From the west
coast, the jam band Displace started making their way through the storm from
Tampa. They were scheduled to go on at 4:00, but they didn’t make it. We’d decided
to move the stage upstairs to the back house, where the equipment would be safer,
and we’d still have enough room for a band and 60 or more spectators, depending
on the weather. We had unplugged everything before the lightning started, and
had secured the cover, thinking we were good. But, water got in, anyway. I
found the microphones in a bag, sitting atop a rain-soaked rug. The speakers
got a little spray, and every electrical cord and power strip we’d gathered and
saved over the past two years got wet. Guests pitched in and brought everything
inside. I blew on the microphones with the cool setting of a hair dryer for 30
minutes. We all prayed for sunshine.
We were expecting
over 100 people Saturday night, and had anticipated collecting $2,000 or more.
Instead, the rain changed everything; we started an hour and a half late, lost
more than half our crowd, and spent almost zero time outside, enjoying the
yard, playground, and stage we’d worked so hard to make just right. Everyone
was discouraged, including Josh, whose band mates had deserted him. And then,
after we fed five starving boys from Tampa and scrounged two dry power strips,
the first band played.
 |
| Displace (and guest) |
I met Displace and
their manager in my yard in the middle of the night when the neighbors brought
them home following a gig at Guanabanas. (Driving out here with strangers, to
the dark back end of our neighborhood, they were surely terrified.) It was a no
brainer to invite them. It was a thrill to watch them play for almost two hours
in what was essentially our living room. (Loved their “GAS MONEY” jar.) Josh
grabbed a stool and a guitar after the boys loaded up and headed west, and he entertained
the small, intimate crowd of 30-40 for another hour or so. Again, the
atmosphere was electric – magical – and we all sensed we were participating in
something very rare and special.
 |
| Josh Hayden of Operative Me |
Also victims of
the weather, along with a grueling “Driving 95 South” tour, John Eddie and the guys
arrived exhausted and three hours late. Not spying Kenny in the group, I
inquired and learned about his family’s recent loss. My heart sunk, both for
him and for the band as they’d be boarding the Kid Rock cruise without him. (His
replacement, bassist Ethan Pilzer, played with Big & Rich and Jewel.) While
guests helped carry gear upstairs, I welcomed everyone and filled them in on
the changes from previous years. It wasn’t what they’d signed up for, but I
hoped it would suffice, like it had for the previous bands. When the equipment
was inspected, and it was determined the setup wasn’t adequate, we feared JE
wouldn’t play at all.
But, he did. And
it was the definition of rare and special. Among the twenty or more Kid Rock
cruisers in attendance to witness the acoustic set he and P.K. performed were a
half dozen or so dedicated souls who’d followed JE and the guys all the way
from Jersey. Everyone sang along, and Laura knew every word to every song. She
even brought a huge “who the hell is john eddie?” banner for us to hang before
the show and a huger tray of hamburger cookies, with a side of chocolate and
butterscotch guitars (can you say, mmmm?!). The next day, she sent me this
note:
Thank you so much for having us at your party and into
your home. I know the weather did not cooperate, but we had an awesome time. It
was such a blessing to hear John’s real singing voice without electronics. It
was truly a unique experience. Thank you again.
 |
| John Eddie and P.K. Lavengood |
 |
| "John Eddie Unplugged" |
Josh and Displace,
like the prior bands, walked away happy with tips they never expected. Having
agreed to play for donations like everyone else, JE didn’t roll on to Boca to
“entertain the poor people” with much more than gas money, either. But, I was
impressed he stepped up, anyway, and gave us a glimpse of himself that few are
privileged to see. He also walked away with the satisfaction of knowing he’d made
it possible for us to promote interaction between local musicians, help build
their fan bases, expose diverse musical genres to a new audience, and support
Florida musicians who, more often than not, still sleep in the van. I can’t
thank him enough and am very proud to have been a part of it.
All that said, the
highlight of my roller coaster weekend happened shortly after the music started
on Saturday afternoon. Peanut’s daddy brought her over for a couple hours, so
she could see music played for real. Her
first musical love was Old MacDonald. By the time she reached the ripe age of
six months, she was into James Brown and Donna Summer. Three months ago, she
was mesmerized by Dorothy’s rendition of Somewhere
Over the Rainbow. Lately, she loves First
Kiss, but her new favorite is I Am a
River by the Foo Fighters; she sings it all the time and often passes out
instruments, so everyone can be in the band.
The band from Tampa
had just started their set inside, in front of the bay window. Peanut was
perched on her daddy’s shoulders as he hustled through the drizzle, ascended
the stairs, crossed the deck, and entered the room. Her little blue eyes were
transfixed. For several seconds, she didn’t move, only stared at the boys
playing all those instruments in her house. Then her arms started to wiggle and
her toes started to tap. When she looked down at me, still with a bewildered
look on her face, I held out her blue and pink light sticks (gifts from a
friend who attended Wanee with us last year). She took one in each hand and
started waving them around. Her eyes twinkled, and she gave me a big grin and a
tickled laugh. Then she wriggled to get down. And that was the end of that.
She spent almost
the entire two-hour set dancing, singing, and playing with the band. And by
that, I mean directly in front of the
band (scroll up to the Displace photo). If we had allowed her past the extension cords, I’m sure she’d have crawled
on top of Tucker’s base drum. She gazed, she studied, and she hysterically mimicked
their “in the zone” faces (she seemed to really like Sam). I uncovered her ukulele,
lighted tambourine, maracas, and princess keyboard, so she and the other two,
only slightly older girls could join in. When she wasn’t front and center, she
was dancing outside on the deck, or handing instruments to random people. It
was priceless. We literally watched the river flow from the boys to the little
girls.
I’ve always known
it, subconsciously, but Dave Grohl helped me find the words: We are all
connected by an invisible, underground river of music – every kind of music. My
grandfather played jazz saxophone; Dad sang silly country songs whenever the
mood struck, and Mom sang along with Dionne Warwick in the car; I played classical
piano, sax, and percussion, with a little vocals thrown in (and I still sing in
the car); my siblings played drums, trumpet, and trombone; my son plays guitar.
Everyone in my family and circle of friends loves music. We turn each other on
to new artists and sounds all the time, and I have met some of the finest
people through those connections. And one person continuously leads me to the
next. Whether we play, produce, promote, or just listen, sing, and share, music
binds us and carries along its current, on to the next connection. At one and a
half, our peanut has already firmly grasped hold of the raft. That makes me the
happiest grandma on earth.
When the party was
over and the final guests had departed, Scott cleaned out the last of our
belongings from the motorhome, climbed into the cockpit, and set a course for
Lorida. I followed some thirty minutes later, tired, sore, hoarse, and almost wishing
I hadn’t had so much fun over the previous two weeks. On the hour and a half
drive, I had time to watch the sun set and reflect. To be honest, I haven’t
been this proud of myself in a while; I not only (FINALLY!) found a way to pay
Josh Hayden a performance fee – he won’t take our money – we supported live,
local music, made new friends, witnessed an amazing transition in our peanut,
and overcame some of the most unexpected and bizarre hurdles the Campground’s
ever encountered. And we did it with style.
Everything happens
for a reason. I don’t know why it rained, but nothing would have been the same
if it hadn’t. I don’t know why the same equipment we used last year didn’t work
this year, but the evening wouldn’t have turned out like it did if it had. And,
I don’t know how that beer got from the top of the table to the top of Canada’s
luggage, tucked safely underneath, but…well, I guess there’s no silver lining
to that one. Point is, I believe everything happened as it was supposed to;
good, bad, or indifferent. And, I am a river. Just like Peanut. Just like you.
And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let a few rapids get in the way of flowing on
to the next connection.
Listen. Play.
Sing. Dance. Pass it on.
~ Dawn
