The rain was just about to fall on Toronto when I set out for the Folk Festival at Chistie Pitts this past week. I had not heard of the event until a few days earlier when a friend of mine Shotgun Jimmie put in the order for a painting. "I'll be in Toronto in a few days playing the Folk Festival." He explained in an email. A folk festival? My God, have I gotten so out of touch? "Steve is playing too!" Jesus, I had. As a serious music journalist I knew that I had to be in attendance otherwise look a fool for missing it. Shotgun Jimmie, Baby Eagle (backed by Ian Kehoe of Marine Dreams), and Eric's Trip's Julie Doiron would all be playing as well as almost 30 others.
I left for the festival about an hour before Baby Eagle's set, the rain was soft and not enough to deter me from walking the twenty-five minutes it would take to get there. I was accompanied by a small film crew made up of mostly junkies and led by a hard headed Italian named Saverio Lee. The crew has been crashing at my house for almost a month (though it was supposed to be only a few nights) making a documentary on me which I predict will never be properly finished. Lee, the director of the project and sole financier had been up for three days at this point snorting MDMA and trying to hump anything in sight, including my girlfriend. I chased him out of the house with a loaded gun only to have him return the next morning in torn clothes and sporting a black eye. I felt bad and figured that for the good of the film, he should not only return to the house, but he and the crew should accompany me to the festival.
Unfortunately ten minutes after leaving the house something happened that would almost have us miss this first day of the festival completely. While walking I was approached by a small woman in hysterics, "Help! Do you have a phone? The man is dead!" Lee and the rest of his crew immediately took cover in a McDonald's close by so as not to be involved in the situation, which at this point looked to require police.
I followed the woman to a man laying on the ground with his pants down to his knees and a full turd stuck halfway out of his ass. To me this spelled danger, I know that once a person dies they are likely to release their bowels so I took out my phone and called 9-1-1. To my complete astonishment I was put on hold for over a minute as the small woman yelled and cried. When I finally got through to the operator and explained the situation she told me to remain there until the ambulance and police arrived. I thought that since the lady had stopped me, she would not mind waiting for me as I was on my way to the festival. She however, had other plans. "I cannot stay..." she began to explain, "I am not supposed to be in this country, I cannot talk to police." and with that she took off into a parking garage some fifteen meters away. I was left standing alone on a busy street with what I thought at the time was a dead body. Limp, completely lifeless, and covered in his own feces.
A short time later a fire truck arrived, and at the sight of the flashing lights, the dead man rose like a dirty flower, cock in hand. The firemen made no attempt to talk to me and I left for the festival, leaving the coward film crew in the McDonald's. I got to the festival in what was now pouring rain, made my way to the beer tent and struck up a conversation with the girl running the bar. "Has Baby Eagle played yet?" I asked, "They just finished." she replied and handed me my beers. My phone died soon after I made the 9-1-1 call and I was left without knowing where any of my friends were. The weather worsened and everyone was instructed to come under one tent, the situation was tight and I was no longer in the mood for music. I finished my beers and ordered two more, finished those and left without hesitation.
The next day I returned to the festival, the weather wasn't much better but my mood had lightened drastically. This time, no dead bodies, no wussy film crew. I found my good friends Ian and Steve at the front of the main stage waiting for Shotgun Jimmie to begin. I joined them in their waiting. When Jimmie took the stage it was a full on assault, playing drums, guitar and singing at the same time. I had seen people work set ups like this before, usually to weird results. Off time drums, skipped strumming and missed vocal changes are all common with such performances, but Jimmie has his art down to a science.
A few more beers and a few more laughs and I was back home, feeling like a complete failure in my mission to go and cover the festival. I only saw Shotgun Jimmie and even at that, forgot to bring him his painting.
