I'd like to rest my heavy head tonighton a bed of California starsI'd like to lay my weary bones tonighton a bed of California starsI'd love to feel your hand touching mineAnd tell me why I must keep working onYes, I'd give my life to lay my head tonighton a bed of California stars.- Billy Bragg & Wilco
Two years ago we started something. A mini-music festival, a ramshackle bunch of ruffians who clutched instruments and defiance and hope to their hearts with all the tenacity they could muster. We started something small, but that something small soon became something big, something bigger than all of us. We howled into the night, invoked the fire of the stars, harnessed music seemingly born of wind and of wandering and released it back into the nighttime air. And then we danced. We moved. We threw our bodies into a kinetic stew, whipped it up to a frothy fervor, let it bubble over into the street. And thus Fauxchella was conceived, birthed, nurtured.
Year three brought us back to our original stomping grounds in that sleepy coastal-adjacent enclave of Santa Maria, in fields flattened by agriculture, hillsides fattened with grass, in a home burning with the love of two dozen road-weary wanderers. We ate together, sang together, created together, laughed together, lived together. We thatched our sleeping bags over any available floor space and breathed together in and out, sleeping in unison, waking up together but separately.
If our singular battle cry last year was one of defiance and hope, then this year we wailed with assuredness: I'm not so sure God picks the sensitive ones!
P.S. See more over at Adam's blog, and anticipate with baited breath the Fauxchella Documentary, coming very soon to a home theatre near you.