Ken Babbs’ eyes tell tales of a historic past.
They’re crazed, looking multiple directions at once, lit up with a healthy skepticism and laced with eccentric humor. He walks with a slight hunch, yet still stands with confidence. He sports a stark white-button down and pants over an old tie-die tee, with an American flag headband. Even at 71 years old, he jumps for joy and throws his arms in the air and screams until suddenly …
BOOM!
The cannon of Mr. Ken “The Intrepid Traveler” Babbs has been set off.
It’s the annual “Forta 2010” Fourth of July party at his ranch. Bruce Hornsby is jamming on the accordion, Eli Babbs ripping it up on the guitar, and prankster George Walker on an “axe clarinet.” Ken takes the stage on his trombone and wails a fat solo.
I’m looking around at the scene, perplexed by the magic it encompasses. Right over there is Jerry Garcia’s wife (and Kesey’s ex-lover). Just down the road is the “Further” bus that spurred a generation of 1960’s counterculture. There was no admission fee to enter this wonderland, and the potluck dinner on the table could feed 300 people. The “who’s who” of Merry Pranksters family and friends have their campsites assembled around the property, with a good view of the private fireworks display to come that night.
Remarkable.
It was a community party; one with no elite “all access” passes or “crew” hookups. These were the leaders of the 1960s who pioneered some of the most powerful movements of the new left. They started a true revolution, rooted in morals of peace and community. A revolution that is still continuing today.
Unavoidable curiosity wouldn’t ease its grip. I had to unlock the secrets covered up over three decades of hibernation. I approached “The Intrepid Traveler” with no ground to stand on and a world of unanswered questions.
“I think the legacy you and Ken Kesey built needs to be continued,” I stated.
“The legacy! HA! Look around you man!” He slammed his palms to his thighs. He stared straight at me and tilted his head slightly, eyes wide as the Pacific Ocean.
“Rephrase that.”
“OK, I think we could link new and old. I think there are untapped outlets you could benefit from. All in all, I think we need to sit down and have a formal interview sometime.”
His half-smile turned to a full half-moon and the Vietnam veteran/Prankster/1960s icon chuckled and replied: “sad to say, I’m working on a book and had to take time off to do the fourth but now I plead the fifth, which good thing to say I didn’t buy on the third so I was sober on the fourth and the point is, back to work on the book and once that happens I say no to everything else, for I must stay on track, on task and on the ball.”
Might have dug my own grave on that one.
Nonetheless, the blast from the past at the Babbs ranch left me with some insight into the present day and future. With an Oregon Country Fair ticket costing the public $25.00 per day, I think something must be said about its roots. After all, Babbs, Kesey and the Grateful Dead were some of the founding fathers of the OCF. Funny thing though, none of them even bother to attend anymore.
“It’s hippie tourist trap,” said a local Eugenean and long-time fair “family” member who wished to remain anonymous.
Besides the bone the OCF throws to local charities every year, the four-decade old festival seems to have evolved into a cleverly colored, bona fide hustle. After the public pays to walk through the gates, hundreds of vendors offer them various crafts, food, and art.
But once the clock strikes six PM, the public gets the boot and the fair “family” parties into the night on a fat stack of admissions money.
Such a witty heist requires a finely tuned “custy” radar.
Most of the music (with a few exceptions) you can see at local bars, and if you don’t have a pass, you’re not going to the real party which goes down at night. In a nutshell, unless you schmooze with a vendor all year or have an inside fair hookup, you’re not part of the elite OCF circle.
Yet, the attitude of the Babbs “Forta ’10 Indie-pen-dence Day” party was nothing close to elite. The very founders of the country fair wouldn’t turn away a soul. The only requirement for admission to their party is bringing something positive to the table. Whether it be music, art, or food, if it benefits the community, you’re game.
Sounds to me like the OCF before “hippie-capitalism” had its way.
Nonetheless, I’ll be out in Veneta tomorrow with my finger in the air and fifty bucks in my pocket. Something tells me I’ll be able to manifest the long-haired granola goddess I met, and perhaps leave a little bit of my “Forta ‘10” experience in a fair that has lost its way. After all, you can’t just bitch and moan holed up in a cave somewhere. Gotta embrace convention to change it.
Even if convention has become the counter-culture-rooted, 41st-annual Oregon Country Fair.
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