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Newport Folk Fest, Day 1

Sat., August 5, 2006

The locusts in Laura’s backyard made a valiant attempt to wake me but the earlier-rising jackass with the lawnmower won out. After a quick breakfast of hazelnut coffee and Peace brand breakfast cereal, purchased from the local dollar store and billed as “70% organic,” Katie and I took a 30-minute drive off the mainland onto Newport Island for the Newport Folk Fest.

I imagined it’d be populated by arthritic hippies, and there were a few, both onstage and in the crowd. But it may be inaccurate to call it a folk fest when performers represent not only that genre, but soul, funk, pop and country. Katie put the name game to rest by saying folk is a mindset. If I were cynical, I’d suspect the diverse lineup was to boost attendance; BostonHerald.com reported that the crowd of 4,000 today was one of the smallest in 20 years. But with a bow to brotherhood/sisterhood, love and Ben & Jerry’s Peace Pops, I’m satisfied with Katie’s definition.

Really though, 4,000 appeared like a lot of people to me and didn’t even account for the freeloaders in sailboats, yachts and kayaks that pulled as close as possible to the island to overhear the music. There was something for most everyone on the three stages of various sizes, which were positioned just outside the looming shale and granite block walls of Fort Adams, the largest coastal fortification in the country. Vendors stationed about peddled crap like dreamcatchers and didgeridoos, and I wished the fort could have been temporarily remilitarized to cannonball them into the harbor, especially mismatched and roundly mocked corporate sponsor Dunkin’ Donuts. Some of the stuff for sale wasn’t bad; Katie bought a straw hat with a beaded turquoise band and a plum-colored peasant skirt.

We listened to a lot of music, planning our movement between the stages and staying for sets by folksy The Duhks, ’60s soul diva Bettye LaVette, and Sonya Kitchell, a too-breathy 17-year-old who had trite lyrics, but a smooth, lush pop sound cranked by a stellar band. We had just a touch of Rosanne Cash, too dislike her daddy for my tastes. Closer David Gray drew the biggest crowd and dismissed his band at the end of his set to grab an acoustic for two covers: the appropriate finalé of Soft Cell’s “Say Hello, Wave Goodbye,” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Mansion on the Hill,” inspired by the grand old mansions visible on a far shore.

Highlights were Chris Smither, who sang his humorous tales solo, then shared the stage with Darrell Scott (who resembled Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski) and Jeffrey Foucault. All of them picked and strummed like men possessed. Katie and I also liked Louisiana singer-songwriter Mary Gauthier (pronounced go-shay), whose clear voice and lyrics tell sad and funny luck-down stories, including one referencing microwaving a chicken TV dinner, then getting drunk while eating it. Her between song banter was funny too, mentioning that Dylan has made it tough for folkies by stealing all the good rhymes, but that she cooked up a doozy with kitchenette and cigarette.

Hot and tired, we headed back around 7 p.m., stopping at a beach boasting a marvelous pink and blue sunset. Sandpipers skittered in the surf and in the distance, a wedding party posed for a photographer. We discovered an eroded sand castle and what appeared to be a tangle of Poseidon’s dreadlocks washed ashore.

Katie vs. seaweed.

Katie decided we should drop by Bruce and Elizabeth’s place, located directly on the Sakonnet inlet of the Atlantic. The tide comes and goes under their house, and they have a long picturesque dock. As we waited for the coals on the grill to heat for dinner, I asked Bruce, a salt at heart, how one would boat to the ocean from his place. He described the various inlets, the historical sources of their Indian names, and that the official name of the smallest state is the longest: the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations. Just as the anecdote was getting lost at sea, he was called to tend the meat, which he said was for the best, admitting he was boring himself.

Excepting the salad, the dinner was grilled: juicy London broil, zucchini halves topped with olive oil, fresh spices and cheese, and crusty bread. Dessert was more Gray’s ice cream, only this time topped with rainbow jimmies. Elizabeth spoke of Australia’s male chauvinism and Bruce of its blockbuster sailing, which he related with anecdotes as a cast member of Wind, the America’s Cup film that starred Matthew Modine and Jennifer Grey.

Later as Bruce and I sat in the deck chairs out back drinking whiskey, the ladies put on a Tom Jones greatest hits CD loud enough to warn errant craft, then performed a goofy and scandalous dance routine in front of us on the tiny waterfront lawn. “What is it about Mr. Jones that makes the ladies crazy?” we wondered aloud.

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