More than Music: Finding Family at Dog Patch Music Festival

Article and Photos by Melanie Macpherson

We had only just arrived, set up our tent, and loaded it with all our gear - one part of a circle of tents opening into a shared center and connected to the group spaces. The group spaces consisted of two large RVs that sandwiched a warren of coolers, tables, tents, and cooking areas between them. A screen tent with a propane heater, an exhibition-style tent stocked with every drink and snack imaginable, and a big white tent ready for filming interviews anchored our cozy neighbourhood.

Once our sleeping space was sorted, we turned to the serious business of relaxing.  In the midday heat, we retreated under the shade, the air thick with excitement, music, and easy laughter.  The warmth of the day combined with salty snacks and cold drinks melted away the stress of travel. 

Overhead, the sky shifted—clouds thickened and the air grew damp with that telltale scent of rain. A cool tap on the shoulder turned to a refreshing gentle shower. The drops, hesitant at first, gathered strength and purpose, soon becoming a mischievous downpour.  Water rushed between the tents; pooling on chairs, running off tables, and threatening equipment. With no time to waste, we grabbed tarps and bungee cords and scrambled to weatherproof the tents.

Rain hammered down as friends and friends-to-be laughed, shrieked, and yelled directions over the storm. Even with a raincoat, I was soaked through by the time we’d transformed our tents into a weatherproof maze.

After the rain finally let up, I changed into dry clothes and helped set up another screen tent. We strung lights, arranged chairs and blankets, and somewhere along the way, a pot of unreal chicken chili was brought out to warm us all. With bellies full and clothes mostly dry, we headed down to the saloon just in time for the premiere of Engaged and Enthused, the brand-new Dog Patch documentary.

The story began with a chance meeting. New to Saskatchewan, Andrew Sorsdahl applied to sponsor Marc Butler’s brand-new music festival; he didn’t expect to walk away agreeing to produce a documentary. That one decision grew into a 12-year friendship and, eventually, the making of a touching film about Marc’s vision — a vision rooted in his family’s desire to help their community connect and celebrate together. Since that first meeting, they had witnessed the festival site evolve from a hayfield into a full-fledged venue with two outdoor stages, a saloon with its own stage, covered bleachers, a playground, and other infrastructure — all in Marc’s own backyard. From the very beginning, his dream was never just about music or a big party; it was about bringing people together.

Later, sitting back in my chair around a fire, I caught myself people watching — someone topping up drinks, someone else cooking a mountain of hotdogs, a new arrival being drawn into the fold with a chair and a spot around the fire. It felt… easy. Like I’d been a part of this for years. It was its own kind of heartbeat, steady and alive, pulling us all into its rhythm. The fires burned on, and the night wrapped around us, and the sense of closeness stuck with me. 

By Friday afternoon, the festival was kicking into full gear, and the music was ready to take command of the space and the quickly gathering crowd was ready for it. I was the first of our group to arrive at the main stage, camera in hand, eager to catch every set. Sitting alone at first, I soaked in the sounds — Michelle Arcand’s soulful songs from Big River, followed by the beautiful harmonies of Mercy and Autumn Harrison. A couple friends drifted over here and there, but for long stretches, it was just me and the music.

The Give ’em Hell Boys had already fired up the crowd with their raucous metal-meets-country energy, but it wasn’t until Justin LaBrash took the stage that the full crew began to arrive. One by one, familiar faces appeared around me, slowly wrapping me in the comfort of their company until I was no longer alone. Duane Steele, a true Canadian country icon showed he still has it, followed by Darryl Anderson with his rockin’ country and big voice.

Throughout the day, people drifted in and out, but there was almost always someone nearby — ready to dance, sing along, or simply share the quiet joy of being together. When Seven Mile Sun took the stage that evening, their high-energy rock hit me like a wave of satisfaction. The screaming guitars and soaring vocals cut through the heat of the day, their rhythms pulsing deep in my chest, a reminder of the magic that only live music can create. Their set rolled seamlessly into A Rancher’s Son’s pop-punk edge, carrying that energy forward. When I finally crawled into my sleeping bag, I was wiped — the kind of tired that comes from a day really well lived.

Saturday stretched from mid-morning well into the night, a full day layered with music and moments that felt both intimate and immense. I could hear the early sets from the tents, Larry Krause and Western Medicine, as they warmed the crowd gently. I made it to the stage in time for The Blue Mules’ good time bluesy rhythms that had toes tapping and heads nodding. 

PEARL was a standout on the lineup. Gillian Snider channels Janis Joplin with astonishing authenticity, pouring raw emotion and barely harnessed power into every note. Her voice carries the grit and soul that defined the legend, enthralling the crowd and holding them spellbound from start to finish.  Following that, Sister Grace took the stage — a trio of sisters whose harmonies grow richer and more confident with every performance I’ve seen.

As the afternoon unfolded, the festival buzzed with excitement and a hint of expectation. Steve Pointmeier and Adam Johnson both took the heat to the stage with their own brands of rockin' country music. At this point, Marc Butler stepped onto the stage with Kim, his partner and co-pilot of the Dog Patch dream. He began with the usual thanks to everyone for making the festival what it is — but there was more behind their smiles. Then, dropping to one knee, Marc proposed to Kim in front of the entire crowd. The audience erupted — cheers, whistles, and applause rolling across the grounds like a wave.

That sense of celebration lingered, adding to the feeling that this year’s festival was more. Not long after, during Julian Austin’s set, in the quieter company of our campsite, Andrew Sorsdahl worked to steady his nerves. With The Hourhand gently playing in the background, he asked his girlfriend Katie to marry him — the band’s music becoming the soundtrack for another joyful moment.

Saturday evening brought an explosion of energy. Jaydee Bixby’s soulful voice and The Confusionaires’ classic rock-country fusion kept the crowd moving, but it was The Brothers G and The HourHand who truly brought the party to a head. Both bands played wild sets full of screaming guitar solos and the kind of intensity you have to see to believe. During their set, The HourHand announced it was their last performance under that name; from now on, they would be performing as Black Tea, a name that is more representative of who they have become.

As the night wound down, the two bands joined forces for a final blast — all seven musicians on stage together, delivering a joyous, unforgettable close to the main stage portion of the evening.

But the night wasn’t over yet. Back at the campsite, shouts and laughter filled the air as musicians and music lovers alike gathered to eat, drink, and bask in the warmth of fires and company. Eventually, I surrendered to sleep, returning to my tent and drifting off to beautiful guitar melodies swirling softly through the night.

Sunday morning arrived cool and overcast, and the tear down began slowly, piece by piece. The first soft patter of rain on the tents turned packing into a messy, soggy affair — damp gear folded and hastily stowed, and goodbye hugs exchanged beneath dripping canopies. The rain that had greeted us on arrival now felt like a gentle final farewell. As we said our goodbyes, the weight of parting settled quietly over the group.

We’d come together from different places, with different backgrounds, some of us meeting for the first time that weekend. But by the time the last notes faded and the remains of the camp disappeared from the rear-view mirror, we’d become something else — not just friends, but a family by choice. The kind who look out for each other, share what they have, celebrate together, fight and make up together, and hold space for one another through the messy and the magical alike.

That’s what Dog Patch was for me this year. Not just music under the prairie sky, but the reminder that home can be a circle of camp chairs around a fire, and family can be the people you’re lucky enough to find along the way.