Norman Music Festival 2009: pt 1

Once again, downtown Norman. A few blocks upstream, Downtown Athletic Club table sells t-shirts, for those who want to remember that they attended the festival, and there was a gym somewhat nearby.

5:30 PM - Have missed Nephew Coyne and the White Dwarfs by minutes. Oh well. Much more college-aged crowd this time, fewer random middle-aged Normanites. I will, over the course of the evening, see about seven dogs, a record low for a free festival in Norman. At the east stage, weathered David-Carradine-alike twangs out something called "Honky Tonk Heroes". Quick dip into promotional material reveals this is Billy Joe Shaver, country songwriter extraordinaire, performing one of his songs that helped make Waylon Jennings famous. Practiced, effortless old-pro performance. He interrupts the number midway for some banter on the proper way to lay out your cheatin' husband. ("Ladies, you gotta rotate the punch, like this here, rotate. And be sure to follow through.") As I move off, Billy Joe produces an Oklahoma license plate. "Friends, a fan here in Norman got this done for me just yesterday." [Oklahoma: WAYLON] "I could not be more proud."

6:00 PM - Befeathered funk outfit on the main stage, laying down... well, the funk, obviously. I pop into Sooner Theatre (downtown's playhouse since 1929) to get out of the sun and catch local group Mama Sweet. Drummer, keyboardist, bassist, mountainous guy clutching toy-like rhythm guitar (one of the 20 Rhythm Guitar Archetypes, I'm told). Short-haired singer / lead guitar in jeans, black half-buttoned shirt over white t-shirt, sunglasses. Not unsnazzy, but at the same time brings to mind Owen Harper jamming with Rhys. Owen: [looking out over the red-velvet seats and packed balcony] "Wow. Feels like the last concert from Blues Brothers. If the sheriff shows up, we're sneaking out the back."

They proceed to produce some grainy, country-edged roots-rock. ("Red Dirt?" asked the brain. "I bet they're Red Dirt." They were. I genre-identified that shit to hell.) Tight set, despite the convection-oven qualities of the historic Sooner Theatre late on an April afternoon. By mid-performance, guitarists are adjusting strings after every number, and Rhys is staggering a bit. Nevertheless, they plow on through, and end to a 1/3-standing ovation (including self). "Sooner Theatre!" shouts disheveled Owen, down to white t-shirt and jeans. "We wouldn't be anywhere else."