All through September I kept having the feeling that summer couldn’t possibly be over yet. There were a few things that didn’t happen; things that make summer feel complete. This was the first time in the fourteen years that we’ve owned our skiff that we never launched it, which if you live in Homer just seems crazy. We also never hosted a salmon/halibut barbeque with a campfire. Incomplete as it may seem without those aspects of summer, the even bigger hole in the season comes from the fact that this year there was no Fiddle Camp. And I really, really missed it.
In 2005 when I first attended Fiddle Camp I had taken a few Suzuki lessons and had picked out a few Irish tunes on my violin. I knew I loved playing, but didn’t really have much direction, so on my first day of camp I signed up for an Irish fiddle class, a very basic bluegrass workshop and a “how to play in a band” workshop. At the end of the day I was happy enough, I had been challenged and had plenty to work on, but then something happened that night. I witnessed an old-time fiddle jam that changed everything.
It was music different than anything I’d ever witnessed. Someone would call a tune and the whole group started to play. Nobody soloed, nobody tried to outdo the next person; everyone just played the same tune together, for a long time. I noticed that after the first five or so times through a tune there was a shift in energy, it became almost meditative for the players, and the music seemed to take on a life of its own. The melody of each tune stayed true throughout, but the driving force was the rhythm. It’s difficult to for me to describe an old time jam, but the word “tribal” comes to mind whenever I try.
The next morning I rearranged my schedule to old-time fiddle 1, old-time fiddle 2, clawhammer banjo (even though I’d never held a banjo in my life) and Appalachian singing. My teachers were Kirk Sutphin and Riley Baugus, so it’s safe to say I had a pretty amazing introduction to the genre.
I’ve been hooked on old-time music ever since. I play whenever I can; at home, with friends in town, and at festivals. But it’s not quite the same as being at camp. Where else can I immerse myself in music for an entire week, share meals and stay up until all hours of the night with friends who share my passion?
And really it’s as much about the friends as it is about the music. I’ve gotten used to seeing certain people every August and I missed them this year. I missed singing hits from the eighties with Travis. I missed hearing Eamon sing Irish ballads (and the Bee Gees) at two in the morning. I missed Jay and Brian’s witty banter. I missed everyone and the whole scene, especially the poignancy of Saturday night when nobody wants to go to bed because we all know it will be a whole year before we’re all together again.
Here’s hoping that Alaska Traditional Music Camp (Fiddle camp for short) will come together again someday. My summer just wasn’t quite the same without it. But even if it’s over, even if I have to get my music fix some other way in summers to come, I’m thankful to have been a part of it for the past five years.
Lofty Minded in Alaska 