Great Taste of the Midwest Beer Festival 2009 - Part Two

As Madison's Great Taste of the Midwest was about to begin - the hour of one upon us - the clouds that had soaked everything in sight finally broke and blues skies filled the horizons.

The perspective was perfect from my end: sheltered from the sun, looking out over Lake Monona, ready to rock a heaping helping of beer-happy hopheads, great beer only a few feet away.

The event organizers - who had been stressing earlier - were now relaxing a bit, the wicked weather past and the opening horn inevitable. The Madison Homebrewers and Tasters Guild have put on this celebration for decades. For all the years I have attended, I remember only couple days when there was but a brief summer sprinkle; I do not recall a deluge during or before.

The volunteers felt lucky as larks, inside the event ahead of everyone else, already sampling some of the 500+ beers.

People from the City Parks Department were more than a little concerned. The load-in ingress had become a mud pit. The troughs set up for rinsing glassware would be worse than that by the end of day. The tires of the Ford F-350 pickup that had been delivering ice to the brewer tents had cut serious ruts into the turf. Some hadn't seen anything like it since Woodstock.

The police were ever-vigilant and ever-present, including officers mounted on horseback. This made the trek to the car at the end of the gig for load out a little dicey as they had left their dung - the horses, not the cops - on the wet pavement, making it both super slippery and super stinky. They really didn't care; it was all behind them.

Our music went off without a hitch as we played well, had fun with each other in the band, and engaged the crowd. Some attendees had heard us the night before at the Friday event, yet our repertoire was deep enough to bring out unique tunes and arrangements for the beer fest. Not only did Ric, Don and I play well together, we put a friend in the spotlight for a few vocals; when Erika joins us we morph from the band RetroBox into Secret Ingredient.

One aspect of perspective that I had temporarily forgotten was that drunken people have little regard for others or their stuff. After our first hour of music we took a break in order to imbibe some fine spirits. As I walked back to our hovel with an Ale AsylumSatisfaction Jackson Imperial/Double IPA, I observed what could have been a conga line careening through one corner of our tent as a dry pass-through from one place to another. This would not have disturbed me much but for the guys who nearly trampled Don's harmonicas and the woman who bumped my guitar, which made it spin and then hang precariously on the edge of the throne on which it had been perched.

Our instruments faired OK through the humid day, guitars staying mostly in tune. As the sun beat down on the grounds, we were once again pleased with our shelter as we were out of the direct sunlight that was burning the rest of the attendees. The only trouble came with the 25 MPH gusts that buffeted every Jimmy and Jane every so often. One wicked wind whipped the tent top from its pole, sending the entire structure on its way earthward as we were ripping up our rendition of Bob Dylan'sAll Along the Watchtower. As a wildcat did growl, a lithe and not-so-lightheaded listener leapt to action, catching the tarp and pole, reaffixing it as we continued, unfazed.

Folks sang along to You Can't Always Get What You Want, The Weight, and Can't You See, many disappearing to the bushes and trees to spark up while we played You Don't Know How It Feels. We coaxed some knowing smiles with Ziggy Stardust and earned some deep respect with our rendition of Roland the HeadlessThompson Gunner.

One last perspective came at the end of the day. The grounds thin out promptly at 6 when the taps are turned off. Just like the opening of the day, the only ones there are brewers and volunteers, except for the straggling and super-soused. One young man -- who may have spent more time chiseling the blades of his sideburns than developing his alcohol tolerance -- was despairingly holding his temples while seated just feet from us at the base of our mighty oak tree, perhaps to keep his brains from leaking out, or to stop the world from spinning, or both.

Despite his friends' best efforts - which included laughing at him and taking photos with their cell phones -- he was unable to make it to his feet, ultimately slopping in his own sick. Wondering how they were going to get him home, his friends decided that cleaning him up first would be a good idea. Grabbing by his ankles, they pulled him across the grass to the mud of the nearest water trough. Lifting him by his right arm and a couple of puke-free belt loops, they succeeded in dunking him in the 60-degree water of the tank, rinsing him clean, soaking his clothes, and shocking him back to consciousness.

As always, the Great Taste of the Midwest Beer Festival was a hoot-and-a-half. We must have done well as music czar, Ted Gisske, invited us back to play again next year.