First Time, Full Soul: My Baptism at the 2025 Waterfront Blues Festival

By a new Portlander discovering the city’s rhythm for the first time

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Waterfront Blues Festival 2025

When I moved to Portland this spring, I didn’t realize the city had a pulse. Not just noise or busyness, but a rhythm—something living beneath the bridges, behind the trees, under the streets. Everyone kept saying, Wait till summer.I didn’t know what that meant. I assumed it had to do with sunshine and bike lanes.

And then July 4th came.

I found myself on a riverbank, barefoot in the grass, fireworks bursting overhead, and live funk hammering through my chest—and I understood. That was the moment Portland dropped the beat and said, Welcome. You're in now.

The Waterfront Blues Festival wasn’t just my first real event here. It was my initiation rite. Two days of music, sweat, strangers, and soul—and I left changed.

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DAY ONE – FRIDAY, JULY 4: FUNK, FIRE, AND FUNNY STRANGERS

I showed up late. Hesitant. I didn’t know what to expect or where to stand. But as I walked past the gates, the sound of Kris Deelane’s Psychedelic Soul Revue snapped me out of my self-consciousness like a slap on the back. Her band wasn’t performing—they were summoning. The horns were wailing, the visuals shimmered, and everything smelled like grass, sweat, and summer beer.

I found a spot near the side, just close enough to feel the bass, and I let myself move. Just a little. Just enough to loosen whatever I’d been carrying since April.

Then the PDX Soul Collective,took the stage—LaRhonda Steele, Ronnie Wright, Tahirah Memory, Arietta Ward—and everything got holy. Gospel notes surged up into the clouds. Ronnie’s voice was smooth, deep like river rocks. LaRhonda’s vocals didn’t just rise—they soared, full of ache and celebration. And when Tahirah and Arietta joined in, it felt like hearing the history of Portland soul all in one breath.

At one point, Ronnie smiled and said, “This is community music.” And he was right. Everyone around me was clapping on beat—kids, couples, old-timers, punks. We weren’t watching a show; we were inside one.

Then Son Little took the energy inward. He played like he was writing each song mid-performance—soft, spare, aching. I sat down in the grass and just *listened*. His voice was like dusk—low, layered, full of unsaid things. He didn’t push, didn’t preach. Just delivered songs like sealed letters we weren’t meant to open too fast.

But as the light dimmed, chaos kicked the door in. Low Cut Connie.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone attack a piano like Adam Weiner did that night. He was a blur of sweat, shirt flapping, hair soaked. His energy was outrageous and perfect. He leapt from bench to mic like it was a rock opera in a house party. People were losing it—screaming, laughing, half-falling over each other. For 45 minutes, Portland became a wild roadhouse, and I didn’t want it to end.

But then it did. And somehow it got better.

The Main Squeeze came on and brought discipline to the madness. Corey Frye’s voice had both velvet and bite—smooth as silk one second, then bursting into growls that made the grass jump. The band was tight—tight like brothers, not just musicians. Their cover of “War Pigs” didn’t feel like a cover. It felt like a new language. Their originals? Pure electricity. They made funk feel important again.

Then—BOOM.

The sky cracked open. Fireworks exploded above the river, and the crowd tilted their heads in unison like sunflowers. Behind me, someone played harmonica along with the finale. In front of me, two girls slow-danced barefoot. And me? I just let it all hit—sound, smoke, celebration. It was church, carnival, family reunion, all at once.

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DAY TWO – SATURDAY, JULY 5: SUN, STORIES, AND THE REAL STUFF

I came back the next day like someone showing up for a second date, giddy and a little sore.

The lawn was quieter, softer—like the festival was waking up again. Tevis Hodge Jr. & Johnnie Ward eased us in with fingerpicked blues and warm harmonica lines. Tevis’s guitar felt like an old friend whispering secrets, and Johnnie filled the air with sax riffs that cut just right. It was music with dirt under its nails.

Then Taylor Newville & The Riders took over. I didn’t know them, but I won’t forget them. They played with youthful urgency, blending rock, blues, and something smoky I couldn’t name. One song about driving all night across state lines made me miss people I hadn’t even met yet.

Mary Flower & Lauren Sheehan were next, and their set felt like stumbling onto something ancient. Two women, two guitars, and centuries of folk and blues distilled into every note. Their harmonies were so easy, so natural, it made the rest of us quiet. I bought their CD before the song was even over. Had to. Like proof I’d heard something real.

Then came something strange and beautiful: the Sail On Sister boat cruise. I didn’t have a ticket, but I walked with dozens of others to the river’s edge and just watched. The Northwest Women in Rhythm & Blues floated past us, playing live, voices and horns bouncing off the water. People clapped from shore. Some danced. It was like watching music sail through time.

Back at the main stage, Norman Sylvester—Portland’s own “Boogie Cat”—took over. And man, he owned it. He played like someone who knew every soul in the crowd and had stories on all of them. He cracked jokes between solos, shouted out fellow local legends, and somehow got a whole family dancing in sync with one finger wave. He made me proud to live here, even though I barely qualify yet.

Then Oh He Dead came out and flipped the script again. Their sound was tight, groovy, with CJ Johnson commanding the stage like it was her living room. She cracked jokes, belted harmonies, and turned the crowd into her backup singers. Their cover of “Use Me” became a jam, and I watched two teens and a grey-haired couple sing every word together like it was their song.

And then came Southern Avenue.

Tierinii Jackson walked onto the stage like she knew what she was about to do to us. And when they played “Sister,” I couldn’t help it—I started crying. Just full-on tears down my cheeks. The vocals, the rhythm, the lyrics—something about that song cracked me open. Not a sad cry. Not a happy one either. Just… raw. Like something old inside me had finally been heard.

ZZ Ward followed, all cinematic blues and swagger. Fedora tilted just right. Guitar slung like a blade. Her songs had bite and shine. “Put the Gun Down” turned the field into a dance floor again, like we’d just remembered our bodies.

And then—The Record Company.

This was the set I didn’t know I was waiting for.

They came on with zero flash—just guitars, drums, and the kind of presence you earn. Chris Vos’s voice was gravel wrapped in honey. The riffs were big and dirty. “Off the Ground” hit like a freight train—feedback bending into melody, drum hits punching like brass knuckles. But what stuck with me most was their connection. They didn’t just play together. They *believed* in each other. Every solo was a risk, and every risk paid off. The crowd roared after every song like they knew. I was close to the front, and at one point, Chris locked eyes with someone yelling the lyrics—and smiled like he’d just been reminded why this all mattered.

Then the lights went purple, and Allen Stone walked on like the night had been building to him. He sang like someone who’d spent their life letting music speak when words failed. His falsetto was soft thunder. His energy? Pure gospel. And when he led thousands of us in a slow, swaying chorus under the twilight sky, I felt this weird warmth bloom in my chest.

This wasn’t a finale. It was a beginning.

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WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE

I came to Portland not knowing what I’d find. What I found was a city with rhythm baked into its bones.

I thought the 2025 Waterfront Blues Festival would be a fun weekend.

Instead, it cracked me open. Made me feel again. Gave me people to dance with. Songs to carry. And a sense—maybe for the first time since arriving—that I’m exactly where I need to be.

I don’t know what’s next. But I know this: Portland’s got music in every corner, in clubs I haven’t found yet, in bands I haven’t heard, on porches and sidewalks and dive bars waiting to be discovered.

And I plan to find all of it.