An experience like the Newport Folk Festival is difficult to quantify. It’s a collision of tourists, logistical nightmares, gorgeous weather, live music of wildly varying quality, and the lawns of historical landmark Fort Adams. Despite being a Newport resident for years, circumstance and work schedules have conspired to keep me from attending until this year. Was it fate, or something far more sinister that called me to the water’s edge this day?
Let’s start with the general setup of the festival. Sunday had 16 bands, spread across 3 simultaneous stages. Depending on how you managed your time, you would experience between 3 and 4 1/2 hours of music for your 90$. Out of all of Sunday’s artists, I believe only Jimmy Buffet could command over 30$ for a ticket. Any way you divide it up, you are paying a hefty Festival Tax.
As for the “worth” of the ticket, I came away satisfied, having seen Over The Rhine in my hometown in a gorgeous relaxed setting. I was also surprised by an unexpectedly great Gillian Welch set, so I discovered a new musical love as well. In the end, I left more full with musical spirit than when I had arrived. If anything is worth $90 , that is.
Unfortunately, there’s a rather large drawback to the entire experience. Every band except Jimmy Buffet had only an hour to perform. For a festival that runs from 12:30PM to 7:15PM, this is nothing short of ridiculous. The whole concept of an afternoon festival with this many bands is inevitably self defeating.
Extending the festival by 90-120 minutes would have given each band (except the OurStage contest winners that began at 12:30) time for a full 90 minute set, instead of a 60 minute one. After 60 minutes, most bands are just beginning to settle into a comfortable groove. Additional time is essential for the build and flow of a set, and to tie the whole experience together. Why bring all these bands out here, then cut their time just short of what’s needed to make a full impression? A set isn’t just something you can chop up and squeeze into a schedule, it needs room to breath, to make it’s purpose known, to sink in.
The sun sets at about 8pm this time of year in Newport. Having the festival end an hour before is a huge missed opportunity. The afternoon was beautiful and clear blue, but it would have been an amazing sight as the clouds turned colors above the high stone walls of Fort Adams. The true potential of this mixture of atmosphere and music was unfulfilled.
How was the atmosphere? What was the crowd like? If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was at the beach. Every inch of the main stage lawn was completely overtaken by the time I arrived at 1pm. Beach blankets, lawn chairs, screaming babies. A thousand indifferent faces blankly gazing out towards the stage as if it was just the tide rolling in.
The harbor at the edge of the lawn was swarmed with yachts, sailboats, and dudes in inner tubes. They floated expectantly, bellies bloated with Budweiser. They cared not what they saw and heard, for all intents and purposes, they were in self induced comas until the 6pm headliner set. It was going to be a hell of a long wait for Jimmy Buffet, but they were ready. My only question is (If I were among the Lei Legion), if I started drinking Dark n’ Stormys at noon, will I still be awake when the Margarita Messiah shines his light upon me?
This being a “festival”, there were a hundred booths selling Sally’s Shitty Seashell Jewelry and dijuridos. For food, the choice was binary. Fried dough or Ben n’ Jerry’s? I opted for the hidden third choice: the whiskey my friend smuggled in.
The portable toilets were not magical portals to another world, as I had been led to believe, but I did encounter a creature of sorts. Upon entering the cramped dank dark blue plastic closet, I was surprised to find it was already occupied by a Jewish Mud Golem sleeping in a dirty little hole. Any illusions I may have had about the progress of modern human society were promptly shattered. We all still shit together in the same hole. It’s not a very deep hole, either, so get ready to become intimately familiar with your neighbor’s insides.
These massive public gatherings tend to bring out the animal side in all of us. Everyone’s sticky stinking and sweaty, stranded away from the comforts of home, equipped only with what items you can carry. The beach towel is laid out to mark lawn territory. Unfortunately, I didn’t see anyone pissing on their spot to ward off marauders.
No crazy characters were encountered, only a few mildly eccentric hippies doing some kind of terrifying unidentifiable 60s dance. In fact, as seemingly one of the only people there that had come to rock out to some music, I felt like the big weirdo. I mean, I am a big weirdo by normal standards, but at a music festival I expect to be humbled by an array of jesters, jerks, and grotesque delights. Nope, just baby boomers here.
(Next: Newport Folk Festival impressions part deux: Over The Rhine)
