Cat’s Cradle Carrbora, NC
Contact: zach@mexicansummer.com
Web: robertlesterfolsom.com
Players: Landon Gay (Howdy), pedal steel; Kevin Peacon, guitar; Mike Monahan, drums; Robert Lester Folsom, lead; Brooke Gardwood, glockenspiel; Jeremy Marshall Blanton, bass; Jeremy Prince, keys, organ, flute, sax
When Robert Lester Folsom hit the Cat’s Cradle stage, flanked by what looked like a small army of 20-something players, it felt like a deliberate misdirection—a smokescreen of youthful motion and sound. But as the haze cleared, the thing revealed itself for what it was: a precision-built groove machine, surprisingly cohesive and deeply intentional.
At the center stood Folsom, 70 years old and entirely unburdened by it, calmly steering this sprawling ensemble through a sequence of songs that unfolded like a long-form musical conversation. “Written in Your Hair” kicked the doors open, followed by “Heaven on the Beach,” the anthemic “Situations,” and the gospel-tinged “Jericho.” It wasn’t just a setlist—it was a guided tour through decades of lived-in songwriting.
Behind him, the band was exceptional. At its core, a classic guitar-based outfit—but with left-field colors woven throughout: glockenspiel, organ, flute, even saxophone. On paper, that sounds like trouble. Onstage, it was magic. These textures added dimension and surprise without clutter, giving each song room to breathe and bloom.
“Strolling Along” launched a four-song jam sequence that eventually wrapped with “One More Song,” and somewhere in that stretch the band found a pocket that felt gloriously unhinged yet completely locked. There was a Zappa-esque looseness at play, tempered by smooth Seals & Crofts-style harmonies, the muscular drive of Chicago (minus the horns), flashes of Terry Kath’s fire, and the raw pulse of the James Gang.
What truly bound it all together, though, was an almost accidental channeling of “Workingman’s Dead”—not as homage, but as spirit. Most of these players weren’t alive when that record dropped, yet there they were, tapping into its communal, song-first ethos like it was hardwired into the room.
“Sitting on the Moon” opened another four-song arc, rolling through “Blues Stay Away,” “Ginger,” and “See You Later I’m Gone,” before closing the night with the crowd favorite “Singing in the Shower.” As the final notes dissolved into the back-room cosmos of the Cat’s Cradle, the audience drifted out slowly—shell-shocked, smiling, and thoroughly worked over by the tidal force they’d just witnessed.
These young players—and the audience with them—have grown up in a culture that often confuses image for substance and volume for value. What they encountered instead was a reckoning: a songwriter, decades removed from their playlists, commanding the room not with flash, but with songs.
