The Terrapin Hill Harvest Festival is an institution in Kentucky, having produced a stellar array of shows over the past two decades.  Finally,  a chance to see what all my friends had ravedabout. Nestled deep in the heart of my home state is an organic teaching farm and home to a music festival that draws tens of thousands to its humble environs.  At close to 400 acres, it’s natural approach to growing fruits and vegetables is a shining example of Mother Natures power. 

   From seed to field to table, your food remains untouched by harsh chemical fertilizers and pesticides, treated instead with something rare in the food industry: Love.  Pete and Brenda Cashel and their three children Kelby, Deanna and Jonah work the farm like generations before and hopefully, by their example, generations to come and it is in this rich, nurturing environment that the Terrapin Hill Music Festival has sunk it’s roots and blossomed into an annual tradition for all ages.  With a stellar lineup of  acts ranging from the legendary Del McCoury Band, psychedelic bluegrass masters Cornmeal, the funk supergroup The Superheroes to 12 year old singer/songwriter sensation Almira Fawn this year’s Terrapin Hill music festival had the makings of a bumper crop of good times a great music.

     Clocking in as the shortest trip in my year long music festival journey, the Terrapin Hill Farm rests at the end of a windy country road, near Harrodsburg, KY and a short ninety minutes from my front doorstep. Several friends of mine have tried over the years to get me to make this short voyage, and yet somehow something always came up and caused me to miss it.  The stories my friends would return with, of incredible tunes, massively relaxed family style atmosphere and  loving environment had me swearing that next year, man, I’m going to make it. I finally got to keep that promise to myself, and as I cleared the first few hills driving into the farm proper one story bubbled usefully to the top of my mind, the story of the year it rained so hard and so long that the  fest was nearly washed away.  Surprised at my brains usefulness I spied and quickly took a camping spot on high ground, over looking the fields. After realizing that I had managed to forget a key bit of my camping gear (Now there’s that brain I know and love!) I got on to a favorite ritual of mine: The meeting of my neighbors. I’ve attended dozens and dozens of music festivals, and without question, the luck I’ve had in scoring good neighbors is a true statistical anomaly. I suppose that I’m working in  a skewed formula, since I’m positive that the attendees of most music festivals are of a more enlightened bent to begin with. I’m fishing in a well stocked pond as it were.

     So of course my neighbor had an air pump I could borrow, and a better mallet than the crappy one I’d brought, as well as an incredible array of live shows to play for me and a handy flag pole to mark the spot for me for those 5:45 a.m. crawls back to the tent.  It was what he didn’t have that brought me the biggest smile I’d get the whole weekend long.  As we stood around listening to moe.‘s closing Summercamp Music Festival set from 2009, we chatted about the different music festivals that we had attended this year, exchanging stories and tales of weirdness.  When he mentioned that he’d been at the Allgood Music Festival I told him how jealous I was. I love that festival, but it coincided with The Forecastle Music Festival, so I had chose to stay and give the hometown some Love (And see a killer lineup, as well. Poor poor me) He regaled me with stories of fabulous sets and wonderful people, stories I had already heard from our beloved leader, the illustrious Dr.Trip, who was at the Allgood Music Festival himself, revisiting the origin of the species as it were. It was fun to hear another viewpoint on the same story, as it’s always been a love of mine to see all sides to a story. Then my new neighbor told me one last story, a tale of loss and woe, that, much to my surprise I had also heard before, albeit from a different source and in a different context.

     “Somebody stole our flag, man” he said and a strange wave of recognition coursed through me. I flashed back to weeks earlier and opening an email from Dr.Trip containing his review of his trip to the Allgood Music Festival.  As soon as I finished reading his review I called him and asked him the most obvious question: You stole somebody’s flag?!  Uncool! This generated a back and forth between us on the ethics of the theft, with Doc’s view point being that it was not immoral to steal a pirate’s flag, and that any one flying the Jolly Rodger had to be prepared to defend it at all times. This seemed a bit ludicrous to me, but I couldn’t argue with the weird passion with which he defended his actions. As is my wont, I quizzed most everyone I met for about a week on their viewpoint(I should have been a pollster!) on the intricacies of pirate flag theft ethics, and had received a near even split up to that point.  He had already noticed the look in my eyes as I asked him, hope against hope if it was, by any chance a skull and crossbones. His eyes narrowed and through a shark like grin he asked me the question of the weekend: “Where’s my flag man?!”

     Since my own, eco-friendly cell phone wasn’t getting any reception I borrowed his and dialed Doc’s number with an increasing amount of realization at how wonderful  a place the universe truly was.  After a speedy exchange of pleasantries I handed the phone off to my pirate friend with a simple “Hey, I’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you”.  “Where’s my flag, man?” he repeated and for the next few minutes I imagined Doc’s side of the conversation, as I heard the questions I had asked earlier repeated, this time with far more weight to the words than mine would ever have. Please don’t get the impression, oh gentle reader that this was a heated scene, or that my new pirate friend was nothing but genial and good natured about the whole thing. As he and his girlfriend had stressed, “We were sure that we’d hear a great story one day!” and I was just lucky enough to be there.  After a few minutes he handed me back his phone, to a bewildered Doc asking me how I do these crazy thing I do, like finding the guy whose flag he stole as my neighbor hundreds of miles from the scene of the crime.  The situation has reached the parley stage, and I think both sides will soon come to an agreement. In the meantime, this whole goofy business has given me an idea. Next Year, I will fly a Festival Family flag from my campsite, and will invite you all to try your hands at stealing it. Those lucky enough to snag it will be offered a chance to ransom it back to me for some cool schwag. (Legal note: Not actual schwag. No schwag were harmed in the typing of this article.)

    This one in a million meeting convinced that this was an omen, that I was in for something truly special, and boy was I ever. As I made the short walk to the stage are I was amazed at the beauty and earthiness of the farms venue. The stages were built by Pete, legends say almost entirely by his lonesome. The hand crafted nature of the main stage, and it’s found wood Terrapin Hill sign gracing the main stage proudly, centered high above the artists bespoke a honesty that you just can’t find in the neon madness of the major music festivals. The main stage rests at the foot of the Hill itself, While the Chapel stage matches it’s bigger brother in natural charm, if not in size. Rounding out the stages was a small covered pavilion, rightly labeled the Pavilion stage. Nice when things work out like that, isn’t it?  The stages are all within minutes of each other, facing opposite directions for minimal sound bleed, the pavilion stage being central to the heart of the music festival, with shakedown street stretching off in three directions. The layout surveyed and the splendor of the great outdoors embraced, I zipped to the chapel stage and caught the Sexual Disaster Quartet, a band that embraces a free thinking philosophy, mixing Old time romantic standards with avante garde jazz ala the Zappa school of weirdness.  Having only heard about them in passing I was startled by their musicianship and fiery front man. Impressive first set, and it ended with my first glimpse of Pete at work, as I noted the tye-dyed overalls on the guy driving the tractor through the early crowd, smiling and waving to everyone he passed, apparently dropping of supplies to the first aid tent, staffed by some of Kentucky’s finest EMT’s and Firemen.  I always make a point out of swinging by and giving thanks to these folks at music festivals as they’re the ones who make it so that we can all get together out there without worry, that trained individuals are standing by with only our welfare in mind.

      A couple of weeks ago I saw Papadosio for the first time, and they repeated their impressive performance with a second helping of  a potent mixture of swirling funk and electronic jams. As the skies started to threaten, Moon Taxi took the stage. A gentle rain started to drift down as Moon Taxi delivered a rocking, solid set of honest to goodness rock and roll songs! The great thing about music festivals is that you get to see such a wide array of music. Though the Terrapin Hill Music Festival has long been known for it’s Bluegrass, it’s also a place to discover bands well outside of the grassy realms. The rains gathered in strength and the band played on. The rain started to soak them and still Moon Taxi played on. And as their set ended and  clouds parted ways, Moon Taxi gave a spirited finale to a fun set.  Dodging the normal paced festivilians, I hurried over to catch one of the bands I was really looking forward to, Greensky Bluegrass.

     This would be the third time seeing the Greensky Bluegrass this year and I was stoked.  These guys just sound right to my ears, I just don’t know how else to describe it. They blend into a very traditionally bluegrass line up of instrumentation, but make a sound that’s anything but.  A lot of bluegrass bands throw in a popular cover tune  to showcase their styles juxtaposed, but when Greensky Bluegrass play, say, their cover of the Talking Heads “Road to Nowhere” it sounds like them playing one of their own songs, so comfortable are they in their own musical skins.  After their set the band proceeded to swing around to the front of the stage and get their grooves on to the mic stylings of MC Sparkplug, a rapping duo made up of Tony Z and Punky Moon Lover.  Having been too exhausted to do any more than listen to their set from the cozy confines of my tent at the Wuhnurth Music Festival I was glad to get a chance to see what the hub dub was about.  Working with prerecorded beats the duo strode the stage with a playful attitude and a palpable affection for each other that was both sweet and infectious.  Maybe it was the late night energy they were spiting or the ozone crackling in the air but the crowd danced up front danced with huge grins and big spins, while towards the back of the pavilion heads bobbed to the beats and tapped their feet(s). A great way to end the day indeed.

     The weather predicted for the weekend was rain, and I had been hoping my streak of good weather at festivals would continue.  I even kinda bragged on how good I’d had it all summer long. Egotists might claim some sort of karmic retribution for the soaking we got, but I’m a statistics minded fella, and I just ran out of sunny days I guess. It happens to all of us sometime or another, and it rains on the just and unjust alike, so I guess it’s a great equalizer.  Besides playing hell with cameras, it also play havoc with that noblest of music festival denizen, the Taper.  John Radawski, known as “Radar” is a dedicated taper who withstood the elements to tape the entire festival, start to finish. Better than the Post Office he was! So Friday the rains started and I thanked my waterproof suit for my dry feet and worked on, sealed against the ever increasing power of the storms.  Louisville favorites Bloom street and the Vessel took the Chapel stage by storm, releasing their jams in defiance of the rains and the dark clouds that were forming. I was again unprepared for how good the Vessel has gotten. We’ll be hearing lots more from them in the future. And now it was time to go catch my first set at the main stage,  StoneWheel. The rains kicked up a notch and the band continued on, risking valued equipment to deliver a rocking set, that had me purchasing their disc ASAP.

     As the young Ms. Fawn prepared to take the stage I could see the worry in the eyes of the Sound and light guys, who put forth tireless effort over the weekend to keep the music going. The rains were starting to flood the main stage, and after mixing the first few songs while standing in ankle deep water, The stage’s power had to be cut for our safety. Almira took it all in stride and as we all huddled under their stage’s protection against near apocalyptic deluges, she said confidently ”Now I have a story to tell!” Her spirit undashed she headed out as the decision was made to move the rest of the music to the covered Pavilion. Informed of this, Del McCoury showed the wisdom and experience of his years and cheerfully drove himself and his sons to the stage without a word of complaint or grouse, happy that the show was going on. Halfway through their smoking set the rains again abated, respected the powerful performance being put on. As the band employed the time honored tradition of mic sharing, swooping in and out to create depth of sound effects that many studio engineers would envy. The crowd responded in kind, and we had us a hoedown!  After a passionate set from local faves The Rumpke Mountain Boys I decide I had better high tail it back before the storms broke again.

    It’s so easy to sleep when it’s raining, and as I lay in my tent for the next several hours I had the best night sleep I’ve ever had at a festival. Staying in bed to the extremely late hour of 1  P.M. I finally unzipped my tent to a surprise: Where yesterday there was a field, I was now camped uphill from a LAKE! Not just a little puddle mind you, but a nipple deep lake. As I stood bewildered at this change in topography I heard what was soon to become a familiar sound, the sound of Pete and his tractor, coming to the aid of motorists stranded in the mud. I can’t heap enough praise on Pete and his crew for their efforts. I wonder how many music festival promoters would spend their entire weekend  working so tirelessly to keep the show going. The hills I had crested on the way in had filled in and we had become our own island nation, sovereign in our determination to let the show go on. As I stood at the edge of the new formed lake wondering how to get myself and my camera gear across, up roared Pete, beckoning me to join him on his tractor to ford the imposing bottle of water.  After gathering all that could cling to the tractor, we started across, and I took the opportunity to ask a few questions from the man himself. After being assured of our safety and ability to get out if needed, I asked the most important question, “Would the bands still be able to get in (especially Cornmeal, my faves)   Cornmeal has played the festival many years running and forged a bond with Pete and his family, and Pete assured me That Cornmeal would be there”Come hell or high water”  We both realized the hilariousness timing of his comment while crossing Lake Terrapin and shared a hearty laugh. Deposited securely on the other side, I thanked my host and joined the other die hard music fans for the days jams.                                   

                                                                    
 Mc Sparkplug , had taken the stage and were doing their best to entertain the kids, who were obviously loving being covered in mud.  Born Cross Eyed and The Rudies continued the party, with a jammin Green Genes chaser.

     Wading through knee deep mud to the reopened Chapel stage I got to see Cornmeal arrive, precariously balanced on a trailer bed being towed by the ubiquitous Pete and his tractor. Despite the weather, and the light being reduced to a bank of white spotlights shining directly in their faces, Cornmeal did what they always do, rewarding the faithful and converting the uninitiated with the psychedelic bluegrass majesty. Not letting anything stop them, they came through with a set made all the more impressive by it’s degree of difficulty. Following them was the center piece of the weekend, a funky combination of Legendary Meter members George Porter, Jr. and Leo Nocentelli along with organist supreme Bernie Worrel and the fabulous Adam Deitch on the skins. As the strains of “Fire on the Bayou” and “Sissy Strut” emanated from the stage, the hill became a muddy writhing mass of humanity, rejoined with the mud from whence we came. With my soul sufficiently rocked I began my trek back to camp, with visions of crossing the lake on foot dancing through my mind, knowing that my water proof pants were good, but not that good, when I was amazed to discover that the waters had receded, and that we were again a part of the mainland.     The skies cleared and I spent a long time pondering the night sky, free from the glare off the city lights. The party that broke out as I shot my night pix will stand out forever in my mind as one of the best!

     The next morning I made a decision and a phone call I had been dreading. I had set u an interview with Cornmeal, which was now going to have to be delayed due to weather, and had hired a friend of mine, Amber Sigman, a real photographer( not an inmaginary one like myself) to come and shoot the proceedings. I rang her and gave her the bad news of the mudslides and impassibility, and the disappointment in her voice mirrored my own, as it would have been nice to have a true professional there to observe and learn from. Boy, if you lived in the Louisville,Ky area and needed a photographer, Amber, would be the smartest choice available. (Please forgive the obvious plub, but she has a hostage!)

Cornmeal took the Chapel stage for one last set of the creamy, mud covered goodness. All who remained came out, with suddenly clear blue skies as the backdrop, we danced in the mud one last time, whirling in time to the sweet sounds of Cornmeal, as even our host stopped his Herculean towing efforts to take time to dance with his wife, bootscootin’ on the earth he normally tilled to provide a bounty for our bodies, now converted to provide a bounty for our souls.   I wish I was a better writer, so that I could more accurately convey the sense of camaraderie that was present all weekend, as we were all in it together, or the love that the crowd was heaping on our hosts. No complaints about the weather, just acceptance and love. That’s pretty much a dream come true if you ask me. And, if you were to ask me if I’ll be at any party Pete and His beautiful family choose to throw in the future, my answer will be a simple “Come hell or high water!”

     

Words and pictures by the watertight Rex Thomson