Remembering the Rock
The thing I'm going to remember best about Live From the Rock will be that the sun appeared to to hang in the same place, mid-sky, for each long northern day. Time wasn't exactly suspended, but it certainly ignored the usual rules for a while.
This was an ancestral dwelling place once. It felt like that again. The tribe camped beneath the cliffs along Superior's shore wasn't made up of hunter-gatherers, but of wandering people just the same. They were seekers after spirit, shapers of story and song. Their faces were bright by the warm fire. Their skin shone in shifting shades, a rainbow reflected in the wave of a moving crowd.
Red Rock is a northern town. The pulp mill moans all night and day, occasionally belching a god-awful sulfurous reek. Freight trains rumble and screech like loutish animals on the move. The beer tent was a shooting range, complete with mounted fish and trophy heads. The locals drink OV. There are a lot of pickup trucks around, and the campfire party goes all night long.
But there's something in Red Rock a lot of northern towns have lost: the peace and prosperity that a solid local employer can foster. That raunchy pulp mill has kept this pretty little place in business for a long while. You could see that comfort reflected in the warm, welcoming smiles of the townspeople. They love where they live. They're proud to show their guests around.
Music made the days more bright and the nights more deep. There was joy on the breeze, laughter in the darkness, kinship among strangers underneath the northern lights. This is what folk music can foster. This is why people work so hard to make playing the heart of the matter. This is how we humans love to love our creativity, our creations, our Creator.
This is what happens when Time itself take time off for Truth and Beauty. Live from the Rock, long may you run!
This was an ancestral dwelling place once. It felt like that again. The tribe camped beneath the cliffs along Superior's shore wasn't made up of hunter-gatherers, but of wandering people just the same. They were seekers after spirit, shapers of story and song. Their faces were bright by the warm fire. Their skin shone in shifting shades, a rainbow reflected in the wave of a moving crowd.
Red Rock is a northern town. The pulp mill moans all night and day, occasionally belching a god-awful sulfurous reek. Freight trains rumble and screech like loutish animals on the move. The beer tent was a shooting range, complete with mounted fish and trophy heads. The locals drink OV. There are a lot of pickup trucks around, and the campfire party goes all night long.
But there's something in Red Rock a lot of northern towns have lost: the peace and prosperity that a solid local employer can foster. That raunchy pulp mill has kept this pretty little place in business for a long while. You could see that comfort reflected in the warm, welcoming smiles of the townspeople. They love where they live. They're proud to show their guests around.
Music made the days more bright and the nights more deep. There was joy on the breeze, laughter in the darkness, kinship among strangers underneath the northern lights. This is what folk music can foster. This is why people work so hard to make playing the heart of the matter. This is how we humans love to love our creativity, our creations, our Creator.
This is what happens when Time itself take time off for Truth and Beauty. Live from the Rock, long may you run!
Labels: folk festival, performance, pulp, red rock, The North
posted by David Newland at 9.8.04
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home