Woodyfest I

Woody Guthrie’s hometown is at least 70 miles from anywhere. Last Wednesday, we drove in early from Tulsa. Ronny’s first gig was at 11 a.m. at the Colonial Park nursing home. Three other musicians played three other nursing homes as part of festival outreach.

In downtown Okemah that evening, SONiA kicked the festival wide open at the Crystal Theatre. Not your average folkie, she’s the perfect act for those who come hungry from small and/or conservative towns ravenous for like-mindedness and a Guthrie flavored family reunion. SONiA sang about peace, love, and soldiers from Viet Nam to Iraq (“Me Too”); and individual Americans who stand up for all of us (“Who’s So Scared”). One of her most poignant songs, “By My Silence,” was adapted from the WWII Pastor Martin Niemoller poem: “I didn’t know what it meant/By my silence I gave my consent.”

SONiA’s encore was a bluesy number, and she said she’s currently at work on a blues album. Next week, on July 21st, she’ll perform in Tampa at WMNF for the celebration of the life of her friend (and ours) Vicki Santa, the late station manager.

Jonatha Brooke completed the night playing much from her latest album, a collection of Guthrie songs, entitled “The Works.” Her songs are sexy and romantic, and quite a few listeners were taken by Brooke, but my camp felt her songs definitely fell short of Mermaid Avenue. Then again, most albums will.

The next afternoon at the Brick Street Café, Red Dirt singer-songwriter Monica Taylor played “Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key” and “If I Were a Carpenter” as well as her originals.

Randy Crouch, the fiddlin’ master, followed, packing the dusty basement. David Amram accompanied on Indian flutes and the French horn (not to be outdone, Crouch grabbed his Bud bottle and blew). Randy fiddled the blues, “Okalahoma Hills” and wrapped with the “William Tell Overture.”

Jimmy LaFave, along with the house band (which backed up many of the artists throughout the festival), closed the afternoon show with a tribute to Bob Childers, a festival regular who passed away last Spring.

Loss was an undercurrent of the week. Just over a month ago, festival founder Sharon Jones also passed away. But that just made the importance of this ego-free, family festival shine brighter.

Can You Hear Me Now?

A few summers ago before I got involved on the air at WMNF as a DJ and reporter, I'd trek up to USF once a week to sit in a little booth for an hour to read magazines, tv listings, and other local publications aloud. My recorded reading was then broadcast out to special radios in the homes of the visually impaired.

Earlier this summer, I received an email from the same folks I worked with at WUSF, telling me about TBPAC's new service for the blind - audio description. I applied and endured lots of training to get the skill down just right. SPT's reporter John Fleming followed us around during our training and reported on it here.

Is There Any News in Your News?

Even back to the days of Ed Murrow, television news had a rep for being lame, uninformative, and tainted by advertisers. Local news at worst can be harmful (does that half hour of crime and punishment really convey what your town is like?), and national news irrelevant (more Michael Jackson, anyone?). But recently I've come to love the NBC Nightly News w/ Brian Williams, especially their Making a Difference segment, which highlights do-gooders in this current hard economic climate.

Closing Night

Jimmy LaFave opened this morning's festivities with "Oklahoma Hills" at Mary Jo's Pancake Breakfast. His voice and that song are one of my favorite combinations. LaFave and the ensemble cast closed the night singing "This Land is Your Land." Both songs can easily make me misty eyed, but it was the sight beyond backstage - the crowd standing and singing along -that moved me most today.

The official end of the festival is tomorrow at noon, the Hoot for Huntington's hootenanny, at the Crystal Theatre. But outside my hotel room door and down in the parking lot, I can hear music wafting up already. It's the unofficial end, when the musicians stay up all night playing and saying good bye to their festival family. 'Til next year.

Woodyfest!

A couple of years ago, Ronny Elliott, one of my favorite Tampa do-gooders, told me about the annual Woody Guthrie festival in Okemah, Oklahoma. A music festival with a message that hasn't gone corporate, and remains free? I've always wanted to go. (Che Guevara may have been on a Gap t-shirt, but as far as I know, those capitalists haven't touched Woody...at least one good thing about having a festival in the desert in the middle of the summer.)

I got a slight taste of the festival in March, when the Ribbon of Highway played Tampa Theatre. On Tuesday morning, Ronny and I left Tampa for Oklahoma. But first I asked him to write a few words about what the festival & the man mean to him.

I never cared all that much about Woody Guthrie. He was mostly just the guy that gave us Bob Dylan. I remember Martin Mull's quote, " Folk music. Remember when that crap almost caught on!" I suppose that in my own snooty fashion folk music was some kind of social phenomena for white guys who just didn't have all that much soul.

Of course I came to appreciate Woody's music and philosophies more over the years but it was never gonna bump Chuck Berry or Elvis or Big Joe Turner from their thrones in my heart.

Then I was invited to play the Woody Guthrie Festival in Okemah, Oklahoma some five or six years back. The power of the music just overwhelmed me. By my second visit I was a true convert. I believe that was the year that I looked around and found myself standing onstage with Pete Seeger, Ramblin' Jack Elliott and Arlo Guthrie and lots of other folks, singing as loud as we could, with the entire audience singing along. " This land was made for you and me." I looked out at the first few rows and I could see tears streaming down cheeks. Mine, too. I never thought I liked that damned song. I thought it was corny. Guess it was just over my head. I get it now. I never get tired of that song.

I bide my time for eleven months a year waiting for July and Woodyfest.

I saw On the Waterfront for the first time last week, a day or two before Karl Malden died. Father Barry's monologue about the waterfront being his church reminded me of the whole good vs. evil thing, and despite changing times, we're no more far ahead or behind than we were back when those words were written.

In the character of Edie I found more hope, with her quote: "Shouldn't everybody care about everybody else?"

I was sitting in the Starbucks at TGH the other day when I spied what I thought was among the quintessential American scenes. A middle aged lady with an armload of McDonald's came in for her morning joe, and when she attempted to exit with both hands full, she was unable to pull down the handle to open the door.

Meanwhile, a young doctor brisked by the windows and doors of the cafe, paying more attention to his hand held device than to where he was walking. After he was out of view, he came back a second later to get the door for her. She thanked him, calling him sir, and he smiled. Then they scurried off their separate ways.