Impressions from the

Blue Highways Festival
Utrecht, The Netherlands
23rd March 2002

 

by Marianne Ebertowski

(Ed. Note: Marianne Ebertowski is the newest member of the Rockzillaworld group. Marianne, who lives in Belgium, gives us a chance to bring our readers Americana reviews from a European perspective, and we're excited to have her with us. She will write what she feels and she'll pull no punches. We think folks will find that to be refreshing. Marianne has written for numerous web and print publications throughout Europe.)

Most American visitors to Rockzillaworld may not have the faintest idea where to locate Utrecht on the map. But ask any of your fine Americana artists, and they probably will because this charming Dutch town just an hour's drive from Amsterdam proudly has for the past three years hosted "Blue Highways," the "ultimate Americana Music Fest" according to the organizers. And they are right, at least as far as Europe is concerned. Last year's edition gave us the stunning European debut of Louisiana singer-songwriter Mary Gauthier, sparkling shows from 'young huns' like Robbie Fulks and Slaid Cleaves and impressive performances by veterans such as Jimmy Dale Gilmore, Dave Alvin, and Buddy Miller. This time the bill looked just as exciting. Unfortunately, Billy Joe Shaver cancelled due to health reasons and this left the festival without a real headliner and those of us who know him with a deep sorrow in our hearts: we really miss the old Texas thunderbird and will miss his son Eddy forever!

Festival goers can choose from sixteen different acts, and often enough we have to decide which one of our favorites we want to miss because the artists perform on two stages, one large and one small, and shows overlap. As the Brooklyn Cowboys, this year's opening act, started warming up the audience in the big hall, I took a close and awe-struck look at Walter Egan, the man who wrote "Hearts On Fire" for Emmylou and Gram and played with them. With Buddy Cage of New Riders of the Purple Sage-fame on steel guitar and Amazing Rhythm Ace Jeff 'Stick' Davis on bass, the Brooklyn Cowboys line-up seemed promising, but somehow their polished version of country rock sounded dated and didn't get me in the right frame of mind for this 8 hour odyssey along the blue highways.

I tried to squeeze myself into the small hall where Canadian singer-songwriter Sarah Harmer did a pretty good job as opening act before an already packed house. Harmer reminded me of fellow-Canadian Margo Timmins, but lacks Timmins' compelling voice and charisma. And Harmer's songs didn't seem quite as catchy as those of Margo's big brother Michael, although they are at least as mysterious as his. I was not quite convinced by her solo performance and I think Sarah needs a band. I know she's got one, the Weeping Tile, and I would very much like to see her with them before I decide what to make of her.

In the meantime Bruce Robison made his entrance on the big stage, accompanied by Kevin McKinney on guitar, Chip Dolan on accordion and keyboards, Ethan Shaw on bass and Brian Medes on drums. I quite like the Robison brothers--and their respective wives -- and, therefore, expect a lot from the successful Texan songwriter. Unfortunately, Bruce sounded slicker than I thought he would and I got bored after three songs, just in time to catch most of The Demolition String Band's show.

These youngsters from New York City of all places were the first act today that really pulled it off. Singer/mandolin player Elena Skye and singer/guitar player Boo Reiners are the heart of this combo and the sheer chemistry between the two of them is enough to set the house on fire. Behind them loomed the lanky figure of nose-ringed bass player Anne Husick, all dressed in black, sporting a black cowboy hat and looking like a countrified version of Joey Ramone, for whom she apparently has done the odd job as a backing singer. Energetic drummer Michael Smith keeps everything together effortlessly. They reminded me of Blondie. I don't even know why, but somehow the Demolition String Band catches the vibes of the New York new wave scene of the late '70s and translates them into this hillbilly-enium. I was waiting for them to play Madonna's "Just Like a Prayer" like they do on their album Pulling Up Atlantis. They don't play it, but they do a funky country soul version of Aretha's "Son of a Preacher Man" instead, followed by a tongue-in-cheek interpretation of a gospel song, "Somebody Touched Me (It Must Have Been the Hand of the Lord"), which sent the audience into hysterics. The crowd sure wanted them back and as it's still early in the day they are allowed to play an encore. Boo picks up his banjo and these SoggyBottom boys and girls played us some real hillbilly stuff. The crowd loved this band and still wanted more, but this time they don't get it as the schedule is tight and Greg Trooper is waiting in the starting blocks. Chip Dolan is already with him, accordion under his arm. (I wonder whether he got fed-up with Robison and left halfway through his set.)

I would have loved to stay and see Greg, but my favorite, Slaid Cleaves, is playing the big stage. Last year Slaid was the closing act in the small hall and he really tore the place up. That's why he is here again against the organization's policy of never inviting the same artist two years in a row. This time the big hall was packed with an audience expecting a smashing show. Slaid was flanked by his faithful buddies-- Ivan Brown on stand-up bass and Oliver Steck on trumpet and accordion. Austin guitar hero and producer Gurf Morlix in all his modest glory was on guitar. Slaid's show was as exciting as ever and the audience was keen to take part in the comic routines. Slaid's mixture between intense and quiet performances of sad songs and a wild and funny show with Ivan and Oliver as clowns and acrobats worked strangely well. When Slaid and band closed with an "unplugged" version of Del McCoury's "I Feel The Blues Moving In," they left people in tears.

My enthusiasm for Slaid had the unfortunate consequence that I missed most of Greg Trooper's show. I am a big fan of this Jewish Catholic New Yorker from New Jersey who has become a convinced Nashvillean and I arrived just in time to hear him yodeling his way through a Hank Williams song as an encore. The lucky bastards who could witness Trooper throughout his whole set described him to me as very funny and utterly brilliant. So why the organization put him on at the same time as the very funny and utterly brilliant Slaid Cleaves, I do not know!

Gnashing my teeth, I rushed back to see Butch Hancock, one of my many heroes from Lubbock, Texas. Last year his fellow Flatlander Jimmie Dale Gilmore made an entire audience fall in love with him by his sheer personality alone. For Butch Hancock, on his own with guitar and harmonica, it turned out to be a lot more difficult. Somehow he looked and sounded lost on the big stage, a stage which has just been left by Slaid Cleaves and his boys. Always a hard act to follow, I figure. I hope to see Bruce again some time on a smaller stage or maybe reunited with Gilmore and Joe Ely.

But I gave up on him to find out what Trailer Bride, a young alt. country outfit from North Carolina, sound like. Many in the audience appeared to expect great things from them, especially the younger part of the audience, i.e. the ones under 50 (just kiddin', but not quite). But somehow, the country Goths fail to sparkle. Melissa Swingle's voice sounded flat and uninspired, the band looked phlegmatic and the singing saw brought up serious visions of Dracula after only a couple of songs.

As I hate garlic and I have always loved the Byrds ever since I was a kid, the choice was easy: it was back to the big stage to catch a close glimpse of Chris Hillman and Herb Pedersen, the personification of almost 100 years of music history. Chris and Herb were everything I had expected them to be: modest and friendly and showing perfect craftsman- and showmanship. Their mixture of old Byrds and Flying Burrito Brothers hits like "Turn! Turn! Turn!," "Sin City," and "You Ain't Going Nowhere" made the crowd sing along. It was amazing how fresh these songs still sounded! And the audience even knew the Jim and Jesse covers, especially a young woman behind me who must have been the only representative of the human species under 25 that night - apart from the catering staff. I was impressed with her knowledge. I was also majorly impressed with Pedersen's magnificent tenor voice. Hillman gave him the chance to sing some of his own songs and they went down very well. I found "Wait A Minute" particularly touching. The applause was ovational. When Hillman and Pedersen brought on the Dutch Blue Grass Boogiemen with mandolin wizard Arnold Lasseur, the place exploded. The five young men in their neat grey suits and cute hair cuts made Hillman and Pedersen look like awkwardly underdressed school teachers. We were sorry to see them go after only a couple of songs and wondered why the organization had not actually booked a bluegrass band for the festival. Here in Europe we very rarely have the occasion to see famous bluegrass acts. Only Alison Krauss and Del McCoury have found us worthy enough to visit, the latter thanks to Steve Earle. Bluegrass or no bluegrass, Chris Hillman and Herb Pedersen stole the show and the hearts of the audience. After their performance, the festival started crumbling.

It was almost 10.30 p.m. and people were getting tired. Why they gave us the likes of Penny Jo Pullus and Tift Merritt at this particular moment -- or at all -- I do not know. Tift leaned far too heavily toward the mainstream to be interesting for the majority of this particular audience, and Penny Jo looks too tame for the real honky tonker she pretends to be. Then again, either of them turned out to be more entertaining than Seattle singer-songwriter Autumn K. Dial. Dial was downright irritating and her show was as interesting as watching the grass grow. Why that was, I cannot quite explain: her guitar playing is a lot better and certainly more versatile than that of most singer-songwriters and there is nothing wrong with her voice. It was just that somehow everything about her seemed "too precious," too artificial. I felt she lacked street credibility so fundamentally that someone should have escorted her back to the train to make sure nothing happened to her.

In the meantime, the TwangBangers started playing the big stage and I sincerely hoped they could wake me up again. After all, the line-up looked pretty heavy: ex-Lost Planet Airman Bill Kirchen on guitar, Merle Haggard's lead guitar player Redd Volkaert on ...uh...guitar, and there's even a third guitar player, Dallas Wayne. Right through this wall of guitar noise, Joe Goldmark makes his steel guitar scream. My ears started bleeding. This was just too much red neck macho strut for my taste and I took sanctuary in the small hall, where Austin's best singer-songwriter (so the festival organizers say) Kev Russell from the Gourds, presented his solo-project, Junker. Russell was accompanied by Max Johnston (ex-Uncle Tupelo, Wilco, Freakwater, etc.) on mandolin, fiddle and dobro, and the biggest half of the Bad Livers, Mark Rubin, on bass and, God help us, tuba. The show was entertaining, even if it was a bit incoherent at times. It was hard to not forgive the good natured Russell's minor flaws. It felt like childrens' hour at 00.15 a.m. and we all thoroughly enjoyed it.

Poor Jesse Dayton had the thankless job of closing the festival in front of a half-empty hall. I tried to put myself in his cowboy boots: looking out on tired people who seemed to have to hang on to each other just to stay on their feet, the floor littered with crushed paper cups. It must be a sad sight. But Jesse pretended not to notice the desolate state of place and the people and played a show that could wake the dead. If it were up to me, I would give Jesse the Blue Highways award for hardest working musician and a better spot on the festival next time. He deserves another chance to introduce his energetic blend of honky tonk, rock'n roll, and blues to a European audience which is slightly more alive than we were at almost two in the morning. I don't know whether Jesse Dayton had to turn out the lights himself, but I have to confess that I did not wait for his final note.

My dearest memories of Blue Highways 2002 will be those of two more than middle-aged guys dressed like car salesmen, picking and singing songs of such intense beauty that for a moment the world seemed to be alright. Chris Hillman and Herb Pedersen were simply unbeatable that night. Unfortunately, the organization had put Karen Poston on at the same time with these gentle giants. I hope she'll forgive me for missing her entire show. If Blue Highways lacked anything this year, it was the presence of singer-songwriters with an edge. Mary Gauthier represented that tougher species last time and succeeded in bringing the house down, where more experienced artists failed this time. The festival organizers should give this some thought.

Contact Marianne Ebertowski at: ebertowski-at-rockzilla.net

 
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