Northwest Folklife

I just played my ½ hour set at Northwest Folklife in Seattle. An indoor stage called Folklife Café.

Now I’m drinking a Pepsi in the Performer Hospitality building. There must be a hundred folk musicians in here from around the country. I’m surrounded by the sound of banjos, mandolins, fiddles, and twangy Appalachian-style vocalizations, coming from all directions. I love this part of festivals like this. Between the stages, behind tents, behind the scenes. You get this at Oregon Country Fair, High Sierra Fest. Folks will jam all night on blue grass, old-timey, gypsy, etc. It’s enchanting.

I confess that I am musically envious. My own singer/songwriter art barely qualifies as “folk.” It has some rural leanings at times, with a modicum of storytelling, but there’s a lot of so-called “composition,” and elements of pop. (You know, the umpteenth generation of ubiquitous Beatles influence.)

I could jump into these jams and hang on for dear life. I know the music, I love the music, and, yes, I have a few chops to play it. But I prefer to sit by and let the people who live this stuff do it without my hack intrusion.

Someday, I’ll practice up, get my Django down, and then I’ll joyfully participate.

My own set went well, although I was worried at first. I went on after a nylon-plucking guitarist who had the place riveted with his expertise, specializing in Italian and flamenco flourishes. With only 5 minutes of set change, the room was still full of the virtuoso’s exotic and exhilarating vibe when I was introduced. What are you gonna do, but do what you do best? I kicked it off with the story of falling in love with my wife in Seattle and broke into “Hours Go By.” Call it sucking up to the Seattle-ites, but people seem to like that song.

I brought out a new song that I only just finished on the drive up. “Villain.” It used to be called “Leni Riefenstahl.” I would like to say that it’s the only song of its kind. That is, a song that name-drops women associated with Nazis. But David Lindley already has one. It’s called “He Would Have Loved You More than Eva Braun.” As much as I love David Lindley, I think that’s a dubious way to tell your sweetheart what you think of her. (“You’re so special, Hitler would have taken you as his mistress.”)

No, I think that if you’re gonna talk about Nazi women and romance in the same song, it’s unlikely to travel in the sweet-n-light direction. That’s why mine is called “Villain.” It’s about the frustration of good men who are eternally losing out to the bad guys.

The chorus:

Eve Braun, Leni Riefenstahl/You seen one, you seen them all./Beauty loves her beast, and she’s always willin’./Some girls can’t help it; they love the villain.

Yeah, the song is sort of funny. But like all my “sorta funny” songs, it’s not meant to make people laugh. It’s actually quite sad. The audience liked it, but I could tell they didn’t quite know what to make of it. (Maybe because they don’t know who Eva Braun and Leni Riefenstahl are… For the record, they are Hitler’s mistress and Nazi Germany’s main filmmaker.)

I have been writing and arranging so much lately, for my upcoming album. My vocal chops, and my fingerpicking chops are at a peak right now. I felt very solid and strong, and that boosts confidence. That confidence is important at a gig like this, where everyone is listening quietly, facing the stage. I like these gigs. Folks are here for the music, not the beer & chicken wings, or Cable Sports TV.

I provide each song with a bit of an intro. I know there’s something to be said for “letting the music do the talking.” However, you can develop a bad habit of hiding behind the material, putting less and less of your vitality into each time you perform it. It’s better to take a moment every once in awhile to engage; remind the audience—and yourself—that these songs take place in time and place. It has the result of making them better. You present the songs, fully invested in their meaning, rather than tossing them off with a “whatever” shrug.

Something else, even more beautiful, can often happen. This practice of introducing songs kind of keeps them in a perpetual “work shopping” mode. You discover new things about it. If you can keep from simply repeating the same shticky introduction every time, you’ll catch yourself with new understandings, new meanings, and subtle variations of mood. And if you can perform leaning into a new mood, instead of just rehashing the rehearsed mood, it has an immediate impact on the audience. That’s what they want to see. A person in the moment, who cares about the stories he is telling.

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