On Saturday I attended the Pilgrimage
Music Festival and it was predictably excellent. My wife's workplace
happened to be located directly across the street from the festival,
so our plan was to park there and then walk ten minutes to the show,
dodging traffic and parking fees. It turns out that her boss actually
lived a couple of blocks down the road from there, even more directly
across the street from the festival and he and his wife invited us to
park our car at their house instead and we agreed to do so.
Her boss and his wife live in a
historic manor built in the early 1800s. Since we were going to be
stopping by, they insisted that we come early and take a tour, which
we did. This place was mind blowingly incredible. I don't think there
was an object in there less than two hundred years old. Every room
and every item was placed just so, having some historical
significance and a story to boot. They told me they had a gate
installed to keep people out who didn't realize the house was a
private residence and not a museum. About halfway through the tour I
voiced my disagreement that it was NOT a museum.
A couple things stood out. First, the
boss' wife's bedroom. She was quick to show us the blood stains in
two different spots on the wood floor in the room. During the civil
war, the manor was used as a confederate hospital, and these blood
stains were from wounded confederate soldiers. On the walls were
faded pencil sketches, apparently drawn by the soldiers. I, of
course, asked about any 'unusual' activity she had experienced in the
room and she was quick to answer that not only was there 'activity'
that she had witnessed, but that they had brought in a medium to tour
the house and she told them specifics about the entities that existed
within. The boss' wife said at times she has heard people talking in
the house when no one else was there, that she can hear a young child
come into her room at night to play with toys. The wife said she asks
the child politely to leave and things get quiet again. The medium
reported that a civil war doctor also inhabits the room, constantly
running back and forth between patients.
The second thing that stood out was
the basement, which I was not allowed to actually go down in, but did
manage to get a good long look into it's gaping maw. An unassuming
door in the dining room opens to concrete steps that look a little
too tall and narrow to safely descend. About ten or fifteen feet down
is a concrete frame that opens into a dark abyss with a dirt floor.
The boss was quick to shut this door before I could volunteer to head
down there. Apparently, this was where the slaves were kept (in olden
times, not currently...). The medium claims that someone was killed
down there, or that some sort of sacrifice had been performed. She
had refused to go down there herself.
The rest of the house was not as
creepily cool, but cool nonetheless, with an assortment of oddities
like dog collars from World War I, with genuine pictures of the dogs
wearing the collars in the trenches, old globes and instruments,
creepy Victorian style portraits, carved pipe collections, old
rifles, books, and canes. No square inch could be looked at without
finding something interesting. It truly was a private tour of a
private museum and one of the coolest places I've ever seen.
After an hour or so, it was time to
concert, so we walked a short distance down the road and entered the
festival grounds, 250 acres of rolling hills filled with three large
stages, and a myriad of vendors tents and smaller stages for smaller
performers. With convenient map and schedule in hand, we headed first
to see Neko Case. Her drummer apparently did not make it, so
the music was somewhat stripped down. I wasn't familiar with any of
her songs, but her voice sounded good, especially over minimal
instrumentation, soaring on the wind as a light drizzle of rain came
down.
Next up was Iron and Wine, a
short walk to another big field and stage. We easily navigated our
way to a spot fifteen feet out from center stage. I was immediately
struck by the mellowness of this concert crowd. There were no drunken
idiots or people packed shoulder to shoulder. We had lots of space
and a good view and the sound was excellent. Sam Beam had has band in
tow, sported a tweedish dark professor's jacket and a glass of wine
from which he regularly took sips. He played a good mix of songs from
various albums, but, and I've heard that he's known for doing this
during live shows, reworked some really good tunes into...well, less
than great renditions. Overall, it was a good performance, but I was
left wanting a little from the lack of songs being played the way
that I wanted them to be played. That's not his fault, though.
After that, we trotted over to a big
stage where Cage the Elephant was playing. They had already
started as we approached and were playing the one and only song I
knew by them as we made our way there. Once up close, the sound
mixing was harsh and unpleasant. I checked the schedule to see what
else was going on and suddenly realized that I was terrible at time
math, because Punch Brothers were playing at a different stage
in five's of minutes. We decided to hurry over and found yet another
perfect spot, close to the stage. Punch Brothers frickin'
fraggin' rocked. Progressive Bluegrass played by masters of the art,
with a lead singer slash mandolin player so full of crazy energy you
couldn't help but be entertained. People were all out jigging and
skanking to shifty bluegrass goodness. A guy that looked like Charles
Manson was drunkenly dancing up a storm. When he got close, it was a
little disturbing, but watching him from a distance, you couldn't
begrudge the guy his good time.
After my mind was blown by that
performance we headed back to the big stage where Weezer would
be playing. As we walked, Sheryl Crow could be heard on the
wind, playing a nostalgic 90s tune as a kind of prelude to the time
warping performance we were about to experience. I can say this about
Weezer: Weezer is the 90s-est thing I've seen since the
90s. I was also shocked to discover that despite never having owned a
Weezer album, I knew just about every song they played, most
of them enough to sing along enthusiastically. The sound of those 90s
dirty, grunge, power chord driven riffs blasting over the crowd was
enough to transport me back in time. It was about halfway through
their performance that the clouds finally unleashed their full fury
and the cold rain came pouring down. It was also during this time
that the experience became transcendental. Catchy vocal hooks and
crushing guitar poured down with the rain, soon the crowd was
drenched and more energetic than ever. Shirts came off, singing
voices grew louder, beach balls and pool noodles bounced about the
crowd. Thoroughly soaked, I ecstatically chanted along to The
Sweater Song like it was 1994 again. Roadies rushed around on
stage trying desperately to cover precious equipment as the wind blew
the rain sideways directly onto the stage, soaking the band members.
Our walk to see Wilco was cold
and chafey, but I was so high off of Weezer (and possibly a
bit from the dank smoke clouds of weed sifting through the crowd) I
barely noticed. It only took a song or two from Wilco before
we decided to head out. Not because they were bad, but because we
were already so content that nothing they could do would benefit us
further. Also, it wouldn't hurt to beat the traffic.
Fortunately, we had some towels in the
car and the ride home was spent reveling in and discussing the
awesomeness that we had just witnessed. From what I've heard on the
news, the event was a huge success and will be repeated again next
year. I'll certainly be one of the first in line for tickets.
