Wedding rehearsal

We chug out of Marshfield, Vermont in our friends veggie oil Mercedes. Let us note this friend is getting married the next day and is not in the car. It is running so loud that we have to shout to hear one another, but we think nothing of it. “I can feel my brain rattling in my skull,” Becca says, and as we pass a few people in their front yard, all heads turn towards the car with looks of horror. Yet we chug along, taking in the sunshine passing green forests, pastures, old barns, quaint towns. We stop for lunch, to pick flowers, to buy flowers, for a latte, for a thrift shop. When we stop for gas, a gaggle of boys follow our car with their eyes. On another stop, a group of young women sing in harmony in a public park. Finally, when I want to stop for a farmer’s market, we think to look under the car. It so happens the muffler has been dragging on the ground the entire time (and here we thought they we admiring our good looks). Jen, Becca, and I all take pictures as Carly looks for a solution. Luckily there is a mechanic across the street. He agrees to do it, and we entertain the shop with interpretive dances as he saws off part of the muffler and welds it back together (all for $28.00). It turns out he is some famous Vermont hero who is known for good work, fair prices, and supporting progressive organizations. The whole damn state seems to be progressive, which is a good thing having only lived in very conservative rural areas. Where are the rednecks? We pull in just a little bit late for the wedding rehearsal, but it doesn’t seem we have kept anyone waiting- the hour and a half drive has taken us roughly five hours. Typical.

Tha Galaxy barn, Pickathon 2006. Saturday.

The main stage has finished, and the late night crowd packs into this unbelievably hot room. I feel espresso laced with whiskey sweating out my pores as I watch Martha Scanlan, in a lacy dress over jeans, tune her guitar. Her shoulders hunch slightly over the body of her instrument, and her hands shake slightly. I wonder why. The band starts going in a crooked reel- circular- and everyone is stomping. Her left foot starts its side shuffle as they pick up speed and her head bobs. I am out of my mind with good fortune at being this close to such amazing musicians who are having this much fun. Then, Betse Ellis, the crazy fiddler from the Wilders (this band is a seriously good time)comes on out with her wide legged stance and bow shredding maniacal fiddling. One by one all of the Wilders show up on stage, Ike Sheldon who sports a GIANT grey beard and bald head the last to arrive. Sweat is pouring, whiskey flowing, people are shoutin, stompin, and generally whoopin it up. No one’s got water, but everybody has a beer. Then Evie Laden pulls out an old door, throws it on the floor and begins clogging. Martha yells “Evie!!! Wowooooooo!!!”, but no one can really hear the clogging or Martha’s yelling because the instruments have taken on a life of their own, fingers, arms, hands, boots flying. Everyone is moving. And when the song ends, one of the musicians says, “I do believe we have ourselves a real old time dance party!” Around 1:00 am the Avett Brothers take over, and the relationship between punk and old time has never been clearer (they rock!).

Other highlights of the weekend include the Everybodyfields- truly heartbreaking songwriting and a male vocalist who is sort of a cross between Ryan Adams and Loudon Wainwright, an intimate workshop with Kris Delmhorst and Mark Erelli, clogging lessons with the Stairwell Sisters, sitting 10 feet away from the stage for Greg brown, and some late night shit talking with Garet. The Pickathon is a good one.