I spent Tuesday through Friday a couple of weeks ago at a retreat called the Americana Song Academy at an isolated retreat called Caldera, up above Sisters, a small town about 15 miles west of us here in Central Oregon. The camp sits aside Blue Lake, way out in the woods in the Cascade Mountains. No cell service, very little Wi-Fi.
This probably was just as well. There was nothing upon which to focus except music. That, after all, is why we all were there.
The schedule kept us busy from breakfast until 11 pm or so. Every morning started off with breakfast, then a group sing. This really set the tone – for not just that day, but for the whole experience. Everyone there was an accomplished musician (well, except for me), and the leaders of the sings were especially talented. All three mornings, the experience was so moving that it was hard to find someone who didn’t have tears of joy and comfort. I wanted to hug everyone I could see. Evenings consisted of open-mic sessions in which students presented their work.
The emphasis was on learning. Song camp offered a plethora of workshops, with time for two each morning, two each afternoon, with the added prospect of mentoring sessions. All of the above were conducted by a selection of the artists scheduled to perform at the Sisters Folk Festival, which took place immediately following song camp.
This was precisely where I ran into trouble.
I had not realized that the whole point of this thing was writing songs, as there isn’t a lot of promotion for this camp, and not a lot of advance information. I’d thought, hoped, it was tuned toward general folk musicianship. It wasn’t.
I didn’t go there to write a song, but that’s what we were expected to do. As a matter of self-defense, I roughed out a silly little talking blues because I was obliged to come up with something. I mean, that counts as a song, doesn’t it?
This was where I ran into trouble. The emphasis, especially from the women instructors, was to dig into your sensitive, vulnerable side. Well, that ain’t me. Maybe you know the stuff I like – hobos, rakes and ramblers, miner- ‘49ers, bad actors like Wild Bill Jones. None of these performers had that territory staked out, but a duo called Pharis and Jason Romeo came closest.
The cool thing was that when you attend song camp, you get to know these artists. They are amazing people, impressive people. You’re in their classes and you’re eating three meals a day with them.
Here are some names: Martyn Joseph, here for song camp and the folk festival from Wales. He is easily the most powerful solo performer I’ve ever seen. Sensitive, interesting, angry as hell, gets huge, monstrous tone out of his Louden guitar. Took a workshop from him. It was by far the best of the bunch. If you can find it, listen to his song, Here Come the Young.
Also: John Smith. He’s a pixie-like gray-haired and -bearded gnome from Wisconsin, fabulous writer with a wonderful voice; if you can find it, listen to his song, Medicine.
Also: Keith Greeninger, from Santa Cruz, Calif., who writes killer protest songs.
Also: Pharis and Jason Romero, from Horsefly, British Columbia. They reminded me of Gillian Welch and David Rawlings but better, and they did wonderful stuff that was exactly the kind of folk music I was dying to see. I took a mentoring session from Jason, one fine banjoist. He showed me some things I should have known. Yes, of course I brought a banjo along. A guitar, too.
This camp was far more political than I ever could have imagined. Everybody – I mean everybody – hated our country’s current political situation. That was the subtext of the experience. If they weren’t talking about the music, they were talking politics. I mean instructors and students (all 160 of us) alike.
Sadly, it had to end. The end came with an emotional closing ceremony. After the morning sing on Friday, we all clustered in a circle in the forest around John Smith, who sang a moving little song. Again, tears everywhere, so great was the affirmation.
It was affirmational for the instructors too, many of them said, and even more-so the folk festival that followed. Gas in their tanks, they said.
At the end of the ceremony, everyone was invited to remove a stone from a pile of river stones that had been built in the center of our circle. Take your stone home, we were told, put it in your guitar case as a memento of the experience. I have mine right here.
This was not cheap to do, but what an incredible experience. Probably I will do it again. I’m determined to have two songs, at least, to take with me next year. That’s important because song camp offers at least three open-mic nights and afternoons, and that’s where you’re supposed to present your work. If you go do this and come away with nothing, what’s the point?
I went there hoping to return with my tank filled with enthusiasm for music. I don’t know if that worked. I think time will tell. But was a hell of an experience. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around that much art and music. The Central Oregon Mastersingers, a choral ensemble with which I sing, seems dry and academic by comparison. It is interesting in its own way and very challenging, but nowhere near as much fun as song camp.
But let us back up a bit: One of my problems with this experience was the vulnerability stressed by several of the instructors. That’s a hard place for me to go. It’s hard to find the freedom and openness that allows such vulnerability.
I survived boarding school. Vulnerable people do not survive boarding school. Or, really, pretty much anything else. So it’s difficult to shrug off the shell that we form to make it through school and professional adulthood. So how is it that the morning sing always ended with my eyes wet?
The “song” I wrote, a true tale of something going on in our back yard in the form of a talkin’ blues like Woody Guthrie might have performed, is a result of that. Kind of an anti-song, at least in the vulnerability department. It is, I suppose, kind of a rebellion against what we were asked to do. I think now that that was a stupid mistake, but it was all I knew to do.
I’ll perform it at song camp next year, if I go.
No, wait. I’ll perform it next year at song camp.
-JFT