`NOT A HILL TO DIE ON'
A look at the effects of a second year without folk fest to enrich our lives
Edmonton Folk Music Festival producer Terry Wickham hangs out at the top of the Gallagher Park hill, a favourite spot for thousands of folk music fans during the popular festival. The folk fest has been cancelled again due to the COVID-19 pandemic.
Walk along Gallagher Park hill and you'll hear few familiar sounds: honking geese; teeny-screamy jungle gym climbers; a bit of Edmonton construction noise — and, of course, the squish of wet shoes through the melting ski slopes.
But music? Well, depends on what you have in the ear buds, partner. And so goes the foreseeable future, no matter what you'd rather.
In a bummer new tradition, the Edmonton Folk Music Festival pandemic-pulled the plug on this year's Aug. 5-8 event Monday morning — notably a week earlier than they did in 2020.
It's another cultural body blow because, reliably, this little concert bowl is a magical place for so many: a village entirely dedicated to art and expression. Collectively and individually — in polyrhythmic trance or a little bit inebriated — it's the city's largest music juggernaut, which by sheer gravity alone means everyone has opinions about it.
The now two-year blip can't easily be quantified or qualified, as every summer four times more people than the new arena can fit click into the province's largest secular church — complete with ritual, hymn and candle — night after night, year after year, back four memory-filled decades.
The scenes played out here on the slope are cartoonishly familiar: hula hoops spinning in the night on stage right; southern accents in the weekend sun apologizing for whichever old man is ruining the world that year; new parents sneaking a contraband puff in the beer garden; lanterns tracing along the perimeter, some heading toward the stars.
And echoing down to the river and up to the sky, we've heard Buffy Sainte Marie bless the downtrodden, Bruce Cockburn get a crowd so quiet with his fingerpicking you could hear a rocket drop, John Prine — who COVID-19 ripped away from the world last spring — tell dirty jokes, and Chris Isaak short-circuit the barriers between performer and audience, running up that hill in his pink suit.
You'll have your own imprints, surely.
Thing is, though, despite keeping his fingers crossed about 2021, festival producer (and father of an epidemiologist) Terry Wickham saw 2021's possible cancellation early last year.
When I talked to him then, he'd run the numbers and thought crowd hesitation alone might be enough to tip 2021's tenuous into terminal — never mind if enough of us were somehow, improbably vaccinated.
A year later, he agrees the second skip is no surprise. “No, not at all. But it was an easy enough decision. “Sad. But easy.”
He spells it out, explaining, “You can't ask volunteers to stand at a gate, meet thousands of people coming in, check their bags and then go home to their families.
“And the big thing is, social distancing isn't possible at our festival.”
Wickham said, in a conference call with AHS and other festival directors, porta-potties weren't going to be allowed.
“That draws a picture,” he chuckles. “What are we going to do there?”
He lists the festival's realities: school buses; a 4,000-person beer tent; congregate dining for 3,000; parties for 1,500 — all of which would have to be dismantled and scrubbed.
“So not until everyone's fully vaccinated — and I mean fully vaccinated, not just one dose.
“The quote I like from one of our staff: Gallagher Park — not a hill to die on.”
Which bring us to 2022.
“Well, I hope we're OK for next year,” he says. “What I foresee is, variants will increase — and we'll probably need booster shots next year.
“But, I do think we can come back next year. I feel pretty strongly about that.”
For the record, the non-profit has managed to hold the financial line.
“All the decisions we made in the last 30 years have come back to benefit us. We bought our own (office) building, we bought into a warehouse, we have an endowment fund that gives us $120,000 a year.
“We have a surplus, 20 per cent of our annual operating budget.”
Cost-wise, the fest has about eight or nine person-years' equivalent of paycheques, and, of course, it's also not spending the usual money bringing in acts from all over the world.
Wickham's thankful the governments have kept their funding promises, so it's all ready to go when the gates open up again.
As for economic impact on the 30-plus vendors, Wickham estimates a typical booth does $20,000 — $30,000 worth of business — subtract their costs from that.
Last August, to capture an echo, the festival encouraged us to watch a Fava-produced documentary and order from a list of supplied food vendors, who saw an uptick.
And like 2020, the fest will link to the crafters online, which brought in about $35,000.
But it's the cultural impact most people will notice.
When I posted the announcement on social media, most reactions were some cousin of `bad news, but I get it.'
“For the folk community, it's a huge loss,” says the producer. “But overall, the reaction coming in has been positive.”
He says there's an outside chance by August, if gatherings of 250 are allowed, they could try for smaller, spinoff events under the banner — probably with local and regional artists.
“But I'm not going to look for exemptions. AHS is under enough pressure without everybody coming at them,” he explains.
“I just don't want to be responsible for a superspreader event,” he adds.
As a booker, he sees a number of possible changes to the festival ecosystem in the next couple years. “I'm expecting a lot of older artists will have retired. Will older people just stick close to home?” He thinks so.
What borders will be open remains to be seen, but “even if we can't bring African and European bands, there's enough musical diversity in the musical firmament between our two countries,” the U.S. and Canada, “we can put together a really good festival.
“And if we get smaller, a lot of people would like that, actually,” he laughs. “If it happens, three-quarters of a job is better than none.”
More positives: “The LRT should be running next year. And the beer tent should be open — you'll be able to carry your beer around to different stages — this was planned for 2020.”
Overall, though, it's just that same ol' waiting game.
“Personally, I miss it more than I know. The old adage of the show must go on — sometimes it just doesn't apply. We really appreciate your patience. Next year, we hope you'll come back and bring a friend.
“So,” Wickham says, “we're not in a panic.
“Just bored.”