Photo by Madeline Harvey.
As I navigate Route 67 south towards Marfa, TX, en route to the 8th annual Trans-Pecos Festival of Music + Love, the mountains grow more jagged, the plains reach further to the horizon, and the skies fill with darker clouds. For a minute I think I’ve been transported into some live-action Land Before Time set. “All Hail West Texas,” said John Darnielle, and he was right. Rounding each bend of the two-lane highway covered in a light rain, I turn off the cruise control, feeling the road and my increased adrenaline as I approach my seven hour destination. For those who haven’t seen the town, it’s truly that–a whistle-stop, situated in the southwest high plains of the Chihuahua Desert. The town’s ~2000 permanent residents are highly isolated from the conveniences of a large city. The isolation only serves to highlight the glorious communion of Music + Love at the Trans-Pecos festival hosted at Liz Lambert’s El Cosmico.
Photo by Madeline Harvey.
Parking our rental car, my co-correspondent and myself assemble our camping supplies and traverse the mud-puddled parking lot to check in and claim a dry camp site. Situated right about in the middle of the campgrounds, tee-pees and “scout tents” are to the west, the stage to the north, the sunrise to the east, and the main El Cosmico HQs to the south. Convenient walkways are illuminated with low, yellowed lights directing us and the rest of the festival-goers to the different attractions. In the main stage area, Jo’s Coffee (also a Lambert enterprise) has a M*A*S*H* style tent serving their classic Turbos and Bombers, keeping the patrons awake and refueling them each morning. Also in the main circle is a photobooth and official merch tent where one might see their favorite musicians selling posters and tee-shirts following a performance. Further along are smaller boutique tents selling varieties of vintage and repurposed clothing, even a patch booth where young ladies, including Austin’s own Dana Falconberry are hard at work using vintage sewing machines to sew custom patches on your fine denim goods. Food vendors round out the tent selection.
Photo by Madeline Harvey.
As we put our stakes in the ground, local Austin group Mother Falcon kicks off the festival. We put the finishing touches on the campsite and secure the rainflies and Mother Falcon finishes before we get a chance to see the set. We kick back in our camp chairs and crack a few cold ones as Gaby Moreno soundchecks. The festival is a blend of new and repeat performers of varying degrees of fame. Moreno for example, is a Guatemalan critically-acclaimed artist winning Latin Grammy awards with obvious loads of talent, but is probably not a household name here in the US. Why? I don’t know, seeing as her bluesy croon in both English and Spanish competes exceptionally well with the Canadian-Pacific locomotive that rambles on the outskirts of town, rearing its horn in a brazen display, the ground still muddy from the afternoon rain. Her songs in Spanish are particularly strong when she pairs herself with guest guitarist David Garza. Their final song is an improvised rendition giving us a viscerally emotive performance.
As the sky grows darker there is Bill Callahan. He’s got the beat. Bill Callahan takes the stage. He’s got his green guitar and speak-sings us a set of songs that call to mind beat poets and OG hipsters. On stage wearing a light flannel with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into his khakis, his face hardly twists lest he crack the stonewalling beat-swagger delivery he has developed over the past 20+ years. Beginning as a noise artist using “Smog” as a moniker, Callahan has developed his sound to include a folkier, more artistically-Dylan-esque persona, commenting on the human condition particularly as it relates to our contemporary society as a whole. His dead delivery is dead-on. He is so oppressed, so beat, that he delivers with as much vigor as he can possibly muster. Alas, it is too much and heaviness is strong in the wake. Accompanied only by another guitarist, Callahan’s (mostly) solo delivery allows him to explore rhythms and strumming patterns seemingly at will, as if he’s making it up as he goes, as if he doesn’t care for pretenses, as if they don’t matter and he splays himself out, khakis and all, all for us to watch as he sings: “America/You are so grand and gold, golden/Oh I wish I was deep in America tonight.” The solo performer drives the car and is solely responsible for where we end up, He is the bus driver who chooses from a million different directions and chooses this one. Vibing and feeding from the setting sun and desert clouds, he throws them at our feet, screaming for us to pick them up and do a portion of the work. He drives the bus but we pick up the pieces and assemble them, yielding a personal connection fulfilling our collective joy. He is deep in America, and we are steeped in America: “If you could only stop your heart/If you could only stop your heartbeat/if you could only stop your heartbeat for just one heartbeat.”
There’s a break after Bill Callahan and your PPI correspondents refuel (get a beer) at camp before the Heartless Bastards get on stage to finish the first night. They’re obvious pros, mixing new and old songs, demonstrating why they’re hometown favorites. Extended jamming gives the band an opportunity to show off some incredibly synched-up rhythm while lead guitarist Mark Nathan sprinkles the gloss on top. Erika Wennerstrom’s voice is a thing to behold with all its grit and muscle. She coaxes and pleads with the audience and we abide. They finish their encore and the night comes to a close as we make our way to the tents, finishing our beers and conversations before getting cozy in our sleeping bags. Thursday night is cold and wet; a thunderstorm keeps me awake for a good portion of the night, but my tent keeps the water out and I wake up with a hot Americano (extra shot).
Come back to visit, as coverage of the festival will continue tomorrow. Select any of the photos below to open in slideshow viewer. All photos © Madeline Harvey & Pop Press International.
