Telluride Bluegrass Festival
I was at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival, on Sunday.
Telluride is the most beautiful place I’ve seen, so far, in Colorado. The town is nestled in a tiny valley carpeted with aspen trees. The mountains that rise up on three sides are so raw that, were it not for traces of snow, you could almost believe they’d been forced up from the earth only days before.
Some of the people at the festival look like that, too.
I’m convinced that the Telluride Bluegrass Festival is, in fact, the National Finals For Hairy Women Who Dance By Themselves At Outdoor Concerts. They all deserved prizes, in my opinion.
There is something fundamentally odd about seven acres of hippies smoking out to redneck gospel music. To be honest, I can’t believe that it has anything to do with the music, itself. If you held your kid’s elementary school orchestra recital at a park in the mountains and sold tickets, I’m fairly certain there’d be three-hundred-or-so people with questionable hygiene dancing badly and smoking doobies. If you asked, they’d tell you it was a Phish concert.