is a certain magic to this crowd. A sense of peace, acceptance, and unity that forges a bond between us all. It was as if we were one living being, swaying and moving together. I am suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling too often foreign to me, falling somewhere between contentment, happiness, and pure bliss. There, amongst this crowd of strangers and new friends alike, I am home.
I turn my attention to Steven, who is now tapping his feet and smiling to himself in a way I have not seen all weekend long. This is his first festival, and his second Hackensaw show in two days. Our eyes meet and as I gesture to the crowd surrounding us I mouth the words, "These are my people." It has been a weekend like none other, and an experience that will probably stay with us both for a lifetime.
It all started on Friday afternoon as Steven and I embarked on our grand adventure to the FloydFest World Music Festival 6. I arrived at his apartment around 2, and after loading my gear into his SUV we were ready to go. We buckled our seatbelts and just before starting the car, Steven turned to me and said, "I have some bad news for you." I braced myself for the worst as he continued, "My air conditioner is broken." So we made the 2 ½ hour drive from Charlotte to Floyd, VA with the windows down and the music up. We enjoyed an afternoon of good conversation, scattered showers, and incredible views. Before we knew it, we were on the Blue Ridge Parkway, a mere 25 miles from the festival site. The presence of both State Police and Park Rangers increased as we neared Floyd, and I had to remind Steven to slip his shoes back on, as this was the law in Virginia.
With nary any traffic, we pulled into the parking lot provided for general admission ticket holders and were surprised by the vehicles that greeted us. The shuttle service offered to festival-goers was, in fact, a fleet of Boy Scout school busses. We followed the directions of the fluorescent vested staff, and found a parking spot near the rear of the grassy field. With entirely too much gear in tow (but not nearly all that we had brought), we slowly made our way across the field to the busses waiting by the road. The air was warm and sticky, and by the time our gear was stowed in the rear of the bus and we had taken our seats, we were both wet with perspiration. Steven looked miserable, despite his determined grin which I knew was there solely for my benefit. You see, festivals are not "his thing," or so he told me often before and during our trip. In fact, I felt myself worrying a lot over the course of the weekend about his happiness and overall experience. I wanted the magic that I had experienced time and again to happen for him. I wanted him to enjoy it, and most of all, I wanted him to want to come back.
Our shuttle, crammed full of smiling, hot and shiny faces, passed the classic scenic views that rural Virginia is known for. Rolling fields filled with bales of hay, farms, barns, and cows in the peak of mating season. (Okay, so maybe that's not the postcard you pictured.) Five minutes later we arrived at the festival grounds and saw the sign we had been waiting for. "Welcome to FloydFest." This was it. The bus stopped at the entrance in front of the ticket booth and out we all poured, happy to finally be there. We gathered our things and headed to the booth to check in. The tickets I had purchased online and printed at home worked perfectly, and we were each issued a festival program printed on newsprint and a red wristband. I was a little surprised that the wristbands they used were the plain, unlabeled paper kind. I had grown accustomed to a more official, decorative, durable variety.
Wondering how we'd get all our gear to the camping area, we were soon greeted by a friendly staffer in a golf cart. He helped us load our stuff, and off we went. Every staff member and volunteer that we met during the weekend was enthusiastically friendly and extremely helpful. This one was no exception. He asked us where we'd like to camp, and we explained that we had no idea, as this was our first FloydFest. His eyes lit up at the sight of newcomers, and he excitedly drove us around the grounds, pointing out the various stages and amenities. Most of the sites in the wooded areas were already taken by folks that had arrived on Thursday, so we continued driving and arrived just as they were opening an area near the rear of the "Children's Universe" for camping. We unloaded our gear, selected a lovely spot on the hill, and began to set up camp. Our tent was up in no time, and we spread out a tarp on the ground to save a spot for our patio tent that was still in the car. We allowed ourselves the luxury of resting in our camping chairs while enjoying a cigarette and taking it all in. The music was incredible, and we were close enough to hear it from three different stages at times. Many of our new neighbors stopped by to extend their welcome. There was "Us and We" from next door, and a delightful couple named Rob and Patty from Culpepper. I explained to Steven, "No one is a stranger here."
Our return trip to the vehicle for the remainder of our stuff went even more smoothly. We wised up about strategy and moved the car to unload our things in the lot, later securing a closer parking spot. A short shuttle and golf cart ride back, and we were finally ready. Our campsite was finished with the exception of the patio tent that we agreed to set up when the day cooled off. For the first time Steven's anxiety seemed to ease.
The hypnotic sounds of DeVotchKa hung in the air as we grabbed the camera and took off to explore our new surroundings. For those who missed it, or have never heard of them, DeVotchKa put on one of the best performances of the weekend. Blending instruments like a sousaphone, accordion, piano, violin, bouzouki, upright bass, percussion, trumpet, drums, and a theremin, these four musicians create a sound like none other. One of my biggest disappointments of the weekend was that their performance was not available from the "CD on Demand" booth that advertised recordings available almost immediately after bands finished their performances.
After checking out some of the many, many vendors around the Healing Village, we returned to our campsite at sundown to find new neighbors moving in. The first that we met was the boisterous and entertaining John, and his girlfriend Stacey. Hailing from WV, the pair were all accent and attitude. As we erected our patio tent, the duo got to work setting up their monstrosity of a sleeping tent, or rather, a camping complex. (Three rooms, 9 feet tall, with closets. Yes, closets.) They were later joined by their friends Davy and Katie, also from WV. With the addition of their tent and two EZ-Ups, our neighborhood was now complete with little room to spare. In fact, part of John and Stacey's monster Jeep tent was actually in our patio. They proved to be delightful neighbors, and forever entertaining. We learned that the word "shit" is actually spelled with several e's and pronounced "sheeeit," and that it's always a good idea to travel with an extra "tuba fore" (two by four). We enjoyed their company immensely, and Steven even asked them one morning to come over and speak West Virginianese to him again.
As darkness settled across our mountain, we made our way to the Dreaming Creek Main Stage, less than 100 yards away. We caught a performance of Midnite, a group with a Jamaican sound and contagious beat. The lyrics, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," still linger in my ears, as they were playing that one song the entire time we stood to watch. As far as I know, it is still going on today. We then ventured to the Pink Floyd Garden Stage to check out Rose's Pawn Shop. They fully lived up to my expectations, and put on one helluva show. Steven wasn't that impressed, and reminded me again that this really wasn't "his thing." Exhausted from a very early morning at work together and a day of lugging gear around in the heat, we retreated back to our campsite to enjoy the evening and each other. Socializing a little with the neighbors, but mostly keeping to ourselves, we thoroughly enjoyed our night and the false sense of privacy our tent provided.
We arose around 9 Saturday morning after a cold night of very little sleep. Rob paid us a visit and taught us the meaning of "pejuta sapa," the Sioux Indian word for black medicine, or coffee. We filled our program's note section with our own funny suggestions and memories from the trip, including a reminder not to use the Port-A-Johns barefooted, and a note about repeating certain 4 a.m. activities. We headed out midmorning to check out Erik Mongrain, an unusual musician who Steven's sister had recommended. His style was unique, sitting Indian style on a table upon the stage, strumming and tapping his compositions on a guitar laid down flat. After a few songs Steven had had enough, not understanding how a song with no words can be described as being about trouble with women.
We spent the early afternoon walking about the grounds and taking it all in. The weather was unusual, threatening us with rain, but never quite giving in. The skies to our left were dark and ominous, and those to our right were blue with the softest white clouds you've ever seen. We shopped in the various vendor booths and marveled at the variety. There were many things here that I had not seen at a festival before, including a palm reader, coin press, and a mechanical bull. The landscape itself was unique, filled with small ponds and intimate seating areas. We also saw the norm (if you can call it that) for a festival: hula hoopers, jugglers, fairy costumes, and body paint. My favorite was a very beautiful, and very pregnant young woman with her belly adorned in flowers and vines. Before heading back we visited the VA Folklife Workshop Porch in time to catch a bit of World Music Masters of the Guitar, with Aurelio Martinez & Paul Nabor. It was a great little venue, with a nice sized crowd, and a view overlooking the Poetree.
We headed back to our weekend home and joined our neighbors in the shade of their EZ-Up. The Waybacks were playing a great set on a nearby stage and we chuckled over the lyrics, "daughter of a conjugal visit." New neighbors arrived and began moving in, three older ladies whose comedy of errors began as they set up their only tent. It seems a mistake of some kind had been made, and when fully constructed their tent could only accommodate one, possibly two squished people. We helped them hang a tarp across their site, and wondered how they would handle sleeping arrangements. We later found out that all three slept outside under the tarp that night.
The afternoon had grown hotter and more humid, and our two days of activity had rendered both Steven and I a little ripe. We decided to take advantage of the free showers provided for festival attendees. With towels in hand, we made the short walk down to the Global Village. Several neighbors had told us their wait was well over an hour for a turn in one of the seven stalls that morning, so we were pleased when our wait was only 15-20 minutes. I could feel the afternoon sun burning my skin as we waited in line, and my eyes bore holes into the shower doors, willing their occupants to come out. When my turn came I nearly skipped down the path and up the steps. Being a seasoned festival veteran, I have seen a variety of showers with more inadequacies than just the typical cold water. I've seen tiny trailers that would make anyone claustrophobic, unsanitary conditions that would give you athlete's feet just from looking, shower nozzles located four feet high on the wall so you must forever crouch to bathe, hard water, soft water, and water so filled with sulfur that you felt as if you were bathing in rotten eggs. The showers at FloydFest were definitely a step up from these. Though the shower basins were a little gross with your standard assortment of hair, abandoned bars of soap, and the occasional Band-Aid, the shower stalls were quite roomy and made of timber constructed in a quaint rustic design. My only surprise was when I pulled back the curtain to enter the shower, and found that there was no shower head. Instead, a five foot hose with a standard garden squeeze and spray nozzle hung in its place. It took me a moment to figure out the logistics, but the shower itself was wonderful, the water pressure strong, and the cold water a little slice of heaven. I left feeling like a new woman.
Upon returning to our campsite we began preparing a late lunch, one of the few "standard" meals we enjoyed during our weekend of unusual eating habits. Chef Steven manned the grill and prepared our feast of hot dogs. Two of them hit the ground, but I assured him that was just good 'ol mountain seasoning. After our meal, our WV neighbors returned and we all headed out to one of my most anticipated shows, the Hackensaw Boys. Proud to call the boys my friends, I always love taking "newbies" out to their shows. As luck would have it, no one in our new phamily had seen them before and I merrily led the way, pausing briefly at the Garden Stage to check out Kill-Basa Bill's Roadshow. We arrived at the Hill Holler Timberframe Stage in time to watch the Hackensaw sound check. As my friends claimed a grassy spot down front, I eagerly approached the stage to extend my greetings and claim my share of hugs and kisses from the boys. It was a beautiful day filled with sunshine and a steady breeze. We sat together and chatted until the boys took the stage. When the music began, everything suddenly began to change. It started with one, then a few more, and in minutes the entire hillside was on its feet dancing. I've said it before, but there is something about their music that keeps my feet in the air like none other, and today was no different. I danced my heart out with John while Steven served as our roving photographer. The crowd for this show was larger than any other I saw all weekend, and the longer they played, the more people came. I danced and stamped my feet into the earth until it began to feel cool and damp beneath my bare feet, feeding off the energy of those surrounding me. I was happy, and any troubles of the world seemed to melt away. Steven and I turned around from our spot by the rails to survey the crowd and I asked, "Isn't this amazing? THIS is what it's all about." Living up to their reputation, the Hackensaw Boys crammed an amazing amount of music into their hour long set, and the crowd cheered and chanted for more, though it appears an encore was not allowed by festival management. An apologetic shrug from Ward implying it was out of his hands, was all that was offered.
The afternoon sun had taken its toll on us. We hunted down the sandals I had abandoned in my dancing frenzy, and headed back to camp to rest. We stopped briefly to check out the activities at the Children's Universe just beside our "neighborhood." I was really impressed by the family-friendly environment at FloydFest. There were just as many children, parents, and grandparents as there were Heads. I was especially impressed by the quality of activities offered for children, a far cry from the tiny Moon Bounces I've seen at festivals before. Every time we passed, the children were happily engaged in a host of activities ranging from music, Children's Theatre, and clogging, to TaeKwonDo and an amazing trampoline tree and rock climbing wall. They even had the forethought to provide oversized, family Port-A-Johns in this area. I never saw anything but smiles on the faces of both the children and parents alike.
After an unsuccessful napping session, ruined by the heat and an unusual chorus of female voices singing scales in the distance somewhere, we rejoined society somewhat refreshed. The boys hung out while Stacey, Katie, and I "got our sexy on." Then we were all off together to ride the mechanical bull. Or rather, Stacey and Katie were off to the ride the bull. I wore jeans just in case, but was unsure about the whole thing. I had wanted to try it earlier, but no one else was doing it and I really just wanted to watch for awhile. Along the way they begged and pleaded, even devising a "girls against boys" competition to get us all onboard. I was not convinced. When we arrived we found a crowd had gathered around the now busy mechanical bull. There was a price break if two people rode together, and two girls were atop, clutching to the bull and each other. Seconds later they were thrown, flinging their bodies in ways that looked unnatural. They laughed, got up, and climbed back on for their second ride. This time they were thrown in such a manner that one landed on the other's head. I felt my confidence falter. Katie, Stacey, John, and Davy paid their $5, signed the waiver, and waited their turns. A few children rode, some with a parent, at a slower speed until they too were tossed off. Katie was the first from our group to have a turn. An experienced mechanical bull rider, she lasted a good 7 seconds before the machine tossed her tiny body off like it was nothing. Her second ride ended in her being pitched so hard that her leg landed outside of the air cushions surrounding the bull. Davy was next, followed by Stacey, whose first ride inspired the note in our program guide, "If you have big boobs, don't wear a low cut shirt when you ride the bull." As you might imagine, she became very popular. Her second ride was, for me, the one that sealed my decision not to participate. When she was thrown from the bull, her hand became stuck in the leather strap and actually ripped off one of her fingernails completely. Can you believe she still encouraged me to do it after that? Next up was John, who was the most fun to watch. He wasn't any better than the rest of them, but his comical performance made him hysterical to watch. Neither Steven nor I joined in their competition, and though I got the feeling he was a little disappointed, he says he really didn't want to do it either. As for the girls against boys competition, the girls won (naturally). Not because their combined times were greater than the boys as was originally the deal, but because Davy had used two hands (thus disqualifying him), and mostly because Stacey had shown a boob. An instant winner in any game, don't you think?
We parted ways with our neighbors and headed to the Pink Floyd Garden Stage to see Old Ceremony, a band Steven had randomly selected from the program upon our arrival as "his band." We purchased our beer tickets, got a new "ID Verified" bracelet, and headed inside. The Beer and Wine Garden is beautiful, set in the shade of the woods with a lovely pond and lights in almost every tree. The colorfully lit stage completed this festive atmosphere, making it quite inviting. While I enjoyed Old Ceremony's performance, likening the lead singer to the Violent Femmes, Steven was not all that impressed. We finished our Starr Hill beers (which were terrific, as are most things from Charlottesville) and headed out.
While spending the early evening goofing off in our tent, Steven suddenly noticed my dirty hippie feet. He insisted on cleaning them, and armed with baby wipes and sanitizing gel, pampered me with a thorough wash followed by a luxurious lotion foot rub. Feeling refreshed, we headed out again, this time to check out the activities going on in Global Village. The scent of incense was thick in the air as we made our way down to the campfire. We spent some time at the Village Stage watching the Superpowers Band. With ten members and an assortment of large brass instruments, they barely fit on the quaint little stage. Over near the sound booth, a pair of fire spinners were demonstrating their talents. A man and woman whose amazing performance was almost overshadowed by a near direct hit of a golf cart rider by the end of a flaming baton. We started back up the hill towards our camping area, and I immediately realized my earlier foot rub, though sweet, wasn't the greatest idea. It seems cucumber melon lotion and leather sandals don't mix, and I nearly slid out of my shoes with every step I took. As we approached the Garden Stage, I had to smile as an unknown group (possibly Scythian?) was playing a rousing rendition of Hava Nagilah. That was definitely a festival first for me! We returned to our campsite and enjoyed a few beers in the light of a nearly full moon. The weather was beautiful, and the air filled with the sounds of a Pink Floyd cover band. We laughed, as they seemed to play the same three songs over and over. Exhausted, we went to bed relatively early. Steven was still singing Money the next day.
Sunday morning greeted us with overcast skies. We had our belongings gathered and packed in no time, and decided to take a load of stuff back to the car early. We hailed a golf cart and piled it with as much stuff as we could fit, leaving only 2 camping chairs, 3 tarps, an umbrella, and my purse and camera inside our still standing sleeping tent. Our timing proved impeccable, for just as we returned to our campsite, the sky finally opened up and began to rain. Thankful we had left our tent up, we sought shelter inside and watched as our neighbors did the same, scurrying to put away any items left vulnerable in the rain.
With less than half an hour until the second Hackensaw show, we wondered if the showers would pass over in time. When it became clear that they would not, I broke the news to Steven that we would just have to go in the rain. The look on his face said it all. "I know," I said, "this is not your thing." I told him that seeing a show in the rain was the ultimate in authentic festival experiences, even if we had already taken our jackets and ponchos to the car. (Oops.) To his credit, he was actually a very good sport about the whole thing. Not wanting to get his only pair of shoes soaked, he left them in the tent beside mine and off we went, barefooted with umbrella in hand. We arrived at the Dreaming Creek Stage just as the Hackensaw Boys were starting their first song.
After the most amazing show of the entire weekend, I reveled in my post-show buzz, my excitement heightened by how pumped up Steven was. He had really enjoyed it! We went to the CD on Demand booth to see if they were selling that performance. They were not. We then went to the FloydFest Merchandise booth where the Hackensaw autograph session was being held. We browsed for awhile, and when the boys arrived, took our place in line. Already owning every album available, I was the only person waiting in line, not for autographs, but for hugs. I hugged and kissed each of them goodbye while Steven looked on and snapped pictures. I introduced him to the band, and he shook their hands and said, "I thought you guys were horrible." Proving that their sense of humor was still intact despite the gloomy weather, Jesse didn't miss a beat in replying, "Yeah, we thought the audience really sucked." We left the merchandise booth hand in hand, silently saying goodbyes in our head as we made this walk for the last time. We soon boarded the Boy Scout shuttle for our final ride, a little quieter this time. A man in the seat in front of us played a slow, sad song on his guitar, while weary riders exchanged stories, or sat silently reflecting. "Goodbye FloydFest," Steven said in a low voice. "Goodbye," I echoed, hand pressed against the bus window until you could see the grounds no longer.
As I recall our adventures, I simply cannot say enough good things about our first FloydFest experience and all the wonderful people we met along the way. The festival grounds were beautiful, the performers top-notch, the staff exquisite, and the Port-A-John's always fully stocked. The line-up was scheduled so you could see every band you desired, and you could even bring your camping chairs into the stage areas for comfortable seating. I only heard two mumbles of dissatisfaction the entire time we were there. The first, because you could not take alcohol you purchased in the Beer and Wine Garden into the rest of the festival grounds. The second being the amount of trouble given to festival-goers by local law enforcement. We met quite a few people who had been pulled over, detained, or had their vehicles or persons searched for trivial offenses such as not using a turn signal, a missing license plate light, or for having an item hung from their rear-view mirror (Another VA law).
Overall, our experience at Floyd Fest 6 could not be beat. This was the epitome of what festivals should be, bringing together diverse groups of people in the spirit of peace, understanding, and love. I know that I will be back next year, and I extend an invitation to anyone out there to join me. As for Steven, his outlook has definitely changed. He started the weekend adamantly explaining that this would be his only festival. During the weekend, as I would slyly slip statements like, "Next year when we come…" into the conversation, he gradually stopped shooting it down and began replying, "We'll see." As of today, three days after the festy, I am proud to report that Steven is singing a different tune. A really different tune, actually. He called yesterday and asked to borrow one of my Hackensaw Boys CDs, and since then I've caught him humming or singing a few bars. Last night he even admitted to telling a close friend, that he would probably do this again. I am elated. Maybe this really is "his thing." Now if I could only get him to wear tye-dye… |
