The First Annual Birds on a Wire Folk Festival

April 16, 2010

Justin Townes Earle ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Being a lifetime Seattlite (at least so far), it’s in my temperament to be naturally set against anything related to Pullman. It’s irrational and rather childish, yet this way of thinking persists on the west side of the mountains, to the point where Pullman might as well be Mordor, the only fount of evil from which all bad things come. I wanted to hate our jaunt to the college nemesis’ lair, but I couldn’t. I had way more fun than I would have ever expected. And truthfully, I saw no evil beyond the expected abuse of the color red.

For eyes unclouded by rivalry, Pullman is just a smallish town nestled among the impressive Palouse hills, a place that despite being a college town, remains off the beaten path when it comes to popular music. This being the case, small town “charm” was in many ways very evident at the First Annual Birds on a Wire Folk Festival, compared to if it was conducted in the impersonal big city. This charm made for the overall highlight of what was truly a volunteer driven festival of still modest proportions. It was that element which made the ins and outs of the experience enjoyable in a way that could never be possible with platoon of over-eager security personnel tasked with quashing people who are judged to be having too much fun.

The first night of the fest we hung around the larger venue, an old high school-cum-community center with stages on opposite ends of the building. A Pullman version of the Phinney Neighborhood Center or a Good Shepperd Center if you will, housing a hodgepodge of wholesome activities and community oriented events. One stage was housed in the Gym, a massive space that one could easily imagine hosted its share of sock hops. With only two stacks of speakers on the floor just in front of a makeshift stage, had surprisingly good sound, and a bit of natural reverb to boot. That a “beer garden” was situated under a retracted basketball hoop with very tasty beer at a reasonable price just to the side of the stage only endeared us more to the gym. Kicking off the evening with Goldfinch, beer in hand, I had to admit to myself this wasn’t such a bad situation at all. Moseying on over to the other stage in the school auditorium proper, we discover Rocky Votolato finishing up his solo set to a huge, appreciative crowd that then proceeded to pack the lobby and the only exit waiting patiently in line at his merch table. [Rocky wins. Cue the "Rocky Theme".] Now that’s a start to a festival.

The Moondoggies were on their last night of a month long tour that took them to SXSW and had accumulated magnificent beards via an ongoing bet. Anyone could shave their beard whenever they wanted, but the consequence was a square punch in the jaw. Not open handed, a punch… and by the looks of their beard, clearly a punch in the face was a strong deterrent to shave. You don’t need to see their faces to appreciate the rock though, and true to form, the Moondoggies brought out the first dancin’ in the aisles moment of the fest. Backstage they related stories aplenty of tour, including a harrowing tale of Deja Vu I would never have believed had it not come from the person who had just lived to tell the tale once again. (View a must watch $5 Cover band documentary on the Moondoggies to get the full tale about the first incident.) This would would be but the first note of mortality we would ponder this festival weekend.

Damien Jurado was to take us late into the night, which kinda seems his M.O. these days: filling hot rooms full of people and then cracking jokes between songs. This night’s repoire, no matter how weird the circumstances may have seemed, was easy-going from the start on Jurado’s part. Conscientious of the size of the room and stage he remarked that he wasn’t a performer, not like Neil Diamond anyways. All I could think was, “If only you could see yourself on stage. Sitting there all lonesome playing your guitar. All riveting and shit. Just hush.” He also remarked that he been a happier person recently, and doing his “new song a week” project was a positive experience so far. Jurado had a bundle of new songs to play as a result, some from Saint Bartlett that’s arrive in May, others of a more recent vintage. One song was just a day old. “Arkansas” from his soon-to-be-released record is just an incredibly good stripped down pop song. That’s right, a pop song. I didn’t forget to tell you he’s been a happier guy as of lately, did I?

Goldfinch ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Goldfinch w/ Steve Norman ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

The Moondoggies ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Damien Jurado ::: Photo by Abbey Simmons

Day two started out with local band Hueco, representing the organizer Stereopathic music, as well as the larger Inland Empire music scene. To my mind, more bands need to remember the blues as a foundation to other things, and the five members of Hueco would probably be happy to teach them a lick or two; they’d probably be trading solos to pass the time anyway. Saturday finally brought us to the the third venue, under the eaves of a re-purposed church called the Belltower while taking in Portland trio Mimicking Birds. Gaining recent notoriety for the support of fellow Portlander Isaac Brock, the only real support these three gentlemen need right now to make their splash is a looper pedal. Frontman Nate Lacy has a soft voice and a soft disposition, and when singing recalls the timbre and inner sophistication of Paul Simon. Our afternoon highlight was an impeccable set of new and old Sera Cahoone songs in the auditorium, followed by a two-hour Saturday dinner break for the entire festival. Wait. Dinner break? I’m telling you: small town charm. I’m not at all opposed to the idea of slowing down the pace of my life.

Pablo Trucker led us out of the break with their second set of the day in the auditorium (the first being right before the dinner break) and it was a set that made me embarrassed to call myself a Seattle music blogger, seeing that I’d never written about this band. These guys have been around for over a decade, apparently playing some of the best written country blues rock jams our area has to offer. Recently adding a third member on bass, my favorite local engineer Kory Kruckenberg, they’ve also embarked on an EP project with the goal of recording short sessions in many of Seattle’s artistic spaces. I’m excited to see how that plays out.

In the auditorium stage the Maldives found a rare space where they each had the room to move and could turn the amps up. During the dinner break we caught up with a few of the gentlemen at a bar in Pullman and, no surprise, they were recognized by a fawning fan who was also our waiter. The auditorium held its share of fans who knew the words and sang along to every song, making for one of the more excited audience reactions of the weekend, second only to the act to that would follow them.

Unfortunately the arrival of festival headliner Justin Townes Earle brought a bit of unhappy news that head had just learned himself. Guy Clark, a mentor for himself and his father, had been admitted to the hospital. The weight of this news was evident in the rising intensity of each passing performance, and with a few exceptions of notables from his new record, his set list was the Blues, and that’s the Blues with a capital B. A stomp marked the final strum of each song, an exclamation point to his frustration and grief, as if it wasn’t already apparent enough on his furrowed brow. Unexpectedly, but maybe appropriately given the circumstances, the song that seemed sung the most for that moment wasn’t a blues song at all, but “My Mother’s Son,” a paen to family. A family that he’s sometimes sought to define himself apart from. It was a song that likely written in irony. This night though, the song was sung in reverence and with a clear tenor.

After a set that didn’t last nearly long enough for the audience but that had clearly taken its time and toll for Justin Townes Earle, he ended the set with a final stomp, rambling off stage in a teary-eyed daze. When he got where he thought he was no longer visible to the crowd, he tore off his glasses, dropped his guitar and slumped into his own lanky frame. It had clearly taken everything he had to get through that set and a five minute standing ovation failed to bring Townes Earle back to the stage. And though it may have been a bittersweet end to the night, for so many reasons it was so much more memorable.

With a high school gym for a stage, it’d be easy to imagine a band unhappy with an unexpected situation at a homegrown festival calling it in and delivering a sulky performance. The ironic thing of it was, nobody, not the musicians or the fans, appeared at all phased by a change of pace or setting. For all Jurado’s words about feeling out of place, he might have been the most engaged and comfortable performer I’ve seen at a festival of any kind. For Justin Townes Earle, one of GQ’s 50 Most Fashionable Men, a stage was a stage, and if any night was prime for the Blues, Saturday night at Birds On A Wire, in Pullman, WA had become one of them.

Often at larger events I’m struck by the overwhelming scope of it all, the tightly packed sets, and the built-in discomfort of existing with in a confined, often geographically displaced space. Why would I voluntarily subject myself to porta-potties, muddy seats, too short sets and a coordinated assault of corporate sponsorship? Why would I pay a premium for it even? How does that ever add up to a fun time? I’ve got to admit it mostly doesn’t, yet with so many great bands in one place, the cool factor of ‘being there’ outweighs every other consideration. In contrast, Birds On a Wire was a breath of fresh air and proof that it doesn’t have to be a whirlwind. Proof that following through on good intentions will ultimately result in a positive experience, not plopping down 250-or-something dollars (plus camping, plus gas, …), to ensure I get a chance to buy a ten dollar beer while maybe seeing my favorite band at 100 yards for a bare 30 minutes. Instead Birds on a Wire was about sitting in that side beer garden, under that retracted basketball hoop and having a beer (in the same room, on the same floor as under agers) with some of our area’s favorite bands. It was about dinner breaks and strolling between venues. Ultimately though it was about modern folk and blues music. And all that other nonsense, well that, to use a oft cited colloquialism, “that’s for the birds.”

Pullman, I would have never guessed. Big Ups go to Birds on a Wire Fest organizer Larson Hicks, who went out on a limb to make this happen, and honestly defied all negative expectations, and hurdled obstacles. His commitment to his scene is impressive and important, and for that he deserves a whole lot of recognition.