Newport Folk Fest 2015

FESTIVAL REVIEW: Newport Folk Fest ’15 Day 3

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Sunday morning begins with Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats giving a sermon that shakes loose the demons. We are knee deep in the Holy Spirit as our fingertips fly towards the overcast sky. Rateliff is nothing if not a proper showman, a blackjack dealer with dust in his beard and oil on his heels. On this good green earth his athletic gusto can only be rivaled by Miss Sharon Jones. We are in the presence of a beast who has learned our mannerisms.

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Later we hear the ancient wisdom of Field Report, and wander through their dream stables. One of the girls in First Aid Kit has lost her voice, so their slack jawed goddess blues sound just that much more lonesome. We place our toes in the water and trade secret fears. Hounded by egrets and with pirate flags at bay, we make moves for Shakey Graves.

The fort walls resound with thunder just the way we like. We draw campfire close to hear the truths and schemes of a man whose very name inspires drama, the man behind Shakey Graves, Alejandro Rose-Garcia. This brand of grit grunge is out to draw blood and sighs in all the right places. We quake with fury, no longer sure of foot. We want to tear down the houses and the things within them, leave no shelf unturned, set fire to the doors. This is sure to bother the neighbors.

In a few hours, after the water taxi, the shuttle, the cab, three buses, and two trains we’ll fall into the open arms of our little trash heap of a town; we’ll take special care not to wash the sea salt from our skin. Our toes will grasp at familiar roads. People will seem to recognize us. But for today we are panting with abandon and must wear hats to keep the sun from our eyes.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]

FESTIVAL REVIEW: Newport Folk Fest ’15 Day 2

At eleven this morning, Spirit Family Reunion are giving their best sun salutation and we accompany them with hands and hearts. These rabble-rousers make dangerous music, you know the type, the kind that makes you want to swallow a glass of whiskey whole and howl into the night.

Throughout the day Madisen Ward and the Mama Bear sing us regal goat songs, the Barr Brothers serenade with sweet harp lullabies, and Nikki Lane rocks us dirty. When an audience member voices his approval, Langhorne Slim assures us that “you sound good too.” I look around at the scenic harbor and feel a pang of jealousy for every musician that gets to play music where the air smells of raven waters.

Even Sufjan Stevens mentions that playing this festival is a lifelong dream come true for him. His humanity has never been more apparent. He laughs as the audience helps him remember the words to the second verse of “Casimir Pulaski Day” and when he chokes out some of the higher notes he recalls that those same notes were a lot “easier when [/fusion_builder_column][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”][he] was younger.” We hear in Sufjan’s voice the ephemeral nature of everything; he intones “we’re all gonna die” and we allow ourselves to both recognize and release this simple fact. It is a moment of perfect chaos, heavy lightness. Sufjan plays us out with a hypno-dystopian version of “Chicago” and for the moment we believe in fairies.

The Decemberists, ever professional, come outfitted in suits and make the kids twist and shout. We head out just in time to catch the next water taxi and marvel at how easy it would be to get used to this.

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FESTIVAL REVIEW: Newport Folk Fest ’15 Day 1

Two trains, three buses, a cab, a shuttle, and a water taxi, amounting to a cool eleven hours of traveling later, we arrive at Newport Folk Fest to some bad news; the skies are flashing ill intent and there’s been an “official weather alert” sent out. We are asked to join in prayer.

Enter Tallest Man on Earth, clad in black and with the Devil in his eye. He croons out a few of what he describes as “breakup songs” and we rock in time to our own lost love. At the end of every song he tosses the pick like a bad dream, then at the fourth song or so something wonderful starts to happen. Hot rays poke through the mist; it seems the Tallest Man has a voice that coaxes the sun awake, woos away clouds. We too have fallen prey to his trademark charisma.

To say that Kristian Matsson, the man behind the Tallest Man, and his frantic gyrations are hypnotizing would be no overstatement. He struts; he balks; his brows flick with each twang. I’ve never seen a man make a photo pit work so hard to keep up.

But for all his stage antics, the crowd keeps a steady calm, unwavering in their sway. I’m participating in what seems to be a meditation in the perverse art of chill, flailing dance heat for flailing heartbeats. I can tell already that this festival might not be for your average attention deficit disorder dudes and diet coke heads. No doubt that crowd would fail to hear the witch songs beckoning you to the furthest reaches of the ocean.

Matsson is this great wilderness embodied, gnawing savagely at his own paws. He sings through his teeth, “oh Lord, why am I not strong like the branch that keeps the hangmen hanging on.” I fear this monster might eat us up he loves us so.

Soon the skies make good on their promise, and the storm begins. Roger Waters still has to play, but I think it might be prophetic that he brought the rain, so perhaps we aught to head back to the water taxi? I’m feeling superstitious today. Either that, or I just really need the sleep.

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Tag: Newport Folk Fest 2015

FESTIVAL REVIEW: Newport Folk Fest ’15 Day 3

FESTIVAL REVIEW: Newport Folk Fest ’15 Day 2

FESTIVAL REVIEW: Newport Folk Fest ’15 Day 1

Ticket Giveaways

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