The concessions are falling like dominoes.
First, there were the many layers of clothing worn to the festival Friday evening night. Afterward, I partially lowered the two windows in the living room before bed because I knew it was going to dip down to 50 that night. But when I awoke to find my apartment was 67 degrees - when a mere two days ago it was still peaking around 82-83 most afternoons - I find myself shutting all the windows before it gets any colder. Bad as it was when the cotton blanket went back on the bed two weeks ago, now I'm adding the lightweight bed spread on top of it.
And then, horror of horrors, I not only considered wearing jeans to the Folk Fest Saturday afternoon, I actually did wear jeans. Summer, I pine for you.
How did things degenerate so quickly?
At least the sun was shining when Mr. Wright and I set out to walk to the Folk Festival Saturday, although I knew standing on wet grass in the dark, shivering and cold, was in my future.
What I do for music.
Our first stop was the Dominion Dance Pavilion, except that for some reason, there's no pavilion this year. What's odd about that is that there was a pavilion, at least up through Thursday, a fact I know because Mac and I walked by it several times last week on our way to the Pipeline. But by Friday evening, it was just a dance floor and chairs with no raised stage and no covering. We'd tried to see Ras Michael and the Sons of Negus there Friday, but with zero view of the band and a whole lot of drunk bros on the dance floor, we'd walked away.
Things were marginally better in daylight - at least we could spot Linda Gail Lewis, Jerry Lee Lewis' baby sister, if we squinted - in the distance, so we found chairs and sat down for some boogie-woogie piano classics: Hound Dog, Great Balls of Fire, Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On, you know the genre.
The dance floor was crowded with people getting their groove thang on, including not a few swing dancers who actually knew what they were doing. One woman in a red top had her choice of partners, cycling through one man after another, but dancing every song.
Before heading up the hill, we made a pilgrimage to admire the James running fast and hard, a churning brown froth that guaranteed I won't be getting on the pipeline anytime soon. The architect focused less on the mighty river and more on structural issues, commenting about how strong bridge supports have to be to take the kinds of stress a swollen river places on them.
The climb to Second Street was worth it for the energetic sounds of New Orleans bounce, thanks to Ricky B and his band (which included a tuba, as all good NOLA bands should) whipping the crowd up.
"We're gonna keep it up until the sweat drops down your draws!" Ricky B. yelled, pronouncing "drawers" exactly like my Richmond-born father does. Later, at another stage, I overheard an older woman tell a stranger that she'd just seen a musician tell the crowd, "He told us to perspire in our underpants!"
Let's just say it lost a lot in her translation.
The distinctive beat, the call and response and the sheer stage charisma of Ricky B. made for an outstanding set that managed to get old and young involved waving hands and pointing with one finger to signify that we are all one race. If only.
After snagging chicken empanadas from La Milpa, we ate them standing on the hill watching Vishten, an Acadian duo singing songs of great beauty. At one point, the male of the duo asked the crowd, "Will you sing along with us?" and the crowd roared its affirmation. "In French?" he asked and got mostly laughter.
Near the end of their set, just as the sun was about to slide behind the Lee bridge, a two-car train passed slowly along the overhead track behind the stage and the man in the passenger seat waved enthusiastically at the crowd, causing thousands of people to wave back. A few minutes later, the train returned in the opposite direction and this time the driver waved at us and got the same reaction.
Given the scarcity of two-car CSX trains, we had to assume it was a Folk Fest special.
Right on time, Mavis Staples came out, a fireplug of a woman in a black dress with a hot pink wrap jacket, ready to dazzle the crowd, some of whom had been waiting in place through one or two previous bands to ensure they got to see her.
We had a fine perch at a crest on the hill and when the couple in front of us decided to pull up stakes, they invited us to take over their prime real estate, although how anyone can walk away when Mavis is singing is beyond me.
Besides singing every song from the depths of her soul, Mavis took on the very festival that had incited her. "This is your 14th festival, and our first time here! What took you so long to invite me?" She also had family in the audience, so she told us all the food they'd brought her - spoonbread, collard greens and black-eyed peas - and called out to each one by name. She was none too happy when she heard cousin George had stayed at home, but assumed he must be in bad shape to pass up hearing her sing.
After talking about her years spent marching with Martin Luther King (and being thrown in jail for it), she sang "Freedom Highway," the song her father Pops Staples had written for the cause. If she'd come out and only sung one song, that would have been the one. I don't think I'll ever forget hearing that voice belt out the anthem of the civil rights movement.
At the song's end, she must have sung, "I won't turn around" 12 or 15 times before stopping the band and yelling, "Because I have come too far!" and I felt goosebumps.
But it got better. "Pops wrote that song in 1962. I was there and I'm still here. I'm a living witness!" Mavis hollered and the mostly older crowd testified along with her.
Hearing the first instantly recognizable funky notes of "Respect Yourself" - mind you, I had the song on a 45 - was like flashing back to my young self when I first heard it. As much as the lyrics had resonated then, hearing Mavis sing, "Take the sheet off your face, boy, it's a brand new day!" in 2018 (when white men just last year marched with tiki torches) all but ensured that the crowd would respond with cheers, applause and raised fists.
And, hopefully, by voting next month.
Add in a line such as, "Keep talkin' bout the President, won't stop air pollution," and we got yet another sad reminder of the current state of affairs.
Then it was back to 1967 and Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth," which caused the middle-aged crowd to sing their hearts out, not that any of us could compare to Mavis' voice.
As the coolness of the evening set in, a stagehand brought Mavis a black scarf and she wrapped it around her neck to warm those golden vocal chords. It also looked quite stylish with her pink-accented dress.
When she promised to take us down Memory Lane, my '70s self knew at once what was next. As the strains of "I'll Take You There," another 45 in my collection, filled the dusk air, I didn't even need to watch Mavis sing. It was enough to take in that song as the sun sank in the west and know that I got to hear Mavis Staples before I died.
Which, given the cold and damp of the Folk Festival, could be any moment now. Oy, is it Spring yet?
Showing posts with label la milpa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label la milpa. Show all posts
Sunday, October 14, 2018
Saturday, October 14, 2017
Of Hens and Brisk Slips
I stretched for the stars and I know how it feels to reach too high, too far, too soon. Even so, I intend to see the whole of the moon.
With two articles to write today, I skipped my morning walk and got right to it. Doing research for a quote, I came across one of those beautifully written sentences that stay with you, this one by F. Scott Fitzgerald: They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
I'm not sure what's more romantic about that, the speed or the inability to resist, so I want to think about it some more.
In early afternoon I was interrupted by the phone ringing and answered to find a pollster at Roanoke College on the line. I tried to beg off, but allowed myself to be cajoled into doing it for the sake of representing the intelligent voter.
When she got to a question about my opinion of 45, I eschewed choices of approve, disapprove or no opinion to deliver a scathing indictment of a lunatic. "We're not supposed to say this, but I agree with you!" she laughed. "God, it's so refreshing to hear someone answer like you just did."
How, honestly?
Facebook had alerted me that a DJ at WRIR who'd been at the Paul Weller show Saturday was devoting his entire show to a tribute to the Modfather, so once my work was finished, I tuned in to hear rare, alternate and acoustic versions of his songs mixed in with similar artists.
Some sets were so achingly perfect: solo Weller on "Into Tomorrow," Style Council's "Walls Come Tumbling Down" and the Jam's cover of "Heat Wave" segued seamlessly into the Waterboys' "Whole of the Moon," and it was such a beautiful musical flow, I just sat there smiling in appreciation, unable to do anything but listen.
That's some well-curated music, son.
Toward the end of the show, the DJ (who, I'll admit, I've known for 25 years), was tripping over his tongue after so much rhapsodizing about the show and Weller's music, not that it wasn't warranted.
Sounding utterly smarmy, he made a wisecrack about his tongue being too big, and amended that to say it wasn't always a bad thing. "If you know what I mean...and, frankly, I think that you do," he cracked hilariously before thanking listeners for joining him in basking in the afterglow of the Weller show.
I'll bask as long as you play, good sir.
It was damp and getting dark when Mac showed up to trek with me to the Richmond Folk Fest and besides desperately needing the walk, the visuals were stellar with the city looking atmospherically romantic with fog and muted lights along the bridges and canal.
The hordes hadn't yet arrived, so we easily made our way to a row of food vendors where she got a banh mi and, from La Milpa, I chose Mexican-style shredded chicken tacos that sang with the flavors of onions, lime juice, cilantro and white cheese. No sour cream or salsa to be found.
We ate our meals at a community table under a tree with leaves still attached rustling in the night breezes. When I commented on how positively musical the wet, green leaves sounded - completely unlike the rustling of dry brown leaves on a tree - the stranger across from me (notable because she and her companion were first-time Folk Fest attendees) agreed. "Yes, it's like music."
From there, we headed to the Westrock stage to see Hot Club of Cowtown's stylish pastiche of hot jazz and western swing.
There was a pink-collared dog onstage and the bass player (who looked like a cross between a young Patrick Swayze and Chris Isaac) was wiping the strings on his upright bass, presumably to dry them off in the 100% humidity.
The Austin trio played Richmond 10 years ago when it was the National Folk Fest, has now been together 20 years and their polished set showed that with a helluva range of songs: "I'm an Old Cowhand" to "The Continental" to "Big Balls in Cowtown," I kid you not.
After thunderous applause, the bass player (the front of his shirt soaked with sweat from slapping that bass so hard) noted, "Maybe we need to come back here more than once every 10 years!" and while that seems logical, I question how many in the audience would come see the band if it was at a local venue and not in the sheltered confines of the Folk Fest.
Just an observation.
As we sat under the tent surrounded by hundreds of people, we could feel a cool breeze blow across us from the river every few minutes, a reminder that fall is trying to assert itself.
We hurried over to the dance pavilion to catch the end of C.J. Chenier and the Red Hot Louisiana Band's crowded set because Mac loves zydeco, before crossing the bridge to leave the island (where we passed a young woman telling her friend, "I would just give him a blow job") and heading up the hill to the Altria stage for soul blues - a genre based in gospel - courtesy of Eddie Cotton, Jr.
The blues master announced from the stage that he was about to "turn this place into a juke joint," which would've been a real accomplishment considering that we were on a steep, grassy hill, but he did a damn fine job of trying.
Unfortunately, we landed next to a guy who chose the same spot to talk non-stop to his companion for 45 minutes straight.
"That's the thing," he explained patiently to her as if she cared. "Other women tempt me." Apparently they also dump him or turn out to be transgender and he explained how often both had happened to him loudly, along with his theories on why.
Mac and I could have moved, I suppose, but we had a lamp post to lean on, a clear view of the band and enough optimism to think he'd eventually shut up. We were wrong.
Meanwhile Eddie sang out, "Hey, Richmond, let's have some fun! You only get one life, then you're done," a philosophy I embrace wholeheartedly. His music ensured that the crowd would be moving non-stop and his voice harnessed the power of church singing.
During another song he asked all the men who were in love to raise their hands. "How many of you are henpecked?" he asked and many hands went down.
"There's nothing wrong with being henpecked as long as you're pecked by the right hen!" he told them and a few hands went back up. Nothing like a blues master to set the menfolk straight.
"Okay, on the count of four, I want everyone to get up and shake something!" he demanded, causing even the Baby Boomers to shake their aging tail feathers, some more appealingly than others.
For that matter, Mac and I couldn't hep but notice that you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a middle-aged man at the Folk Fest, so it could be a good place to meet fellow music lovers of the male persuasion who aren't yet in love.
Recovery from intimacy is optional, if you know what I mean. And, frankly, I think that you do.
With two articles to write today, I skipped my morning walk and got right to it. Doing research for a quote, I came across one of those beautifully written sentences that stay with you, this one by F. Scott Fitzgerald: They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
I'm not sure what's more romantic about that, the speed or the inability to resist, so I want to think about it some more.
In early afternoon I was interrupted by the phone ringing and answered to find a pollster at Roanoke College on the line. I tried to beg off, but allowed myself to be cajoled into doing it for the sake of representing the intelligent voter.
When she got to a question about my opinion of 45, I eschewed choices of approve, disapprove or no opinion to deliver a scathing indictment of a lunatic. "We're not supposed to say this, but I agree with you!" she laughed. "God, it's so refreshing to hear someone answer like you just did."
How, honestly?
Facebook had alerted me that a DJ at WRIR who'd been at the Paul Weller show Saturday was devoting his entire show to a tribute to the Modfather, so once my work was finished, I tuned in to hear rare, alternate and acoustic versions of his songs mixed in with similar artists.
Some sets were so achingly perfect: solo Weller on "Into Tomorrow," Style Council's "Walls Come Tumbling Down" and the Jam's cover of "Heat Wave" segued seamlessly into the Waterboys' "Whole of the Moon," and it was such a beautiful musical flow, I just sat there smiling in appreciation, unable to do anything but listen.
That's some well-curated music, son.
Toward the end of the show, the DJ (who, I'll admit, I've known for 25 years), was tripping over his tongue after so much rhapsodizing about the show and Weller's music, not that it wasn't warranted.
Sounding utterly smarmy, he made a wisecrack about his tongue being too big, and amended that to say it wasn't always a bad thing. "If you know what I mean...and, frankly, I think that you do," he cracked hilariously before thanking listeners for joining him in basking in the afterglow of the Weller show.
I'll bask as long as you play, good sir.
It was damp and getting dark when Mac showed up to trek with me to the Richmond Folk Fest and besides desperately needing the walk, the visuals were stellar with the city looking atmospherically romantic with fog and muted lights along the bridges and canal.
The hordes hadn't yet arrived, so we easily made our way to a row of food vendors where she got a banh mi and, from La Milpa, I chose Mexican-style shredded chicken tacos that sang with the flavors of onions, lime juice, cilantro and white cheese. No sour cream or salsa to be found.
We ate our meals at a community table under a tree with leaves still attached rustling in the night breezes. When I commented on how positively musical the wet, green leaves sounded - completely unlike the rustling of dry brown leaves on a tree - the stranger across from me (notable because she and her companion were first-time Folk Fest attendees) agreed. "Yes, it's like music."
From there, we headed to the Westrock stage to see Hot Club of Cowtown's stylish pastiche of hot jazz and western swing.
There was a pink-collared dog onstage and the bass player (who looked like a cross between a young Patrick Swayze and Chris Isaac) was wiping the strings on his upright bass, presumably to dry them off in the 100% humidity.
The Austin trio played Richmond 10 years ago when it was the National Folk Fest, has now been together 20 years and their polished set showed that with a helluva range of songs: "I'm an Old Cowhand" to "The Continental" to "Big Balls in Cowtown," I kid you not.
After thunderous applause, the bass player (the front of his shirt soaked with sweat from slapping that bass so hard) noted, "Maybe we need to come back here more than once every 10 years!" and while that seems logical, I question how many in the audience would come see the band if it was at a local venue and not in the sheltered confines of the Folk Fest.
Just an observation.
As we sat under the tent surrounded by hundreds of people, we could feel a cool breeze blow across us from the river every few minutes, a reminder that fall is trying to assert itself.
We hurried over to the dance pavilion to catch the end of C.J. Chenier and the Red Hot Louisiana Band's crowded set because Mac loves zydeco, before crossing the bridge to leave the island (where we passed a young woman telling her friend, "I would just give him a blow job") and heading up the hill to the Altria stage for soul blues - a genre based in gospel - courtesy of Eddie Cotton, Jr.
The blues master announced from the stage that he was about to "turn this place into a juke joint," which would've been a real accomplishment considering that we were on a steep, grassy hill, but he did a damn fine job of trying.
Unfortunately, we landed next to a guy who chose the same spot to talk non-stop to his companion for 45 minutes straight.
"That's the thing," he explained patiently to her as if she cared. "Other women tempt me." Apparently they also dump him or turn out to be transgender and he explained how often both had happened to him loudly, along with his theories on why.
Mac and I could have moved, I suppose, but we had a lamp post to lean on, a clear view of the band and enough optimism to think he'd eventually shut up. We were wrong.
Meanwhile Eddie sang out, "Hey, Richmond, let's have some fun! You only get one life, then you're done," a philosophy I embrace wholeheartedly. His music ensured that the crowd would be moving non-stop and his voice harnessed the power of church singing.
During another song he asked all the men who were in love to raise their hands. "How many of you are henpecked?" he asked and many hands went down.
"There's nothing wrong with being henpecked as long as you're pecked by the right hen!" he told them and a few hands went back up. Nothing like a blues master to set the menfolk straight.
"Okay, on the count of four, I want everyone to get up and shake something!" he demanded, causing even the Baby Boomers to shake their aging tail feathers, some more appealingly than others.
For that matter, Mac and I couldn't hep but notice that you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a middle-aged man at the Folk Fest, so it could be a good place to meet fellow music lovers of the male persuasion who aren't yet in love.
Recovery from intimacy is optional, if you know what I mean. And, frankly, I think that you do.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
RVA, I Love You Back
I gave myself over to the Folk Fest today.
Yes, it was a shame about the rain, although I can't recall a wet FF since the very first one, so we've been very lucky.
Walking down 5th Street, the smell of the river wafted up on the breeze most agreeably. It was going to be a fine day to be waterside.
I was there right when things got started, taking the Gary Gerloff trail to the Altria stage to see Newfoundland's the Dardanelles.
"This is only our third time in the U.S.," guitarist Tom said as a light rain fell on us and the stage. "We didn't expect anyone to show up. We thought we'd be over there with the kettle corn."
By the middle of their enthusiastic set, a FF volunteer was spreading straw on the field in an attempt to fill puddles.
They did jigs (but not the Irish kind) and bouzouki player Matt showed off his magnificent voice doing a song a capella, rendering the crowd as quiet as the Listening Room.
Afterwards Tom drolly observed, "There's not many crowds who would stand in the rain for an unaccompanied ballad."
It may have been the ultimate crowd compliment.
Next up was polka whiz Alex Meixner who already had people dancing before 1:00 with his wild take on traditional music.
Hands down, my favorite was his rendition of Aaron Copland's "Hoedown" from "Rodeo," a piece I never dreamed I'd hear done polka-style and could hear again tonight.
Near the end of his rollicking set, he yelled, "In 100 years, there'll be no emo music. In 100 years, there'll be no screamo music. But in 1,000 years, there will still be polka!"
You can't argue with the truth.
Alash was a trio of Truvan throat singers, a remarkable, almost primal sound if you've never heard it before.
The pavilion was all but full as the three played unfamiliar instruments and sang "songs about how they can sing," according to the interpreter.
Back at the dance pavilion, the Marshall Ford Swing band got people two-stepping on the slippery, grass clipping-covered wooden dance floor.
But when they did a Texas waltz, people started grabbing their honeys for some slow dancing, Texas-style.
Singer Emily Gimble was the real deal (her Daddy's Johnny Gimble, a swing fiddler of great renown) and her voice went a long way toward their authentic sound.
From there, it was back up the hill for food from La Milpa, a welcome sight since I can't seem to get myself to southside to eat there.
Scoring a steak taco, chicken and cheese empanada and a pork tamale, I took my lunch up to the Community stage for Stooges Brass band.
Two of the musicians pitted the right and left sides of the audience against each other in a noise-making match, which was fun, but I kept thinking that they had nothing on our own No BS Brass band.
The crowd was huge, though, so the New Orleans band must have been doing something right.
I left because I wanted to catch fadista Nathalie Pires, having just this past year discovered fado music with RVA's own fadista.
Her voice was beautiful, although a guy near me said he thought it was lost on the enormous Altria stage, and the songs of longing seemed perfect for a gray, rainy day.
By that point in the day, the ground around the Altria stage felt like a saturated sponge and finding a place to stand was challenging given that I hadn't worn boots.
So once she finished, I was happy to leave there, more so because I couldn't wait to hear Mighty Sam McClain, a 70-year old R & B singer I'd interviewed for Style.
From the second he opened his mouth, I was in thrall to his gorgeous voice, an instrument he discovered at 13, but one he'd been using all his life in church and in the cotton fields.
He was dressed in a tuxedo jacket and jeans and moved awfully well for a septuagenarian, executing hip thrusts, head bobs and shoulder shakes to punctuate his songs.
Things got funky fast and all around me people were dancing which seemed to please Sam.
After every song, there was major applause, hooting and hollering and each time, Sam smiled handsomely and said, "I love you back!"
Eventually he said, "I'm gonna squat, like B.B. King," and sat down on a stool for a slow song about love.
"If you're gonna love, you're gonna feel some pain," he warned. Amen to that.
Things got going again with "New Man in Town," a song he said had been used a dozen times on "All McBeal," and a song that got him dancing in place.
The crowd went nuts when the band started covering Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground," sending the funk factor off the charts.
The band got the word that their time was up and people yelled for them to keep going.
Sam dutifully closed with a short song and thank-you to his maker before shaking hands and leaving the stage with the black towel he had used throughout the set to wipe the cascading sweat off his bald head and face draped over one shoulder like a the star that he is.
My last stop was back up the hill for Spanish Harlem Orchestra, a band the Folk Fest has been trying to get for nine years.
The only downside was that by then the field was a marsh and there was absolutely nowhere to stand that didn't involved my feet being partially submerged.
I wasn't going to miss this amazing salsa band, so I backed up to the gravel path, sacrificing a close-up view for the sake of a hard surface to stand on.
Bandleader Oscar Hernandez kicked things off and the percussion never let up which should have been a very god thing but the field was way too wet to dance.
I feel certain my Bronx-born, Puerto-Rican friend Gerry would say that it's just wrong to listen to salsa dura when dancing is not an option.
But we had no choice and the music was hip-shakingly stellar, as evidenced by how many Richmond musicians were in the crowd.
By the time I headed back up the Gary Gerloff trail, my shoes were soaked through (and even so, a woman next to me at SHO had pointed at them and told me they were such cute shoes), my feet were cold from being wet so long and I was ready to take a break from the festivities for a bit.
Every year we rave about how lucky we are to have this annual celebration of music right in our back yard.
And every year, I am in awe of those who make it happen, choosing myriad musical stylings to expose us, to enthrall us, to make us shake our booty, and to make us remember just how wonderful it is to spend three days celebrating music of the world.
There aren't many crowds that would stand in the rain all day long just to hear music they've never heard before.
We're a credit to ourselves, my friends.
Yes, it was a shame about the rain, although I can't recall a wet FF since the very first one, so we've been very lucky.
Walking down 5th Street, the smell of the river wafted up on the breeze most agreeably. It was going to be a fine day to be waterside.
I was there right when things got started, taking the Gary Gerloff trail to the Altria stage to see Newfoundland's the Dardanelles.
"This is only our third time in the U.S.," guitarist Tom said as a light rain fell on us and the stage. "We didn't expect anyone to show up. We thought we'd be over there with the kettle corn."
By the middle of their enthusiastic set, a FF volunteer was spreading straw on the field in an attempt to fill puddles.
They did jigs (but not the Irish kind) and bouzouki player Matt showed off his magnificent voice doing a song a capella, rendering the crowd as quiet as the Listening Room.
Afterwards Tom drolly observed, "There's not many crowds who would stand in the rain for an unaccompanied ballad."
It may have been the ultimate crowd compliment.
Next up was polka whiz Alex Meixner who already had people dancing before 1:00 with his wild take on traditional music.
Hands down, my favorite was his rendition of Aaron Copland's "Hoedown" from "Rodeo," a piece I never dreamed I'd hear done polka-style and could hear again tonight.
Near the end of his rollicking set, he yelled, "In 100 years, there'll be no emo music. In 100 years, there'll be no screamo music. But in 1,000 years, there will still be polka!"
You can't argue with the truth.
Alash was a trio of Truvan throat singers, a remarkable, almost primal sound if you've never heard it before.
The pavilion was all but full as the three played unfamiliar instruments and sang "songs about how they can sing," according to the interpreter.
Back at the dance pavilion, the Marshall Ford Swing band got people two-stepping on the slippery, grass clipping-covered wooden dance floor.
But when they did a Texas waltz, people started grabbing their honeys for some slow dancing, Texas-style.
Singer Emily Gimble was the real deal (her Daddy's Johnny Gimble, a swing fiddler of great renown) and her voice went a long way toward their authentic sound.
From there, it was back up the hill for food from La Milpa, a welcome sight since I can't seem to get myself to southside to eat there.
Scoring a steak taco, chicken and cheese empanada and a pork tamale, I took my lunch up to the Community stage for Stooges Brass band.
Two of the musicians pitted the right and left sides of the audience against each other in a noise-making match, which was fun, but I kept thinking that they had nothing on our own No BS Brass band.
The crowd was huge, though, so the New Orleans band must have been doing something right.
I left because I wanted to catch fadista Nathalie Pires, having just this past year discovered fado music with RVA's own fadista.
Her voice was beautiful, although a guy near me said he thought it was lost on the enormous Altria stage, and the songs of longing seemed perfect for a gray, rainy day.
By that point in the day, the ground around the Altria stage felt like a saturated sponge and finding a place to stand was challenging given that I hadn't worn boots.
So once she finished, I was happy to leave there, more so because I couldn't wait to hear Mighty Sam McClain, a 70-year old R & B singer I'd interviewed for Style.
From the second he opened his mouth, I was in thrall to his gorgeous voice, an instrument he discovered at 13, but one he'd been using all his life in church and in the cotton fields.
He was dressed in a tuxedo jacket and jeans and moved awfully well for a septuagenarian, executing hip thrusts, head bobs and shoulder shakes to punctuate his songs.
Things got funky fast and all around me people were dancing which seemed to please Sam.
After every song, there was major applause, hooting and hollering and each time, Sam smiled handsomely and said, "I love you back!"
Eventually he said, "I'm gonna squat, like B.B. King," and sat down on a stool for a slow song about love.
"If you're gonna love, you're gonna feel some pain," he warned. Amen to that.
Things got going again with "New Man in Town," a song he said had been used a dozen times on "All McBeal," and a song that got him dancing in place.
The crowd went nuts when the band started covering Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground," sending the funk factor off the charts.
The band got the word that their time was up and people yelled for them to keep going.
Sam dutifully closed with a short song and thank-you to his maker before shaking hands and leaving the stage with the black towel he had used throughout the set to wipe the cascading sweat off his bald head and face draped over one shoulder like a the star that he is.
My last stop was back up the hill for Spanish Harlem Orchestra, a band the Folk Fest has been trying to get for nine years.
The only downside was that by then the field was a marsh and there was absolutely nowhere to stand that didn't involved my feet being partially submerged.
I wasn't going to miss this amazing salsa band, so I backed up to the gravel path, sacrificing a close-up view for the sake of a hard surface to stand on.
Bandleader Oscar Hernandez kicked things off and the percussion never let up which should have been a very god thing but the field was way too wet to dance.
I feel certain my Bronx-born, Puerto-Rican friend Gerry would say that it's just wrong to listen to salsa dura when dancing is not an option.
But we had no choice and the music was hip-shakingly stellar, as evidenced by how many Richmond musicians were in the crowd.
By the time I headed back up the Gary Gerloff trail, my shoes were soaked through (and even so, a woman next to me at SHO had pointed at them and told me they were such cute shoes), my feet were cold from being wet so long and I was ready to take a break from the festivities for a bit.
Every year we rave about how lucky we are to have this annual celebration of music right in our back yard.
And every year, I am in awe of those who make it happen, choosing myriad musical stylings to expose us, to enthrall us, to make us shake our booty, and to make us remember just how wonderful it is to spend three days celebrating music of the world.
There aren't many crowds that would stand in the rain all day long just to hear music they've never heard before.
We're a credit to ourselves, my friends.
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