Firehouse rock
The morning of Fete ’99 dawned seriously misty. Our foul-weather plan consisted of crossed fingers and a few extra tarps. The fete committee, chaired that year by Berkeley Grimball, met early and decided to forge ahead. Berkeley was pacing at home when Carrboro Fire Chief Rodney Murray’s voice came in on the walkie-talkie. “Berkeley, if y’all want to use the firehouse bay, we can move the trucks outside.†Berkeley took Rodney up on that most welcome offer, and the Carrboro firehouse went down in history as the best-sounding stage in town. Plus the décor was way cool.
— Catherine DeVine
A fitting end
During the first few years of Fête de la Musique (now known as the Carrboro Music Festival), before it became an established event, there was a core group of us who did whatever needed doing to make it happen. Because this was an all-volunteer event with no budget and barely a plan, this included mundane tasks such as going from business to business pleading for money for sponsorships, designing and hanging up posters, designing and schlepping programs to the 22 venues from one end of town to the other, selling raffle tickets for a signed Dali lithograph, directing traffic, directing people. You name it, we did it.
Those first years, I think all of us, the original founders, hung out to the bitter end, often gathering together at Cat’s Cradle or Tyler’s where the late bands played. We were usually a pretty boisterous group by that time, half-crazed from trucking up and down Weaver and Main streets countless times in the course of the day. This was our final reward, relaxing and enjoying the last of the bands. My compadres will remember Junk in the Trunk.
Being the photographer for the event, I’ve always felt compelled to get photos of every band that played, stopping for just a minute or two before dashing on to the next venue. It’s an exhausting job, but one that I savor. With music on practically every corner, I’ve always felt this is Carrboro’s greatest day and am happy to be a part of it.
There was one particular night, it was about the third year I think, when Catherine DeVine and I finally bellied up to a barrel at Tyler’s at the end of a very long day. This was back when the bands still played inside rather than out back, like they do now. We were both completely exhausted and grateful for the drinks that sat before us.
As always, much of the day we’d been handing out the “day-of†programs to folks walking up and down the streets trying to figure out who was playing where. With more than 150 bands performing in any given year, we’ve always carried piles of these things, ready to help any lost souls. As we sat on the tall stools, Catherine looked down at the floor. There, all by itself in the middle of the wooden planking, laid a crumpled program, crushed into a barely recognizable black-and-white wad. After having handed out hundreds of these programs that day, seeing the final resting place of this particular piece of paper caught us by surprise.
“Hmm,†said Catherine, pointing a well-manicured finger at the ball of paper, now a worthless compilation of information. “Would you look at that!†she remarked with disgust. We looked at one another and laughed hysterically. I climbed down off the stool and leaned in close to take a picture. A fitting end.
— Jackie Helvey