Monday, October 03, 2005
Hardly Strictly
I was planning on doing a lot of things this past weekend - some writing, some housework, some exercise, and some other stuff too… but instead I spent most all of my time at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival. This is an annual festival in Golden Gate Park; we wandered into it by accident two years ago and were tickled by the low-key atmosphere - a bunch of good ol’ bands rotating around on a big ol’ stage. This year we decided to attend on purpose and found that the festival had really expanded - now there are five different stages, very intelligently dispersed around Speedway and Marx meadows near the Polo Fields. We spent about five hours there on Saturday in a heavy rolling fog so intense that Doc Watson had to pause repeatedly during his set to wipe down his instrument (a heartbreak I know only too well); even so, the temperature was mild enough that, at six in the evening, I was able to walk home comfortably in a short sleeved shirt without a jacket. Sunday, on the other hand, was gloriously sunny almost all day long, and we stayed in the park from about 11:30 am to about six in the evening. Standout bands included the aforementioned Doc Watson, Del McCroury, Waybacks, Hot Buttered Rum String Band, Austin Lounge Lizards, and Split Lip Rayfield - and by “standout,” that just means I particularly liked them out of the bands I got to see, but there was way, way too much music for me to take it all in.
Zach seemed to have a grand time with the whole scene - we danced around and he giggled and gaped and got to play with some of his favorite little friends and even got in a little napping when necessary. After Saturday’s gig, we were too bushed to cook and ate burritos for supper. After Sunday’s, some friends came over to our place and we all gorged on cheap greasy chinese food, which totally hit the spot. They left at 8:30 and I think I was asleep by nine.
Maybe some of the things I’d planned to do didn’t get done this weekend, but I can’t imagine that the time could have been spent any more wisely. After the past few weeks at work, this was like taking a vacation for two days. The fact that they staged the damn festival just about in my backyard only makes it all that much more satisfying. A few notable points:
Dave was drinking a V-8. Precocious little 3-year-old Daisy (Zach’s girlfriend) wanted to try it. “It’s vegetable juice, do you really want it?” “Yes!” He handed her the little can and she sipped from it eagerly. The look in her eyes when she tasted it.... I thought she was going to cry.
There was a pretty good crowd at the Star Stage all day long on Sunday; we’d set up some blankets there as a base camp for our cadre of musiclovers (about a dozen of us at some points). There was plenty of room, though, because the meadow was broad and wide. That is, there was plenty of room till after Split Lip’s set. That’s when things started getting a bit too intense. At the same time, things started making a bit more sense, too. I had been intrigued by the very large percentage of the people who had been at this particular venue all day who seemed distinct from the typical bluegrass crowds we’d been seeing elsewhere. Along with the hippies, coots and Rousseauian anti-intelligencia who constituted most of attendees overall, at the Star Stage there also seemed to be a whole lotta gay folk. This is San Francisco; gay folk are a part of the landscape - but at the Star Stage it was a bit gayer than usual. Sometimes it was just a quiet realization, “oh, that’s twelve guys with no women, some of them are holding hands, I bet they’re gay.” Sometimes it was, “goodness those guys have well-defined physiques, and they sure seem to be into each other big time. I sense gayness.” Sometimes it was, “oh, those guys are wearing skintight lame’ disco dresses, have wild/fab hairdos, are shrieking and prancing and toying with each other’s body parts - those guys are super-queer.” It was, frankly, a blast, to be rocking along to the downhome funk with such a wildly disparate crowd. But after Split Lip’s set, the demographic shifted a few more points to the right of the Kinsey scale. The crowds poured in, and “typical SF bluegrass fans” seemed to be in the minority all of a sudden. That’s when I realized: these folk were not the Split Lip/pickin’ and grinnin’ crowd. These folk were here to see Dolly Parton. She came on stage and their shrieks of joy totally overpowered her - the PA system was not loud enough and we could barely hear Dolly over the crowds of chanting, ecstatic fans. We left to soak up the last few rays of sunshine on a hill by the model yacht pond, and then took leave of the park with a deep sense that we’d sucked all the hedonism we could out of the day.
Instead of buying expensive vendor-food, Kel and I brought some homemade sandwiches. They were great, so I’ll share the secret: get a sandwich roll and toast it in the broiler. Lay down some fresh spinach leaves on either side, and then add thinly sliced bosc pear, thinly sliced black fig, proscuitto, and goat cheese. Slap it together, crush it down, and eat at leisure. Fit for a king. It felt a little fancy for the bluegrass scene, but once things gayed up so much for Dolly’s set, it seemed like anything else would have been declasse.
Tonight, now, is erev Rosh Hashona - the beginning of a ten-day period of great holiness and self-reflection. I enter this phase of the year with a joyous heart. All that bluegrass just plucked me right up, I guess. Hope you had a good one too, and that the rest of the week brings you much more to keep your spirits up. And a big Shana Tovah, y’all.