Article Contributed by Mike
Published on 2026-08-14
Valerie June | Planet Bluegrass | Lyons, Colorado | August 8th, 2026 - photos by moran
After nearly 14,000 steps and seven miles at Rocky Mountain Folks Festival on Friday, I knew Saturday had to be a considerably shorter day. A little more than six weeks removed from hip replacement surgery, my hip was reminding me Saturday morning that perhaps I had gotten a little carried away on day one. So instead of another marathon from beginning to end, I arrived at Planet Bluegrass around 2:30 p.m. with a plan to enjoy as much music as I could without completely emptying the tank before Sunday.
Tony Furtado provided a terrific start. The longtime banjo player and multi-instrumentalist delivered one of my favorite musical sets of Saturday, mixing personal songs, immigrant stories and some familiar traditional music into a performance that seemed particularly suited to Folks Fest. Immigration had already emerged as something of a theme Friday with Larry & Joe, and Furtado continued that thread through his own Portuguese family history. “The Immigrant” was especially powerful. At one point came the line, “We didn't leave our home and families only to be refugees.” Coming one day after hearing Larry Bellorín and Joe Troop address the immigrant experience from the Main Stage, it was difficult not to connect the two moments. Furtado also performed “Ashes of a Man,” introducing it in connection with his father. Saturday fell right around the anniversary of his father's death, giving an already personal song additional weight. Another song addressed hate speech and the hope that someday it might become a dying language, another example of musicians throughout the weekend finding ways—sometimes subtle, sometimes anything but—to address the climate beyond the festival grounds.
One of my favorite moments of Furtado's set, however, traveled much further back in time. “Peggy-O” is an old traditional song with Scottish roots that generations of Grateful Dead fans know particularly well. Furtado explained that he hadn't grown up as a huge Deadhead despite being from the Bay Area, but years ago he and guitarist Scott Law were preparing a Jerry Garcia-related set at Northwest String Summit. “Peggy-O” was one of the songs that clicked with him, and it clearly stuck. Furtado was joined Saturday by Matt Flinner on mandolin, Todd Sickafoose on bass and Simon Chrisman on hammered dulcimer. Sickafoose is also Ani DiFranco's longtime bassist, providing another nice connection to Saturday's lineup.
Chrisman's hammered dulcimer was the instrument that especially caught my ear during “Peggy-O.” From a distance, it almost looked and sounded like some sort of metallic xylophone. In reality, the hammered dulcimer consists of strings stretched across a trapezoidal soundboard and played by striking them with small handheld mallets. In Chrisman's hands, its bright, shimmering tones gave “Peggy-O” an almost otherworldly quality. Furtado moved between guitar and banjo while Flinner's mandolin and Sickafoose's bass filled out the arrangement. It was one of those versions where a song you've heard countless times suddenly feels a little different again, and I really enjoyed the entire Furtado set.
Bobby Alu followed on the Main Stage and immediately changed the atmosphere. The Australian-Samoan singer and musician brought an easygoing coastal feel to Planet Bluegrass. He had recently played in Moab before arriving in Lyons and repeatedly commented on how remarkable the Planet Bluegrass setting was, tucked away along the St. Vrain. Alu was one of the most relentlessly cheerful performers I saw all weekend. Big smile, relaxed personality, beach energy—it wasn't difficult to imagine his music with an ocean somewhere nearby. His band matched that energy. At one point Alu moved over to the drum kit while his bassist and drummer joined in a percussion-heavy exchange, turning part of the set into something closer to a rhythmic conversation.
Alu also provided an early preview of what was coming later when he called Steve Poltz a “wizard” and recalled some advice Poltz once offered him: essentially, all that really matters is your next gig. Whether Poltz was completely serious is another question. With Steve Poltz, it usually is and usually isn't. Before finding out, I headed back into the Wildflower Pavilion for the Silo Sisters.
Bonnie Sims, Melody Walker and Phoebe Hunt are three tremendous musicians individually, but together they have a chemistry that goes well beyond three people simply sharing songs. Their connection traces back to Song School at Planet Bluegrass, making the Wildflower Pavilion an especially fitting place to hear them together. Bonnie pointed out the actual silo on the festival grounds, a reminder of how deeply the trio's story is connected to this place. The stories between songs were almost as enjoyable as the music. At one point they explained that a particular song was intended as a five-way collaboration even though there were only three of them performing it. “This is our first five-way,” someone noted. “Not me,” Bonnie immediately responded. That is Bonnie Sims. She seems to walk around with a permanent smile and a joke waiting about half a second behind it.
But the most memorable moment of the set wasn't funny at all. During one of Phoebe Hunt's songs, she suddenly became visibly emotional. Her voice caught, tears came, and for a moment it seemed that the significance of where she was and how she had gotten there simply overwhelmed her. Not that long ago, these musicians were connecting through Song School. Now Hunt was standing in front of a packed Wildflower Pavilion beside Bonnie Sims and Melody Walker, with an audience hanging on what they were creating together. When the song ended, Bonnie and Melody came over and wrapped her in a hug. It was beautiful. After regaining her composure, Hunt was able to joke about coming to Folks Fest and winding up crying onstage. That's Folks Fest too.
I hated leaving the Silo Sisters, but Steve Poltz was about to begin on the Main Stage, and you don't miss Steve Poltz. I have seen him numerous times, and I'm not sure there is a funnier person currently wandering around with an acoustic guitar. Calling a Poltz performance a “concert” doesn't really explain it. A song can turn into a story, the story can turn into another song, an audience member can become part of the story, and Poltz might completely stop what he's doing because another thought has entered his head. Somehow, eventually, everything circles back.
He opened with what I believe was “I'm Here to Sing to You,” but it didn't take long before we were somewhere completely different. Poltz told a long story about undergoing treatment for a torn meniscus and discovering that his anesthesiologist was a Deadhead. According to Poltz, the anesthesiologist gave him propofol based on something resembling a 90-pound dosage calculation while apparently making sure Steve wouldn't completely miss the experience. “Can you do that?” Poltz wondered. That phrase would become considerably more important later.
He also returned to one of his recurring comedy bits involving a conversation between himself and Jesus, with Poltz supplying both voices—the Jesus character arriving several octaves higher. As an atheist, I'll admit this bit cracks me up. It isn't particularly mean-spirited toward religion. It is simply Steve Poltz taking theology, popular culture and whatever happened in the news that week and throwing all of it into a blender. At one point Bob Dylan entered the imaginary conversation. Jesus informed Poltz that Dylan wasn't necessarily guaranteed anything anymore. How could Bob Dylan possibly not be guaranteed? Apparently it depended on the next record. Anyone familiar with Poltz's affection for Dylan knows the joke wasn't really a knock. Dylan could release ten terrible records tomorrow and his place in music history isn't going anywhere.
Then the mood shifted as Poltz began talking about his close friend Todd Snider. Snider and Poltz shared the same mischievous songwriter DNA, and Poltz's stories made it obvious how much he misses him. Again and again, Todd would apparently do something that left Steve wondering, “You can do that?” Soon the entire Folks Fest crowd was answering along with him. One story involved the two deciding to play Wiffle ball before a show. The game somehow reached the 19th inning while people were waiting for them to perform. Management wanted them onstage. Todd's response was essentially: let them wait. The baseball game had to be finished. Pint glasses became bases, things broke, there was blood, and somewhere in Poltz's telling, somebody began resembling Iggy Pop. Another story involved Poltz and Snider painting each other's toenails. With these two, none of it sounded particularly surprising. The stories were ridiculous, but underneath them was genuine affection for a lost friend.
Then Poltz decided to play Phish. Apparently he had made some sort of agreement or challenge with his manager and learned “Sample in a Jar” backstage roughly half an hour before performing it. I'm a Phish fan, so naturally this got my attention. More impressive was Poltz's ability to simply absorb a song and walk onto the Main Stage shortly afterward willing to take his chances with it. That willingness to operate without much of a safety net is a big part of why his shows are so entertaining.
Then came another Steve Poltz classic involving “You Were Meant for Me,” the massive Jewel hit that Poltz co-wrote. He recalled hearing a woman singing the song after one of his shows, except she repeatedly sang the title as “You Were Made for Me.” Poltz initially tried to let it go, but she kept singing it. Finally, the guy who actually co-wrote the song couldn't take it anymore and corrected her. No, she insisted. It was “You Were Made for Me.” Eventually Poltz had to play the ultimate trump card: he wrote the freaking song. Naturally, when Poltz got to “You Were Meant for Me” Saturday, the Folks Fest audience deliberately sang “You Were Made for Me” back at him. He had created his own monster.
For all the laughter, though, Poltz saved the moment I'll remember most for the end. Last year, on August 9, 2025, I watched him leave the stage and walk into the middle of the Folks Fest crowd on the 30th anniversary of Jerry Garcia's death. Surrounded by people in the field, he played “Ripple,” eventually turning it into a communal sing-along. It was one of my favorite moments of the entire 2025 festival. Saturday, Poltz did it again, this time for Bob Weir. Poltz left the stage, acoustic guitar in hand, and planted himself among the audience for “Cassidy.” Soon hundreds of people were gathered around him, singing along to a song that has taken on an entirely different emotional meaning since Weir's death earlier this year.
Toward the end, Poltz let the crowd carry the song: “Let the words be yours, I am done with mine.” They sang it again and again, and there was something especially poignant about those words now. Last year it was Jerry. This year it was Bobby. Same field, same Steve Poltz standing in the middle of everyone, different song and different loss, but that same strange ability music has to collapse decades and make absent people seem very close for a few minutes.
There was, however, one small problem. Before beginning “Cassidy,” Poltz identified it as a Bob Weir song with lyrics by Robert Hunter. I immediately knew that wasn't right. John Perry Barlow wrote the lyrics to “Cassidy.” No big deal—anyone can make a mistake while standing in front of hundreds of people improvising a show—but remember it, because Steve Poltz wasn't finished with that mistake. We'll get back to it Sunday.
After Poltz, I stayed long enough to catch the beginning of Valerie June's Main Stage set. June made an immediate visual impression. Flowers seemed to be everywhere—around her microphone, in her hair and across the stage. She wore a colorful purple outfit, big almost-'60s-looking sunglasses and bright lipstick, her unmistakable hair adding to the whole psychedelic presentation. She started with banjo during the portion I caught, with an acoustic guitar waiting nearby. Her trio included drums and a bassist whose magnificent beard gave him more than a passing resemblance to somebody who might have wandered over from ZZ Top. June herself seemed radiant, smiling broadly as she played.
Her music is similarly difficult to put neatly into one box, drawing from folk, blues, soul, Appalachian traditions and more psychedelic territory. But after my first three songs in the photo pit, my body had made the decision for me. Ani DiFranco was still to come, and I even saw her backstage near the area where the artists and crew eat, but Friday's seven-mile adventure was still sitting heavily in my surgically repaired hip, and I knew Sunday was going to be another long one. Sometimes festival coverage requires knowing when you've gotten enough.
Saturday had given me Tony Furtado turning “Peggy-O” into something beautiful, the Silo Sisters going from Bonnie Sims' five-way jokes to Phoebe Hunt crying in the arms of her friends, and Steve Poltz somehow connecting Todd Snider, Jesus, Bob Dylan, Phish, Jewel and Bob Weir into one completely unpredictable set. That was plenty. Besides, as Bobby Alu had learned from Steve Poltz, all that matters is the next gig.
And Sunday was waiting.
