I like to go in cold on shows sometimes; it pronounces the musician’s hunger and leaves room for surprises, like watching college basketball or the Racing Sausages during a Brewers game. Starving f*cking artists are in it to win it and wolfish for the invisible cup. Going in cold exaggerates that thrill and is like a quick hit of the good stuff.

The Bluebird Music Festival is one of my favorite places to go in cold. It’s a rollercoaster ride I always want to be on barring I’m not accidentally peeing myself or getting queasy from having two kids and being a changed woman.

Hats off to Bluebird for manifesting, cultivating, and creating this badass daytime/before dusk show of a birdie and for accentuating the need for art at any time of life and donating proceeds to instruments for children. For without that clarinet or recorder in grade school, I’d probably be face down in a drowned pool somewhere, crying about my sad, soundless life. Would make for a beautiful song though.

Let’s begin.

An Ode to the Blackened and Blued

Oh Bluebird, you sad bird, you six years from-new bird.
Help me tap my feet, bird, while I melt into my seat, bird.

I tried to dance with the crowd in a trance.
This time it worked because of a man in pink pants.

The Fletchers, the Bendigos, the starters, the “here we go’s,”
They flew on the stage, Ready to rage,
You could see their souls when they howled on stage.
As for the goat sounds, well that was profound,
Very skilled and exact. I thought one was out back.

And what about Andy? A safehouse and dandy.
With his legs crossed tight, his stories just right,
He made me yearn to return,
As a baby with their Lady
Entranced with their tunes, gulping down summer moons.
His tale of the knife, the subtle jabs of strife,
“Why do I always find the worst in you?”
Gut out my heartstrings already, why don’t you?

My old pal, Slim came out with a bang.
During college I uncovered his Buddy Holly twang,
My daughter, Colette, named after his words,
He brought the house up, the people they swirled.
I once thought dance was forbidden in these parts,
But Langhorne emerged and tore open his heart,
It bled onstage, his son shining bright,
We felt his mystique, we gripped it tight.
My only request, is he plays the other best,
The lost tracks of his, that make him possessed.

Then came Joy, I never had heard,
Her lustrous stories, her laugh, “The Blackbird,”
She felt like a friend, from way back when,
Tenacious, tender, genuine
And then she started singing; oh my holy shit,
I wanted to walk up, and share with her a spliff,
For we share the same vision, and her tunes consecrated,
The sound I would make, if my hands were inundated.

A five hour Saturday, I’ll never forget.
Thank goodness for the candies, I snuck through the gate.
For they helped me relax, in the dark with the vibes,
And I didn’t get tired, only stoked for future rides.

Outside I met Bob Barrick, he longed to be the record player,
He was kind, clever, and open, and I hope he gets a two-fer.
How neat to be so close to the mind of a writer,
I dug into him more, the voice of a righter.

Now Sunday is and always will be for shows, even if Jesus and I are no longer bros,
The inspiration can be on a different page, like in yourself or on the stage,
It makes no difference who you pray to,
As long as you are kind and give ‘til you’re blue.
It’s no secret the lineup was bursting,
My church for the day, my altar, my King.

Sunny War came in, stoic and fierce,
Her fingers swooned while her her sultry voice seared,
How tragic to lose a dog and a heart,
That samurai is going places with her deep, velvet art.

Then came Briscoe, and you know, that I know,
These guys have found their place in the show.
The saxophone smooth as buttery goodness,
Their strands of voices like broods of newness.
When they turned up the funk, they caught the wave
If I’m lucky, one day they’ll play alongside Dave.

Next was the one we couldn’t contend with,
Gregory Alan Isakov, the maestro and wordsmith.
The man of few stories spoke with his guitar,
The day felt like night, the hall felt afar.

Lastly the Tweedy, the Jeff, the meaty,
The storyteller, the sage, who simply misses the days
With his parents, family, lovers, and friends,
His down-to-earth messages, I didn’t want to end.
Hearing his voice in real life versus stereo,
Hypnotized me and brought me a higher flow.

And that’s the story of how the Bluebird,
Took me, washed me, and made me a new bird.
I’ll always be thankful, for every song,
I did not yet know, but knew they belonged,
In my heart and mind forever, and next year I know,
If I ever want music, to the Bluebird I’ll go.