Morning time in Pickathon-land started with kids-o-plenty dashing past me; an act which sent plumes of dust both skyward and camp-ward like mini Mt. St. Helens eruptions. But since grinding dirt between my teeth had now become par for the course, I was happy to wash it down with hot coffee. Tents, cars, ferns, feet, faces, and clothes were already cloaked in a finely ground layer of filth. The “Oasis” had showers on the menu for $6, but I hadn’t reached my breaking point yet. I was basking in it with everyone else. A marine layer of clouds shrouded us from the sun, but the air was warm enough for bare skin. I sat at camp, scribbling in my notebook, watching folks stir from sleep so they could begin their morning rituals: the obligatory visit to the Honey Bucket, a quick brush of their teeth with water from a bottle, or boring standabout in line for coffee. Familiar musicians strolled by with a distinct sparkle in their eyes and hop to their step. And everyone, despite overcast skies and inklings of hangovers, cheerfully imparted a “good morning”.
The second most remarkable feature of Pickathon this year (I’ll get to the first one) was its prohibition of disposable dishware. Special Pickathon-logoed bamboo plates, spoon-forks, cups, and bowls were available to either borrow ($5) or purchase ($10) if you didn’t bring your own. Food carts lined the outer ring of the main stage area. Among them, The Grove (burritos, tacos, and such), Al Forno Ferruzza (delicious pizza!), C’est Si Bon (Oui! Veggie crepes!), and Spunky Monkee (Great for late night cookie cravings). The second most remarkable feature of Pickathon? Listening to roots music filtered through an old and second-growth forest. It was simply magical.
Strand of Oaks, from Indiana, played solo with an electric guitar and said his songs start, “from a happy place, but go through the filter of me and come out…sad.” His sound reminded me of the echoey haunted chants of Marissa Nadler. The songs were admittedly gloomy, ranging from stories about bonfires and a boy who became a giant, to warnings about the perils of malt liquor, or even the pursuit to kill John Belushi’s drug dealer. However, his intermittent self-deprecating commentary and off-handed descriptions of the songs-to-come kept the mood light. “I get accused of getting too excited up here,” he said in a deadpan whisper.
Afterward, Danny Barnes towered above the crowd, even on the diminutive Woods Stage, bellowing joyous songs about lessons learned from the sunshine and other happy-go-lucky revelations. Sandwiching joy on top of joy were Sonny and the Sunsets with a catchy brand of 50’s pop rock that inspired many-an-onlooker to ‘twist and shout’.
I was shocked to learn that our own hometown hootenanny heroes, The Builders and the Butchers, were performing their very first Pickathon show. This was my 7th Builders show, and I excitedly watched every minute of it like a virgin. They plowed with nascent energy through a set that spanned all three of their albums; among them, “Slowed Down Trip to Hell”, “Spanish Death Song”, “Black Elevator”, “Vampire Lake”, and (And! And!) a surprise cover of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put a Spell on You”. Dear Builders, you have put a spell on me.
Joy Kills Sorrow followed with some five-piece folk-country-ragtime-R&B fusion. Emma Beaton, on vocals, brought the R&B all on her own, while the band held up the roots end. All members were phenomenally talented in their own right, but it seemed that some standard southern-tinged vocals would have better enhanced the instrumentation.
Eilen Jewell, an acclaimed NPR, Americana Music Chart, and Tom Hanks favorite (yes, Tom Hanks) slid her fame quietly into the sparsely-populated Galaxy Barn for an afternoon set that earned her at least a dozen more dedicated fans. Queen of the Minor Key is her new album, packed with country tunes reminiscent of Lucinda Williams, Alison Krauss, and Emmylou Harris; a fine selection of influences, if you ask me.
Bringing it back to the decade I love but never knew, Jesse Sykes & The Sweet Hereafter summoned 1970s psychedelic rock with painful grace and coolness. Sykes, in big round sunglasses and long, dramatic black hair hovered over the crowd like an arcane sorceress. I couldn’t help but identify her style and sound (referred to on their official website as "art-metal") with a slew of other beautiful mystical creatures like Chan Marshall, Natasha Kahn, and Grace Slick. Someone asked me later who the “best previously unknown band” I saw that day was. I said without hesitating, “Jesse Sykes & The Sweet Hereafter.”
I still have no clue how The Future Islands were selected to play Pickathon. Growlathon or Synthathon? Sure. But not Pickathon. I didn’t pick up on the connection. Samuel T. Herring was on vocals and theatrics. Along with growling, whispering, and erupting into vibratos, he crouched and jumped continuously. People around me did some nice ironic-interpretive dancing, but the ‘future-ness’ of it rudely plucked me from my Americana bliss.
A familiar name on the bill summoned me back into the wilderness. Damien Jurado began a quiet set reminiscent of Neil Young’s acoustic work as multitudes of fans watched intently. Smashing the tranquility, a wild pack of small children squealed and shouted in the background which created a commotion that drowned out Jurado and subsequently infuriated a good number of listeners. As mom’s chased after the little ones in vain, folks moved closer to the stage. Eventually, Jurado hiked up the decibels by adding a few more band members and the tension eased. Clad in colorful ponchos, Afghans, and face paint, Jurado claimed that this was a “new year” where he at least would try to “look happy.” When he started to repeat the line, “Everyone is free, everyone a star…” I thought of Nick Drake. I also thought that Pickathon was conspiring to sedate us to death with all this soft music.
The only thing soft about Lee Fields and Expressions was Fields’ outfit – made entirely of silk. He strode across the stage incessantly, pointed to audience members, winked at them, spoke directly to them, and otherwise used his powers of flamboyance to prohibit anyone from looking away. I had missed half the set, but the energy packed into the final three songs substantially blew my mind. This guy was an authentic funk-soul brother, bringing to mind the refinement of Sam Cooke, the sex-appeal of Marvin Gaye, and the showmanship of James Brown. The show was a kick-in-the-silky-pants, and hands-down the climax of the day.
