We went to the park for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival with my brother and his wife.
The whole thing began with my brother calling me and emailing about it earlier in the week. Or was it last week? I don't remember. My brother loves to plan things down to the most minute detail. My job was to order a cab for 9:30AM. He made it clear that I Was To Do This. I told him we could call for a cab when they arrived but he wouldn't hear of it. His plan was for us to arrive at Golden Gate Park at 10:00AM sharp so that we could lay out our picnic blanket as close to the stage as possible. Unbeknownst to me the previous night is that there were actually seven stages. But I guess he had researched it and decided on which stage we were to plop ourselves down in front of.
At his insistence I looked up the web site for the festival a couple of nights ago. It sounded more or less interesting. I haven't listened to bluegrass since the days I spent my late teenage years in the Shamgunk mountains where I grew up in upstate New York. I have a lot of fond memories from those years. It's remarkable considering I was stoned or tripping at the time (most likely the latter). I loved the smoke-filled tight little barrooms up in the mountains so close to the musicians that you could touch them. What a place to spend the evening after skinny dipping in the cold mountain springs.
Loyal to my brother as always I had a cab waiting for us at 9:30AM in the morning. There was some last minute debate about parking their car. He didn't want to get a San Francisco parking ticket. The sign on the street says that there's a two-hour limit for non-resident parking. I told him it was unlikely that they would get a ticket because parking in our neighborhood isn't exactly strictly enforced. We live in the low-rent district, ahem. But that wasn't good enough. He said we could park at a playground near the park. His wife chimed in that the schools in that area often open up their lots for event parking. I was skeptical about this. My wife suggested using the handicapped parking placard from her mother's car. We all agreed that this would solve the problem. I teased my brother that misuse of a handicap placard in San Francisco means an $850 ticket. He brushed this off. I went and got the placard for their car. We all piled into the cab and headed for the concert.
His wife mentioned that the planning for the invasion of Normandy was less complicated than my brother's planning. I laughed and said I'll bet it was. I know him. When he sets his mind on planning an event it's basically his gig. I just follow along. He doesn't do improvisation well. He had maps, directions, concert listings for each stage and a whole agenda for how we would all spend the afternoon. But for all of that pointy-headed planning he did not have the cross streets for where the cab was to let us off. He was fumbling through his sheaf of papers trying to find it. My wife and I already knew where to go--she had looked it up at the concert site that morning. I quickly told the bewildered cab driver that we were going to Fulton and 30th avenue. My brother let out a little "Oh yes," noise and off we drove.
We got to the park at almost exactly 10:00AM as he had planned. He was in full-tilt shepherd mode as we exited the taxi. He and his wife had already filled the entire trunk of the cab with a mind-boggling pile of stuff for the concert, including two lawn chairs. My wife and I had a single Trader Joe's shopping bag. After unloading he grabbed a pile of the stuff and with the rest of us scurrying to collect the rest he took off. He called, "This way!" and we scampered after him. He didn't wait. Like a steam locomotive he was soon way ahead of us. I hung back with the two women chatting casually. I don't let his bossy nature bother me anymore. More or less. I've come to recognize and tolerate it over the years. But there's a part of my mind that wonders why he can't stick together with the others in his party to talk about the upcoming event, whatever it is.
He had a whole, down-to-the-minute agenda for the visit of his high school friend earlier this year. He and his new wife were visiting the Bay Area for the first time together. I was happy to see him, too. We used to shoot heroin together. Anyway, on my brother's list was meeting up with me to go to Chinatown and North Beach. He wanted to take them on a Cable Car ride. The line and the wait turned out to be too long, however. He got that funny wrinkle in his forehead he gets when something has gone amiss with his plans, however small. So off we schlepped to Chinatown from Market Street. He wanted to go straight up Powell to get there. I told him that the entrance to Chinatown was on Grant Street. He got huffy and told me that he knew better. Despite the fact that I have lived in the City for 31 years and pretty much know it inside and out. After we had walked a good bit he realized that the Chinatown gate was not in sight. He looked confused, like a puppy that forgot to make poo poo on the newspaper. I suggested Grant street. With a huff he agreed and there we were. So much for his planning.
Like an obedient line of ducklings we followed him into the park. I managed to keep sight of him way out in front. He trekked down to a spot in front of the stage and we unloaded our stuff. He tossed out the wine, juice, pistachio nuts, potato chips, cookies and M 'n Ms onto the blanket my wife and I had thought to bring with us. He unfolded those itty-bitty, low-to-the-ground lawn chairs that aging hippies like to bring to concerts these days. He reminded his wife that she was to go to another stage where Ricky Scaggs was scheduled to play and set up a spot there. Off she went, as docile as ever to my brother's whims. My brother stayed with us for a while before he, too, went away.
So there we were. I guess he had planned upon my wife and me, "Holding down the fort." The first band came on to warm up the audience. They sounded worse than a high school band. I had hoped for a bluegrass band but these guys played some sort of watered-down country and western music. My wife and I looked at each other with a deep suspicion. What had we gotten ourselves into? Despite all his shortcomings I love my brother and follow after him on these types of excursions. I assured my wife that the following act would undoubtedly be better. How could it be worse? A puppet show? The band ended in time for my hopes to rise.
The second band was considerably better but mixed poorly. The lead guitar and vocalist was way too loud. It was almost impossible to hear the other musicians. I turned around to my wife. She had this perplexed look on her face. I smiled and said, "These guys aren't all that bad." She gave me a dead-pan look. I said, "Except for the sound mixing they're not bad." She smiled. In fact, I loved the soft mellow southern accent of the lead singer. They were from Alabama. But, again, they played country and western. Not bluegrass. I waited patiently for the next act.
My back began to act up horribly. I was sitting cross-legged on the blanket. That deep pain I have in the middle of my back began to flair up. It felt like a knife stabbing into me. I desperately told this to my wife. She told me to move to the empty lawn chair. I did this but although it helped I was still in excruciating pain. What was I going to do? What was I going to do? The day had hardly begun. There was no way I could survive the remainder of it in that sort of pain. She dug out a pill from her portable stash. She always seems to have a small supply of pills wherever we go. I asked her what it was. She said, "Don't say I never do anything for you." I suddenly didn't want to know. I took the pill obediently. She said it should take effect in about 45 minutes. She was right. Not only did the pain go away but I got a little stoned and felt pretty damn good for the rest of the day.
About this time my brother returned and regaled us with stories about how incredible the bluegrass band of Ricky Scaggs had sounded. "He kicked some bluegrass butt!" he exuberantly told us. He said we must have heard it because the loud speakers on the stage were blaring it while the second band moved their equipment. I had been listening to the music during this intermission and had thought well at least they have excellent bluegrass on their canned music. I hadn't known it was from another stage. My brother told us that we didn't know what we had missed. "You should have been there!" he exclaimed. I wanted to wring his neck. We sat through two crummy bands while holding down the fort until he returned from indulging himself. Damn I wished I could have seen that act. Well, at least I got to hear it through the speakers. I think my wife was a little confused by what had happened between my brother and myself because despite my outward smiles and congratulations my eyes were ice cold.
He mentioned that Hugh Laurie was going to play next on the stage he had returned from. This was the only act my wife remembered from the festival web site. Hugh Laurie is the star of the TV series House. We both recognize the name and know that he plays piano and guitar. My brother said he wasn't going to go see Hugh Laurie because he didn't expect much. He thought Hugh Laurie would suck and that it was a waste of time to go see him. I was about cave in as I always seem to do these days. His comment bounced harmlessly off of my wife, however. We left him there to, "Hold down the fucking fort" and went off on our own. The crowd had grown to about 60,000 so it was a hassle weaving ourselves through it to get to the other stage. We were supposed to meet his wife there but couldn't find her. We sat down on somebody's vacant tarp and waited for Hugh's act.
It was great. He may be a TV star but he's also a great blues musician. His backup band was phenomenal. He did blues and gospel. We were sixteen rows back from the stage. I remained seated while my diminutive wife weaved herself through the crowd to take pictures. Looking back on the whole concert experience it was the highlight for us. I was amazed. But the thing is, he played the blues. Albeit quite well, it was still not bluegrass. I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to hear bluegrass played at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival.
We finally found his wife, or rather she found us, as we were leaving after Hugh's act. The crowd was packed. I despaired. I grabbed my wife's hand and she my sister-in-law's and began the slow stop-and-go trip through the crowd. I got us about halfway back to our original location when my wife took over. Between the two of us we were able to pick ourselves carefully through and over other people's stuff. I helped with my taller view and she with her elbows. We got to the general vicinity and paused. I scanned the crowd who, unlike when the day began, were all standing. I finally saw my brother on his feet dancing to the music. I yelled to the others, "I see him!" We wormed our way to the blanket and our pile of stuff.
Once there my brother exclaimed, "You just missed Merle Haggard! He was ass-kicking!" I told him we had seen Hugh Laurie and he had been terrific. "Hugh Laurie sucks in comparison to Merle Haggard," he told us. I'm not completely familiar with Merle Haggard's music but I'm pretty sure he is a big noise in bluegrass music. So we had once again missed seeing a bluegrass performance. "Kris Kristopherson is next" he exclaimed happily. I am vaguely familiar with this guy's music. I don't remember him being a bluegrass star. The crowd yelled in anticipation as he took the stage. My wife and I couldn't see a thing from where we were. We both sat down and ate brie and crackers. A woman on a tarp next to ours was doing the same thing. I guess she couldn't see, either. The shade from the people standing around us was a cool relief from the hot sun we had sat in during Hugh Laurie's act. We made our own little space.
I guess he finally came on stage and started playing. I could barely hear it. But I heard enough to recognize it as white, country and western Ku Klux Klan music. My brother roared and danced with the crowd. My wife and I exchanged ho hum glances and chatted amicably about nothing in particular. She asked me about my back. I said that whatever she had given me had worked. I had my typical lower back pain but that dreadful stabbing pain in my back was gone.
I guess Kris' act had ended or was ending (I couldn't tell). My brother bent down and told us from above that we were going to leave a half-hour early from the festival in order to beat the crowds to the bus. So we all loaded up our bags and followed him. He is a big, imposing man and can easily push his way through a crowd. We managed to keep track of him as he plowed ahead of us. We finally caught up with him on Fulton street. He was standing by and pointing at a bus which had, "Not In Service" on it's sign. I walked up to him and told him we had to catch the next bus up a teeny bit further on the street. He gruffly acknowledged this and we headed over to the bus stop. I handed out $2.00 bus fares to everyone except him. He has a Clipper card. The crowds we were supposed to have avoided were already there waiting for the bus. I thought, "Oh well." While I was contemplating how we were going to schlep all of their stuff on the bus back to our apartment my wife had used her taxi Karma and hailed us the only cab in sight.
In the taxi my brother gushed from the front seat about how he had enjoyed the show and what a great experience it had been for him. Crammed in the back his wife, my wife and I talked about Hugh Laurie. My brother snottily dismissed our admiration for Hugh Laurie, telling us that we had, "Missed the best part." I'm glad I didn't have a gun. He told us that we didn't know what we were talking about. I wanted a garrote. He fumbled trying to give the taxicab driver directions to our apartment. My wife adroitly explained it was 835 McAllister at Laguna. We drove through the city while my brother babbled on incessantly.
Once back to the apartment they came up to use the bathroom. They showed no interest in touring the apartment other than a strained, "You've fixed up the place nicely." It was the candle on the cake as we bid them farewell. My brother headed out the wrong door. He has such a terrible sense of direction despite his faith in himself to get from any point to another whatsoever.
In the end I never got to hear any bluegrass music at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival.
The whole thing began with my brother calling me and emailing about it earlier in the week. Or was it last week? I don't remember. My brother loves to plan things down to the most minute detail. My job was to order a cab for 9:30AM. He made it clear that I Was To Do This. I told him we could call for a cab when they arrived but he wouldn't hear of it. His plan was for us to arrive at Golden Gate Park at 10:00AM sharp so that we could lay out our picnic blanket as close to the stage as possible. Unbeknownst to me the previous night is that there were actually seven stages. But I guess he had researched it and decided on which stage we were to plop ourselves down in front of.
At his insistence I looked up the web site for the festival a couple of nights ago. It sounded more or less interesting. I haven't listened to bluegrass since the days I spent my late teenage years in the Shamgunk mountains where I grew up in upstate New York. I have a lot of fond memories from those years. It's remarkable considering I was stoned or tripping at the time (most likely the latter). I loved the smoke-filled tight little barrooms up in the mountains so close to the musicians that you could touch them. What a place to spend the evening after skinny dipping in the cold mountain springs.
Loyal to my brother as always I had a cab waiting for us at 9:30AM in the morning. There was some last minute debate about parking their car. He didn't want to get a San Francisco parking ticket. The sign on the street says that there's a two-hour limit for non-resident parking. I told him it was unlikely that they would get a ticket because parking in our neighborhood isn't exactly strictly enforced. We live in the low-rent district, ahem. But that wasn't good enough. He said we could park at a playground near the park. His wife chimed in that the schools in that area often open up their lots for event parking. I was skeptical about this. My wife suggested using the handicapped parking placard from her mother's car. We all agreed that this would solve the problem. I teased my brother that misuse of a handicap placard in San Francisco means an $850 ticket. He brushed this off. I went and got the placard for their car. We all piled into the cab and headed for the concert.
His wife mentioned that the planning for the invasion of Normandy was less complicated than my brother's planning. I laughed and said I'll bet it was. I know him. When he sets his mind on planning an event it's basically his gig. I just follow along. He doesn't do improvisation well. He had maps, directions, concert listings for each stage and a whole agenda for how we would all spend the afternoon. But for all of that pointy-headed planning he did not have the cross streets for where the cab was to let us off. He was fumbling through his sheaf of papers trying to find it. My wife and I already knew where to go--she had looked it up at the concert site that morning. I quickly told the bewildered cab driver that we were going to Fulton and 30th avenue. My brother let out a little "Oh yes," noise and off we drove.
We got to the park at almost exactly 10:00AM as he had planned. He was in full-tilt shepherd mode as we exited the taxi. He and his wife had already filled the entire trunk of the cab with a mind-boggling pile of stuff for the concert, including two lawn chairs. My wife and I had a single Trader Joe's shopping bag. After unloading he grabbed a pile of the stuff and with the rest of us scurrying to collect the rest he took off. He called, "This way!" and we scampered after him. He didn't wait. Like a steam locomotive he was soon way ahead of us. I hung back with the two women chatting casually. I don't let his bossy nature bother me anymore. More or less. I've come to recognize and tolerate it over the years. But there's a part of my mind that wonders why he can't stick together with the others in his party to talk about the upcoming event, whatever it is.
He had a whole, down-to-the-minute agenda for the visit of his high school friend earlier this year. He and his new wife were visiting the Bay Area for the first time together. I was happy to see him, too. We used to shoot heroin together. Anyway, on my brother's list was meeting up with me to go to Chinatown and North Beach. He wanted to take them on a Cable Car ride. The line and the wait turned out to be too long, however. He got that funny wrinkle in his forehead he gets when something has gone amiss with his plans, however small. So off we schlepped to Chinatown from Market Street. He wanted to go straight up Powell to get there. I told him that the entrance to Chinatown was on Grant Street. He got huffy and told me that he knew better. Despite the fact that I have lived in the City for 31 years and pretty much know it inside and out. After we had walked a good bit he realized that the Chinatown gate was not in sight. He looked confused, like a puppy that forgot to make poo poo on the newspaper. I suggested Grant street. With a huff he agreed and there we were. So much for his planning.
Like an obedient line of ducklings we followed him into the park. I managed to keep sight of him way out in front. He trekked down to a spot in front of the stage and we unloaded our stuff. He tossed out the wine, juice, pistachio nuts, potato chips, cookies and M 'n Ms onto the blanket my wife and I had thought to bring with us. He unfolded those itty-bitty, low-to-the-ground lawn chairs that aging hippies like to bring to concerts these days. He reminded his wife that she was to go to another stage where Ricky Scaggs was scheduled to play and set up a spot there. Off she went, as docile as ever to my brother's whims. My brother stayed with us for a while before he, too, went away.
So there we were. I guess he had planned upon my wife and me, "Holding down the fort." The first band came on to warm up the audience. They sounded worse than a high school band. I had hoped for a bluegrass band but these guys played some sort of watered-down country and western music. My wife and I looked at each other with a deep suspicion. What had we gotten ourselves into? Despite all his shortcomings I love my brother and follow after him on these types of excursions. I assured my wife that the following act would undoubtedly be better. How could it be worse? A puppet show? The band ended in time for my hopes to rise.
The second band was considerably better but mixed poorly. The lead guitar and vocalist was way too loud. It was almost impossible to hear the other musicians. I turned around to my wife. She had this perplexed look on her face. I smiled and said, "These guys aren't all that bad." She gave me a dead-pan look. I said, "Except for the sound mixing they're not bad." She smiled. In fact, I loved the soft mellow southern accent of the lead singer. They were from Alabama. But, again, they played country and western. Not bluegrass. I waited patiently for the next act.
My back began to act up horribly. I was sitting cross-legged on the blanket. That deep pain I have in the middle of my back began to flair up. It felt like a knife stabbing into me. I desperately told this to my wife. She told me to move to the empty lawn chair. I did this but although it helped I was still in excruciating pain. What was I going to do? What was I going to do? The day had hardly begun. There was no way I could survive the remainder of it in that sort of pain. She dug out a pill from her portable stash. She always seems to have a small supply of pills wherever we go. I asked her what it was. She said, "Don't say I never do anything for you." I suddenly didn't want to know. I took the pill obediently. She said it should take effect in about 45 minutes. She was right. Not only did the pain go away but I got a little stoned and felt pretty damn good for the rest of the day.
About this time my brother returned and regaled us with stories about how incredible the bluegrass band of Ricky Scaggs had sounded. "He kicked some bluegrass butt!" he exuberantly told us. He said we must have heard it because the loud speakers on the stage were blaring it while the second band moved their equipment. I had been listening to the music during this intermission and had thought well at least they have excellent bluegrass on their canned music. I hadn't known it was from another stage. My brother told us that we didn't know what we had missed. "You should have been there!" he exclaimed. I wanted to wring his neck. We sat through two crummy bands while holding down the fort until he returned from indulging himself. Damn I wished I could have seen that act. Well, at least I got to hear it through the speakers. I think my wife was a little confused by what had happened between my brother and myself because despite my outward smiles and congratulations my eyes were ice cold.
He mentioned that Hugh Laurie was going to play next on the stage he had returned from. This was the only act my wife remembered from the festival web site. Hugh Laurie is the star of the TV series House. We both recognize the name and know that he plays piano and guitar. My brother said he wasn't going to go see Hugh Laurie because he didn't expect much. He thought Hugh Laurie would suck and that it was a waste of time to go see him. I was about cave in as I always seem to do these days. His comment bounced harmlessly off of my wife, however. We left him there to, "Hold down the fucking fort" and went off on our own. The crowd had grown to about 60,000 so it was a hassle weaving ourselves through it to get to the other stage. We were supposed to meet his wife there but couldn't find her. We sat down on somebody's vacant tarp and waited for Hugh's act.
It was great. He may be a TV star but he's also a great blues musician. His backup band was phenomenal. He did blues and gospel. We were sixteen rows back from the stage. I remained seated while my diminutive wife weaved herself through the crowd to take pictures. Looking back on the whole concert experience it was the highlight for us. I was amazed. But the thing is, he played the blues. Albeit quite well, it was still not bluegrass. I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to hear bluegrass played at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival.
We finally found his wife, or rather she found us, as we were leaving after Hugh's act. The crowd was packed. I despaired. I grabbed my wife's hand and she my sister-in-law's and began the slow stop-and-go trip through the crowd. I got us about halfway back to our original location when my wife took over. Between the two of us we were able to pick ourselves carefully through and over other people's stuff. I helped with my taller view and she with her elbows. We got to the general vicinity and paused. I scanned the crowd who, unlike when the day began, were all standing. I finally saw my brother on his feet dancing to the music. I yelled to the others, "I see him!" We wormed our way to the blanket and our pile of stuff.
Once there my brother exclaimed, "You just missed Merle Haggard! He was ass-kicking!" I told him we had seen Hugh Laurie and he had been terrific. "Hugh Laurie sucks in comparison to Merle Haggard," he told us. I'm not completely familiar with Merle Haggard's music but I'm pretty sure he is a big noise in bluegrass music. So we had once again missed seeing a bluegrass performance. "Kris Kristopherson is next" he exclaimed happily. I am vaguely familiar with this guy's music. I don't remember him being a bluegrass star. The crowd yelled in anticipation as he took the stage. My wife and I couldn't see a thing from where we were. We both sat down and ate brie and crackers. A woman on a tarp next to ours was doing the same thing. I guess she couldn't see, either. The shade from the people standing around us was a cool relief from the hot sun we had sat in during Hugh Laurie's act. We made our own little space.
I guess he finally came on stage and started playing. I could barely hear it. But I heard enough to recognize it as white, country and western Ku Klux Klan music. My brother roared and danced with the crowd. My wife and I exchanged ho hum glances and chatted amicably about nothing in particular. She asked me about my back. I said that whatever she had given me had worked. I had my typical lower back pain but that dreadful stabbing pain in my back was gone.
I guess Kris' act had ended or was ending (I couldn't tell). My brother bent down and told us from above that we were going to leave a half-hour early from the festival in order to beat the crowds to the bus. So we all loaded up our bags and followed him. He is a big, imposing man and can easily push his way through a crowd. We managed to keep track of him as he plowed ahead of us. We finally caught up with him on Fulton street. He was standing by and pointing at a bus which had, "Not In Service" on it's sign. I walked up to him and told him we had to catch the next bus up a teeny bit further on the street. He gruffly acknowledged this and we headed over to the bus stop. I handed out $2.00 bus fares to everyone except him. He has a Clipper card. The crowds we were supposed to have avoided were already there waiting for the bus. I thought, "Oh well." While I was contemplating how we were going to schlep all of their stuff on the bus back to our apartment my wife had used her taxi Karma and hailed us the only cab in sight.
In the taxi my brother gushed from the front seat about how he had enjoyed the show and what a great experience it had been for him. Crammed in the back his wife, my wife and I talked about Hugh Laurie. My brother snottily dismissed our admiration for Hugh Laurie, telling us that we had, "Missed the best part." I'm glad I didn't have a gun. He told us that we didn't know what we were talking about. I wanted a garrote. He fumbled trying to give the taxicab driver directions to our apartment. My wife adroitly explained it was 835 McAllister at Laguna. We drove through the city while my brother babbled on incessantly.
Once back to the apartment they came up to use the bathroom. They showed no interest in touring the apartment other than a strained, "You've fixed up the place nicely." It was the candle on the cake as we bid them farewell. My brother headed out the wrong door. He has such a terrible sense of direction despite his faith in himself to get from any point to another whatsoever.
In the end I never got to hear any bluegrass music at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival.
Comments
Post a Comment