This particular flashback takes place at the Harmony festival in Santa Rosa, CA, back in ’06. Harmony, because of the abundance of festivals in California, has a much more intimate and clandestine atmosphere, despite the stellar lineups, scenery and organization. In the three day extravaganza, the few of us who did manage to make the trek (it was about an hour outside of San Francisco, and an easy hitchhike – Dirty, smelly hippies will always pick up other dirty, smelly hippies… One of the few certainties in life) were treated to artists from all wakes of life. Ratdog, Spearhead, Cake, Canibus (Check out my story on the dude in SKUNK 4.1), Zero, STS9 and War made the 10 to 15,000 of us a happy bunch of stinky hippies. I could rave about all the wonderful aspects of Harmony, but that’s something I trust most of you to experience for yourself in the near future, and I hope my story helps push you to that small little area in Sonomo County.
My original plan was… well I didn’t really have one. I went up with nary a ticket nor much money in my pocket. All I had was a few loose bills I managed to scrounge up, some colorful pills and a handful of mushrooms. I guess you could say I was prepared in some capacity. However, my more immediate concern was that I had no way up to Santa Rosa to even begin this magical journey. The goal was to see that musical gatherings have not all gone the way of Bonnaroo and that there were people out there willing to help satisfy the craving for a “miracle”. I would be lying if I claimed that I wasn't fully prepared for the potential that this experiment would be a failure before it even lifted off.
Fortunately… that didn’t happen.
Friday, at around 3:00 PM, I had spent a fair amount of time trying to haul ass. If I would have been smart and checked around, I would have discovered that there was a bus that would have dropped me off about a block away, but where’s the fun in that? No, I was going to live by the secret hippie guidebook and find my way the cheapest way possible.
And then it happened. A car stops on the corner of Green and Grant out in North Beach. Your standard Shitbox attempting to disguise its shitbox-iness by covering the entire exterior in stickers of all shapes and sizes. The obligatory ‘Steal Your Faces’, ‘Down with Bush’ and ‘I’m a dirty, stinky hippie’ decals plastered over almost every square inch of the rust that had invaded and conquered the once snazzy maroon paintjob. Widespread boomed through the car, from a stereo that was worth tenfold what the rest of the car was. A mid-thirties woman with bleach-blond dreadlocks sat behind the wheel in a flowery dress and no shoes. Her stare was unsure of me but confident in herself. There's something sensual about a woman, regardless of attire. The same cannot be said for a guy, especially a hirsute one like myself, wandering aimlessly. Her confidence in herself won out and she asked me where I was going.
That’s my ride.
Skip the unimportance of the ride up (you can imagine what would be going on during the 60 minute blitz down the parkway), one problem has been solved and I’ve been immediately thrust with another one. I’m here, but no way of getting in. Here I was with a bag filled with some clothes, and a blanket. I had no tent, no camping gear of any sort, and the evening was fast approaching. The faint sounds of Hot Buttered Rum were echoing around the rapidly filling area. The atmosphere was electric and the notes fluttered by, right in front of my head – like a Disney movie about the life of Timothy Leary. The anticipation of Weir and the boys blowing my mind with some space, drums and jam was overwhelming and causing my heart to go pitter-patter. And this was just from the outside! Now, more than ever, it was imperative that I get in.
Fortunately I happened to know a couple of people involved in the festival, one was B. and the other was Wavy Gravy’s manager, Go-Go.
Problem number two solved.
To answer the question about charity and hospitality, yes, there are still those out there who do do things for others without expecting anything in return. I managed to rack up enough wristbands to sleep in Bob Weir’s bed and take a shit in Michael Franti’s crapper. I smoked a joint with Steve Kimock, chugged a beer with some dude from Ozomatli, talked music with Taj Mahal. The weather was as refreshing as mint-chip ice cream on a scorching hot summer afternoon. The sun shone like only a Southern Californian sun could and the breeze was brisk and only noticable when it was most welcome.
To say the setting was idyllic and ideal for a festival such as this would be an understatement.
But it was what happened on the second night, Saturday night, that truly epitomized the love, the harmony of the whole scene. After tripping on some mighty fine Mushrooms and enjoying the awesome showmanship from the boys in Cake and then Zero from the side of the stage, it was time to check out the rave portion of the show, featuring STS9 amongst others. More drugs and more debauchery was enough for me to make my exit and find a place to crash for the night. It was early, around 3:30 in the AM, and the entire grounds were left open, as opposed to most festivals in which they kick you out and guide you like sheep back to the designated sleeping areas. Here, the place was still rockin’ into the wee hours of the morning. Cheese and bread was still being cooked up, and various concoctions of soup were being mixed and served to the many munchied stoners. The sweet smell of Mary-Jane saturated the air, invigorating and inviting to all those who wanted. Live reggae was happening in one open-air tent, while in another, was your typical “stay high and chillax” open mic folk tent. The talent was so-so, but the effort and love of music was aplenty. To add to the relaxing atmosphere, large pillows covered the floor, making it easy to lie down and enjoy the aural stimulation, which many men, women and couples did. After spending a couple of hours flying like Peter Pan at the indoor rave, so this change of pace was extremely welcoming.
The weather, as expected in the wee hours of the morning, had turned from perfect to a touch on the cool side. Now, this wasn’t bad for me as I had my warm woolen blanket big enough for a family of obese midgets (would that just be normal people?), however, that wasn’t so for the pretty girl sleeping at my feet. Let’s call her ‘Molly’. In my hazy daze,I felt her feet creeping their way underneath the blanket. Noticing the way she was shivering in the typical butterfly-esque outfit one would expect to see here, I felt it was time for me to reciprocate the hippie hospitality and offer to share my blanket.
I didn't want to abruptly wake her and possibly scare the living daylights out of her, but I needed to get her attention. So I took the corner of my blanket and wrapped it around her feet. She stirred as if in a trance and her eyes beamed with appreciation as she eagerly grabbed both the blanket and my arm, which she promptly and sensuously drapped over her. I felt like her protector. I knew nothing about her, but somehow I felt as if it was my destiny for this moment to happen. I’m not going to lie and say that the drugs were not influencing my ability to think properly, however, I also was not going to sit there and debate whether or not what I was thinking was plausible or rational in any way, shape or form. I just wanted to be there, in the moment, with her, a complete stranger who, probably in her own drug haze, trusted me far more than she should, which, to me, was the most romantic thing in the world.
Not a care in the world entered my mind. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, the music was James Taylor, Joan Baez, Dan Bern and Neil Diamond. It was Van Morrison, Bruce Cockburn, Richie Havens and Lucinda Williams. I heard shades of Joni Mitchell singing back-up to Arlo Guthrie… it was magic.
At the moment, it was perfect.
And then she turned over.
She was facing me, I was finally able to see Molly’s face. Her red hair was on fire, but her eyes were distant. She was an image of pureness that seemed out of place in a world filled with greed and evil. The mood lighting from the lamp and the moonlight allowed her to maintain some mysteriousness but still be very alluring. She felt so vulnerable in my presence, as if she willed herself into enjoying the moment. I felt her lips crushing against mine. The moment seemed expected all along, but still caught me off-guard. She opened her eyes and I was able to see everything that she was thinking… and it was the same as me. Our thoughts were in sync... no words needed to be spoken.
From there, nature took its course. She left in the morning with her friends,whom had gone to their tent last night while she was flying on E. There was no heart-felt goodbye, no camp-like “I’ll call you when I’m back in town” awkwardness. I never even learned her name.
The rest of the Sunday was a hungover/burnt day in the sun, enjoying the jams of New Monsoon and asking why can't we be friends with War.
(Steve Kimock doin' his thing)
As good as the music was, it was the night with Molly that truly summarizes the magic and the spirit.
This year’s Harmony festival takes place from the 6th to the 8th of June and is, again, filled to the brim with great music. Damian Marley, George Clinton, Mickey Hart, Arrested Development and RJD2 help gives year’s edition a funk vibe.
But, if my story taught you anything, it’s that the music is but a small part of the festival experience.
This is the War that truly needs your support
