He’s a cheerful guy, no question about it. But as I park my weary old car and begin mingling, I notice everyone is wearing the same smile. It’s not just the giddiness of having arrived at a long-anticipated destination, with the main event just minutes away. With this group, the vibe was downright familial. Complete strangers greeting one another like old friends, brought together by an appreciation for Levon Helm’s music but infused with something extra — an affectionate kinship inspired by the hospitality of a guy who obviously gets what music is all about.
“I wish other people, everybody who’s around me, was like this all the time,” said Chris Konzelmann ofNew Providence,N.J.
Little tail-gate parties pop up in the rutted yard that serves as the parking lot, but I head over to a roaring campfire fire near the entrance — the smoking section. People there are laughing and sharing stories about past shows. More than a few regional accents shine through, including a trio from Framingham, Mass. raving about the time they saw Levon in Wooster (Wus-STAH) and seeking directions, in vain, to Big Pink.
Dolores Farrell is the keeper of the flame. She’s a human dynamo, dispensing hilarious quips, spare coats, warm blankets and cold beers. When I ask her how many Rambles she’s been to, she tells me she’s missed four. She’s fromBrooklynbut she’s got a house up here to — to crash at after the Ramble. She confirms my feelings.
“It’s almost like a family reunion every time, and you don’t even know these people,” she said.
Does it come from Levon?
She nods. “Yeah. He’s a southern gentleman with an open heart and an open house. How many other performers invite you into their home? And you’re in the man’s living room. That there” — she gestures to the rear of the house — “is his kitchen. That’s his bedroom. For a performer of his holy-shitness, you know what I mean? There isn’t anything else like it.”
It was a common refrain: there’s something about the man himself, his obvious love for soulful, real, American live music; the desire to pass the tradition on to the next generation of musicians; and a mutual respect with the audience and the moments they share.
Patrick Carlin of Bearsville seemed to understand this as well as anyone.
“It’s different for me,” he said. “The feeling you get the minute you come on the grounds.”
He leans in close and adopts a confidential tone.
“And it all seeps down from Levon. Just perfect vibes, man. And he feels right about people, and people just feel good when they’re here … It’s like a family thing. It is, it is like a family —”
He looks up as a couple volunteer security guys try to coax a hound dog out of the path of a late-model luxury SUV.
“Hey Lucy!” he shouts, laughing heartily. “Move it, Lucy!” More belly laughs. “That’s Levon’s dog. That’s the mama dog. Yeah, and Muddy is the daddy dog.”
Then Carlin leans in again and reassumes that confidential tone.
“But yeah, that’s how it is, it’s just beautiful. You’re gonna have a wonderful time. A wonderful time.”
