Warsaw - It couldn't have been much darker out there.  Beaming stars attempted to navigate me through a vast field and over the pit falls of a faceplant prone dirt path that lead to the bonfire.  This fire served as a refuge to those who needed it most... and to those who needed it least.  Isolated within a long strip of woods, a community was forming.  The darkness was making the already challenging function of basic motor skills nearly impossible.  I took giant shock-absorbing steps, swaying to and fro like a sailboat on a stormy night.  The bottle of tequila, which had long ago taken the place of the bottle of High Life, was now merely an empty memory, and I had no choice but to charm my way into another person's stash.  Such charming was hardly necessary, though, for the culture that is Sharps Sessions revolves around goodhearted local music enthusiasts with a passion for giving and sharing.  Lucky for me, too; my mind of marmalade was making it painfully difficult to communicate with any efficiency.  Words came out jumbled and backwards, and my tongue was now completely numb.  I could have swallowed it whole if I hadn't already learned that lesson the hard way in college.  I heard the next band begin from a distance.  Glancing excitedly at my comrades around the fire, I yelled, “I must yonder!”  No one seemed to acknowledge my ridiculous loss of language.  I assume I meant that I needed to wander over yonder.  Perhaps they were just being nice... or they were all just as loaded... or they figured the less they engaged me, the sooner I'd be on my way.  I'm guessing it was all of the above.

Allow me to back-track for a moment.  The second I pitched my tent Friday, I was geared for action.  Ultimately, I had been counting down until I would see the Santamaria Brothers play again, but the rush of live music was set to satisfy me in any capacity from any outfit of any genre.  Friday, in tradition, was heavy metal night.  Several local and regional acts were set to melt the faces of their loyal fan bases and newbies.  I was stoked to taste the lead of the pipe that was to be smashed into my face by each and every one of those acts.  But before I could make my way over to that scene, I had to first indulge myself in a different taste, one of Wild Turkey Rye chased by the various fresh meats off the grill at our campsite.  This became a combination of flavors that I grew quite familiar with over the course of the weekend.  ANU was the first band I saw.  Their smash-mouth style of rock incited much brawling before the stage.  The singer growled into the microphone like a rabid beast while my fearless photographer, Ryan Barsanti, became Fellini, stretching himself wide and tall in vulnerable positions amidst the moshing to get the right shots for the article.  Was he aware that at any moment one of these drunken bastards could slam right into the recovering torn meniscus he suffered while wrestling his ex-boss in my backyard last weekend?  I'm sure he was, but getting the right shot is worth the risk of taking a shot to the ailing knee.  We are rock and roll journalists.  This is what we do.  Nevertheless, the true local grit of ANU was just what I needed to kick off the weekend.  Not only did they throw it down hard, but they shot the bolt that shifted my buzz up a notch.  I wanted more.

Other bands continued to keep the masses in check with their heavy handling, including Behind the Madness who, according to their Facebook, is currently looking for a new vocalist.  Their kindness offset their madness when they gave me a free bumper sticker after the show.  I took it and ran back to my campsite to reload my backpack with more and more fuel.  And then, lo and behold, the Santamaria Brothers took the stage.  This was the moment I had been waiting for.  If you're ever in Richmond on a Monday night, head over to the Current where they host open mic from 9 PM to midnight.  Apparently, there's great food and drink specials there also (just ask Gabriel Santamaria, he'll tell you ALL about it).  Since they are not a metal band, some wondered if they would fit in with the rest of the Friday lineup.  However, during my epic interview with them after their set (most of which I could not use for this story), they made it clear that there was no anxiety whatsoever.  They said it was merely an adjustment to the set list to accommodate the hungry festival-fiends that waited before them.  And the brothers served well.  Easily the largest crowd I saw all weekend, arms were flailing and booties were shaking throughout the entire set.  The three brothers don't exactly look the part to possess such stage-rocking abilities, but make no mistake - when they hit it, the yard was theirs.  Funking through original material and covering deep cuts by bands like Pink Floyd, Radiohead, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Jamiroquai, they signed each tune with their signature Latin flavor that they've tweaked for years.  The younger two brothers, Gabriel (bass/vocals) and Andres Santamaria (guitar/vocals), twins that refer to themselves as not only roommates, but “wombmates,” seamlessly transitioned from hard to soft and back again throughout their tunes demonstrating the high-caliber chemistry they were born with.  Their older brother, Josh, is as steady a drummer as he is a drinker.  As we all partied through the night, Josh maintained like no other.  While Gabe, Andres, and myself geeked out like acid at a circus, Josh played it straight as an arrow.  You can hear his cool affect just by listening to the tape recordings of us all that night - they are ridiculous (understatement). 

We spent the late hours of the night bouncing around campsites, eating spicy turkey sausages enhanced by John's favorite Dave's Insanity Sauce, and making new friends.  I began chatting with Uncle Mike, the estranged uncle to all party-goers present at Sharps.  He explained his contentment that night.  “I came here with my nephew.  I'm really enjoying myself.  We have great music here, some really nice people, and we're having a great time!”  His impression seemed to echo every first comer's opinion of the festival.  I looked around.  Girls with multicolored light-up hula hoops illuminated their physical prowess with incredible motion.  I was not only mesmerized by the vibrant lights that swirled in isolated circles around them, but by the incredibly smooth movement of their hips and thighs.  In rhythm with the band High Fives Died in the 80s playing heavily in the background, I felt at peace.  It was one of those moments when you step back in your mind and say, “A-ha!”  Their final song titled, “So I Guess It's Just the Jackson 4 Now, Huh?” brewed some curiosity on my part, so I begrudgingly abandoned the pretty girls and made my way backstage to talk to the guys.  The current lineup, which has only been together since late March, made it clear how whimsical they can be.  As Curtis put it, “Our song names have nothing to do with our songs.  We come up with a song name based on whatever the funny quote is of the day.”  Well, they know how to have fun with their craft, and it was certainly evident while they were on stage.

It was when I returned to our campsite for more food and fuel that I had my first encounter with Noodle.  At this point he was still pumping, going hard with a lost look in his eyes.  At first he came off sketchy but entertaining.  We didn't know what to expect.  His long dreads were a dark shade of sand and blended in with the color of the ground where we saw him spend a generous amount of time.  His words were slurred like a British sailor, and his clothes were tattered and missing.  A sort of hippie jester, he could have been at a Phish show if he didn't know where he was.  John gave him a shot of rye.  Then John gave him another shot of rye.  Noodle wandered into the darkness, but we knew we hadn't seen the last of him.

I was getting weary, waiting for Elisium's set to end.  They were the final band of the night.  Earlier in the evening I met Junior, their drummer.  I told him I wanted to interview his band after their set, but Jesus I had no idea it would be that late.  I did not pace myself for such work.  Their Tool influence rang strong and proportioned, but my night had reached its pinnacle.  I took too much.  Slouched in a lawn chair, I watched as Mark tended grill.  As I waited for the meat to darken, Elisium's set came to an end.  Shit.  What timing.  I was hungry, tired, and didn't think I had it in me to make it back out to interview another band.  I looked at the grub and had to make a choice: either eat this food, pass the fuck out, and hope Elisium forgot that I asked to interview them in the first place; or suck it up, skip the meat, and be a man of my word.  I chose the latter.  They broke down their equipment only to discover a journalist half-passed out, sprawled across a couch behind the stage with his hat over his face.  The voices in my head manipulated my legs to raise from the couch.  I worried that my slurred and potentially irrelevant questions would find them insulted, but they were pleasant with me and a somewhat-informative chat ensued.  Believe it or not, they have been playing together since back in '97 and travel all around Virginia.  They've played Alley Katz, the National, Jaxx, and the State Theatre just to name a few.  Their album titled Things They Carried is available on iTunes and Amazon.  If you're into Tool, then you'll like Elisium the next time they're in your town.  How's that for late night reporting?  It must have been three AM going on six.  I couldn't tell.  I went back to my campsite, ate three hotdogs, and kissed the moon goodnight.  Day one over so fast?  Nostalgia was already setting in.

The sun rose too early Saturday.  Sleeping is hardly a luxury under such circumstances.  Ryan and I remained in our tents while socializing with outsiders through our mesh windows like two bad dogs restricted to their crates.  It was too early for our eyes to adjust to the glaring sunlight.  I resorted back to my shades and fedora, resuming my identity from the day before.  Laura Shepherd graciously brought us grapes and melon to refresh our slimy and unwanted palettes while John worked the eggs and mimosas.

It was then that Noodle resurfaced.  Wobbly and defeated like a boxer on the ropes, he began toppling our way.  Noodle undoubtedly hadn't slept a wink.  “Don't look him in the eyes!,” Mark warned us, as not to attract him to our campsite.  But John welcomed the entertainment.  Noodle fell to the ground, face in the grass, crawling around slowly but fiercely, kicking up straw and bucking like a raging bull that was raring to plow into his next unsuspecting victim.  John yelled over, “Hey Noodle!”  There was no comprehensible response, but a confused stare.  “Hey Noodle! Want a mimosa?”  John walked the red Solo cup full of champagne, OJ, and fresh orange slices over to him.  He straightened himself from the ground, took a sip, swerved about five paces or so, and immediately fell back to the ground atop the mimosa.  Lying in the drink, he was frozen as the tasty cocktail was absorbed by his mud-soaked flesh.  “Oh! Party foul!”  John bellowed facetiously.  While we sat convincing John not to make him another, Noodle returned to his bull-like persona and crawled around unknowingly on all fours until he noticed a vacant red tent.  He poked and pawed at it a few times and then managed his way through the zippered-up entrance where he vanished for hours.  Again, we knew we hadn't seen the last of Noodle.

Laura Shepherd's early afternoon performance provided a calm and friendly reminder that I needed to slow down.  I took in her set with deep breaths of fresh country air and lounged around the campsite, watching the clouds descend below the tree lines.  I watched as footballs were tossed and children had their faces painted.  It was a good time to check out the various vendors that lined the circumference of the field around the stage.  There was food for sale, clothing, jewelry, crafts, and more.  It was as though my campsite was part of a rural neighborhood, and I was now walking through the village.  I took time to check in with River underneath the sound booth tent.  Visiting with River from time to time was essential.  His reliable presence as a geographical nucleus became my point of reference.  Larry, Harry, and Buck hit the stage.  Formerly known as Buck Wilson, Jr. (check out Magazine33, Feb. 2010, Vol. 106), the mid-afternoon audience was tuned into their eclectic style of stripped down Americana.  Larry gave me a copy of their latest recordings, another step forward in the progression of their acoustic project.

The sun was hot in the western sky.  It was about time to get things moving.  Luke had just arrived from Baltimore.  A close friend since early high school, I was elated to see he had made it.  The stage was now set for another tenacious evening.  With a backpack full of bottles and cans, we clanked our way to the stage.  The guitar-heavy Orange Dirt had just begun.  A straight forward blues-rock band, they made their strongest impression when covering a song by the Pogues.  I'm fuzzy now on which it was, but they did the track sweet justice, and it soon became the talk of their set.  Luke and I wandered around so that he could be acquainted with his new environment.  I pointed out the different vendors and lovely women.  There was a striking brunette with a shoulder-length bob hairstyle, smiling and prancing around hand-in-hand with a young child.  She looked like Uma Thurman from Pulp Fiction, and I couldn't keep my eyes off of her.  Luke concurred.  We continued to make our rounds.

Sons of Solomon mellowed the crowd as the sky turned orange and pink.  From a distance I enjoyed their reggae, but couldn't leave the campsite quite yet.  Another t-bone had just appeared on the grill.  John sliced the steak as it cooked and served us bites one at a time.  We took turns as he handed us a plastic fork with a small chunk of steak attached.  Only when you returned your fork to him could he reload it with another bite.  The steakpops were delicious and satisfied my need for an alcohol-absorbing substance.  Now we could venture to the stage to catch the end of Sons of Solomon.  Ryan Childs, their singer, told me about the time he played at Bob Marley's house in Jamaica.  “I took my wife there on our honeymoon, and they were having this big jamboree at his house.  They said, 'Hey, can you spit?'  And I said, 'Alright.'  I hopped up on stage and people were going wild, jumping up and down.  It was well-received.”  The soulful crooning was a stellar transition into the dark hours.  Hours that were dominated by hard rocking sets from Vinyl Epitaph, She Bites Dogs, and Phatigued to name a few.  Vinyl Epitaph, like usual, had me bouncing around spilling beer against the stage.  By the end of their gig, my ears were ringing.  Matt Wade set a splitting pace from the back of the stage.  In the crowd, we respected how loudly he was slamming the drums.  She Bites Dogs played a righteous set as well.  Their range of rock and roll was quickly established, and after their cover of “Today,” Dorian asked the audience, “Anyone here like the Smashing Pumpkins?”  A nod to my old home, I screamed, “CHICAGO!”  Dorian recognized.

Sometime toward the end of the set, I unknowingly drank my last beer.  Immediately, I became erratic and devastated... until I remembered the almost-full bottle of tequila that John hid from himself in his truck somewhere.  I was on it like white on rice.  This became my holy water; for better or for worse.  We passed it around.  Swigs quickly turned to gulps, and then chugs.  I headed over for some bonfire madness and parked myself there a while.  The girls that Ryan invited out had finally arrived.  It was easy to enjoy the random banter and confusion that persisted amongst the diverse cluster that gathered for solace around the fire.  I journeyed down the long row of tents, another neighborhood, in search of familiar faces.  It was becoming difficult to tell who was who.  It didn't matter though, we all shared the same wavelength, and no one was keeping score.

I came back for Phatigued.  The band, which included two of the members from Orange Dirt, played Phish and Dead covers.  To be honest, I can't recall any particular song they played, but there was a great deal of dancing happening out there.  The jams were heavy and intricate, accentuated by bursts of fireworks in the night sky.  I watched John square dancing with a young hipster in the center of the field.  She struggled to keep up with his spry twists and turns.  I concentrated on the two of them; I didn't want to miss the scene if she were flipped or flung to the ground in some amusing manner.  I even abandoned my own jig, just to spy with a sideways grin.  The jam ended, the roller coaster returned, and they both walked away safely - perhaps with a little whiplash, but in good spirits, of course.

DJ Uddah and lyricist Cubsac graced the stage as Saturday's final act.  It was agreeable to part ways with rock for the night and allow some hip-hop flavor to make its appropriate appearance.  Bodies began appearing from out of the woods, congregating and working their way slowly across the field toward the stage like zombies.  Uddah engaged the midnight vultures from his turntables while Cubsac paced back and forth, rode the rhythms, and laced his flow with formidable lyrics.  I would have liked to talk to these guys after their set, but time was no longer on my side.  My English was completely indecipherable now.  It had long been replaced by broken Spanish way before the tequila was kicked.  My mind and spirit couldn't be more awake, but my body and voice had checked out somewhere back at the bonfire.  However, that never stops me from talking nonsense.  Mid-sentence during some ridiculous debate I was having with a stranger who was accusing me of being an undercover cop, there was a roar from the crowd.  We paused and looked to the stage.  I knew it had been a while since I had seen Noodle last.  I was just beginning to wonder where he had been, actually.  There he was, standing center-stage, Jim Morrison-like, in all his glory, staring out to the audience.  This was Noodle's encore. He didn't say a word, just stood there, statuesque, with that all-too familiar empty stare on his face.  Noodle had outdone himself.  I looked away.  After that spectacle, I no longer had any interest in convincing the punk standing before me that I was not a cop.  It seemed unnecessary.  Noodle just put everything in perspective.  I was ready to return to the campsite to find my compadres.  I waited for my magic carpet to show up and take me back to my tent.  Where did Ryan’s girls go?  Saturday turned strange - I basked in its unfamiliarity.

A cool, damp Sunday morning indicated an end to the madness.  I moved away from the shade to stretch my bones, hoping the rays of vitamin D would dry my liver out.  Surprisingly, I wasn’t feeling the pain I had anticipating waking up to.  I was just extremely exhausted; I may have had a total eight hours of sleep since Thursday night.  The idea of having to leave the utopia that is Sharps Sessions was cruelly infiltrating my mind.  Few festivals offer such hospitality and entertainment at no cost!  I made my final rounds and said my goodbyes.  Laura Shepherd was back onstage.  It seemed like a perfect ending to my stay.  Just as her words had grounded my wayward head an afternoon ago, I could use her loving vibe to brace my timid mind that was soon to be jarred by the blunt reality waiting for me down the road.  The tents were folded up into little packages now, all trash was in its place, and the car was filled to the brim.  Pulling away from the golden field sparked feelings of melancholy, and now that the much anticipated festival had ended, I had nothing to look forward to but a hot shower and Sunday afternoon football.  Yes, pulling away from that field was grueling, but it made me think of Jack Kerouac’s words:

"What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye.  But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies."

As I sit here at my bedroom desk, contemplating my next adventure and reminiscing on the manifestation of a wild weekend in Warsaw, I think to myself, “What is Noodle doing right now?”  Perhaps not even Noodle can answer this.  But whatever it may be, I’m guessing it’s being done as only Noodle knows (or doesn’t know) how; a festival’s hero possessing the uncanny freedom and courage to truly push the limits beyond recognition.  It is a freedom and courage that should be bottled up and sold only by the friendly vendors on the edge of those woods and near the stage at the heart of Sharps Sessions. 

By Correspondent: Ben Cokeley

Ben was born in Pittsburgh during the summer of 1983 (the year Roxy Music disbanded).  He has since inhabited Chicago, New York, and several Virginia cities including Richmond, where he prefers to spend the majority of his time.  His interest in music sparked at age three when he began taking piano lessons.  A passion for theatre and film would soon follow; he was known for acting in high school and college productions while focusing on the independent film scene in Richmond.  Nowadays, you're likely to catch him at a bar in the Fan or commuting to Fredericksburg where he works as a high school teacher/behavior specialist.  Ben enjoys a variety of music - some longtime favorite musicians/bands include: Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, the Doors, the Isley Brothers, Buddy Guy, Tom Petty, David Bowie, and George Clinton.