This is the first of a series of installments, covering Reggae on the River, 2017. I posted 23 episodes in August of 2015, and another 21 last year. I ain’t proud, but I ain’t skeered, either. Not anymore.
I was doing hard time, excavating with pick and shovel just outside the back door, Wednesday, when HeadSodBuster showed up. He had a peculiar expression on his face and my first thought was that there was another water crisis.
“Whoa! Look at you go!” He was surveying the results of my labor along the west wall of my house, admiring my efforts to bury a perforated water line to help with drainage.
“Yeah, it’s something I have delayed, what, five years now?” Whew. No water crisis!
“Great success! Hey, listen, Nate called yesterday and said there was an organizational meeting up at French’s Camp this morning at ten o’clock. I was supposed to tell you yesterday, but I forgot.” That explained the odd facial expression. HeadSodBuster doesn’t lose track of much.
|French's CampPristine, at this moment |
but not for long.
Glancing at my watch/phone, I noted that it was already 9:15. “Well, that ship has sunk. What do you think?”
“Let me give Bull a call and see what’s up,” he responded, using Nate’s more commonly known moniker.
I continued on with my digging, while HeadSodBuster made with the palaver, and moments later he was back, saying, “Yeah, like you need another meeting. Bull says tomorrow is fine because today is just a logistics gig.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’/talkin’ about. Is your truck available?” I figured I get that question right out there, but even if it was not, SmallBoy’s truck was parked right outside my front gate, while he and his better were gallivanting around New Orleans. Yes, the truck was available.
My own truck is dead in the water, a blown transmission weighing in at over three large, making the decision to abandon ship relatively easy. Big Steve is on it, even as we speak.
I also knew that the 101 was questionable because of the ongoing effort to shore up the mountain that decided to share its bounty with the highway, spewing across and and continuing on down to the river below. It’s a mess.
I could drive the Bell up to Garberville, if it gets extreme, but that would not be my first choice. Maybe on Monday, when the festival is breaking up, and I need to get back up there to break it down, but not yet.
I knew better than to ask what HeadSodBuster's schedule was like, in regards to ROTR, because Gluten-Free Mama had informed me a few days ago, that nether he nor SmallBoy was likely to have that big of a role this year, both just being way too busy. She hastened to add that she didn’t think they were completely bailing out, just that there would be limited attendance.
I did not get the memo.
|Fatoumata Diawara, performing at ROTR, 2016.|
For me it is all about the music.
Were this two years ago, my first attempt at ROTR, I would never have gone without the support of these two dudes. This year, I am not fazed; disappointed, of course, but that’s not the same thing as being down and out.
That I am still willing to first, drive up by myself to French’s Camp, and secondly, continue with this set-up business, knowing I am in for a completely different experience from that of the past two years, is a paradigm shift.
Furthermore, it’s not something I do with misgivings; I have come a long way. Even if the entire concept of attending a music festival, at my advanced age, seems somewhat questionable, simply being able to do so, is a huge step forward for me.
I wrote 23 episodes, the first year I attended, the overwhelming theme being that of anxiety mixed with euphoria. Last year I penned another 21 installments along the same lines. It remains to be seen how this year will pan out, but I am ready for action, ready for danger.
I am ready for Reggae on the River, 2017.
Tomorrow: Watch Your Step