What’s it like to run Folk Fest? Find out.
Journal writers are following three Folk Fest players for a day. Fish Griwkowsky hung out with kitchen manager Stephane Levesque on Thursday. Today, Elizabeth Withey spends time with producer Terry Wickham. The last instalment will see Amanda Ash with Edm
Forty years ago, Terry Wickham was hauling furniture around a Leon’s warehouse in London, Ont. He was 18 years old, and it was his first job in Canada. The gabby Dubliner has come a fair ways since.
He is the producer of the Edmonton Folk Music Festival, a job he’s been doing since 1989. Things heat up during the annual music festival in Gallagher Park. Wickham, 58, rarely sits still during the festival; all day long he’s troubleshooting — “putting out small fires,” as he puts it.
It’s the kind of work that would stress some to tears, but Wickham exudes a genuine calm and good cheer that’s contagious among festival staff and volunteers. Sure, it pays the bills. But you can tell, this is Wickham’s calling. In Gallagher Park, he is home. 9 a.m.: Terry chews the fat with Scottish folksinger Dick Gaughan, who is smoking outside the Westin Hotel. The topic of conversation is Michael Franti. According to Terry, the ‘a’ in Franti is pronounced ‘awe.’
“The first time I took rap music seriously was because of him,” says Gaughan, an affable fellow with very long fingernails. The Westin is where all the Folk Fest artists stay.
“My phone’s very quiet so I’m guessing everything’s OK,” Terry says, hands tucked in the front pockets of his baggy jeans. 9:20 a.m.: Terry stops in at “Hotel Hospitality,” where artists can pick up their packages and hang out. Volunteers buzz around the room, which is decorated with fairy lights and helium Welcome balloons. Shuttle van keys are stuck on a white board with suction cups.
When Terry took over as producer in 1989, the festival was $60,000 in debt “and we hadn’t paid our T-shirt supplier or our travel agent or the hotel.” 9:45 a.m.: Terry embraces his sisters, Anne and Claire. One lives in Massachusetts, the other Oakville, Ont. They’re here to enjoy the festival and to take care of their father, Terry Sr., 92, who’s been coming to Folk Fest for more than 15 years, with the exception of 2012, when he got shingles. 9:55 a.m.: “If I stay here I’ll be hugged out by six o’clock,” Terry says as he sneaks out the back of the hotel.
He’s got rock star parking just off Jasper Avenue (a meter has been covered up just for him). 10:20 a.m.: Terry’s cellphone rings frequently while he does a walking tour of Gallagher Park, checking for safety hazards. His ring tone is the Bad to the Bone piano riff. 10:40 a.m.: There’s a chorus of “Hi Terrys” as the festival producer wanders through the kitchen facilities, which feed 3,000 volunteers and musicians each day of the festival. Chicken korma is on the menu for supper Thursday. 11:15 a.m.: At the Folk Fest offices in Rossdale, Terry’s doing a phone interview about tickets for seniors. This is the first year the festival is charging entry to people over 65. A reporter wants to know if they’re checking ID.
“If someone’s 26 and walking around with a fake limp and false beard, we might stop them,” Terry says into his cell while checking email. Trinkets line the edge of his desk: Pope John Paul II snow globe, hackysack, wooden Pinocchio with a miniature whiskey bottle for a nose.
11:30 a.m.: Terry’s wife, Lorie Miseck, arrives. She works for the festival too, and the couple shares an office.
“It’s learning to shut it off at home, so we have a home life,” Lorie says. 12:45 p.m.: Back at the festival site, Terry eats lunch with other volunteers. He cleans his plate except for two black olives, then helps himself to a second dessert. “Dunno what it is. Tastes good though.” 1 p.m.: The left signal light is stuck on as Terry drives along River Valley Road. From his pocket he pulls out the chestnut he found. Chestnuts aren’t common in Edmonton, so Terry figures this one’s lucky. He plans to keep it with him throughout the festival. 1:05 p.m.: “MAEVE?” Terry’s at his house in Groat Estates, calling his daughter’s name. Maeve is not home, nor are the dogs, Winnie and Blue, who go to doggie daycare during the festival. Terry and family stay at the Westin all weekend. “I always bring lots of changes of socks. I walk a lot.” 1:15 p.m.: Liquor run. Terry likes to pick up a few bottles to leave as thank-you gifts in some hotel rooms. “I’ve taken a liking to full-bodied Australians.” 1:30 p.m.: Singer L.P. is playing on the car stereo. She’s on the mainstage Saturday night. Terry’s telling jokes. “How come there’s no accordions on Star Trek? Because it’s set in the future.” 2:45 p.m.: Terry’s wearing clean socks. He has checked into the hotel and is now back at Gallagher Park. Bad to the Bone — the phone again. 3:10 p.m.: CBC radio host Portia Clark is doing a live interview with Terry on Stage 7. Bad to the Bone goes off while he’s talking. It goes off again. A third time. The third time, Terry lets it ring. 3:45 p.m.: Quick visit to the sound booth. Terry visits with Clive Alcock, who’s been the sound man at Folk Fest for 30 years, then he’s off.
The producer walks fast, has a faint limp. He’s had a right hip replacement, but now his left hip is troubling him. Looking at his sneakers, you’d never be able to tell Terry was born with a club foot. One foot is still two-and-a-half sizes larger than the other. 4 p.m.: Back in the office, Terry replies to emails for five minutes before darting up to the Westin for a sponsors’ event, where he will give a short speech. 7 p.m.: Terry gabs over beer with his sisters, dad and friends in the green room.
“Kim, what’s the hardest thing to say in Danish?” he asks a guy sitting across the table. “RØD GRØD MED FLØDE,” replies the Dane. Everyone laughs. (It means “red porridge with cream.”) Terry darts off to catch part of Ruthie Foster’s set. 8:50 p.m.: Terry sits along the side of the mainstage watching Charles Bradley. The festival producer is in his stocking feet on the grass. “The feet get sore.” 10:20 p.m. Feist is on stage. The sun has set, and the evening air is crisp. You can see Terry’s breath as he talks. “I made a concerted attempt to get rock fans to like folk music.” He smiles. His eyes are two different colours: one hazel, one bluish-green. He’s put on a stripey old sweater riddled with large holes. “I like it’s ’cause it’s colourful. It’s been like this for 10 years,” he says, pointing at a spot that’s unravelling along the elbow. 2:15 a.m.: Terry’s head hits the pillow at the Westin after one last pint of Traditional with friends.