The village Voice has an fun and excellent point making article about freak folk, and the brooklynites who love it... (i love alot of it too, more the No-neck /sunburned/ six organs side, not so much the Devendras and the Danielsons, though i do like the Thompsons... not the twins, but Richard and Linda, and the fairport sound... anyway...)
I've always thought it interesting that the majority of the folkers now adays are coming out of the city, but as i've looked back - for that matter i guess it's always been that way, iron and wine came out of, what Miami florida? and for that matter, The Band, who wrote songs like, up on cripple creek, and the night they drove old dixie down, were... from, what, Toronto or Vancouver (either way they were Canadians...)? CCR... Los Angeles... etc.
Seems like the realities of the people, places, and things that inspire us often tend to leave us less contented than the fantasies themselves... unless of course you're Toby Keith or Lynyrd Skynyrd (as if Toby Keith spends anytime at all livin' the country life... douchebag.)
"Well, I explained, there's this art-farm place down the road in Acra, and they're having an overnight . . . folk . . . show. I didn't want to get into it, really, assuming Brian and Betty probably wouldn't care much about "freak folk" or know much about Free103point9, a somewhat specious if totally well-meaning nonprofit arts organization that had invited eight or so bands, many of them from Brooklyn, to upstate New York for an idyllic mid-July weekend of performance and communion called Campfire Sounds 2006.
"S'cool," Brian replied.Most of the actual crowd—also primarily Brooklynites interested in getting drunk on a different lawn—camped in the meadow. Nothing against that meadow, but it was obvious that while most had come up the Taconic State Parkway in search of some pastoral ideal; they weren't going to risk a rash for it. Thus their hammocks struck a laudable balance between taut and tender. Park Slope's quietly majestic Stars Like Fleas were the only band who bothered to actually drag themselves into the woods—the second stage was a minuscule tree clearing—for an afternoon set on top of their evening one. (Bonus: They have a harpist.) The afternoon yawned with sets from Melanie Moser and the Dust Dive, the latter weaving half-sung poetry over slow, drifting plates of funerary folk-rock. They also played a song in protest of the new Nets stadium; I scanned the crowd for concerned looks and found none. Flanked by babies and Labradors, some townies, happily deaf to the idea of city kids getting free in the grass because that's what they thought country folk did, sat contentedly in sensible, breathable fabrics we won't concede to until middle age. Later, a local 'tween in a Volcom T-shirt passed me and said, "Hey dude, yeah, hippies, peace!" I smelled my armpits."