Synopsis of BARF 09

What is it about time that never really allows us to exist in the moment. Maybe there never really is a ‘now’, just a seesawing rememberance and anticipation of other events. But this suggests a linear sort of inertia, which certainly doesn’t jive with a festival dedicated to resurrecting the spirit of archaic white-man’s blues. And why is it that such a tradition is kept alive in the dense hovel of urban decay, where the heady sophistication of today’s metro and metroette threaten to garrotte it completely with so many condos, boutiques, and music discovered in volvo commercials. It isn’t dead yet, but once in a while it needs to retreat to a more pastoral setting where, ironically, the young locals seem to be affirmed afficianados of gangster rap. So once again a formidable army of posers came to Algoma to sing songs about a time and place we’d never experience first hand, not in jest but in reverence. Upon arrival we were greeted with a newly erected stage (completed with a level no less) and a regiment of pesky but ultimately friendly black flies (presumably still feeding on the detritus of the previous year’s revelry). So the music started and those most competent to judge it (namely the offspring of the various bands) decided it was good and began to dance, dervish-like, with an innocent unawareness of self. The more free-spirited of the ‘adults’ joined in too, but most of us knew that we had bitten too far into the apple and were content just to watch the spectacle and appreciate that these tiny satyrs had the uncanny ability to take something at face value, free of all outside influence. Free of the baggage filled jet we call ‘growing up’. No, the masks we wear are so much more than a thin greasepaint mustache. And each year we return more hideous and encrusted than before. Bejeweled and painted with the various conquests, failures, rationalizations, and fears that have haunted us for the last 365 days. For some these deposits turn into wisdom, but for most it’s just senescence. But what is a party, but a chance to momentarily forget all of these dismal musings and temporarily become a child again. One condender claimed that, “a party is a place where you can do whatever you want” and preceded to assert that right. Another more sober player disagreed. We thought that it would come to blows, but thankfully it dissolved into nothing more than a cheerily repeated catch-phrase for the remainder of the weekend. the Dionysian and Apollonian impulses were well balanced, and even without the threat of a looming police-state the crowd agreed to abide by the golden rule. Even when a trailer-hitch turned up missing and we were prepared to assume the worst of our fellow man, it turned out to be sheer forgetfulness. As usual, the good times pass by much quicker than the bad ones and the weekend was over. We woke from this soporific dream and slothfully prepared to return home. But in a way we were leaving it as well, because home is nothing more than a space that can be shared with the other inhabitors of this oversized geode we call earth, within an atmosphere of trust and goodwill. And even when the star that guides us there poops out and drains the car battery dead, we can be assured that wherever we smell fresh coffee and hear the murmer of early morning banter, there will be a neighbor that can help to guide us in the right direction.