Unraveling the Complications

 Life in the Mekong Delta - Viet Nam - September 2013

13 November 2013

Let's talk about the simplicity of bluegrass and its therapeutic values. Let's talk about how it's great art, say, somewhere right up there with the minimalism of Japanese Noh Theatre, or the bombast of the paintings of Fra Lippo Lippi in the Cathedral at Orvieto. I hear the disagreements coming in on my digital airwaves now. The naysayers, the non-believers, the great unwashed who have yet to experience the artistry of Bill Monroe, Pete Goble, Tony Rice, or Mike Munford. They wouldn't understand the emotional heartache of Edith Piaf, either. Or understand that the simplicity of this music comes out of the human struggle to survive; tries to paint a picture of the human landscape about them. The music is produced as unadorned as possible, and performed as unadorned as possible, with the voice and acoustical stringed instruments. Nothing more. No stage-sets, light shows, or smoke-machines. I'm reminded of this once again as I sit here and listen to James King's latest album Three Chords and The Truth.

     I'm also reflecting on a performance I saw just a few years ago. In the middle of nowhere; along the Mekong River, I had stopped to have some iced tea at a place called The Tiger Man's Farm. It was bloody hot and I was tired. We had been on boats all day long and then trudged along muddy dikes and over bamboo bridges to get there. The Tiger Man himself greeted us. He was a healthy, very strong, 80 year-old, wiry little guy with a smile you couldn't resist. He ran a 'fruit farm' which by Vietnamese standards meant he was fairly wealthy. These are not farms in our sense of the word. The farms are really long stretches of what appear to be impenetrable jungle until you realize they are regulated stands of hundreds of different varieties of tropical fruit. All kinds. When compared to our tasteless, two or three or four fruits grown in the U.S. it makes your head spin. I could go on and on about life in the Mekong Delta, but I'll save it for another time. Suffice it to say, I was in for a real treat at the Tiger Man's place. After some fruit and tea and talk about the old days, he ushered me and my friends to the rear of the house where I could hear some instruments being tuned. They were traditional instruments (I could name them for you, but it would only confuse the point of the story) plus a very out-of-tune guitar. There was a simply-built veranda fashioned out of bamboo and palm fronds near a fish pond. The back wall of the veranda was closed off with split-bamboo screening. There were two women who greeted us with tea. Three men were smiling and continuing to 'tune up.' We took a seat and were offered more tea and small cups of honey. Tiger Man took a seat, too, and continued to gaze at us with a goofy smile.

     The music started. I recognized the format of how this was going to unfold. There were patterns being played that announced the intent. First some poetry. Then some sung-poetry, and who knows what would happen next. The older lady, very beautiful (sans make-up and simply dressed,) started singing. After a few verses the younger woman joined in. After a few poems they stopped. We applauded. Not out of habit, but because we were really enjoying it. More music and some silence. The older woman announced in broken English the intent of the next selection: a song about loss. A young daughter is leaving her mother to join her new husband's family. The bulk of Vietnamese music is played in a minor key and that sets the stage for an emotional experience for the listener. All attention was upon the two women. The song, the accompanying movements of the women, the movements of the embracing arms, the steadfastness of certain gazes, evoked everything in the human experience of sadness. It was so simple, yet spoke a thousand complexities in the human condition. It brought tears. Even though I had seen this story before in other locales in Viet Nam, I had never seen it done this way by two singer/actors who could produce that afternoon's affect on strangers.

     We applauded wildly, there was a lot of hooting and hollering. The singers and musicians ambled away down a back-path into the trees. I asked Tiger Man who they were, and he told me they were just some of his laborers. We tried to offer him money. He wouldn't take it. It was time for us to be on our way. No one wanted to leave. The afternoon blaze of heat didn't seem to affect us any more.

     I have to keep these sorts of memories uppermost in my mind when I'm approaching any art-form, especially music, theatre, or dance. They can take you to experiences and places where you may go once and then never have the opportunity to return. This was pointed out to me in the late 80's when I hosted an Afgantsi soldier in my home. The Afgantsi are the Russian veterans who served in Russia's own war with Afghanistan. It was a bitter, heart-wrenching experience not unlike our own Vietnam experience. I asked him what was the one thing he wanted to do while he stayed here. "I want to go to the Phillips Gallery and see a painting," he replied. He had studied art before the Russian Army threw him into a war.. The Phillips Gallery? OK, easy for me. I can go down there any day of the week. Alexei and I went the following day. I watched him as he studied every painting and made a lot of comments. He stood in front of one painting by Monet and tears welled up in his eyes. I asked him why he was crying. He said he'd studied this painting, had knock-offs of it, and knew it was in this collection and he knew he'd have an opportunity to see it. He then made a statement that registered for life: "I've wanted to see this my whole life. I might never see it again." Alexei had been badly wounded. He was blind in one eye and he was losing sight in the other. He was still a young man. His passion for the love of art was keeping him going. He thanked me again and again for the afternoon.

     Whether it's unadorned Vietnamese music, unadorned bluegrass music, or the paintings sans adornment of the Impressionists, the lesson learned always for me is less is better. I love the folly of youth. The folly of youth also tracks in its own consistency of repetitious folly. The need to adorn, replicate, duplicate, and copy the folly of other artists and entertainers. We older folks complain that the reason for this is a lack of life experience. Period. End of discussion. I think it goes deeper than that - because once in a blue moon I'm shocked with an encounter of youthful and genuine talent. In a while, maybe not for years, that seed of  talent will develop and mature into something more if allowed, (with a lot of persistence) to grow into great art. Bluegrass has become my form of therapy to explore the boundaries of my own appreciation of art, artists, musicians, and the entertainment professions. Sounds wild, I know. But when you think about it, it's basically the most grounded, most original, American art-form we've inherited. I'm having a lot of fun starting at that point. But I had to return to that point, too. I had to go back to it time and again. The message is there - if you listen closely enough.

   

Thanks for Asking - A Letter to A Friend

12 November 2013

     Thanks for asking. In deep gratitude I accept the challenge. I'm reminded of a story I heard a man tell at a conference a few years ago. He had been away from the Church for 12 years. He knew in his gut that to get back into the fold he would have to go to confession sooner or later. He had slipped in and out of regular Sunday masses a few times in preparation for facing up to it and had been turned off by either the fire and brimstone of guilt infliction, or maybe worse, homilies that were to him, boring and lifeless and having nothing to do with that Sunday's Gospel reading. Any way, he finally faced up to it and decided to go to confession. He entered the room in face-to-face confession and there was an old priest sitting there who reminded him of Yoda. His first fear was the age of the priest. He began by telling the priest "Father, I confess that I've been away for 12 years from Communion and I need to get back, so forgive me Father for I have sinned." He was shocked with the next thing that happened. The old priest looked up, held up his hand, and asked, "Wait a minute. Wait a minute. How long have you been away from the Church?"
"Twelve years." he said.
The old man smiled, stuck out his hand and said, "First, let me welcome you back! Then we'll work on the confession!"
     It's a true story. If there were ever a Prodigal Son story, that's it. One kindly person made a difference in someone coming back into the fold or turning away from it. If Frank Marsden had never stuck out his hand and said hello to me and welcomed me (a stranger, and non-Catholic,) at St. Mark Parish in Vienna, Virginia, I may never have converted to the Catholic Faith. The beautiful trick was, that started an enduring friendship with a strong Catholic (and really interesting man) who constantly guided me in my own regard for the Church. Thank God for beautiful tricks.

     He was the only one who said hello to me on that day.  I'll never forget it. Frank's gone now, but I think of him everyday and ask myself where I'm at with my Faith.  Just like the person in the above story will never forget the kindly old priest.
     I've always tried to have an open-door policy about my Catholicism. Because, we are all supposed to have an open-door policy with our lives. It's an ideal. I know that. It's total perfection. I know that. It's the Impossible Dream to love everyone. That's why our Church has saints. We're supposed to try to live up to their experiences in loving God and one another. Being a convert you can understand my mystification with all this. I had to start from zero in learning about the Church, its history, its changes, its expectations for what I'm supposed to be as a Catholic. I can never, ever thank all those good priests, teachers, and parishioners sitting next to me who have helped me along the way.  They all exemplified the open-door policy of Jesus Christ and the Eucharist. The Eucharist is our center - the center of our being as Catholics. I may never understand the full implications of that, and that's perfectly OK for this Catholic. I love the jovial priest who can laugh about it and say it's a mystery! I'm suspicious of the priest who feels the need to give me a three-hour academic dissertation on the theological basis of the Eucharist. I can also appreciate that my calling as a Christian is no light or simple matter. The beauty of the Eucharist for me is the requested challenge to better myself through questioning myself and my relationship with Christ, God, and the Holy Spirit. If that isn't the direct center for a person's existence then I have no answer for what is.
     I love my Church and sometimes I'm disillusioned with it. I'm frustrated with the pomp, or in direct opposition of that - oversimplification, the scandals, boring and seemingly non-caring clergy, or questioning that has my brain going down dark alleys. I'm always drawn back to the center of who I'm supposed to be: A Roman Catholic in communion with Christ and the Church through the Eucharist. One of my worst Catholic "experiences" was a visit to the Vatican. One of my best was the recent conversation you and I had about why I love my wife. I'm not afraid to tell people I'm Catholic. I'm not afraid to tell people I deeply love her and my family. I'm not afraid as a male to tell my male friends I love them. After all, we're all walking down that road to Emmaus or Damascus. If we don't share our struggles, we're not really men. The real man in this story is the old priest who wasn't afraid to break ranks and welcome back a lost soul. I wish I could be more like him in my daily dealings with earthlings. But I'm only human, asking for Christ's continual help to show me the right road.

The Privileged Life - The Artwork of Jeaneen Barnhart

8 November 2013

Angela Hayes. Remember the name. She's what I would consider a special kind of singer. I met her a few years ago totally by coincidence. It was a summer evening here in Virginia and our local Park Service in town provides a full summer of concerts on the lawn. Angela is a jazz-singer and she's darned good. She may be trained in other styles of voice (I would suspect so,) but I don't really know much about her previous training. To me, what she is, is a natural. What mattered to me that evening was, she was very entertaining and Connie and I were provided with a reminiscent romantic evening that transported us back to a more innocent time in our lives. This is an important factor in this story. Any way, I referenced a piece of art-work on Facebook today and Angela wrote me that she liked "Real Art." I laughed to myself. What is Real Art? Angela, talent that she is, musician that she is, entertainer that she is, probably has a pretty good handle on what is good or bad art. And by the way then, what is Bad Art?

I've led a privileged life of punching a lot of tickets. Including the privilege of talking to many artists, musicians, writers, and people involved in curating the works of the same or people who promote the same. I began my academic career going down that road. It was no whim. The seeds were probably planted within my family framework and the dreadfully boring place I grew up in. Coming home from the war in Vietnam, I was not a happy camper. By providence and pure happenstance I met other Vietnam veterans in college and graduate school who seemed to be in the same boat. There was a major difference between us and the rest of the student body. We could talk about life experiences that the rest of the students weren't having or were trying to escape from. Those were chaotic years. The struggling to make ends meet was dreadful. The lessons learned from Vietnam would get us through what seemed to us older and wiser veterans as just a piece-of-cake mental game, while the kids around us were fending off the mental game of staying out of the Draft and staying alive. It took me a long time to get over the bitterness of that scenario and there are times when I haven't convinced myself that I'll ever get over it. In the final analysis none of it may not really matter. The challenge of producing Real Art out of life's experiences is what matters - or maybe producing anything worthwhile let alone a great piece of artistic work out of a human being's life experience, is what matters. My Catholic background teaches me that to lead a life of loving is more than enough to punch all the tickets - to fulfill God's role for all of us on this ship called Earth.

I'm smart enough to know that, that isn't enough. I've talked to too many artists. What fascinates me is the look in their eyes to want more than that. The painter who's never satisfied. The writer who thinks he or she is never good enough to complete a sentence or a paragraph. The one or two dancers I've known who want to explain the whole mystery of  Life through the minimalism of body-movements. The singers who'll work hours on getting just the right phrasing and intonation with just the right amount of breath. The real privilege for me in my privileged status is discovering that circumstances of birth, education, or economic background is meaningless in this discussion. There are no boundaries for talent or genius in any educational or human-expressive endeavor, those areas we would refer to as the plastic arts. Talent can't be manufactured. You either have it or you don't. But it can be manipulated, honed, trained to perform. Talent is the seed. Real art is the ripened fruit ready for harvest. I prefer to be around people who can honestly and truthfully acknowledge its existence. The Nazis were experts at shutting it down and eventually killing it; destroying  the life-force that separates us from the animals.

Angela admired what I had admired in a simple charcoal drawing on paper (The Dance II by Jeaneen Barnhart) a thing of beauty that captured the flow of two lovers in a dance embrace. Maybe they aren't lovers. Who knows? Maybe they're supposed to be professional dancers who can't stand each other, except that they know something special is going to happen with the dance? What matters is that a human moment is captured beautifully. Just right. And you have to stop and look at it. The possibility resides that someday this thing of beauty will be in a gallery or museum where other people will see it and get the same enjoyment in viewing it. Ask the same questions. Go "ooh" and "ahh" in collective exclamations. Is it great art? Good or bad art? Real art? Who cares. The producer of it came into this world with a very unique talent. She has a unique gift that others need to experience and enjoy. Privileges enter my life each day. Little ones, big ones, and privileges that surprise me.

The Dance I I  by Jeaneen Barnhart. (Charcoal on paper.) You can view Jeaneen's artwork at www.artsocool.com. 

Hanging With Shepp on the Eastern Shore

7 November 2013

The steel-gray sky predicted a cold November and already most of the leaves were flying off the trees. I thought I heard geese. I definitely heard a gunshot when I pulled into Shepp's driveway. It sounded close. I'm a combat vet. I don't like the sound of gunshots. And sometimes I can almost feel the urge to run toward them. I was a corpsman and that's what we were trained to do in the Fleet Marine Force. Run toward the gunfire and not away from it, like some sort of normal person. Even at my age the habits never go away, even though I wish I could get rid of them. So many other vets have shared with me, "Vietnam will go away when we're all dead!" and I know what they means. It's meaningless to Joe Civilian. He'll never understand, and that's O.K. We all made our beds and slept in them.

I made my way around Shepp's 37-ft. fishing boat and all his strewn-about fishing equipment. Shepp's no amateur. He's in it to make a living like all of his neighbors in this part of Maryland. There was Shepp in the back with a 30 cal. M-1 carbine. When I saw the carbine that little sense of twinge hit me. We confiscated them all the time from dead VC. The U.S. poured thousands of them into the South Vietnamese Army, only to have them end up in the hands of the enemy. So much for our military support programs. A little beauty, if I don't say so myself, even though I won't own a gun or even have one in my house. Guns are for killing people. It's that simple. I've lived through my share of macho. It's a lot more fun to write about it, than try to live up to it in real life. Shepp was firing off a few rounds in the back yard just to kill time before our guitar lesson. His big chocolate Lab came over and licked my hand and seemed used to the gunfire. I put my guitar case down and rubbed the dog's head. Shepp's dog is just a big baby. "You're lucky to get the time," said Shepp. "I'm dog-tired and plumb worn out from the show last night in Philadelphia."
"I heard about it," I replied. "I heard you guys sold the place out."
" No kidding!" he said. "All of this in just a year and we're booking big-time for the summer festivals."
"Janey wants me to get rid of the boat and gear and guitars, too, so we have a nest-egg for the Tour Bus." he continued.

I understood none of it. I didn't even want to touch a conversation about his wife's financial concerns. I could sense the female preparations of what a man would consider as a slow, painful emasculation. The boat, the guitar collection, the guns, all the Coon Dogs and Labrador will go too. She'll talk about how cats are easier to take care of and you'll give in and have to pretend that you like the new pet. You'll have to pretend that you don't mind seeing all her new clothes covered with cat-hair when you go out at night. Every man has his inate fears. I've become fascinated with bluegrass because everything in the music has a sense of grandiosity and exaggerated drama. A murder isn't just a quiet poisoning - it's done with a knife. Revenge isn't a  few loud threats handled with swear-words. There's going to be a murder and then a hanging. The guy being hanged is usually smiling and he's glad the victim is dead. They didn't call Jimmy Martin "The King of Bluegrass" for nothing. Look at his life and his body of work. His life and his music was one great-big drama. And then his demons caused him even more drama. I use the term 'body of work' as if he was some sort of classical composer. He wasn't. He was just Jimmy Martin, a talented man driven by demons and personal problems. Jimmy was in the end, only human.
"Let's get crackin'" hollered Shepp. "I've got a million things to do before I take off for Cincinnati!"
I followed Shepp into a part of the house that was his dedicated music room and office. His Martin D-28 was laying on a couch. Oddly, a Bible and a dog-dish were on the floor in front of the couch, along with a bunch of scribbled pieces of loose-leaf notebook paper. His hand-writing was terrible. Almost illegible.
I picked out a seat and started warming up, and he did too. We tuned up. Something about those first notes that come out of a Martin. Like the way Charles Lamb described bag-pipe music. The chills you get hearing those first notes. And then you're over it very quickly and you want to hear those individual notes and chords turned into an actual song.

"I'm going to fool around with some G-runs and C-runs.  Let's see what you've learned." said Shepp.
I thought I sounded pretty good. I could see Shepp wincing.
"Let's do it again. You have to keep doing it for hours, Man. I mean hours, and then suddenly it hits ya."
Shepp's cell phone rang in the next room. "Aw Christ!" he exclaimed. Then he picked up the Bible and ran his hand over it. "Forgive me, Lord!" He laughed and ran for his phone. "Sorry. I've got answer this." I could easily hear his part of the conversation.
"Hey, babe, how ya doin'?"
(Long pause)
"Yeah. No problem. Me and the Boys can handle that."
(Long pause)
"Really? You're not joking?"
(Long  pause)
"Well listen Alison I've got a lot I need to talk over with the Boys."
(Longer pause)
"But Alison . . ."
(Long pause, but not as long as the previous ones)
"Hey. Yeah. The money's good. Yeah. No kidding. Thanks a bunch"
Shepp came back in the room and threw himself down on the oak court-room chair he had picked up at an Eastern Shore flea-market.
"Let's start this again. Sorry about that. This Cincinnati gig is driving me nuts!"
I didn't ask if that was really HER on the other end of the phone. I didn't want to act like a little school-girl having a fit in front of the Beatles. I'd act nonchalant and let Shepp tell me about it. I'd eventually get the story any how. Plus I guarded my manhood pretty closely. Something about being a man once you decide to also become a guitar-picker down here on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.

The Ostrich Farm - 2013

6 November 2013

     This is about a mixture of befuddlement, sadness, and deep concern for the future of our society. On November 1st I boarded a flight out of San Francisco heading back to Dulles in Virginia. At exactly that same time south of us, all hell was breaking loose at LAX in Los Angeles. Within minutes, all on our flight were watching our individual TV screens and catching all the news we could about what was unfolding at LAX. Another senseless mass-shooting for no other reason than we've got a lot of crazy people loose in our midst. What's happened to Decency? Civility? Protecting the basic human right to life that's been granted to every human being? After I got home I started thinking about the tragedy and how very often I am at the terminal where it happened, or the Bradley International Terminal right next to Terminal 3. I fly a lot, and not just in the U.S. but in Asia, too. I noticed something right away when I boarded my flight in California. Not one person in the first five rows of seating looked up from their smart-phones to notice me, or any of the other passengers who were boarding. Maybe it's just my nature to be more observant of who I'm riding with (especially since 9-11). Everybody in the first five rows had smart-phones and were engaged with them. I made a note of it. I looked for someone in those rows who didn't have their heads (and attention) locked into a smart phone. Not one. I've seen too much of this in the past few years in every airport. I have no pity for those robbed of their smart-phones, wallets, purses or backpacks in public places nowadays. Nor do I have any concern that these petty crimes are on the rise. What concerns me is, people are just not taking precaution to observe what's going on around them.

     My concern for my own and my family's public safety is one issue. The future concern is the insular society we're becoming (the pattern is being established in our younger population) because of smart devices. You've seen it. I don't have to describe it. It's a totally ignorant disregard for ANYTHING going on around you. It's not as if the miscreants don't realize what they're doing. The greater sin is they totally understand what they're doing. It's a two-step process: Number One: I'm showing off my smart-phone. Number Two: I don't care to humanly engage in speaking to you. I fear for the future society we're creating through this insidious disease. A society that has no care or regard for anything going on around them - until after the fact of something bad happening to them, and a generation of younger people currently, who have lost all ability to humanly communicate with another human being.

     I'll be dead and long gone before all that happens and I'll depart with a gratifying twinge of revenge based upon a prediction: Keep your heads bowed down into your smart-phones. All of you will pay the price to neurologists, orthopedists, and chiropractors when you reach my age. Or pay an even higher price: shot or murdered because no one was paying attention. And finally, I will have seen and experienced more of the world about me than you did!

Maryland is More Than Crabs and Pretty Horses.

 Blue Train - Tom Lyons, Dave Propst, Tom Reeves, Rick Miller, and George Osing.

3 November 2013
Port Deposit, Maryland

     It's football season and I don't actually care. I'm intrigued to see all the TV sets blazing away on Sunday afternoons in the bluegrass joints I hang out in over here in Maryland. I never got hooked in to the fascination of televised "Team Sports." For one thing, the commercial aspects of the 'spectacle' turns me off completely. All that money, for what? It's entertainment, and if that's how people want to be entertained then C'est la vie. Over here in Maryland, in what I like to refer to as "Bluegrass Ground Zero," my preferred form of entertainment is always in a backroom somewhere, away from the television sets, away from the bar-noise. There are dedicated listeners, women and children, and old friends in the back rooms. They come early to exchange bluegrass gossip, say their howdies, and hopefully get a good seat by the dance-floor. I try to always arrive early so I can get the best photo angles. There's a sense of civility in the back rooms. Rarely have I ever witnessed over-indulgence in any of the places I hang out in, in Maryland or Pennsylvania and I would swear to that on a stack of bibles. These are decent people who have come for one thing - to be entertained with live, acoustical music. Unadulterated. Raw. Real country music offered up by the masters of the art here in rural Maryland just 30 miles outside of Baltimore. They police themselves. No need for a bouncer because rarely will there be a need for a bouncer. The really profound beauty of it is, once the folks start filtering into the back rooms, clustering into their regular configurations, you won't see one bent-over, hunched-back, person glued down to a smart-phone. The folks are actually talking to each other. There's an anticipation in the air, an expectation of what the sessions will be like. There are normally two or three sets of music, depending upon what's been contracted with the proprietor. That's a lot of music for a late afternoon or early evening. For the musicians, it's physically demanding. It's hard work when you're trying to get the best out of yourself and your stringed, acoustical instruments. Tomorrow's a work day. Whatever you do, don't give up your day-job, because few actually make a decent living playing this really obscure music.

     They do it so the folks can get a little excitement in their lives. If the music is really good everybody gets up and turns the dance floor into a party. Nobody cares about how badly you might be as a dancer. What matters is whether you're having fun and whether you're enjoying the music. It's called artistic freedom to enjoy yourself. This style of music has the ability to do that. It's a music of allowance within a subtle, strict set of rules known only by the practitioners, the musicians themselves and those who would pretend toward perfection of the rules. You don't learn the rules in a month or two. It takes years of practice and playing with different practitioners to get the sound or 'tone' as Rick Miller of Blue Train would call it. At 3:00 the regular Sunday local picking and singing session is winding down and the professionals for this particular afternoon are coming in through the rear door of the back room. This will be an interesting afternoon because Blue Train has never played Jumbo Jimmy's Crab Shack before. Rick Miller, Tom Reeves, George Osing, and especially Dave Propst have all played here, but with other bands and other configurations of musicians. It's a test of the highest sort. Is our music going to be good enough to get these people off their feet? There's another test, maybe even more important and it's about tradition. Is the musical offering going to be traditional enough to satisfy a Jumbo Jimmy's audience that has come to expect to hear "The Basics of Bluegrass?" I knew what to expect. I've written about these guys before. I looked around the room and nodded to others I've seen at previous Blue Train performances. If you get around enough you start recognizing the same faces. These are die-hard, hard-core bluegrass lovers who grew up listening to this stuff. I watched them go from table to table, saying things like "watch what these guys do. You're in for a surprise."
or "Yeah. I saw these guys up at Goofy's this summer and they brought the house down." With that sort of anticipation the music started and the energy started oozing out of the first set. You could sense it sliding on to the dance floor and with every crescendo of applause. I mentioned to Dempsey Price, "Only a matter of time before the shouting starts." We both laughed. The second set was better, the third set was a perfect blend of new, old, traditional, even "Harvest Moon" by Neil Young. No kidding. Neil Young - everyone's favorite enfant terrible of the Rock World. Somehow, (mainly through an unbelievable level of talent,) these guys can make it work. Blue Train has made it a habit to wrap up each performance with their rendition of "Will the Circle Be Unbroken."  Sounds hokey, yes, but the pure joy of it works to get the audience paying back that one last big collective smile to the musicians. You've heard it a million times along with "Rocky Top" and "Fox on the Run." But somehow, deep in your gut, you know you love it. This stuff is so old it's refreshing. For me? Another pleasant afternoon and evening spent with the fine folks up in Maryland.

Blue Train plays next at the Williamsburg Inn at White Marsh (Maryland!) on 23rd November 2013. They play from 8 to 12. The Williamsburg Inn is easily accessible off I-95 at the White Marsh Mall exit.

A Note About Jumbo Jimmy's Crab Shack:  Jumbo Jimmy's is located on Bainbridge Road in Port Deposit, Maryland. It serves up good food and traditional bluegrass music nearly every Sunday afternoon throughout the year. There is a local bluegrass 'Jam' in the 'Back Room' every Sunday at 1:00. The key-word here is Traditional.

Talking Bluegrass With Shepp . . . .

29 October 2013

Shepp called me late again. I really didn't mind - always an interesting conversation. You can learn to appreciate how certain men's minds work. Some men are just boring - no other way to describe it. They're empty, it seems. No life in them. No guts. Engineers have always bored the hell out of me because of their pragmatic view of the world. Doctors and scientists can sometimes be the most boring men in a room full of strangers. I once got cornered in a room with a professional concert pianist (very well-known; he shall go un-named.) we got off the subject of Chopin and on to the subject of bluegrass. I sat amazed. He knew his stuff. He had this longing look on his face, like wouldn't it be great just to get with a bunch of guys and do bluegrass music. I could tell by the look he wasn't having much fun in his life.  One of the most amazing conversations I ever had with such a highly placed musician. Shepp called just to say he was on a roll.
"Hope you don't mind me calling so late. We're on a roll!"
"That's nice," I said. "what's going on now?"
" More gigs. More shows. Folks are crying for a CD.
"Which tells you what?" I intimated.
" Maybe we're not ready for that yet."
"Timing is everything, but when do you ever know you're ready for that, I mean who decides that?"  I said, trying to interject some sense of logic to an illogical situation.
Illogical because the whole music - entertainment profession is illogical, whether you're struggling to become a popular bluegrass band or an in-demand concert pianist. 
"I guess we need to get cracking." Shepp never had much trouble seeing the light.
I like talking to guys who see the light. The light of what they're doing. The light of what they want out of life if they're willing to work for it. They might work for years and see nothing of their productivity and then suddenly it all falls into place. Recognition along with financial rewards.
"When you've got a good product people will want to buy it." I said. "Look at that CD Danny Paisley recently produced. It's selling like hot-cakes."
"But everybody says CD sales are dying on the vine." pondered Shepp.
"Who's everybody? Besides, you have to lay down a track record of work eventually, or you'll be playing weekend gigs in beer joints for the rest of your life." I said, trying to add some weight to the discussion - a discussion that I knew was going to go on for another hour.
"But sometimes we sound so stale. And then other times when we sound so slick. Tonight's gig blew us all away. We thought we were terrible and the audience loved it. We had to do two encores!"
"That's because you care about the performance." I said. "Most people don't even know if you're stale or making mistakes if you're pouring your heart into it."
"Well, we care about what we're doing. And we care about how we sound. We have to keep up the momentum sometimes."
"I know that. I know it because it comes across when you're on stage. A lot of other people sense it too, or you wouldn't be working so much. So that's why you got to strike when the iron's hot and lay down that CD." I said.
"Well, I think we got commitment. We've only been doing this for 6 months now and we're working nearly every weekend, somewhere, so I think we got commitment."
"The momentum is tough. The commitment is tough. But somewhere along the line you decide whether to go whole hog or not and go for the bright lights - and try to make money at it. Now that's commitment." I added.
"We're barely paying for the gasoline right now. And baby needs a new pair of shoes as the old saying goes. All of us sat down and tried to figure this out and we laughed a lot about what we're doing!"
"Welcome to the world of bluegrass," I said. "You've got the first rule about succeeding in bluegrass down pat - have a sense of humor about what you're doing!"
Shepp concluded the conversation as I predicted: about an hour later. He rambled on about going coon-hunting and getting the Vet to look at one of his prize-hounds. It might shock you to know that Shepp has a degree in Theology and has written some serious articles on Martin Luther and the German Reformation. But when it comes to singing about Life-Matters, like alcoholism, convicts, chain-gangs, and killing your wife's boyfriend, Shepp is just about the best.