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On Saturday we saw Nick Lowe, playing solo. He stopped right in the middle of one song and said “I don’t remember the words to that one.” Which is something you can only do if you’re Nick Lowe.
After him we saw Dave Alvin, which was a revelation. The Blasters, like the Jayhawks and all those other great bands, zipped right past me in their heyday, so I have some catching up to do.
On our way back from getting a new copy of the schedule at the information booth, Lilly and I stumbled on this special treat, a band of stoners who could really sing. I hope they show up on an official stage next year.
]]>TheMoMI.org — Exhibition: Bound For Glory: A Tribute to Woody Guthrie
]]>After the songs and my little shtick about Africans inventing the banjo and bringing it this land (lifted from this site and translated into 5-year-old), this kid let on that he knows someone who plays one of these in his neighborhood, which is the housing project across the street from the school. I was doubly impressed: this is not a kid who talks a lot to strange white men, plus I had no idea I was going to run into a (potentially) Black banjo player around this ever-whitening town. I was already stoked about getting involved in this school, but this is better luck than I’d expected. I hope I get to meet this person eventually, if he exists. It’s a commonplace in the old-time music world that Black banjo players are all around, we’re just conditioned not to notice them. I know the second part of that is true; I just hope the first part is too.
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