There was a night in Austin — it was pouring out. I was safely tucked away in a club, nary a drop falling on me; still, my faux leather jacket clung to me, damp from the walk from the car and odd smelling. I bought the jacket two years earlier, based entirely on the cleaning instructions on the tag: “Wipe with a damp cloth.” This, I thought at the time, is my kind of apparel. Turns out that fibers not found in Nature are affected strangely by Nature, and the rain had freed the alien animal within its hems. I ordered a drink and tried to ignore the gasoline-like wave coming off me. Ah, South by Southwest. Just one stop on the crazy toll-turnpike to fame and fortune.

People have different ways of preparing for the new millennium (ahem, 2001)— pilgrimages to Jerusalem, Cairo, Sam’s Club. For me, it’s been performing at the Folk Alliance, South by Southwest, and LMNOP — music festivals in Albuquerque, Austin, and New Orleans. It’s an honor just to be nominated, as they say, so my 1999 tour has become the road to Zion. I’m taking my message to the exhibit halls, man. I’ll convert them one at a time. Granted, the inevitable categorization process is a little complicated — my music is more eclectic and moody than prescribed by the folk label, more esoteric and quirky than the “rock” label, and to top it off, I play the keyboard (collective gasps around the Kerrville campfire)

All creative people walk around with a wide-angle lens attached to their sight line. It can get heavy, for certain, but as long as you stay away from the socks-and-sandals combo, most people will not be aware that you are quietly clicking the shutter. To what extent they notice the flash depends on your social skills, I think, or your willingness to keep the photograph and the event separate. ~While you are laughing, talking, you file away information to be reviewed later in the darkroom — developed, scrutinized under the red light. Genius may be the state of constant red light — no ins or outs. I have no such worries. I come and go from that room. Sometimes gleefully hanging the ~Gone Fishin’ sign around the doorknob, sometimes sadly aware that it is there without my permission.

Aside from the intellectual stimulation of that dichotomy, if you go to enough of these music extravaganzas, you’ll never have to choose between paper and plastic at the grocery store again. Those canvas bags, the mother of all Crackerjacks boxes, are filled with goodies, and YOURS FREE with the price of registration. As I page through the literature, I see that they are actually called ~goody bags,’ which inexplicably offends me. In them are magazines, flyers, CDs, pens, matches, condoms, and various other useful items. For future festival organizers, I have the following suggestions: blank receipts, vouchers for Kinko’s, toilet paper, and a few bucks for cab fare. (These are freebies, folks. Take them, or leave them.)

Depending on the size of the convention, lines for these canvas bags can be long. There’s always at least one person anxiously judging the line in front of them, standing on their toes (Keds), usually with the dark-rimmed, tinted glasses, counting the supplies on the table (“Will there be enough???”). This ritual is not unlike the ceremony of food service on a plane. You see the flight attendants way up the aisle, you vicariously feel the serenity of those lucky enough to have food (“Will they still have chicken left???’). And when you peer into the dark, cavernous opening for those festival goodies, it’s like peeling that foil off your entree. Just what is in here?

Having said that, I love these conventions. I like the camaraderie, the over-stimulation, the general chaos found therein, and I have met an exceptional group of people. Why, it was at such a convention that I found out that Jack Daniels is called “Jasper” by his closest friends. I’m in the know now, and have only good things to say about Jasper.

There are many other music conferences in the States: Eat’m in Las Vegas, Midem in Miami, North by Northwest in Portland, CMI in New York — just to name a few of the larger ones. Most are structured around a local club scene, with bands playing in various parts of the city. The notable exception is the Folk Alliance, where the performances occur in the convention center or right there in the hotel rooms. In addition to showcasing artists — who submit tapes for consideration — there are panels, mentor Programs demo-critiques, and the usual industry schmoozing. They can be expensive little expanses, but luckily I’ve had the good fortune to receive a lot of goodwill from nice folks. Even without such help, I recommend doing these periodically, if for no other reason than it’s good to get out of your own city and feel new somewhere. For an artist, feeling new can be seductive; for a fan, hearing someone new can be a revelation.

Of course, the Kerrville Folk Festival is not a conference, but a genuine music festival, and as such, does not have the cell-phone, laptop, gotta-check-my-messages thing going on. Being outdoors, it is free of that strange, cold, recycled air that permeates convention centers (Legionnaire’s disease — small price to pay for those bitchin’ badges). This will be my second year playing Kerrville and I freely admit to being smitten. But the bottom line at all these events is the music, and whatever city you’re in, it’s the music you remember.

As I lean on the bar at.the Soho lounge, the rain continues outside. The room is full of songwriters. Now coatless and dry, I feel downright giddy that all these talented people are gathered in one city. It’s miraculous, really — intoxicating. I have had that same feeling in a small, cramped hotel room at the Folk Alliance, at an Irish Pub at LMNOP, at a backstage after-hours jam session, and during a hot Summer night at Kerrville. I have had it while listening, I have had it while playing. It’s when music, the great equalizer, suspends a giant net below you and lets you jump for joy without injury. - Amilia K Spicer

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