Conversations With Shepp . . .

Some Weeks Ago . . .

"Did ya hear the news? Mike Munford won! Yeah. He won tonight!"
I adjusted my cell phone position. Hard to believe a 'Local Boy' would be so honored by the International Bluegrass Music Association. Shepp and I had predicted it, and every local bluegrass musician and fan in the Baltimore area wanted it to happen. Best Banjo-picker in the U.S. And Mike is such a seriously nice-guy to get such a prestigious award. Everyone around here knows he's the best there is. Shepp would call me for hours and go on about Mike's banjo style.
"Mike told me once you have to go for the tone. Bluegrass depends on the tone in everything in bluegrass."
Shepp usually calls me after a gig. I think he does it to wind down from the adrenalin high. We all know that traditional, hillbilly, honky tonk bluegrass music is a drug, especially when it's played in the Maryland/Baltimore style. The lyrics are enough to get you an early grave after you've shot your wife and killed her no-good boyfriend, or else sung about it on every night of the weekend since you were in high school.
"Now Alison Krauss has a different approach about the music. Maybe that's the difference. I don't know. But after every show I try and figure out why our Maryland Bluegrass is different."
Shepp was rambling. It was good for his brain to come down off the drug he was feeding on. Part of it was his old D-28 and the magic he made on it this particular evening. The band's vocals were spot on. No mistakes. No wavering. The more energy on the dance floor showed up as more energy on stage. The audience refused to hear that it was quitting time.
"Maybe it's about sticking to the rules," I tried to interject.
"Yeah, I think we've talked about rules before. Maybe it's the rules that makes our music different."
"Rules are nice," I responded. "But performance is everything. Are you entertaining the people?"
"Yeah. I see your point. Just seeing that audience pumped up put us over the top."
We had talked a lot about a lot of things. I looked at my watch and knew he had about another hour before the bluegrass high wore down. He's easy to side-track because he's got an artistic mind trapped in a troubadour's  costume. You can hear the wheels spinning even over the microwave towers between here and the Eastern Shore. A long time ago he would have been the guy you see going from village to village playing a lute for a few pence. Little known  to these guys they were helping to spread popular culture all over the old continent until they eventually evolved into court performers and dancing schools for young ladies and gentlemen. The whole process was just one step away from the La Scala in Italy or the Ballets Russes in Paris. More than anything, Shepp here is part of that old entertainment package continuum.
" Jeez, Am I keeping you up? We haven't even discussed Molly Hatchet yet!" There's a loud laugh on the other end of the line. That's a musical joke between us.
"Why don't you go to bed and get some rest," I said, knowing he was still working his way down.
"Got to do the play lists for tomorrow night's show. Got to do it while it's fresh in my head!"
Like saying, got to put some new gut-strings on my lute, pack my bag, put out the fire, and move off to the next town. Every troubadour when he's good, gets to live out his second set of dreams.