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“… As I waded over to the Lefty Stage, Ms. Wyatt was asking the crowd if anyone knew what and where the original Palomino was. The crowd’s response ran the gamut from “strip club in Vegas” to “yer mom’s house.” Not sure what the proper answer was but the question begs the question or, rather, the point: that this is a curated collection of artists, all gathered under the outstretched wings of Uncle Willie’s subtle grin of approval, a man whose aforementioned iconoclasm is always tempered by an unflinching respect for the iconoclasts that came before him. Simply said, history matters. With no tradition, there’s nothing to disrupt. Picasso wasn’t born a cubist, or if he was, he didn’t discover it to the world until he’d mastered the tradition he was about to dismantle.
So… Palomino. Some names are arbitrary or serendipitous but some are carefully chosen. Jaime suggested this festival’s title might have significance that can’t fit in a hashtag. Pros know. And she looked all the part of a pro. Dark hair falling down both sides of a baby blue suit, Ms. Wyatt could’ve been the CEO of Shitkickers Inc. Queen of the South, Nashville Edition. Are we still allowed to say people look sexy? She did. Looking sharp and belting it out to the early crowd. A crowd that wasn’t thin on numbers. Ticketholders seemed to recognize this lineup was strong, top to bottom.
“In my story, love fucking wins!” That was the intro to Wasco, a beautiful ballad about a couple losers finding victory in … each other. Damn, maybe that’s why a semi-lit nerd and suckerchump romantic like myself feels so many feels when I hear and listen to these artists sing their STORIES. Because not all music has to tell a story. Sometimes a beat is all we need to feel what we gotta feel. Sometimes a scream or a guitar solo gets you right in the kishkes in just the right way. But a good story hits different. And I’m not sure there’s a genre that’s more committed to and better at telling STORIES than … what do you want to call it, country? americana? outlaw? … awesome? Bless the names or fuck em, it’s all good.
Alas, stories don’t always pay the bills. About middle to late set, Ms. Wyatt mentioned to the crowd that they could spend their well-earned money on merchandise and their time on Spotify, because this thing she’s doing up there on the stage and in the studio, it’s a living. It’s a hustle. And all too often, it’s a sacrifice to be an artist. That said, when Wyatt proceeded to belt out Neon Cross, it popped with an energy that reached far beyond the boundaries of the recorded version. A rendition that could only be appreciated live. Which leads me to my parting thought: Go people! Go to concerts! Go hear, breathe, sweat, sing, clap, dance, love, make sexy time … with each other. All of it. Feed your soul, feed an artist…”
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