Day Three: Never Miss a Sunday Show

Dave Rawlings and Gillian Welch | Folks Festival | Sunday, August 9th, 2026 - photos by moran

There is an old saying in the Grateful Dead world: never miss a Sunday show. Apparently that applies to Rocky Mountain Folks Festival too. After deliberately shortening my Saturday to save some energy, I made it back to Planet Bluegrass around 11:30 Sunday morning and stayed until roughly 9:00 that night. It was another long day for a hip that was only about six and a half weeks removed from replacement surgery, but Sunday ended up being loaded with the sort of moments that keep me coming back to Folks Fest. One thing I particularly love about this festival is that, no matter how much music I cover, somebody almost always catches me completely by surprise. Last year that was Chaparelle. I knew the name because their press releases had crossed my desk at Grateful Web, but I hadn't really listened to them before seeing them at Folks Fest. That turned out to be my mistake. Their set knocked my socks off and ended up being not only one of my favorites of the festival, but one of my favorite shows of the entire year. Sunday this year delivered several of those surprises again.

I arrived too late to properly catch Bonfire Dub on the Main Stage, for which I apologize to them, but there was a reason: Steve Poltz was opening the Wildflower Pavilion, and anyone who had seen him the night before knew that little pavilion was going to fill quickly. Poltz has made something of a Folks Fest tradition out of playing the Main Stage Saturday and returning for an intimate Sunday morning Wildflower set, and after his wonderfully unhinged performance the previous evening, there was no way I was missing round two.

Sunday morning Poltz went somewhere considerably more personal. He told a story about being a tiny kid growing up in San Diego and wanting to play basketball with his friend. His friend made the team. Steve did not. But the wrestling coach spotted an opportunity: “Poltz, we need a 98-pounder.” Steve reluctantly became a wrestler and, according to his telling, remained around 98 pounds through his freshman, sophomore and junior years before finally ballooning up to about 106 as a senior. He joked about being a late bloomer surrounded by teammates already sporting little mustaches, and about the embarrassment of stripping down to practically nothing when an ounce or two could determine whether he made weight. That part I could relate to personally. I wrestled throughout high school myself and was an even more ridiculous 88 pounds my freshman year before eventually reaching around 125 as a senior. Anyone who wrestled knows that when you're trying to make weight, an ounce is an ounce.

From there Poltz moved into a story about his father and “Conveyor Belt,” a song tied to losing both of his parents and suddenly realizing that he had moved one position closer to the front of life's line. His story about his father's final days managed to be heartbreaking and hysterical at the same time, which is something Poltz seems uniquely capable of doing. His father was near death around Thanksgiving, and the nurses had prepared Steve for the end. Then somebody showed up with Thanksgiving dinner. Suddenly this supposedly dying man caught the smell. His nostrils moved. Was there a turkey leg? Yes. He ate it. Cranberry sauce? Absolutely. Potatoes? Stuffing? Dessert? Keep it coming. This man who everyone thought was about to check out instead rallied for Thanksgiving dinner.

Poltz's father was also a poet and apparently a stickler for words. During this gathering his father attributed a quotation to Shakespeare, only to remember later that Shakespeare hadn't written it at all. As his father neared the very end, Steve leaned in expecting perhaps some profound final father-son declaration. Instead, his dad's great unfinished business was making sure he corrected the quotation. It wasn't Shakespeare. He needed everyone to know who actually said it. Mission accomplished, his father sprawled back in bed and died. It was hilarious in Poltz's telling, but it also revealed something touching about a man who cared about words right up until his final moments.

That story unexpectedly completed a circle that had begun the previous night. On Saturday, Poltz had walked into the middle of the Folks Fest crowd and performed “Cassidy” as a tribute to Bob Weir. Before starting it, he'd told several thousand people that Robert Hunter wrote the lyrics. As I knew immediately—and as multiple Deadheads apparently informed Poltz while he was making his way through the crowd—“Cassidy” was written by Bob Weir and John Perry Barlow, not Hunter. Poltz said Sunday morning that he realized his mistake right there in the middle of the field but couldn't bring himself to stop everything and correct it. Later that night, however, it kept gnawing at him. He had just had this wonderful show and should have been drifting peacefully to sleep, but instead his brain kept repeating that he'd given the wrong songwriter credit. Finally, lying beside his wife, Poltz announced that everyone needed to know it wasn't Robert Hunter. It was John Perry Barlow. And then, just like his father after correcting the Shakespeare attribution—although fortunately without the dying part—Steve promptly passed out.

So Sunday morning Poltz made amends. He told the entire story, properly credited John Perry Barlow, and then closed his Wildflower set by playing “Cassidy” again. Less than 24 hours earlier he'd stood surrounded by thousands of people in the field singing the song for Bob Weir. Now he was doing it again in the little Wildflower Pavilion, this time with the songwriting credits properly restored. Only Steve Poltz could turn a factual correction into a two-day comedy routine, a story about his father's death and another heartfelt Bob Weir tribute. For me, it was probably my favorite stretch of Sunday.

From there I headed back toward the Main Stage, where Gabe Lee became the first of the day's unexpected musical pleasures. Lee is a Nashville native, and during his set he talked about spending a lot of time working in Texas, where he has found it easier to string together enough songwriter gigs to make a living. He also joked about occasionally getting funny looks in more rural areas because of his Asian heritage. Someone once complimented him on how good his English was. Lee's response was basically, “Thanks, I've been practicing for 35 years.” It got a laugh, but there was an obvious point underneath it: this is his country and English is his language, regardless of whatever assumptions somebody makes based on his appearance.

Lee moved between acoustic guitar and piano, but the song that really got me was one about an old dog nearing the end of its life. It focused on all those mundane parts of living with a dog—the walks, cleaning up after them, the occasional inconvenience—and how desperately you would miss every one of those little annoyances once they're gone. I'm a sucker for animals anyway, and I have a dog I love like crazy, so that one hit me right in the chest. It brought a little water to my eyes, and I suspect just about anyone who has loved a dog would understand why. I met Gabe briefly backstage afterward and got a photo with him. He struck me as exactly what he had seemed like from the stage: warm, talented and authentic.

That reaction to Gabe reinforced something I've noticed repeatedly about Folks Fest. RockyGrass is wonderful, but I'm generally familiar with most of the artists going in. Folks Fest throws more curveballs at me. Even when I recognize a name from covering it on Grateful Web, hearing a press release and actually standing in front of somebody while they play are two very different things. Gabe Lee was one of those artists Sunday. Tommy Prine would become another, and Junior Brown would eventually blow the doors off whatever expectations I had left.

Maya de Vitry was another artist I was happy to catch. Originally from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and now based in Nashville, de Vitry recently released All My Faith. I'd seen her previously performing with Shelby Means and already knew how well she fit within this interconnected group of musicians who continually turn up in one another's bands. That interconnectedness was actually something Maya emphasized Sunday. Even though her name was printed on the schedule, she didn't really consider the people behind her simply “her band.” She plays in their projects too. Joel Timmons and Shelby Means are married, Maya and Joel also perform as a duo, and there is a genuine sense that these musicians simply rotate around one another depending upon whose songs are at the center that night.

Maya also told one of my favorite stories of the day. She had met Gillian Welch once before and remembered the encounter as somewhat awkward, then later had a dream in which she was riding in a car with Welch and David Rawlings somewhere in Colorado. She desperately needed to get to a festival for her set, but Gillian and David kept telling her she wasn't going to make it. Maya was panicking because she was about to miss her own show. Later she discovered she would actually be playing Rocky Mountain Folks Festival. When Planet Bluegrass initially teased the 2026 lineup, the name at the very top was deliberately obscured, leaving one final headliner as a mystery. When the reveal finally came, it was Gillian Welch and David Rawlings. Standing onstage Sunday, Maya joked that she had known it was them. Of course she hadn't literally known, but after that dream it was almost too perfect. And just to make certain the dream didn't become prophecy, the band had driven more than five hours following the previous night's show to make absolutely certain they reached Lyons on time.

Her set was filled with similarly personal stories. She talked about a river guide whose philosophy had stuck with her: there may be a long way to go, but that doesn't mean you need to rush. She told a story about working at Starbucks with a young mother who worked incredibly hard, pumped breast milk during her shifts and didn't have much money, but spoke with such happiness about her marriage that her wedding dress remained her favorite dress. Maya turned that life into a song. She also mentioned that whenever she gets nervous onstage, she imagines she is simply talking to her Aunt Debbie, because Debbie is someone with whom conversation always feels easy. Aunt Debbie happened to be sitting in the Folks Fest audience Sunday, which made the story even sweeter.

Musically, Maya moved around plenty. There was even a kazoo appearance, and she paired off with Joel for part of the set before giving him room to sing one of his own songs. That reflected what she had said at the beginning: these weren't hired musicians standing behind Maya de Vitry. This was a group of friends who make records, write songs and play in one another's bands, with the spotlight simply moving from person to person.

Tommy Prine was next, and he became another Sunday surprise. I've posted plenty of Tommy Prine press releases on Grateful Web and obviously knew who he was, but somebody had told me beforehand that they weren't especially impressed with him live. Maybe that lowered my expectations unfairly, but Tommy exceeded them by a wide margin. As his set ended, someone standing nearby independently said essentially the same thing I was thinking: wow, that was a lot better than I expected.

Being John Prine's son comes with an impossible comparison. Tommy may not be his dad, but who is? What I liked was that he didn't seem particularly interested in impersonating John Prine. His songs came out of his own marriage, his own young family, his own insecurities, his own sense of humor and even his own love of The Lord of the Rings. He talked about meeting his wife in eighth grade, the two eventually finding their way back to one another, and now having a young child together. “Purple Paint” came out of thinking about the kind of man he wanted to become for his wife, along with a domestic story involving paint, a cold LaCroix and the reality that writing a song can suddenly seem far more attractive than completing the household job you've been assigned.

Tommy also proudly admitted that, at 30 years old, he remains a big Lord of the Rings fan. I'm 55 and see absolutely no problem with this. I first read those books in eighth grade, read them again later and went through them another time after the movies arrived. There is no age limit on Gandalf. Tommy spoke specifically about admiring Gandalf because he was dependable, a quality Tommy wants to embody for his own family, and that idea worked its way into his songwriting.

Another song came from an ice storm that left his family stuck together in Nashville without power for something like 11 days. Loving your family doesn't mean spending nearly two weeks trapped together without electricity is easy, but out of the experience came “Rose in the Snow.” He also spoke candidly about the conflicting emotions of touring: loving the road and the chance to share music with people while simultaneously wishing he were home with his wife and child. Another song idea arrived while watching Olympic medal ceremonies from a hotel in Michigan. Prine noticed that bronze and silver medalists tend to hold their medals up, while gold medalists often bite theirs, an image that became “biting down on solid gold.”

One of the funniest songwriting inspirations came from exactly the sort of place great art is expected to emerge: a giant Facebook argument. Prine fell into a thread with tens of thousands of comments and found two people viciously bickering. One apparently intended to threaten the other but wrote something along the lines of, “I'll take you anywhere and everywhere I know.” Tommy stopped. Read literally, that's incredibly kind. Forget the hostile intent—it sounded like somebody promising to show another person the entire world. So he wrote a song from it. That ability to hear something unintended inside an ordinary phrase inevitably reminded me a little of his father, but Tommy's personality remained very much his own throughout the set.

There was also one tiny moment that I'm guessing only those of us near the front could see. A monarch butterfly began floating around Tommy while he performed, drifting above him and around the stage for a while. I'm not religious and generally don't assign supernatural explanations to butterflies. But standing at Planet Bluegrass watching John Prine's son deliver a set that had surprised me considerably, it was difficult not to smile at the thought that maybe Dad had stopped by for a minute. Sometimes it's okay not to analyze everything.

The Strumbellas followed later on the Main Stage. I only caught my three songs from the photo pit, so I'm not going to pretend I can review the entire performance, but what I saw had no shortage of energy. The Toronto band filled the stage with acoustic and electric guitars, violin, bass, keyboards and drums, creating the sort of large, communal folk-rock sound that can bring Mumford & Sons to mind without sounding exactly like them. Their singer rarely seemed interested in standing still, moving across the stage with his acoustic guitar while the band continually pushed the crowd to participate, clap along and become part of the set. They appeared genuinely thrilled to be at Planet Bluegrass, and there was an unmistakable Canadian cadence whenever the singer stopped to address the crowd.

After getting my Strumbellas photos, I wanted to wander the grounds during golden hour rather than remain planted in front of the Main Stage. That late-afternoon light at Planet Bluegrass is always worth chasing, particularly after another weekend of relentlessly bright Colorado sun. I also caught up with some old friends in the field before slipping into the Wildflower Pavilion just in time for the final song from Ellis. I had seen her there previously and remembered how emotional she had become simply walking onto that stage. A year later she still seemed to carry that same sense of gratitude. Ellis just exudes joy. I was only there for one song Sunday, but the warmth I remembered hadn't changed at all.

Then came Junior Brown.

Where had this guy been hiding from me?

Brown ended up being perhaps the biggest pure musical surprise of my entire weekend. He's been doing this for decades, so the failure here was clearly mine. Brown stands behind an instrument of his own design called the “guit-steel,” essentially merging a traditional electric guitar and lap-steel guitar into one double-neck instrument. Seeing the contraption is one thing. Hearing what Brown can do with it is something else entirely.

He is a monster player.

Brown looked every bit the traditional cowboy, but musically he could veer from honky-tonk to blues to surf guitar and suddenly toss in Jimi Hendrix licks without blinking. “Highway Patrol” was one of the numbers that immediately stuck with me, along with “Too Many Nights in a Roadhouse,” “Stupid Blues” and the wonderfully titled “Venom Wearin' Denim.” On “Stupid Blues,” he leaned hard into the blues while repeatedly working “stupid” through the lyric, and his guit-steel playing was fantastic.

His wife and longtime musical partner Tanya Rae Brown was there as well, and she took the vocal spotlight for “Handyman.” The chemistry between the two comes from decades spent together onstage and off. At another point Junior sang a line about being born in the country twenty-some years ago, prompting Tanya to throw in a perfectly timed little cough that essentially said: twenty-some years, huh? The audience got the joke.

“Deep in the Heart of Me” included an image about a heart as big as Colorado, particularly appropriate whether or not Junior had written it with Sunday afternoon in Lyons specifically in mind. He also moved into Spanish at one point and, most unexpectedly for a man decked out like he had just walked out of an old-school Texas roadhouse, slipped in some Jimi Hendrix guitar language that sounded an awful lot like “Manic Depression.” Those little flashes were part of what made the set so much fun. You thought you had Junior Brown figured out, and then the guit-steel went somewhere else entirely.

As with Tommy Prine's monarch, there was another little natural sideshow that probably wasn't visible from farther back. Dragonflies were everywhere around the stage during Junior's set, darting around while he played. Apparently even they wanted to stick around.

Junior Brown absolutely knocked my socks off. He was one of those Folks Fest discoveries that made me wonder why I hadn't spent more time listening to him years ago, and I'm extremely glad I stayed for the whole set. That is exactly the experience I was talking about earlier. Last year it was Chaparelle. This year there were several surprises, but Junior Brown may have been the biggest.

By the time Gillian Welch and David Rawlings finally walked onto the Main Stage to close the 36th annual Rocky Mountain Folks Festival, my body was telling me that nine hours on the grounds was probably sufficient. I badly wanted to stay. Welch and Rawlings are about as close to royalty as contemporary American folk music gets, and both have always struck me as remarkably warm people. Gillian has an aura about her that is difficult to describe—a huge smile, an almost timeless stage presence and a voice that sounds like it has always existed. Rawlings, standing beside her with that unmistakable guitar sound and his own broad smile, is the ideal musical counterpart.

I stayed for my three songs in the photo pit and got the pictures I needed, but eventually had to listen to my surgically repaired hip and call it a weekend. That meant missing something I had suspected might happen. Sunday, August 9, marked 31 years since Jerry Garcia died, and Welch and Rawlings have spent part of 2026 exploring the Grateful Dead catalog through their Acoustic Reckoning shows. I figured there was a good chance Jerry would be acknowledged before the evening was over.

He was.

When I looked at the setlist afterward, there it was: “Bird Song” flowing into “Morning Dew” and then returning to “Bird Song.”

Of course that's what I missed.

The rest of the performance drew heavily from the Welch-Rawlings songbook, including “I Want to Sing That Rock and Roll,” “Empty Trainload of Sky,” “Ruby,” “Howdy Howdy,” “Six White Horses,” “Hard Times,” “Cumberland Gap” and “The Way It Goes.” But on the 31st anniversary of Garcia's death, placing that “Bird Song” → “Morning Dew” → “Bird Song” sequence in the middle of the set felt like an unmistakable acknowledgment of a musical lineage that had been quietly running through the entire weekend.

In some ways, it brought the festival full circle. Friday, Larry & Joe had asked where the Deadheads were before playing “Going Down the Road Feeling Bad.” Saturday, Tony Furtado had offered a beautiful “Peggy-O,” and Steve Poltz had walked into the middle of the field for “Cassidy” in memory of Bob Weir. Sunday morning Poltz corrected himself and played “Cassidy” again. Then, on the anniversary of Jerry Garcia's death, Gillian Welch and David Rawlings closed the weekend with their own trip into that songbook.

I wish I'd had enough left in the tank to hear it in person.

Still, after nearly an entire Sunday at Planet Bluegrass—and three days of music overall—I can't complain. Sunday gave me Steve Poltz somehow connecting high-school wrestling, his father's death and John Perry Barlow into one hilarious and touching story; Gabe Lee hitting me unexpectedly hard with a song about an old dog; Maya de Vitry recounting a dream that seemed to predict Gillian Welch and David Rawlings' arrival; Tommy Prine thoroughly exceeding my expectations while a monarch circled the stage; The Strumbellas bringing a blast of Canadian folk-rock energy; Ellis radiating joy from the Wildflower Pavilion; and Junior Brown introducing me to the wonders of the guit-steel while dragonflies buzzed around him.

And somewhere after I finally admitted defeat and headed home, Gillian Welch and David Rawlings were playing “Bird Song” for Jerry.

Never miss a Sunday show.

Or at least stay as long as your new hip will let you.