Posted by July 6th, 2013 was a Saturday, which meant there was a full day of entertainment taking place at the Ottawa Bluesfest. The weather was lovely and Justin Townes Earle (1982-2020) was going on early so I biked down to LeBreton Flats in time for his late-afternoon set on the River Stage.
At the time my friend Doug had introduced Earle’s song Hard Livin’ to the set of our acoustic duo Burnt Reynolds. It was a harmless sounding little ditty that impelled me to learn how to play diminished chords on the mandolin. And if you can’t appreciate how odd/rare/improbable it is to have to play diminished chords on a bluegrassy machine like a mandolin, instead you can picture a basketball player having to learn how to ice skate, an airline pilot needing to learn how to knit, or perhaps a lion tamer who is suddenly required to learn how to juggle. It’s just not a combination that comes up very often.
Anyway, as I stood there in the ultra-pleasant lush surroundings of the River Stage it occurred to me that a lot of Justin Townes Earle’s material was like that. He specialized in subtly quirky, mostly normal-sounding complicated feats of songwriting that could easily be passed off as straight-up three-chorders only they ain’t. At the time he was thirty-one years old and had five albums full of such cleverness under his belt. He would release four more before passing away well before he turned forty, another tragic victim of fentanyl poisoning. Damn.
Back to happier times, after Justin finished his set I went to the mainstage area where I would stay for the rest of the evening. The Bluesfest had once again set up two main stages in the same concert field so when an artist finished their set on one stage the next act could immediately start up on the other stage. The evening’s leapfrogging began with Amadou & Mariam.
I think I can honestly say that I’ve really, really liked every single artist I have heard that comes from Mali. Not only that, I’m pretty sure I’ve liked every single song. There’s just something about it. Malian music sounds like the Sahara Desert feels; encompassing, endless, undulating, and deceptively complex. And the music is generally sung in either the Bambara language or French so the lyrics roll over me like a warm breeze; nothing to understand, just lots to feel. Amadou & Mariam were no exception.
After about seventy minutes of African bliss A&M’s set ended on one side of the pitch and a few seconds later Belle and Sebastian started playing on the opposite stage. With neither a “Belle” nor a “Sebastian” among them, the happypop Indie band was pleasant enough but to me it came off as vastly less soul-enriching than the ancient music I had just heard. Luckily there were beer lines to distract me.
The final act of the evening was The Dixie Chicks, who by this time were attempting to flee from a double-shot of humble pie after a) taking a stand against their own President and fellow Texan George Bush Jr. and b) having it finally pointed out to them that the “Dixie” part of their name brought to mind that whole slavery thing. And so they jumped out of the frying pan and rebranded themselves as The Chicks, a name that makes me feel like a misogynistic pig whenever I say it out loud. So I don’t.
I think this was my only time seeing The Chicks them and they were fine. I can’t imagine that I’ll see them again.
Todd Man Out 