For example, there was the best-of-the-weekend set from John Doe & the Sadies Saturday night in the barn. I already alluded to this in my wrap-up of Day Two. But now, a week later, with some perspective and a little rest between me and that performance, I can confidently say it stole the show. Close behind it was Thao with the Get Down Stay Down earlier the same night on the side stage. Samantha Crain & the Midnight Shivers delivered a number of remarkable performances throughout the weekend, including Crain’s solo turn with the now-NYC-based Justin Townes Earle (who still introduces himself as “Justin Townes Earle from Nashville, Tennessee,” which is fine with me because he sounds good saying it).

Earle’s performances were slightly less wound-up than I’ve become accustomed to seeing him over the last few years. They were hardly disappointing, just clearly affected by the inscrutable heat and pace of the weekend. Back in the woods, though, we all found a bit of cool repose, surprised and soothed by some of the most memorable performances from Laura Gibson, Horse Feathers, Vetiver, and CW Stoneking. While I heard tell of Hillstomp blowing minds in the woods, I somehow managed to miss that entirely. There are always some brilliant moments missed at festivals like this, as it’s impossible to be everywhere at once. I can only resolve to make it to the woods for Hillstomp’s set next year, should the powers that be schedule such a thing.

Joe Pug was a pleasant surprise (I had previously been unfamiliar with his work). A pleasant and charming guy riddled with sad, heartbreaking tunes which give you no option but to sit, spellbound. Lost Bayou Ramblers drew my attention away from Blitzen Trapper’s mainstage headlining spot. Although the Portland quintet - who have been charming critics and fans around the country, convincing everyone yet again that the Northwest is where everyone’s focus should be - were one of the acts I was most excited to see at the beginning of the weekend, I managed to miss their every move. Saturday night, they were scheduled for a late set in the barn, but were 40 minutes late. At the end of one of the hottest days of the year, when the music started at 11am and spanned the full day across four different stages, standing around in a hot-as-a-pressure-cooker barn for an extra 40 minutes past 1 in the morning seemed silly. I called it a night and fell asleep to an understated, unexpected song circle singing quietly near my tent.

Pickathon’s finest task is managing a lineup which ranges from the quietly touching (Laura Gibson) to the unabashedly rocking (Thao with the Get Down Stay Down), the honky-tonking (Dale Watson, whose barn set far outshone his more polished turn on the mainstage), and the downright weird (Breathe Owl Breathe, which was scheduled either too early in the day or too late in the weekend for me to pay attention, considering all the hand motions and whatever else was going on with them). While I heard more than once that the three-day festival’s line-up had been more hard-hitting and confluent in previous years, there also seemed to be a consensus from the returning crowd that this year was a much more rollicking time. Indeed, the festival, which started as a one-day bluegrass and old timey festival 11 years ago, this year only presented a very small handful of bluegrass bands (best among them, North Carolina-based Town Mountain). The focus now is on indie roots music - a field still emerging and still seeking definition.

There are few places where so many styles of Americana could flow so neatly into one another, where a medium-sized crowd could so effortlessly pour into a workshop barn to earnestly seek songwriting guidance from up-and-coming artists. Pickathon is one such place. It’s a good thing it only happens once a year. It may take until next August for my brain to be ready for such a party again.

It’s hard not to love a set where the cover tunes are from the Carter Family and Radiohead. Indeed, that pretty much sums up the myriad influences presented at this festival. A day prior, someone had asked John Doe what he thinks about “popular music” being thought of as a style, while the styles of music that are popular tend to run the gamut. Doe had asserted that most artists he knows don’t waste their thoughts on styles and genres. It’s all music, he contended, and it was easy to believe Earle and Crain would agree. When Crain later threw a honky tonk spin on Oasis’ “Champagne Supernova” during her nighttime set in the barn with her band the Midnight Shivers, it was with zero irony and came off like just another song the Oklahoma native could have penned herself.

Beyond the barns, in the cool, thick woods of Pickathon, there were some sound troubles. It didn’t keep folks from turning out in droves to the quiet and intimate stage, though. Laura Gibson—back from having watched her sister deliver a baby the night before—turned out a terrific performance of mostly the same tunes she’d played on the main stage. Still, there was a different kind of energy in the woods, where Gibson noted it looked not unlike “an Ewok village.” She was followed by Horse Feathers (where better to catch this chamber folk ensemble than in the middle of the woods, on the end of a soft breeze?) and Alela Diane (fresh from a UK tour and clearly not at peak performance, thanks to the jet lag).

There was a brief string of mainstage sets—Diane with a fuller, lusher band and a little more energy than in the woods, the Lost Bayou Ramblers with their Cajun dance tunes, Justin Townes Earle with the Foghorn Duo—before I headed back to the barn to hunker down for the night. Crain and the Midnight Shivers kicked off the barn burning with an outstanding set pulling mostly from their latest album Songs in Night (Ramseur). Foghorn Stringband followed that with an hour of old timey boogie tunes, clearing the way for John Doe and the Sadies to deliver a set that was probably the best thing anyone has or will see this weekend. Blending the cool charm of classic country tunes like “I Still Miss Someone” and “Stop the World and Let Me Off” with the Knitters’ “Call of the Wrecking Ball” and selections from throughout Doe’s and the Sadies’ catalogs, the barn and all the space around it was humming.

I stood around for a while waiting for whatever we were waiting for with Blitzen Trapper but, after 40 minutes, sure there was no way they could top what just went down with Doe and the Sadies, I made back for the tent. On the way, I stopped off to let Horse Feathers’ late night Starlight Stage set sing the fireflies and constellations into view. Not a bad way to end a day if you ask me.

Up today: more from Crain & the Midnight Shivers, Breathe Owl Breathe, Dale Watson, Paleface, Vetiver, CW Stoneking, Hillstomp, the Freighthoppers, and Lord knows what else. But first, coffee.

The first person I saw after walking through the gate was John Doe. Though his career spans several decades and even more extraordinary songs, I’ve come to Doe through the Sadies—the Canadian band who join him on his latest album, and with whom he’s playing several sets this weekend. It felt like an omen to have Doe (sort of) welcome me to the farm, so I made a point of starting my festival experience in the workshop barn, where he answered questions, took requests, and dropped memorable one-liners. (”One of the top five things not to do is be a jerk,” “If Bob Dylan has taught anybody anything, it’s that you can sing it however the hell you want,” etc.) Questions mostly stuck to the art and task of songwriting, as many in the audience were clearly looking to the Man With Almost No Bad Songs for the secrets to his craft. He actually managed to squeeze nine songs into the hour, despite the extensive Q&A section, including “Burning House of Love,” “Silver Wings,” and “See How We Are.”

Later, on the main stage, Laura Gibson pulled from her latest, Beasts of Seasons for a set that was at once beautiful, curious, thoughtful, and stirring. She noted her sister had just gone into labor and she’d be speeding home after the set to “hopefully make it there in time.” You’d think such a thing would cause an artist to be less-than-present as they sing, but Gibson’s a pro and the quiet, lovely turned the sweaty afternoon into a delightful thing. Meanwhile, in the barn, Justin Townes Earle was playing to a packed house despite the heat and the fact the festival was still unpacking its box fans.

I napped during Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys, because you have to nap sometime and there was just enough space on the hay grass. Woke up to Thao with the Get Down Stay Down unleashing one of the most energetic sets I’ve ever seen on that little side stage. Apparently, the band just finished recording a new album in Portland’s Jackpot Studios for Kill Rock Stars. As a result, their typical tightness and good humor was beyond the usual level of infectiousness, and the sleepy sweaty crowd found itself hypnotized into dancing like a pack of crazy people. So hypnotized, in fact, that they’d migrate to the barn a couple hours later to make it all happen again (though with slightly more energy, if that were possible, and fueled by considerably more beer).

But first, Doe and the Sadies had to rip the non-existent roof off the main stage field. (Maybe the proper expression is to rip the grass out?) Sticking to selections from their incredible collaborative disc Country Club (Doe noted in the workshop that a volume two is likely), they pulled off rock star moves like when brother guitarists Dallas and Travis Good picked their own guitars while fingering each other’s fret boards. But, as is generally true of Pickathon sets, it was the nighttime throwdown sets in the barn which rocked the hardest, starting with the Hackensaw Boys, stretching to Big Sandy’s vibrant old school honky tonk smackdown and the aforementioned Thao with the Get Down Stay Down set. I’d been up since 5 a.m., though, and there’s a full weekend of barn to burn, beer to drink, floor to dance on, and plenty of room left for a best of fest set.

But, if I had to guess, I’d put my money on tonight’s triple-header in the barn: John Doe & the Sadies, the Wiyos, and Blitzen Trapper. Or maybe it’ll be Alela Diane on that stage in the middle of the woods. I’ll get back to you on that.

Any band which lasts 20 years will go through its ups and downs, will write songs that feel like they’re pulling in opposite directions at times. No doubt there have been some records where Emily Saliers’ propensity for navel gazing does little more than balance Amy Ray’s affinity for rocking out. Their latest effort, however, strikes a more solid balance. It’s now clear - both on record and onstage - Indigo Girls are not just adept at their instruments and nailing their often tortured observational tunes, it’s the harmonies which drive it all home.

In an interview earlier this year, Emily Saliers told me that, while she and her musical partner Amy Ray have been collaborating for twenty years, they still put most of their work into vocal arrangements. You can hear it when they sing, and sense it in their shows. Even though these two have been singing together for so long, the thing which sets them far apart from any other songwriting duo on the scene these days is the attention they pay to their harmonies. Even as some of their newer material may come off like something we’ve heard a decade hence, the moment the other voice comes in, the song grows by bounds.

This weekend at the Zoo, they were joined by two additional ably voiced collaborators - incidentally both Seattle natives. Though Julie Wolf has long since left Seattle to play with almost every notable woman on the contemporary folk circuit (Ani DiFranco, Dar Williams, Kris Delmhorst, Amy Ray in her solo incarnation, etc.), she started her career here. Wolf is, indeed, a terrific keyboard and accordion player, and her chops added plenty of subtleties behind Indigo Girls’ guitars and voices. Then came local singer-songwriter Brandi Carlile - who, remarkably enough, kept toward the bottom of her rather large range, bringing nuance more frequently than roar (though she unleashed the power a few times when the timing was just right).

Together, these four women delivered fresh-sounding turns on some of the Girls’ most classic material. Obsure-ish tunes like “World Falls” and trademark songs like “Galileo” soared farther with the additional voices. Ray and Carlile gave about as rocking a rendition as two voices and one mandolin can muster for “The Tale of Johnny Rotten,” and he three of them, sans Wolf, delivered exquisitely on Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright.” Which isn’t to say that Saliers and Ray alone can’t hold the stage steady. Their delivery of crowd favorite “Power of Two” was just as tight, and “Sugar Tongue,” from their latest Poseidon and the Bitter Bug, was another easy early highlight.

Though Poseidon just dropped this spring, the set list wasn’t as heavily focused on selections from it as one might have expected. To polish off what was one of their most spirited and well-rounded performances at the Zoo of late, they dusted off several older numbers for the occasion. Among them were “Hope Alone” (Become You, 2002), “Kid Fears” (Indigo Girls, 1989), and “Hammer and a Nail” (Nomads, Indians, Saints, 1990) which was dedicated to the victim of the recent South Park murder and the organization for whom she volunteered, Seattle’s Compass Center.

The duo has always been active in their community in Georgia, as well as with indigenous communities, environmental and social issues. They announced their alignment with a number of organizations present at the concert. In addition to the Compass Center, these included Amnesty International, Home Alive, and Rock for Remedy.

It’s hard for me to watch Margo Timmins onstage. Having seen her band a handful of times, I always get the feeling she still wrestles with a bit of stage fright. Her movements, in direct contrast to the power and intuition of her voice, feel rehearsed and reserved. It’s an interesting juxtaposition - that of her body and voice - and I feel almost compelled to kick back and close my eyes when she’s onstage. Last night, as usual, she held the microphone hard with one hand and draped the other, wrist-deep, over the back of the stand. Head bowed, eyes frequently closed or squinting, it was almost like she was singing in secret, all but covering her mouth. But then out came her voice, with so much power and nuance…an interesting thing to watch.

Behind her, her brother Peter kept a smooth beat on drums. Their other brother Michael, who writes the songs, sat practically still, angled away from half the audience, unassumingly strumming a solid rhythm guitar. Even Jeff Bird (mandolin, harmonica), with all his exuberance, looked much more reserved than the notes which poured so energetically from his instruments. Pulling from their entire career, they delivered a couple of songs from a forthcoming disc they’re working on now, and a Neil Young cover (”Don’t Let It Bring You Down,” which they dedicated to a friend celebrating her 60th birthday). They played their whole set so still it was almost deadpan, yet the sound that came from them was big and stirring enough that the audience jumped to its feet at the end, demanding an encore (which wasn’t obliged, presumably due to time restraints).

Son Volt opened their set with “The Picture” from 2007’s The Search, hitting the stage with at least five times the energy and momentum as that of the night’s first band. (It’s hard to imagine calling Cowboy Junkies an opener, considering; also the tour these two groups are on has seen them switching the billing order from time to time.) The seminal alt-country quintet delivered a spirited set of mostly tunes from their latest release, American Central Dust. Though many of the arrangements felt slower than those on the record, tunes like “Dynamite” came across better and more resonant from the stage than they did from the studio.

The band noted on its blog yesterday that it had taken an unexpected day off in Portland, so it’s likely that leader Jay Farrar was well-rested and eager to hop onto a stage again. He seemed to have the crowd in his pocket from very early on, and the group delivered great performances of Central Dust highlights - particularly “Dust of Daylight,” with its well-pronounced steel solos from new member Mark Spencer. The set was, indeed, enough to interest both long-time fans and cynical reporters like myself who, admittedly, don’t always cotton to every record Son Volt delivers. Lesson learned: Son Volt is perhaps a band best taken in live.

Emmylou, the eldest and most stylistically versatile of the bunch, led the night off, before handing things off to her friends and collaborators. They went down the line, from Colvin to Griffin and back again, each taking a turn at the vocals. Each had at least one moment which brought the crowd to utter silence. For Harris it was “Boy From Tupelo” (which she introduced as “misery with a beat”). Colvin’s was “I Don’t Know Why.” For Miller it was “Gasoline and Matches,” which saw Griffin filling in on the harmonies Miller’s wife Julie recorded for their recent release Written in Chalk (which is, by the way, one of the best of the year so far, and you should pick it up if you haven’t already). Griffin, in all her extraordinary vocal shapeshifting prowess, sounded almost exactly like Julie Miller back there. Buddy, who gave the Americana world pause earlier this year when he underwent a triple bypass, looked and sounded well—a relief. As a guitarist, he is one of the most intuitive and artful soloists around, and his input was a welcome addition to every song on which he participated.

Griffin let slip early in the night that she and Miller had just finished recording a gospel album, titled Downtown Church, for a gospel label who will release the disc early in 2010. She said she’d been nervous about how the label would receive her, since she’s a “lapsed Catholic,” but they didn’t seem to mind. “Lapsed Catholics need our gospel music too,” she asserted before sharing her rendition of Eddy Arnold’s “Where We’ll Never Grow Old.” But, in a town prone to thick clouds and cool temperatures, on this clear blue sky day with the trees gently blowing in a soft, welcome breeze, it was “Heavenly Day” which stole the show.

When not singing, the four pals swapped stories, tried to one-up each other on songs people might play at weddings, and insulted Tacoma (or at least Miller did, though he made an earnest attempt to explain later he doesn’t have a problem with the smelly, less-sightly city just south on I-5). He also made up for the insult by referring to his female counterparts as the “three sweetest people in the world, with the sweetest voices.” Indeed, musically and otherwise, the whole show felt like a nonstop lovefest, about which nobody would complain.

The quartet closed their main set with all voices on deck for “We Shall All Be Reunited.” Then the Three Girls gathered around one mic for an a cappella turn on “Didn’t Leave Nobody But the Baby” and finally an excellent rendition of Griffin’s “Mary” rapped the encore.

I’ve survived my fair share of music festivals through the years, have lived to tell of late night jam sessions and impromptu fiddle parties, have slept on plenty of hard grounds not fashioned for comfortable slumber, have squinted my ears against the unlikely task of making music coming through giant speakers into wide-open outdoor spaces sound good. But my festival experiences in the past have pretty much stuck to the all-acoustic folk and bluegrass end of the spectrum. Make no mistake. Despite the roots-heavy Americana bent of this year’s Sasquatch line-up, it’s still a rock festival. Since the one Lollapalooza to which I had tickets (the last time I was supposed to see Jane’s Addiction) sometime in the ’90s got closed down due to hurricane season in Central Florida, this was my inaugural rock festival experience.

I managed to make it as folk festival-like as possible, but reached outside the confines of the genre from which I make my living to enjoy sets by Hockey, Of Montreal (in brief, between using the toilet and running back to the main stage), King Khan, M83, and Nine Inch Nails. No regrets from any of those sets—I’d see all of them again if given the chance. But it was, without question, Bon Iver who made my weekend. I would even go so far as to pull that set into my as-yet-non-existent list of the best shows I’ve ever seen. Singer-songwriter Justin Vernon does all the things with music which make it so remarkable, pulling together lyrics and accompaniment which reach toward the same ultimate goal—to communicate and inspire an emotion far too large and unwieldy for words alone. Together with an impeccably tight backing band, Vernon seemed to access the collective intuition of the crowd, the deeply clear and star-strewn sky, all the heat of the day, and whatever it is that haunts his creative psyche. It was an incredible set which, when I thought about it several times throughout the weekend, made me smile at the sheer knowledge I’d witnessed such a thing in such a place.

Another highlight was watching from behind as the Fleet Foxes played what was, for me, the final set of the festival. (Shows continued well into the night on Monday, but we left after this set.) I wasn’t there last year to witness Robin Pecknold and company playing to what I’m told was a fairly sparse crowd. But, on the final afternoon of the festival, with the intoxicating array of styles and sounds still swirling in my ears, the local harmony-driven quintet delivered a set that felt like a soft, easy breeze clearing everything away. In that same spot on Sunday, the Avett Brothers had thrown down an incredibly impressive set. Meanwhile, on the other end of the festival, on the Wookie stage, Portland’s Blitzen Trapper proved why they’re the next best thing out of the Northwest—swinging in that sweet spot where Americana and indie rock seem to unexpectedly intersect.

Then there was the whole discovering new artists thing. St. Vincent solidified her place in my collection, while the Heartless Bastards stole the title of “The best band I didn’t really know anything about before Sasquatch.” With the whole thing over and done with, I’m glad there’s a year between now and the next one. It might take that long to process all the great music (and some of the not-so-great). So long, Sasquatch, ’til next year.

photo of Bon Iver © Blush

When you consider the crowd for Day Two of Sasquatch, this scene pretty much sums it all up. Frat boys with bare chests, chicks in bikinis, sandal-wearing hippies and beer-bellied swaggerers dominated the grounds, where little roots music worth mentioning took place. With few fiddles and banjos on the schedule, I resorted to palatable indie rock, kicking my day off with remarkably impressive Portland-based dance-rock quartet Hockey. If not for the Avett Brothers later on the main stage, Hockey may have been the highlight of the whole day. They’re young and enthusiastic, strutting and dancing about the stage, grooving themselves into an easy rhythm. The whole crowd felt like dancing—a feat for 1:30 in the afternoon, the sharp sun high and bright.

From there, I took in a string of mediocrity: the Walkmen lost me two songs in. Calexico would’ve rocked a lot harder later in the day. Their set was close to fabulous, but the timing was all wrong and I ducked out and headed for St. Vincent. Annie Clark’s brainchild band is just flat out fantastic. Her raw rock jams have infected my iPod, and translated well to the wide-open field around the Wookie stage. The Avett Brothers blew my mind, though, taking to the giant main stage with their overflow of energy. They delivered mostly from Emotionalism and The Gleam II, choking me up with “Murder in the City,” and getting the whole ground bouncing to “Gabriela.”

With my roots bone sated, I hunkered down for some delightfully nostalgic teen angst with Nine Inch Nails. Watching so much rage unfold under fog machines, I found it hard to stifle the giggling. I’m no longer full of teen angst but I have a soft spot for the memory of it, and found myself singing along gayly to “Terrible Lies.” Trent Reznor’s still got it, whatever it is, knocking his keyboard over a few times, and almost knocking over his guitar player. With a neck the size of Eastern Washington, he raged through a set of oldies and newbies, breaking for a spell to do an extensive introspective piano solo. (What?) Nonetheless, for whatever it was worth, Nine Inch Nails didn’t come across washed up and played out, which I suppose is enough to get away with saying they delivered. Still, that set drained me of what rock-out I possibly had left in my system. I had no room left for Jane’s Addiction, who were one of my favorite bands in the world 12-15 years ago. I stuck around for two songs (”Three Days” and “Ain’t No Right”—the latter rocking the hardest) then made my way back to free beer, gathering around our camping lantern (no campfires allowed) and a good night’s sleep.

Ahead today: Loch Lomond, Heartless Bastards, Blitzen Trapper, Fleet Foxes, Horse Feathers, the Dutchess and the Duke, and Deerhoof…and whatever else strikes my fancy. Sasquatch…I’m livin’ it.

photo of St. Vincent © Blush

I kicked off my first Sasquatch with Vince Mira. The local teenager broke in the main stage with his remarkably Cash-ish cover of “Big River,” before leaning heavily into a string of new originals. With Johnny Bird joining the band for a spell on accordion, Mira introduced a slow-growing crowd to tunes from an album he said he’ll release later this year. The disc will come on the heels of his full-length debut The Cash Cabin Sessions, which dropped last fall. With an extra half-year of songwriting under his belt, Mira has begun to settle into his voice. Songs like “I’m a-Going Back Home” bounced off the sleepy ears of the Gorge, serving a welcome wake-up call.

Portland’s Blind Pilot picked up the roots torch and flaunted it all over the Wookie Stage. The duo-cum-septet’s deliciously tight harmonies and invigorating arrangements kept my attention beyond the typical festival ADHD which, barring anything exceptional, generally keeps me tuned in for about 15 minutes a pop. Blind Pilot was the first of three performances from day one to keep me engaged the entire time. Later, the Decemberists followed suit with more of that Portland-ic musical prowess, delivering Hazards of Love with zero interspersed banter and one hundred percent rocking out.

But first, I had to get through King Khan, whose clipping amps distracted from the insane energy of their house cheerleader and frontman’s golden be-caped prancing. By the time someone with a tambourine (I think) dropped their pants and boogied onstage, I’d given up on squinting my ears against the sound board issues. Next up was Death Vessel on the Yeti—neither here nor there—and DeVotchKa on the main. The latter rocked so supremely hard that I laid back to take it all in. I woke up forty minutes later. Everyone else said it was a good show, but I don’t regret the nap, the cup of overpriced coffee, and revitalizing set from Arthur & Yu (ably backed by the Moondoggies) which followed. It got me pumped for the aforementioned aweseomeness of the Decemberists and the divinity of Bon Iver, whom I let zip up Day One.

Bon Iver delivered such a heartbreaking collection of melodic beauty with For Emma Forever Ago last February. I wondered whether such lovely sadness could translate to a compelling stage show, but the band beyond delivered. The Wookie was running late, but if you’ve got to stand in a tightly packed crowd under a star-strewn sky waiting for something to happen, that something may as well be, unquestionably, one of the best performances of the day (if not the whole festival; too soon to tell). The band pulled almost entirely from For Emma, with the exception of an outstanding cover of Kathleen Edwards’ “Mercury.” Much of the crowd didn’t seem to know Edwards (a shame), but cheered at the mention of her Canadian roots.

Frontman Justin Vernon enticed the crowd to a singalong on “The Wolves (Act I & II)” fairly early into his set, with the crowd consensually continuing their one line (”What might have been lost”) a little longer than it should have gone. Why stop when the repetition feels so good and the instrumentalists onstage are ready to build it beyond big? By the time the scream came in, it served such a collective release. Bon Iver’s set closed with firework-like percussion clipping the amps as King Khan had done earlier in the day, but in a way that worked well with their overall vibe.

And now the shitty nameless rap-rock has given way to Mad Rad on the Yeti Stage outside this trailer. The festival is beckoning me away from sensible sentences and back to the throes of listening-and-watching. Up today: Hockey, the Walkmen, Claexico, St. Vincent, the Avett Brothers, Airborne Toxic Event, the Builders and the Butchers, Jane’s Addiction, and anything else I decide to cram in while I’m walking past. Time for coffee number two.

photo © Blush

Nelson has had his hands in country, gospel, folk, and rock music for decades. His songs have been recorded by everyone from Patsy Cline to the Dixie Chicks to Yonder Mountain String Band, and he’s delivered exceptional performances of songs other people popularized first (Roy Acuff, Townes Van Zandt, Ray Charles). The rules of this tribute night were fairly loose as a result, with some folks sticking strictly to Willie-penned numbers, while others pulled out great songs by other artists which Willie has famously covered. Moe Provencher, for example, delivered a terrific, slow and thoughtful rendition of “Georgia on My Mind.”

It’s a funny thing to see bands for the first time when they’re covering other people’s songs. I’ve heard the Crying Shame’s name for a while, but never caught them live until last night. Their version of “Bloody Mary Morning,” though, was enough to make me want to see them again (I’ll be heading to Piecora’s tonight, where they’ll be playing in the back room). The Starlings, whose original work I’m quite familiar with, kept the good tunes flowing, rocking hard on “On the Road Again”—easily one of the night’s major highlights—with Tom Parker wearing a pair of blue braids, tied to his head with a red bandanna to simulate Nelson’s trademarked hairstyle.

The whole show tied up with Portland’s Ashleigh Flynn, who hosted the night and handed out free PBRs to anyone who could yell out answers to her Willie Nelson trivia questions. Backed by members of the Starlings and Provencher on harmonica, she closed out with a triple threat of classic Nelson tunes: “Shotgun Willie,” “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys,” and “Whiskey River.”

Seeger’s birthday, meanwhile, is being celebrated this weekend around the world. You’ve probably heard about the monster concert happening on Sunday night at New York’s Madison Square Garden, featuring Seeger himself, Bruce Springsteen, Joan Baez, Jeff Tweedy, Ani DiFranco, and a sizeable cast of other extremely influential artists. Here in Seattle, there will be a show at the Admiral Theater, titled For Pete’s Sake: Sing! If you missed Willie’s night, you won’t want to miss Pete’s.