A Cranky Insomniac at Winfield
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(Author's note: The following reflects my own peculiar interests (hammered dulcimer, fingerpicking guitar, sleep) and should not be mistaken for a complete or representative account of the Walnut Valley Festival. There was a lot of Bluegrass going on, for instance, most of it first-rate.
(Please note also that this was the 15th or so festival I've attended, and although I usually camp, this was the only year I had problems with my neighbors.)
September 23, 1998
It's the Wednesday after the 27th Annual Walnut Valley Festival, and I am finally beginning to feel awake. This year's was one of the best festivals ever for me, and also one of the worst. Here are the details, gory and otherwise, day by day.
Thursday: Cathy Barton was the official host of the hammered dulcimer workshop, but Randy Marchany was the star of the show. The tall skinny one in No Strings Attached, Randy is one of the best dulcimer players around as well as the goofiest guy in a goofy band. His contributions, ranging from an easy I-IV-V harmony figure to an exercise to increase hand independence, were all useful. Barton, Princess Harris of the Plaid Family, Paul Goelz and the lady Paul plays with these days also discussed their playing and offered tips to the two dozen or so people who had brought their own instruments and the rest of the audience.
The National Guitar Fingerpicking Competition, held Thursday evening, is where I hear some of the best music each year at Winfield, and some of the worst. At times it was hard to remember that Winfield is primarily a bluegrass festival. Although the majority of the 38 contestants had some country flavor in their playing, there were a few who played jazz, several with a classical/Spanish background, and a handful who who apparently are frustrated drummers; i.e., they slapped the hell out of their instruments. The judges did better than usual, picking three of the five finalists correctly and awarding the top two prizes to the two who deserved them, Michael Chapdelaine and Brad Richter. These two carried classical guitars and played fewer notes than any of their competitors, but they made every note count.
Very early Friday morning: My adolescent neighbors put a heavy metal CD in their portable player and crank it up. When I complain they turn it off. Hours of sleep: 4.
Friday: I sat through the Mountain Dulcimer competition in the morning but I can't remember much about it (see previous paragraph).
Most of the Odd Instrumentalists in their afternoon workshop were the usual suspects. Kelly Werts of the Plaid Family demonstrated his spoon playing and velcro tap dancing and played a duet on jawbones with Cathy Barton. Barton explained how to play a mouthbow (you vary the pitch by making faces) and Dave Para explored the sonic equivalent of ultraviolet with a leaf. Wes Chappell of No Strings Attached discussed the Slinky as a rhythm instrument (smaller ones are better; ones large enough to walk down stairs are difficult to control), fellow NSA member Bob Thomas showed off his contrabass b-flat clarinet, which looks like a giant paper clip, and Randy Marchany annoyed all dogs on the campgrounds with a bowed psaltery. Bob Dunne, however, stole the show with his didgeridoo. He explained the basic techniques clearly enough that various members of the audience purchased their own from vendors on the site and practiced throughout the rest of the weekend. The sound of a didgeridoo is indescribable; imagine bagpipes with bronchitis and a vulgar sense of humor.
Cherish the Ladies, an all-woman Celtic band, was very good, and they brought a couple of Irish dancers to perform during some of their numbers. The band leader had a distinctive accent, exotic yet brassy. I tried to guess which of the Celtic lands she hailed from but none of them sounded right. It turned out that she's from the Bronx.
Stephen Bennett and No Strings Attached did their traditional joint set Friday evening. Bennett started the set with his solo fingerpicking version of "You Really Got Me" -- far more exciting than Van Halen's -- and the set closed with NSA's silly crowd-pleasers. In mid-set Wes and a conveniently handy lady did a tango, concluded by Wes dancing off the stage. Between all the tomfoolery they also played some good music.
The Plaid Family -- Kelly and Diana Werts and Princess Harris -- supplied the music for a well-attended contradance Friday evening. It isn't hard to see the contradance's origins in English country dances. After the dance I spent a couple of hours futzing around on other people's dulcimers and then went to my tent to sleep.
3 a.m. Saturday morning: One of the neighboring couples thoughtfully and frankly discuss their relationship:
"Bitch."
"Dickhead."
"Bitch."
"Dickhead."
(Repeat with minor variations for 30 minutes, mezzo-forte to fortissimo.)
5 a.m.: My neighbors are having loud, drunken "good" time. I demand that they quiet down (I suppose I should have made a polite request, showing respect for their personhoods and a willingness to consider reasonable compromise, but at 5 a.m. my sleepless mind turns heavily to thoughts of violent, bloody murder).
"Hey, man, this is Winfield."
"You look sick, man."
Etc. Hours of sleep : 1.5. I visit the security HQ the next morning. They are very well aware of my neighbors, I learn, but they only have three men on duty at night and there was a ruckus elsewhere.
Saturday: Most of the contestants in the hammered dulcimer competition were pretty good, though there were a couple who hurt my ears. The worst was of course the one who played longest. The judges performed passably, picking three of the correct five finalists, but gave the awards to the wrong ones. I would like to have seen Rick Thum win -- nice guys deserve to finish first once in a while -- or Samantha, who looked about 11 years old -- the dulcimer world could use a good child prodigy. The most interesting part was Don Gillett's dulcimer. After the first round, the MC noted that his dulcimer was over 200 years old. It sounded different from the post-Rizzetta models everyone else played; it brought to mind John McCutcheon's description of Jimmy Cooper's dulcimer: "It sounded like a birdcage falling down the stairs." But it was still playable, and I've heard worse modern instruments.
I spent the later evening at one of the hammered dulcimer jam sessions in the campgrounds. It is possible to hear "Whiskey Before Breakfast" too often, and I did, but the enthusiasm and camraderie compensated for the repertoire. Rick Thum, it turns out, can get around on guitar and fiddle as well as dulcimer and is an experienced song leader. At one point he divided the participants into four groups. Under his direction one group sang "Good Night, Ladies," another "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," the third "When the Saints Go Marching in," and the last "Jump Up, Turn Around, Pick a Bale of Cotton" (or something like that -- the song was new to me). Simultaneously. Thum said it would sound "awesome" and it did.
4:30 a.m. Sunday morning: I ask my neighbors if it makes the slightest bit of difference to them that I desperately need sleep. They say no, and I make a second trek to the security HQ. They should be kicked off the site (two complaints and you're out is the rule, I am informed), but the security guy merely tells them to be quiet. Total hours of sleep: zero.
Home again: At 2 p.m. I decided to lie down for a few minutes; at 7 p.m. I had a snack, brushed my teeth and went back to bed. I spent Monday and Tuesday sleepwalking at work; fortunately it was a light week.
I might learn the bagpipes, so that next year I can serenade my neighbors at sunrise.
--Don McClane
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