Between Two Tarps: No Shortage of Opinions about Folk Festivals

Folk festivals. 

I am no expert.

My experiences include 35 successive visits to the North Country Fair in northern Alberta, two trips to the Edmonton Folk Fest, one Calgary Folk Fest, one Bear Creek Music Festival In Grande Prairie, Alberta, and one evening at the Moab Folk Fest in Utah, all coloured by my 11 years with Stage North Association, a little music presenting series in Slave Lake. Oh yeah, and one little trip to Abayance Bay Marina in Rexford Montana, not really a folk fest but it might as well be. 

Dancing

What is the deal with the "no dancing" at some festivals?  Edmonton, you hear me? Late night should be for fun, but each time I've been there, it's all mellow and everyone just sits there holding candles like they've taken some valium or stoned. I feel like I'm in a retirement home. It's not Victoria, people. It's EDMONTON. You people are not that old. Why the overly chill vibe?  It's LIVE MUSIC! Get up and dance! Oh, you didn't map out enough space for dancing because you needed to sell three zillion tickets? You know some places actually rope off a dancing area? Kudos to NCF. And Abayance Bay.

Liquor access

I like how festivals are figuring out that they can serve liquor without the old puritanical "liquor is evil-don't-let-people-see-you-drinking" attitude of prohibition times. I'm not a fan of the beer tent where people are there just to get drunk and yell at each other over the music. I'm also not a fan of the falling down drunk partiers yelling, "It's the FAIR, man!"  Ugh, try going there with your teacher-husband. "MR. RAMSEY! Come have a drink with me!" Just. NO. 

Vibes

Maybe it's just me, but I expect "chill with a touch of fun" at worst or "non-stop fun with moments of chill" (you know who you are, NCF!) at best, and generally festivals deliver.  Moab, though? Your smug cloud is a bit off-putting.

Volunteers

I know these festivals run on volunteer time and most volunteers are wonderful. But some of them act like this is their one chance in life to tell other people what to do.  Seriously, you're not an airport security guard. No need to treat people like they are grade eights in an out of control classroom.

Why are they called "folk" festivals?

Ok, let's be clear. These aren't folk festivals even when they're called folk festivals. They are music festivals. If they were folk festivals, they would be more political. Traditionally, folk music is the music of the common person, played on traditional acoustic instruments, revolving around themes of concern to the average person-injustice, oppression, war and so on. But at the average festival, you can hear anything from folk to blues to jazz to electronica to performance art with a good amount of world music thrown in.  I find it odd that at some festivals, the audience meets anything political with a sudden chill.  Moab was dreary enough to start with, then the headliner of the evening said something remotely un-republican and the temperature in the room dropped about 20 degrees. The audience shut down. Folk music has its roots in protest. Folk musicians tend to believe in freedom and justice and hate inequality and environmental degradation.  But some audiences are not there for it. Take Calgary for example. DO NOT MENTION THE ENVIRONMENT at Calgary Folk Fest. Like, not even in passing. That will harsh the vibe of the hardworking oil and gas people.

Over the years, I am sure these local, volunteer run, community based events have become money makers. And if your goal is to make money, you can't afford to "offend" anybody. And yeah, I find that offensive.

Rich Aucoin in Calgary. So fun. But not "folk".

What's with the tarps? SERIOUSLY.

I get it. People want to reserve a spot in front of the main stage for "later".  And I get that in most festivals there is limited space. So they get there early- sometimes with this supposedly "time- honoured-and-very-fun-and-cool tradition" of the tarp run-or a virtual tarp run or a lottery- nail down the biggest tarp they can find, and then wander off to see the other performers. Who knows, maybe they go home and have nap or go on a Costco run or do brunch. And then NEVER COME BACK? WTF. They plop down an 8 X 10 tarp, a cooler, sleeping bags, chairs, and more, preventing actual music lovers from getting close to the stage while they are off doing whatever? Like maybe boasting to their buds that their tarp is RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE STAGE, MAN!

I like how Canmore does it. After a certain time, the tarps closest to the stage have to be removed so people can DANCE.

The "I'm-not-here-for-the music" people

I'm "supposed to be at the front" the guy says. Then spends 10 minutes on his phone. Then leaves. 

Oy. We've all heard these super annoying people who think they're at a house party or a crappy bar and all they want to do is yammer. Loudly, of course, because guess what?  THERE IS MUSIC BEING PERFORMED. And then if you give them a "look" or worse, make a "comment", somehow YOU are the problem? "Like, dude, seriously, chill!  I am just to hear to impress this hot chick with my non-stop banter and you are cramping my style."  Or the White Claw chicks in Montana, yapping so loud my husband says, "Why are they even HERE?' Or "Man, CHILL, it's the FAIR!! That's not FAIR behaviour!"  Well honey, I've been going to the "FAIR" for 35 years. I think I know what "FAIR' behaviour looks like. LISTEN TO THE GODDAMN MUSIC OR GET OUT.

Workshop stages

Most of my experience is at the North Country Fair. Here, artists are given a theme and there is a wild mix of musicians of different genres all jamming together. One takes the lead but the rest join in. It's probably my favourite thing. You'll get some African drummers and a Latino band and a blues guitarist and they come up with some wild stuff. No egos on the line, no one trying to hog the limelight. Just great (sometimes not great) music.  But then at some festivals, a workshop stage is a bunch of performers sitting in a circle, taking turns doing their own songs that you already heard when they performed. Is that an American thing? SO BORING.  

At one notable performance in Calgary, a performer went off on a super self indulgent, self involved whine about his broken heart, next dude mocked the whole idea of having your heart broken with a funny song, and the first dude walked off and that was the end of that whole workshop. 

Pretty funny. 

The "I-don't-care-if-you-can't-see-the-stage" people

I think the pictures speak for themselves.

 

Conclusion

I love a good music fest. 

Sitting out in the open listening to music with your friends and family on a summer evening is magical. Folk festivals bring people together into a happy place. Music is good for the brain. Music has the power to unite people. 

I'll keep going to them as long as I can.  

Even if it means just sitting on a hill with a candle.

i should have said something but i didn't

I am trying to remember when I first figured out what being gay meant.

It sure wasn't from my parents, who didn't talk about anything of a sexual nature.

It wasn't from sex ed at school, which I didn't take anyway because my mom thought she would do a better job. (See above.)

It wasn't from my friends who were all at least as naive as me.

Maybe I read about it in a book. I was maybe in grade 11 or so when I kind of figured it out.  Knowing me, I probably heard the word "homosexual" and then looked it up in the dictionary. I was kind of like, "Oh. Is that a thing?" I didn't really get it. I thought about it a bit. What did that really mean? Like, what were the mechanics of it? Did I know anyone gay? I didn't think so. Was I attracted to women? I didn't think so. I probably should have asked my mom about it. I know my brother would have- he was always asking her questions that made her squeamish and she always gave him some kind of honest answer. But it seemed like a question I shouldn't ask, so I didn't.

I definitely never heard the word "gay" when I was that age, although boys would call other boys "faggots" and I knew they didn't mean anything good with that word, not the way they said it anyway. But the cool boys, the bully boys, you didn't want to get on their bad side. Maybe you would be their next victim, so I never said anything. What did I know, anyway?

When I got to university, guys would talk about being creeped out by a certain guy in res who wore blouses and makeup. He had them on edge. They way they talked, they would have beaten him up if he had made any overtures toward them, but to the best of my knowledge he only ever talked to girls. The hockey playing assholes on my floor in Lister thought he was creepy so I laughed along with them. 

The first summer I worked in the library, someone told me that one of my co-workers was gay. I looked for some kind of sign that set him apart but there wasn't one. Sometimes he wore pastel plaid polyester pants, but in in his other job he was a golf pro, so I didn't think much about that. He smoked with his mom on break and went out drinking with his friends when he wasn't golfing. I never thought much about what he did in his sex life.  I don't think I thought much about what anyone did in their private time. 

Then I started teaching and suddenly boys were calling each other "gay", or "gaylord" and things were "gay" too, like clothes or mannerisms or a car they didn't like. It wasn't necessarily a term applied to things that were effeminate- just things that were different in a certain way. So as teachers we would say something. Like "stop that" or "do you know what that term means?" or "are you uncomfortable with your own sexuality?" So we knew we were supposed to say something, but it wasn't much. Overall, I would say we were mostly really bad at it.

Somewhere between the time I started teaching and my own kids went to school, the curriculum began shifting and we teachers started teaching kids that who you loved was your own business and that was all okay. Jenny could have two moms and that constituted a family. Billy could play with dolls and Susy could want live with another girl when she grew up and there was nothing wrong with any of that. That's what we wanted our own kids to believe and when some of their own close relatives came out, we didn't even talk about it. They knew their uncle lived with a man, and when their aunt and her friend visited, they shared a bed and...well...whatever.  We probably should have said something but I kind of thought by saying something, we were implying there was something wrong with their lifestyle. Honestly, I just didn't want to talk about it. In retrospect, saying nothing was wrong. We should have said something.  But we didn't.

My parents raised me to believe that there is more than one way to be in this world and it's not up to us to judge. As long as you aren't hurting anyone, so what? Who cares what two consenting adults do? And what is a family, anyway? I had two adopted siblings, and we were a family. My cousin lived with her mom and granny and an old lady that used to be the family governess and they were a family too. My great aunts lived together on a farm with no men around. One of my cousins had a kid and no husband and that was fine. Who were we to say what was okay? 

But a lot of people don't think that way. Boys play with trucks and play hockey. Girls like to cook and play dolls and have babies and do crafts.  Sex is between a man and a woman. For them, thinking there more than one right way to be in this world is hard. How can a man love another man? How can a little girl feel in her bones that she is a boy? They don't feel that way, so how can anyone else? So that's what they teach their kids. And that's how they want their kids taught. There is one way, it's their way, and no other way is right.

Recently I was talking to my sister-in-law who is principal of a large elementary school in Alberta. So much outrage and misinformation about what schools teach about gender identity. It is divisive and hurtful.  Parents pulling their kids out of school because they don't want their kids to accept gay and trans people. Christians and Muslims and others uniting against the "gay agenda."  Like teachers could make a kid be gay by telling them it exists. Like the world will end if two women get married. 

The other day a Facebook "friend" posted an offensive meme featuring a rainbow coloured teacher-demon in an elementary school classroom. I was shocked. I felt like saying, "Geez Tony, I didn't have you figured as a homophobic teacher-hater." But I didn't say anything and by the time I figured out how to approach it, the meme was gone. Whether he took it down or Facebook deleted it, I don't know. I should have said something, but I didn't.

When I grew up, I was ignorant about many things. Knowing nothing was easy for me. But it sure could not have been easy for those outside the "norm". I was naive when I was a kid. I am naive now. The way I see it, children are born full of promise. Those children should be accepted. They should be allowed - no, encouraged- to be their own best self, even if takes awhile to figure that out. My sister put it well on her application to adopt. When she was asked what she thought her job was as a parent, she said "Figuring out who my child is meant to be and helping them become that person."  

Why does it have to be so hard?

where your heart is

"I wish I had a house

I'd fill it up with my life."

So sings Parker Millsap in his song "Homeless".

I think a lot about houses these days. 

The house I grew up in. We thought it was a castle. A castle with a double sided fireplace and a long living room and windows with views of the hills. A chaotic castle with four kids and friends coming and going, cats and dogs, my mom's endless projects, my dad tinkering in the basement. A castle where parties were hosted and noisy family dinners invariably ended with arguments over whose turn it was to plug in the kettle. Where battles were fought and lost. Where you knew who you were. Where you always belonged.

The house where I grew up.

Easter

The four of us in the front yard

Me and my two best friends on the front step

My parents' first Tumbler Ridge house, is now owned by my brother. My mom had so much fun designing and decorating it. I never lived in that house, but we got married there on the coldest day of the year. It was the house where we brought babies who grew into kids who played with their cousins and Christmas morning was filled with their whispers, "he came!" 
The house where my parents grew old, too old to stay in a two story house.

Our son and his granddad

Granddad and his granddaughter, Len and Anna the Jack Russell

Cookie decorating

Our first Slave Lake house.  A little house where we lived a big life on a cul-de-sac where 18 other kids lived. My husband built a skating rink in the back yard that killed all the grass. He and his dad built another bedroom in the basement so every kid could have a room and he replaced every section of the fence, one piece at a time.. A house where babies turned into toddlers who grew into children who turned into teenagers. Where puppies peed on the carpet and saplings grew into trees. 

A poorly built house that was the best we could afford at the time, with its one bathroom and leaky wood basement and weird wiring. Magic shows and sleepovers and meetings of the "secret club" and puppet shows and dog birthdays and convoluted little boy games and special dinners with the good china in the little dining room with my home office in the corner. "Family" birthdays and big Christmas parties with the kids in the basement grinding cookie icing into the carpet. It burned to the ground in the Slave Lake wildfire.

The next house in Slave Lake. 

I've said enough about it, but you can read the link if you missed it,

I wept when we left it. 

My Aunty Peggy's house. She and Uncle Sam built it in 1948. A house filled with plants and art. A house that grew and grew as the family expanded as my cousins grew up and married and had kids of their own. It was the centre of their family. Meals around the big dining room table with conversations about people you never met. After the kids moved out, she was always redecorating. We stayed in the "blue room" when we visited. She lived there for over 60 years. 

Grandparents, uncles and aunts on the front step 

Around the table 

My grandparents lived in what used to be a log cabin on a northern homestead until it was converted into a more modern two story house with a "long room" above the original cabin where we played dressups, always unsupervised. It was the sound of my grandmother starting the fire before we were out of bed. It was the smell of baking bread. It was my mom and Granddad arguing over something on the morning news playing on the old blue radio. It was evenings playing canasta with our grandparents and our great aunts. It was picnics at the river and Christmas dinners with what seemed the whole neighbourhood at the table. A haven where you felt anchored to the past.

My grandparents' house, now owned by my cousin Peter and his wife Eileen.

Little cousins playing dressups

Christmas with cousins

Granddad at the Christmas table.

My cousin's wedding in the living room

I think too about the houses our daughters now own, bought during the pandemic. They are places where they are building their own lives. Knickknacks from their travel years, and artwork and books and yards for dogs and room for entertaining and at least one baby. They have put their own stamp on their houses. I feel at home when I'm there. They seem so familiar to me. 

Len's mom is still in the house he grew up in. A house where the Vilas furniture is always polished and milkglass is dusted and the African violets on the windowsill are always blooming. It's a house where nothing ever changes, not even the calendar. She's lived there for almost 60 years and she keeps coming up with reasons why she shouldn't move but none of them are true.

Christmas 1966

The real reason she doesn't want to move is that her home isn't a bunch of rooms filled with furniture. She's contained in its bits and pieces.  It's where she has lived out the story of her life.  For her,like most of us, the idea of home is family and and friends and community. It's memories and dreams. You inhabit it, and it inhabits you. It's where you belong. How do you walk away from that?

In Canada, owning a single family dwelling is something most people aspire to. We don't have a "cafe culture" or a "pub culture" where people gather to visit. We do that in our homes. But that's a dream that is disappearing for many Canadians.

I recently saw a graph that shows how house prices compare with income over the past 30 years.  You would have to be living in a bubble if you haven't noticed. Or maybe you, like many people in my demographic, are benefiting from the ever increasing value of house prices. You paid off your house long ago and you're enjoying your home equity line of credit or dreaming of the day you'll sell at a handsome profit. Maybe- also like people in my demographic- your kids got into the market at just the right time. Or maybe they didn't and now the only way they will ever afford a house is for you to sell your house. Or for someone to die. Otherwise, they will never own a house.

See full video here

We bought our first house in 1989 in Viking, Alberta. We imagined it as a house where we would live a full and happy life, which did not turn out to be the case.  It cost $87,500 and we lost $10,000 when we sold it. It's the biggest house we have ever owned, with huge rooms and a beautiful yard and views of the farm fields beyond in an unfriendly town we were happy to leave. We were a single income household with a baby at home and another one on the way. My husband earned $27,000 a year and we were able to put 30% down. Today, a first year teacher in Alberta on average makes $60,000. That person could hardly afford to save a downpayment for an average home in Canada at $656,000. Even two teachers working full time would struggle to make their mortgage payments in today's market.

Our first house in Viking, Alberta

Nowadays, the media questions whether home ownership is worth it. Is a house really an "investment"? Will house prices continue to escalate and if they do, how do young people afford them? Rent isn't cheap. In cities like Victoria, some live in shared accommodation. Some, like my daughters' neighbours, live in minivans in driveways. Yet economists say that for housing to be affordable for the average Canadian, house prices need to drop by 40% or family incomes to rise by 66%. No one who owns a house now wants to see its value drop to that extent- for many people, their house is their only truly valuable asset. And obviously there is no chance incomes will rise to that extent.

My great grandparents lived in a house. So did my grandparents, parents and friends. My daughters both own houses, but will my son or grandson? Generally we in the so-called "developed" world on the whole live longer, healthier and safer lives. But can the next generation live like us? Will their quality of life be as good as ours? Already, the era of the single income household has died. Will the era of the single family dwelling die as well?

There are many factors that have led to our current housing situation. Supply and demand. Population growth. Years of historically low interest rates. Single family homes turned into short term rentals. Speculation. Immigration. Foreign investment. Increasing life expectancy. Income disparity. You might call it late stage capitalism.

Whatever you call it, it's not good.

The homestead of my ancestors near Paris, Ontario. 1910.

My great grandparents homestead, near Beaverlodge AB, now a designated historic site. 

You might say not everyone has been lucky enough to live in a house where they are accepted and loved, as I was. You might also say that you don’t need to own a house to have a home. You can make a home in a rented apartment, a condo, or even an RV. Maybe you will say the planet does not have enough space for all 7 billion people to own their own house. Be that as it may, most people do want a place that is permanently theirs in which to live their lives. They want the same thing their parents and grandparents had. They want the chance to build those lives in their own houses and that sense of belonging that a house can provide. They want what we and the rest of my generation were lucky enough to have. And they deserve to have it.


People don't buy a building to live in, they buy the life they imagine living. Maybe it’s the dream of a yard for your dogs to play in, or pretty bedrooms for kids yet unborn to sleep in. Maybe it’s the idea of friends all cooking together around that big island or family gathering under that tree that you are going to put right there. Maybe it’s another life that includes entertaining more, of winter evenings around the fireplace, and summer drinks on the patio, and places for visitors to sleep. Maybe it’s the dream of your grandchildren waking on Christmas morning to see if Santa came. 

Whatever that dream is, it is out of reach for an increasing number of Canadians, and that’s not right. 

Our current house

Family

Friends