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Magic Is Real: Pickathon 2014
By: Asher Alexander
I love Pickathon. That’s probably the biggest understatement I could possibly write. In truth, there aren’t adequate words in English, or any other language, that can describe my affection for and connection to the magic that transpires on Pendarvis Farm each year on the first full weekend of August. There is also no amount too large of flowery praise and superlatives I could heap upon this festival that would ever in a million years even come close to hyperbole. I know it sounds fantastic, but Pickathon is very special, it’s more than a festival. From the line-up, which is always so diverse and exciting that you look forward to the artists you’ve never heard before as much as the groups you already know and love, to a setting that always seems to produce true musical transcendence at a higher level than anywhere else I’ve ever experienced live music. And finally, to the amazing friends, with whom I get to share some of the best times I’ve ever had — Pickathon is absolutely one of a kind.
One of the many features that sets Pickathon apart from every other festival is the camping. When most folks picture camping at a festival, images of harsh sun-bleached fields covered with tents and vehicles packed in like sardines, full of wasted teenagers making all manner of noise at all hours of the night, usually comes to mind. Every year at Pickathon campers turn beautiful acres of shaded, hilly woods into a tent filled Brigadoon for just a weekend. Don’t get me wrong, my friends and I, and many other folks, stay up late and party each night, but the camping area remains the most chill and respectful festival camping situation I’ve ever seen. When the music is over at Pickathon, people aren’t herded out of the concert fields and back to their tents. The farm is pretty much turned over to everyone and the entirety of the festival grounds are ours to roam and play in all night long.
Some of my all time favorite Pickathon moments have happened out amongst the trees, tents and revelers after the music has officially ended. Three years ago I threw an impromptu pizza party at 3 or 4 AM for all my friends and everyone who still gathered in the field by the main stage. Last year Marco Benevento played a surprise set at the Pumphouse that began around 2 AM and ended sometime just before sunrise. So many memorable late nights/early mornings have been spent singing old John Prine songs and having generally the best time ever while sitting under the breathing fabric ceiling by the main stage or at a campsite deep in the woods. Last year my good friend Gregg and I insisted on serenading everyone who was still assembled at the Brew Crew Camp at about 8 AM Monday morning with “Goodnight Irene.” It was finally time to turn in and to our shock, none of the remaining pickers knew the tune — isn’t “Goodnight Irene” the first song everybody learns?
This year, there was certainly no shortage of late night/early morning magic. Personally, my late nights at Pickathon usually follow the same formula each year: 2-4-6-8. That is, I stay up until about 2 AM on Thursday, 4 AM on Friday, 6 AM on Saturday and 8 AM on Sunday. This isn’t intentional, but it always seems to work out that way. I head to the farm early on Thursday to get a good spot for my VW camper van. The same spot along the tree line where I’ve camped for the last 3 years. The trees keep my van shaded until about 10:30 AM, so no matter how late I stay up, I’m always able to get some sleep. My van has become essential to my Pickathon experience. I love camping and I love festivals, but I’m way too old and too much of a light sleeper to get any quality rest in a tent. And I’m not the only one. The car camping area is always full of VW’s. So much so that it looks like it could be a Westy cruise-in. I think we should all have van club jackets covered in patches for all the rallies or festivals we’ve been to.
Another pretty obvious reason for going in early on Thursday–who wouldn’t want to tack another day of fun onto what is always the highlight of the year and annual “Best Weekend Ever.” This year I saw more folks out early on Thursday than I’d ever seen. I spent Thursday night chillin’ with my good friends from Brew Dr. Kombucha. They are one of the vendors at the festival and over the years they’ve become some of my favorite members of my Pickathon family. Not only do they make a killer beverage but they are some of the greatest all around dudes ever. It’s an honor and a privilege to get to hang out with them each year. They always have a large group camp site that’s a perfect place to chill late night, stop by while traveling from the Woods stage to the main stage or if I need a place to beat the heat during the day between sets.
Friday night’s post music adventures were mellow by necessity. I’m 35. I probably haven’t been in a mosh pit in 20 years. But when Diarrhea Planet whipped the occupants of the Galaxy Barn into a frenzy, my friends and I made sure we were right in the thick of it. It was absolutely bonkers! After leaving the sauna of the Barn, dripping with sweat and the sweat of everyone else inside we were exhausted and needed quite a while to cool down, even in the 2 AM air. All the late night called for after that was some easy strolling through the gently lit paths of the woods. My friend Angela and I just moseyed from jam session to jam session. People were picking on the hay bales by the Woods Stage, in their campsites and in one case right in the middle of a path deep in the woods. Someone (or possibly a bear) in a tent no more than a foot away from the players and assembled listeners obliviously kept time with the music, with possibly the loudest snoring I’ve ever heard. They certainly didn’t need the comforts of a camper van to get a good night’s sleep.
The last set in the Galaxy Barn each night usually sets the tone for the rest of the evening. Saturday night’s Marco Benevento fueled dance party was no exception. After years of hearing me preach about the wonders of Pickathon, a bunch of old friends of mine finally came out for the day. Possibly just to shut me up. But after seeing them all bouncing around the Barn as Marco played a cockeyed, spaced out version of “Jump Into the Fire” by Harry Nilsson, I was sure that they “got it” and had their very first taste of Pickathon late night fun. Afterwards we all went to relax at my van. It’s not just a place to sleep, but also makes a pretty good mobile living room. Once all of those day trippers headed home, my fellow weekend warriors and I knew what the next stop on the evenings journey needed to be: The Pumphouse.
The Pumphouse is Pickathon’s best-worst kept secret. A small structure, big enough for a band to play inside, nestled in a clearing encircled by christmas lights and outfitted with some comfy couches and usually a keg or 2. It’s not on any maps and what goes on there isn’t advertised. You just have to know someone who knows where it is or have the good fortune to stumble upon it yourself. During the day, bands play special sessions for KEXP Live & Breathing. You usually need a backstage wristband to get in. But at night the rules get a little looser and it becomes the hub of Pickathon late night activity.
Once we arrived at the Pumphouse Saturday night things were already in full swing. There was plenty of music being made. A fellow and I traded sad country songs by Gram Parsons, Townes and George Jones, but I have an awful memory and all the lyrics to every song I’ve ever known are just a jumble in my brain. It turned out that neither of us could remember more than a verse or two and the choruses of the tunes we wanted to sing. I ran into plenty of friends and made plenty of new ones. Whiskey was consumed. There was a lot of talk about what everyone had seen that day and who they were excited to see next. It was a fantastic party. It just happened to be in the middle of the woods.
The night grew longer and we could see the morning light come creeping through the trees. A group of friends and I resolved to stroll back to camp. While everyone else was distracted by some pickers on the path, I grabbed a gal that I had been hanging out with that evening and said “Follow me. You’re gonna want to see this!” I lead us down a path to the edge of the trees. Once we broke through the tree line we were treated to the most beautiful sunrise I think either of us had ever seen. We laid down at the top of the hill by the main stage and watched the dim morning rays, growing brighter and stronger by the minute, all filtered through the crisscross patterns of the fabric diamonds that hung in the sky. It was Sunday morning. So, to complete the picture perfect scene, I dialed up “Sunday Morning” by The Velvet Underground on my phone (what did people do before Spotify?!). As we listened to Lou Reed’s mellow baritone and marveled at the unfolding dawn we knew we were witnessing a special moment of Pickathon magic.
I always think that Saturday nights shenanigans might be hard to top. But one of the things I’ve learned is to never doubt Pickathon’s ability to raise its own bar. Sunday being the final night, everybody always steps their game up, eager to wring the last drops of fun out of an already epic weekend. Sunday night at the Pumphouse was probably the ultimate highlight, at least for everyone who was there. For me, the scene truly symbolized what Pickathon is all about. Mac Demarco and the guys in his band were leading everyone in a late night sing along of 90’s radio jams like Michael Jackson’s “Man In The Mirror,” Weezer’s “Sweater Song” and “Waterfalls” by T.L.C. And it really felt like everyone. There was Shakey Graves, his drummer, the guys from Parquet Courts, the gals from Warpaint, and everyone, and me. All hanging out together, singing together, laughing together. The lines between performer, volunteer and attendee were completely blurred. I think that’s one of the main thing that the folks behind Pickathon are going for. The scene Sunday night at the Pumphouse was proof that they’re succeeding probably beyond their wildest dreams.
As Sunday night melted into Monday morning we finally parted ways with the last few folks gathered at the Pumphouse. It was time to head back to camp, then back to sleep and finally, sadly back to the real world. But Pickathon wasn’t quite done with us yet. We made one last visit to Brew Camp, where there is always a raging Sunday night party. We stopped to chat with some of the last few stragglers who were still awake at a time when many folks were just waking up. Then at 7:30 in the morning something happened that sounds so fantastical I might not believe it were I not there myself or anywhere other than Pickathon. Sherry Pendarvis, owner of the farm, founder of the feast, came riding by on a white horse thanking everybody for coming. Now I am positive that sort of thing doesn’t happen at any other festival.
You don’t have to stay up socializing and reveling all night like I do to have a good time at Pickathon. I know plenty of folks who turn in when the music ends each night and still have the best weekend ever. There is no right or wrong way to experience Pickathon. As long as you’re there with an open heart and mind, the music, community, vibe and spirit will eventually burrow it’s way deep in your soul and there’s a pretty good chance you’ll learn what my friends and I know–I know magic is real because I’ve been to Pickathon.
(Photography by Asher Alexander)
Requited Love: Pickathon 2014
By: Lauren Jahoda
The praise I have for Pickathon is boundless and can only be exceeded by the experience they have given me as a festival-goer. Pickathon prevails among its fellow festivals by lifting the distinction between owner, performer, volunteer and patron and designing an event that guarantees each of their attendees an equally rewarding experience. While I was at the merch table, buying my two-year-old niece a Pickathon-stamped tee (so that she could spread the word of Pickathon all the way to the parks and playgrounds of the East coast), I met a Portlander, originally from Pennsylvania. As he and I relished in our discussion of our favorite performances “so far”, and the anticipation of the acts to come, he expressed one of the best descriptions of the festival that I had the pleasure of hearing:
“You know the feeling of putting 100% effort into something, only to receive half or even just a quarter of that back? Well, with Pickathon, the return is exponential.”
I first began to realize that I was in for an uncommon festival experience when I was one of only five people on the school bus shuttled from the Clackamas Town Center to Pickathon on Happy Valley’s Pendarvis Farm. I am aware that many camp and some drive, and while this may not be the most profound clue, my past festival-going experiences usually entail the competitive “If we want to get a good spot…!” mentality and the anxiety-ridden strategizing in order to avoid swarming crowds and long lines. We arrived at the farm and the easiness carried through every step of the way. Registration/Check-in, no line. Entrance, no-line. It was all very inviting. In fact, I had so much freedom that I found I needed a little direction once I passed through the yellow fabric gates. It’s very obvious that this freedom to wander is not only allowed, it’s highly encouraged. Unsure of which direction to head, I wandered to the right towards the Pendarvis house, as I noticed several women gathered at the right corner of the porch harmonizing, with the pluck of a banjo here and there, as if to be practicing for an upcoming performance. I listened and captured a couple of photos of the home and the red tractor that sits out front, labeled “Pendarvis Farm”—the lettering, since having ventured all the way from New York, confirmed a personal accomplishment—I had officially made it.
Here, the confines of designated press areas, audience areas, backstage-only areas, staff-only areas and artists trailers just aren’t necessary. After drifting as far right as possible, I turned around and headed left. I eventually greeted a pair of volunteers at the first checkpoint and asked for some recommendations on where to head first. One of the young women rose without hesitation and led me to the nearest large board map (no print-outs to reduce waste) and spent at least 10 minutes looking over and discussing some of the history of the festival grounds with me.
The festival began in 1999 as a rather small gathering at Horning’s Hideout in Portland, which after seven years, became unsuitable in size for the audience they were attracting. They then moved to the present festival grounds of Pendarvis Farm, situated on 80-acres and privately-owned by Scott and Sherry Pendarvis, who for a long time had been hosting local festival jams for incoming musicians and the surrounding community. Without even having met the pair, it’s obvious that the rare and ultra-positive spirit of Pickathon is largely due to Scott and Sherry’s involvement. Just prior to Robbie Fulk’s performance in the Lucky Barn, I noticed a laminated message posted to the porch side of the building. The notice contained rules, guidelines and humble advice about time spent while on the farm, directly from the owners themselves, along with their cell phone numbers, should you need to reach them.
“’People have always described [the farm] as having a cyclone of creative energy swirling around it,’ Sherry says. ‘It sounds very hippie and woo-woo, but that’s what people have said so many times. But I know that when I first moved here that I was feeling this sense of history.’ She continues, ‘I try to think of the farm as a canvas for possibility.’” (Hillary Saunders, Paste Magazine).
The festival contains 6 stages: Mountain View, Fir Meadows, Galaxy Barn, Woods, Starlight, Lucky Barn (formerly the Workshop Barn) and the Tree Line Stage. Each has its own ambience and flavor, and is as extraordinary as the next. With 6 stages and 50+ performers, each as attractive as the others, Pickathon designs a schedule during which each artist performs twice throughout the weekend. Rather than having to leave half way through The Sadies to catch the last ten minutes of Nickel Creek, you can remain seated (or standing) and make less sacrifices when ranking your must-see bands, with a better chance to discover someone new. To top it off however, if you do have the opportunity and availability to see the same band twice, you most definitely should, because you will experience two very different performances–each on a different stage. The Blind Pilot you get on the Mountain View Stage will be a completely different adventure than the Blind Pilot you get on the Woods Stage.
The first stage I visited (once I figured out how to get there upon my arrival on Friday morning), was the Woods Stage. Photographs I had previously seen of this stage alone, are what prompted my discovery and following of Pickathon several years ago. I headed straight for the woods, while frequently catching overwhelming views of everything along the way, and fighting the urge to interrupt my mission to meet the idyllic woods before all else; this inaugural mission was necessary, as for me, it marked the point of transition from being a remote spectator, viewing the picturesque scene on the screen of my laptop miles away in NY, to a traveler, just steps away from the oh-so tangible forest that lied ahead of me. It was incredibly hot that day, but as I entered the woods I instantly cooled under the shade amidst the aromatic soil and lush foliage. I felt calmed by the ethereal atmosphere of the woods, the multicolored fabric balloons propelled in the air and the comfort of walking in an enormous shared living space.
For those of you who were fans of Fern Gully as a kid, the Pickathon woods are as close as it gets. So much so that, before, during and after the festival, the Pickathon team marked all their media with the hashtag “#notadream,” assuring their audience that as magical and unbelievable as it may be, Pickathon was and is, in fact, wonderfully real.
Over the next several days, I will be posting reviews and photos of some of my favorite performances at the festival, and the tales of a Pickathon camper. Until then, please enjoy our photos from the weekend and be prepared to fall in love over and over again.
(Photography by Lauren Jahoda)
HEARTSTRINGS MAGAZINE 