It'll Eventually Spoil You

Doug Meek - Clayton Martin - Danny Paisley - Marshall Wilborn - Mark Delaney

30 March 2013 In Stewartstown, Pa.

     It'll eventually spoil you. Music won't sound the same anymore. Those forms of music you once considered unique or interesting take on a lackluster, boring sameness. I'm talking about being addicted to bluegrass, or as I prefer to call it, the 100% pure Hillbilly music I'd really rather listen to. I still like my Jazz, old rock and roll, and opera, but the more I listen to pure bluegrass and old-time hardcore Hillbilly, the more I realize I haven't listened to all of it or enough of it. I'm sitting here tonight in Stewartstown, Pa. getting a full evening of Danny Paisley and Southern Grass. Danny is belting out the lyrics of songs from his latest CD and I mean belting them out, almost howling, but there's an emotion and conviction that speaks a truth immediately recognizable by those who follow this brand of music. Paisley has a voice and style that most 'music professionals' would consider hard to take, but this is pure and about as pure as it's going to get. He's probably in the middle of his tenure and I think about how much he's risen in popularity just in the past five years, and how much further he's going to go before he becomes one of the Grand-Daddy's of Bluegrass. No secret that his recently released CD "Road Into Town" is now Number Four on National Bluegrass Charts.

     A good bluegrass entertainment package is not about one person. Maybe the closest thing to bluegrass is the teamwork it takes to form a good classical string quartet. Everything in the music has to come out of the acoustical stringed  instruments involved. This is the most rampant misunderstanding of bluegrass, as opposed to the rampant electrification of popular "country" and rock and roll. Rule Two: no drums, no percussion, or else you get kicked off the stage. Hooted out of the Hall. Every element of the music has to come out of those stringed instruments. These thoughts are moving through my brain as I'm listening to three of the best players in bluegrass. Danny nods to Doug Meek to kick up his flawless fiddle. Then to Mark Delaney for a few flawless banjo runs. Normally, Eric Troutman is on bass, but was absent this evening. Standing in was one of the legends - what a surprise - Marshall Wilborn. I missed Eric Troutman's high-tenor vocals. When Eric and Danny are singing together it's the reason why I sometimes feel spoiled rotten on bluegrass. There was another change too, in Clayton Martin (mandolin) standing in for Danny's son Ryan. Normally all these changes would have lent chaos to a performance. But all these guys are professionals, extremely young by bluegrass standards, and they all played on to one of the best shows I've yet to witness up to this point in 2013. Were there hitches and imperfections? Of course. But Danny always has that smile on his face. That infectious smile that brings out the spirit hidden in the strings
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     It's Easter week and I'm at my local parish watching the parish youth perform a version of the Passion Play. An electric piano is jacked up to max and drowning out a young lady who has a magnificent voice. There are two electrified acoustical guitars along with a regular electric guitar. The song interludes are long and tedious and drowned out by electrification. The young man singing is trying hard to do a Bob Dylan imitation and keeps referring to the audience as "You guys." You might wonder why I'm mentioning this. Yeah. It's the folly of youth and I see it at clubs, open-mikes, or the same attitude with young people who are trying to make it on the stage as "Newgrass" groups. They just don't get it. Destroy a good thing (I felt sorry for the girl with the talented voice) by thinking that talent is naturally going to come out of a control box. They need to listen to, and study the Masters more closely. And most of all, realize that climbing to the top of any kind of musical or performing ladder requires hours of rehearsal and lessons in how to present yourself in front of an audience - in a professional manner. It's an art. 

Entertainment On The Cheap - Entertainment You Never Forget

  

When Connie and I first moved to Vienna we had a favorite restaurant we liked to go to. It was a warm place, with cheap food, and always filled with families and lots of kids. In the corner was a piano and people would get up and sing whenever the mood struck them. I think it was actually called The Family Restaurant, but it's long gone. We never go to the expensive over-blown steak houses or any of those restaurants near malls which are now mostly owned by some faceless food conglomerate. They always seem so tacky and uninspired and now there's usually a micro brewery connected to them that pumps out fruit-flavored beers for the upwardly mobile set. I guess I've really gotten old and out of touch. I miss the big plates of meat loaf and mashed potatoes, the broasted chicken. I miss the green salads that actually looked like a salad. I miss seeing old people have a good time on a precious night out in a place that's cozy and welcoming, and they're being waited on by Jake, Millie, or Agnes, who live right around the corner and have been serving the same customers since the 60's.
     On a hot tip I went to Anthony's Restaurant in Falls Church, Virginia to hear some music. I had been there before, so nothing new to that. What was new was the crowd that had come out to hear Andrew Acosta in the back room. That there is a back room is a tip-off to rediscovery. It's a party room of sorts, and a spill-over area for Anthony's regular customers. Anthony's is a Falls Church institution and a throw-back to those days I'm talking about. The Anthony's-style restaurants are fast fading from the scene and being replaced by restaurants that try to change their theme every time a new owner takes control. You'll get the same menu of food at Anthony's that you ordered 20 years ago.
     In the back room I saw some friends from CABOMA (the Capitol Area Bluegrass and Old Time Music Association.) There were 'Howdies' all around and couples, oldsters, and lots of kids drifted in and out and everyone enjoyed the simple fare. When's the last time you had a real Meatball Sub smothered in grease and cheese and it didn't come out of a bag at Subway? I couldn't finish it. I didn't want the music to stop either. The crowd stayed for Andrew Acosta and his two friends who entertained the neighborhood local crowd. Old time country and western in flavor with lots of ancient bluegrass chestnuts, Acosta took his time, didn't seem to work off any kind of play list. If you wanted to hear something just shout it. We're in no hurry to go find our cars as you would in a mall parking lot or have to worry about the eternal traffic back-up on 66. It's that kind of atmosphere - almost luxurious in today's frenetic Washington, D.C. Suburbia. Acosta played the TennesseeWaltz, and yep, a couple in the back got up and started waltzing. Why not? Who cares?
     The next time you think about your entertainment dollar, think about spending it on your local Mom-and-Pop operation and local musicians like Andrew Acosta. Good entertainment like this still exists in out-of-the-way places. You have to get out of your chair and away from the TV set to go look for them.

Andrew Acosta and Friends play most Thursday evenings at Anthony's Restaurant in Falls Church, Va. Check with the management for available nights.

Danny Paisley and Southern Grass - 24 February 2013

 Danny Paisley and Southern Grass on 24 February. They'll be back at Jumbo Jimmy's on Sunday, 3 March, 2013.

     Simple, direct, and always fabulously entertaining in a story-telling kind of way. These are my thoughts on this chilly February afternoon as I'm watching Danny Paisley and Southern Grass work their magic on the nearly full-house at Jumbo Jimmy's Crab House in Port Deposit, Maryland. Danny Paisley is fast becoming one of Maryland's State Treasures. If he's not now, he should be recognized as such. Every State recognizes those artists and musicians who epitomize what is best about the place they grew up in and right here in Virginia we have such a great program that recognizes our own home-grown musicians. I didn't do any fact-checking for Maryland, but I'm sure such a State recognition exists. This style of music, Danny's style of music, is right up there with the best in bluegrass and mountain music. I like to take it one step further and proclaim it for what it is - real, honest-to-God, Maryland-style music about the tough life, trying to make it in an unkind world, smoky beer joints, and jilted lovers. Not everybody likes this stuff, but good lord does it sell records, so there must be a huge audience out there that thinks like I do.
      Today's country/western music attempts to do what Danny and so many of his Maryland and Virginia compatriots in the bluegrass arena do,  but very quickly a wall goes up between the two styles of music. Anybody worth their worn out collection of Jimmy Martin CD's will tell you that modern-day country/western music owes its existence to the old-time mountain music. The original purity of the music has been lost to the almighty dollar and advanced recording technology. Anybody can fudge a recording, tweek it, twist it enough to twist out a few more dollars. The fascination remains for me to search out the purists, the practitioners who are still plunking their Martins for a pittance at the local beer joints, and are little known except to most of the local patrons, being written up in prestigious music tabloids and being studied by people who study this stuff. After years of paying his dues and following in the famous Paisley footsteps, Danny is finally making a name and a reputation for himself in the bluegrass industry. An industry that by the way has yet to find an economic foothold up against Pop, Rock, and Country/Western music.
     People like Danny do it for the love of the music, the entertainment value delivered to the listeners, and on this chilly afternoon in Maryland, to keep all the dancers happy and keep them hootin' and hollerin.' You can tell by the smile on his face he's having fun doing what he does, and once again he's the bar-keep's dream package. The Oscars are on tonight and there's no mention of it - not a word - the neighbors have come to listen to some of the best traditional bluegrass music in the region, drink a beer and eat some fish, trade bluegrass gossip. It's all a trial balloon for the coming spring and summer bluegrass festivals and to sell a few more of the latest CD, "Road Into Town" (which is excellent, by the way.) He couldn't do what he does without a solid team behind him and Danny's collected a top-notch ensemble: Mark Delaney on Banjo, Doug Meek on Fiddle, Eric Troutman on Bass and tenor vocals, and son Ryan Paisley on Mandolin. It's a bunch of young guys, but very polished and demanding in their perfected pieces of the action. Watch Eric Troutman. He's an an accomplished vocalist and his duet singing with Danny looks so easy. That's the trick; it's not.

Danny Paisley and Southern Grass will be back at Jumbo Jimmy's on March 3rd, 4:00 pm to 8:00. Jumbo Jimmy's is located in Port Deposit, Maryland within easy reach of Baltimore and Washington, D.C. Jumbo Jimmy's specializes in promoting good, local bluegrass music.

High Octane is On a Roll

 Doug Ross, Marv Ashby, Beardie Bassman, and Robby Benzing at Barns of Rose Hill, Berryville.

9 February 2013: Barns of Rose Hill, Berryville, Virginia

     It's billed as a CD Release Party for High Octane's latest effort Morgan County, and it really has turned into a party. There's barbeque from the Berryville Grill being served up in the Art Gallery and a drink stand in another gallery serving up moonshine concoctions. I passed on that since I'm a teetotaler, but the reports coming in say the moonshine was pretty good. Marvin Ashby is making a lot of jokes about it onstage. A nice crowd is showing up on a really cold evening and Marv and Beardie are making everybody feel at home in this beautiful playing space out in the middle of the Shenandoah Valley. Robby Benzing (Banjo) is being his usual reserved self. Just once I'd like to get a smile from him as I work the room and take a lot of pictures. Well, he's awfully young, and after all, he's one of the hottest young banjo-pickers in this neck of Appalachia. There's a lot of great talent in this valley extending up into the West Virginia Panhandle. Robby may not smile a lot because he's all business when you put a five-string in his hands. I've been told he's just as slick on a guitar, too.
     They don't call themselves "High Octane" for nothing. Marvin Ashby is making a name for himself with his hard-driving guitar style, while "Beardie Bassman" (Doug Moats) pushes both Marv and Robby with a driving, flogging, style of rhythm on stand-up bass. Vocals are supplied by Ashby and Moats. "Beardie" is particularly gifted with a wide assortment of old Jimmy Martin favorites (OK, you just made me a fan, Beardie,). I love to hear these guys play together. If there is anything not quite up to snuff, it's the vocals. It's sometimes very difficult to understand the words and phrasing, even when I know the songs they're playing. Maybe it's just me and my being crippled with an English Degree. I can be a snob about such matters as diction. But the playing? Well, these guys are full-throttle dynamite. And it wouldn't be fair if I didn't mention that High Octane is straight-on, real, By-God mountain music played in the right style to placate any egg-head musicologist or folklorist who might be reading this or making a study of such matters. You don't need to study these guys, just watch the audience reaction. This is potent stuff right out of the mountains and lost a long time ago on the radio waves.
     On this evening they were joined by an old friend, Douglas Ross on mandolin. Doug Ross plays regularly with Dry Mill Road (Winchester, Va.) and both groups have shared stages together throughout the Panhandle, Maryland, and Virginia. Doug Ross was having a lot of fun trying to keep up with High Octane, and often, this music is about pushing the limits. Beardie ceded one of his favorite numbers to Doug, ("Freeborn Man") and that's a class-act sign of professionalism. It's about fun and showmanship. High Octane and the crowd got into the celebration. Instead of "Morgan County West Virginia" they should have named the CD "Morgan County West Virginia - Authentic"

The Picture

10 January 2013 - Cai Tac Village, Hau Giang Province, Viet Nam

     Six of us drove down from Saigon today to begin our work with the WEAV organization (Women's Empowerment and Voice). It's hot and very humid for this time of the year. It looks like rain. South of Saigon the landscape changes dramatically to an aquatic world of water palms, coconut palms, and green rice paddies, and the numerous rivers that make up the Mekong River System. Most tourists see only the Mekong. The Hau River ahead of us is much, much larger, and more interesting. I had been on the Hau many times in previous years and for me it was like a homecoming to see its broad expanse again. Continually muddy with silt coming all the way out of Laos and Cambodia, as if carrying away all the hopes and dreams of the local inhabitants and dumping them into the Pacific Ocean. Having been all over the geography of Viet Nam from top to bottom and having studied each section, the Mekong Delta remains one of my favorite locales. It's just very fascinating. Everyone and everything moves by water. The water dictates their lives and feeds the world with its endless variety of tropical fruits and farm products. They say no one ever starves in this region due to the abundance of food hanging from the trees and the seafood trapped in its waterways. Add to this the thousands of canals connecting the production areas and farms to the numerous rivers. Hollywood couldn't have dreamed this place up. No modern computer-generated movie could duplicate the raw beauty of the weird landscape.
     Seven kilometers southeast of Can Tho we headed off the highway and into a village system of canals and narrow roads until the roads ended at the edge of what looked like a jungle. Not really. Every piece of land here is in reality numerous fruit plantations that butt up against each other and they are tended as carefully as anyone's garden plot is cared for. How anyone fought a war here is beyond my belief. Our Navy tried to control it, but failed miserably against the enemy and the elements. Our group of two Americans and four Vietnamese is here now to award 54 college scholarships to promising students from Hau Giang Province, and check in with local women who were awarded micro loans last year. We would be staying at the ancestral home of Ms. Thanh My, one of the board members, and a gracious host for the WEAV Team.
Loi, our van driver pulled off the road at the edge of the jungle and we began the walk to what we soon started calling "The Hacienda" situated deep within the forest of fruit trees, coconut palms, and alongside a narrow canal. It started raining as soon as we left the van. We were laughing. What a way to make an entrance.
     Rooming and bedding arrangements were sorted out after dinner. This would be interesting in the morning with all these women trying to use the one bathroom in the house. Three other women (Thanh My's relatives) already lived there and pampered all of us with constant meals, fruit, and non-stop amounts of tea and coffee. The real work was to begin in the morning at a local school and we had to be on time. I was directed toward a bedroom I would share with Mr. Thai, a quiet sort, but a good man about my age. The first order of business in this neck of the woods is to rig up your mosquito net and find space for your gear, preferably up off the floor so it's not infested with insects.  I slept like a baby amidst frog and gecko noises. The night air  was warm but not unpleasant.
     The house came alive with the first call of the local roosters. A cooking fire was started. I trundled around in the gloom of our room to find my shaving gear. Above my head I spotted some old wedding photos, somewhat faded with time, a calendar from the previous year, and next to my shaving gear on a bureau, an old photo in a silver frame of a young man dressed in a navy uniform. His eyes stared at me. I took time to look at him as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the coming morning. I wondered who's navy he had been in. Such questions can be deeply personal and possibly none of my business in a country with which we had previously fought a war. The business at the local school went well; even better than expected, and the team returned to the "Hacienda" tired, but elated. I filled my brain all that day with a thousand questions about the sailor in the picture. I had to find out who he was and what his connection was to this gracious family who was now hosting me and five other people in their home.
     We were tired that evening, but no matter. Tuyen, the lady who seemed to be the main organizer of our stay, soon had dinner ready and let us relax afterward in hammocks and again and again, produced large servings of freshly picked fruit and pots of tea. It was a wonderful evening. I asked if there was a guitar in the house and one was quickly produced. It was a hand-made beauty from Can Tho and probably cost no more than a hundred dollars. We laughed and joked and discussed the day's business. The guitar helped me slide into the night-sounds, and continuing thoughts of the Sailor in the photo. There are a million stories in (and out) of this country that have never surfaced yet. The war was one thing. The diaspora of the Boat People was another. The Post 1975 period of peace and economic struggle is the Today portion of a continuing history. I've been a witness to it all and have worked with many who've made it a life advocacy to continue to watch it, study it, and write about it. My life has been good to me throughout it all. The military part of me would like me to forget about it, but every once in a while it jumps up to bite me at odd and curious moments, such as the one I was having right now with that photograph. We all went to bed early with the January shortness of the day - and I said a silent goodnight to the eyes staring out at me from the photo.
     I'm an inveterate collector of stories. They feed our memories of people, both good and bad. If they're never written down the truth within them is lost to the ages. Facts get confused with time and exaggeration. If I didn't ask any questions I wasn't about to get any answers about the Sailor. The next morning's breakfast of fried fish and Pho proved to be interesting.
     During a more quiet moment after the meal I broached the subject with our host Thanh My. She was curious as to why I was so interested in knowing who the man was. I told her I too, had been in the military, and had actually served here during the war. All the women seemed surprised to learn this. The open veranda, which served as gathering area and dining area became even more quiet as Thanh My started telling the story of Tran Kim Long, who's widow Hue had graciously opened her home to us for the past several days. I looked at Hue, and the wedding photos in the bedroom suddenly became clearer to me. Kim Long's photo also held a special place on the Family Altar in the center of the home. "What happened to him?" I asked. "Let me show you something," replied Thanh My. She led me reverently out to the rear of the house and down a path covered with fruit trees. Ahead was the Family burial ground, neatly kept and obviously visited often. "Here he is," said Thanh My. "He survived the war and struggled after he came home. He married, had three daughters who still live close by, and then suddenly died when he was 45." It reminded me of so many other stories I'd heard over the years since the end of the war. Kim Long had served on "the Southern Side" but it didn't seem to matter to me in the end. He had his whole life ahead of him after surviving so much, only to die at a young age in a man's life-span. I, a former Sailor paid my tributes to another Sailor. The civilian world has no understanding of the meaning behind the exchange. It's a code of sorts, ingrained in me until I meet my own passing from this piece of dirt. Although I never knew him, I'll not forget him.

  
     

A Rose Amidst the Thorns

An old farm is restored and refigured into an exceptional showcase for the arts in Berryville

     Every community produces an artistic landscape that is representative of the people who comprise that community. It takes dreamers. People who aren't afraid to lend a hand to celebrating the better part of our human nature. We celebrate human milestones of birth and death, weddings and harvests, pastoral milestones of plantings and reapings. When it's all well and good and further enhances and enriches the life of a community, we humans want to keep it as a part of who we are. We are quickly losing vast stretches of northern Virginia to suburban expansion and 'progress' and for me personally it's all very sad. Once known for breeding racing champions, fine livestock, and tons of grain that flowed on post-Civil War railroads to Alexandria and Baltimore, the edge of the Blue Ridge is now dotted with very conspicuous 'upscale' housing developments and ugly shopping centers. Moving out to these areas used to seem like a great idea, until one discovers that all your beltway neighbors have the same plan.

     These thoughts cross my mind as I reach a certain point on Route Seven past Purcellville. You start climbing one of the first ridges of the Blue Ridge foothills and once you reach the top and start down the other side,  you encounter a vista that any glitzy travel mag would love to have as next month's cover photo. What you are viewing is the Shenandoah Valley, rolling and green, and filled with herds of grazing cows. For me, the armchair military strategist, you understand immediately why this vast stretch of valley gained so much importance in the great Civil War. The area reeks of historical importance on many counts and for the record, no other local entity does a better job of explaining it than the relatively new Museum of the Shenandoah in Winchester. While the changes occur, the loss of who we were in the past excelerates and the agricultural market is being supplanted with wine economics, land speculation, and how to deal with the new demographics. I read a few years ago that Virginia had become the Number Four wine producer in the United States. Whether this is true or not, I don't know. I have no interest in the matter than to say that if it's bringing more money into our state then so much the better. Like any person of my age,  I cling to the past, that more civil period when spending time in the country or going to Uncle Bill's farm meant that there wasn't an admission fee or Dad didn't have to find just the right parking spot.

     It takes a courageous step forward to retain what we once had. My trip today is to find out how that's done. I've  been invited out to Berryville to meet with Cheryl Ash, the Executive Director of the Barns of Rose Hill Arts Center. I had met her the night Dry Mill Road was performing. She was busy with her husband Brian greeting the crowd and both were engaged in final preparations for the show, the wine bar, the catered Chili coming in from the Berryville Grill. I fell in love with the place as soon as I entered. An old dairy barn completely re-fashioned and up-graded for music and the arts or just about any other kind of occasion you could think of. Let your mind go wild with possibilities: art exhibits, music, music, music, or seminars on local history and culture. One visit to hear one of my favorite bluegrass bands (Dry Mill Road from Winchester,) wasn't enough. I asked Cheryl if I could come back and really make a full inspection of the place. Cheryl graciously accepted. It's a wonderful, crystal-clear fall day to leave the 'Burbs and head out to Clarke County. That in itself is enough of an enticement. Get away from the drudge and take a step back into time. There is so much to see on old Route Seven heading up into the mountains. And oh yeah, there are lots of new vineyards, local wine festivals, food-tastings, and all the trappings if you're in to that sort of thing. For the planners of the 'Barns' the dream to make the Barns of Rose Hill a central focal point for the arts in Clarke County started around 2004 and finally culminated in a grand opening in 2011. It took a lot of money, personal contributions, and promises of support. You have to believe that the steering committee, struggling through one of America's worst economic periods had faith in the future of Clarke County and the emergence of the geographical location of the western reaches of northern Virginia. It's all there: many small liberal arts institutions, beautiful scenery, an excellent climate, easy access to Martinsburg,  Harper's Ferry, Washington, D.C., Roanoke and points south, western Maryland and Pittsburgh. Nearby Winchester is booming with a population explosion.

     I have grown to respect the abundance of artistic talent in this region, too. Whether fiddler, singer, or the next great concert performer, emerging photographer or painter, I took a look around the Barns facility and recognized the possibilities of the place providing the proper venue to showcase what talent there is - and there is plenty of it, waiting for the chance.  A beautiful stage/musical area that can hold 200 customers. A huge art gallery downstairs in the old milking area that is very beautifully lit with natural sunlight on one side. Two more, smaller galleries and little nooks and crannies could serve as highlighted private showing spaces. My visit was also enriched by meeting up with Logan Van Meter, a native son of Berryville and recent MFA recipient (James Madison University). He currently serves as the Director of Berryville's Visitors Center which also has a home in the Barns facility. I could see his enthusiasm for his new position, and both he and Cheryl Ash provided me with an exciting view of the future programming at the Barns of Rose Hill. No rose-colored glasses here, they realize the depth of the challenge, the hard work it will take, and the money too, that will have to be raised to keep the Barns going as a viable Clarke County Showcase for the Arts. I appreciated the candor. An undertaking like this has to have a game-plan, a mission statement, and dedicated artists and customers to keep it going. It's been a year now since officially opening for business and already a full calendar of performances and presentations has been logged. The offerings have been fascinating and eclectic. There has been a string of sell-outs and lots of excited visitors and customers. I have a feeling though, the intent will be to show what's best about, and for, Clarke County and northwestern Virginia. We are a lucky and blessed community - as long as we can keep a check on the thorns of so-called progress and over-development. Go west and get away from it all. Start your day-trip in a little town called Berryville. Top it off with a night of entertainment at the Barns of Rose Hill.

www.barnsofrosehill.org
P.O. Box 738, Berryville, Va. 22611
(540) 955-2004

Easy to find, plenty of easy and free parking, good local restaurants, town-strolling can be a lot of fun and interesting. 

     

Vapid Landscapes

Dry Mill Road at Lost Rhino Brewing Company in Ashburn, Virginia.

3 October 2012:

Guys my age don't hang out in bars unless they've got a serious drinking problem, a serious loneliness problem, or a serious problem connecting with the opposite sex. It's the stuff of bluegrass music. Add prison-time, chain-gangs, and murdering your girlfriend and you've got the whole shooting match. Last night I found myself at the Lost Rhino Brewing Company in Ashburn, Virginia to catch up with Dry Mill Road, an up-and-coming bluegrass band from the Winchester area. I went mainly to see how an upwardly mobile crowd of suburban professionals would take to this kind of music. The band kicked off at 5:30 in the late afternoon, all part of Lost Rhino's jumpstart on its Oktoberfest activities. I kept asking myself: who's going to show up here on a week-day, 5:30 in the afternoon, and especially on the first night of the presidential debates? I got there at 4:00 and nobody was there. Around here, you plan to get a seat early, because Fairfax County and Loudoun County have the worst traffic tie-ups in the nation; maybe even worse than Bangkok or Manila.

Getting there and finding the place was the hard part. My google mapping wasn't much help. Thankfully, Rhino has some small blue and white signs posted along the way from Route 7 inward, into the morass of suburban sprawl which has engulfed what was once the pastoral landscape that was the basic maneuvering territory for Mosby, Jeb Stuart, and Bobby Lee. Very little of it is left. It's hard to believe that I used to bike out here when the WO&D bike trail was still a dirt path. I recognize nothing. Miles and miles of townhouse developments, strip malls, and strip-mall-one-story warehouse and office spaces in long red-brick lines. It's all called Ashburn Village, in honor of other imitation towns such as Kingstowne, Fairfax Village Center, and Dulles Town Center, and Reston Town Center. I applaud the non-creativity. There's usually no 'town' no 'village' or center to anything. Just another excuse to build a mall. Welcome to flim-flam marketing. On the news last week it was announced that Loudoun County is now the number one, richest county in our area. It's not hard to understand with this kind of out-of-control development. Well, as much as I hate the place, our local economy is booming and we have a lot of highly educated people employed by the high-tech companies that are driving Loudoun County's fortunes.

Customers started rolling in at 5:00. Lots of dockers and polo shirts and even some suits and ties. It's still a mystery to me why the American male can't get it straight: never wear brown shoes with a grey or black suit. Never wear black shoes with a brown suit or brown slacks. Same thing goes for the belt. Didn't their parents teach them better? All that money and . . .  I can't neglect describing the footwear. There were so many males and females wearing flip-flops I thought there must be a bath-house next door. Thank God cold weather is coming. I think of crazy things like this because I'm used to seeing lots of cowboy boots at most of the events I attend. I made a note about the flip-flops and then Sean Loomis and Douglas Ross (band members) showed up wearing cowboy boots. I began to feel like less of an intruder into this surreal painting. I decided to sit there and mind my own business as the crowd got bigger and the talk around me consisted of I-T, Weapons engineering, and other forms of Hi-Tech babble. Other than that, mixed with the alcohol-fed desire to score chicks, the central reason to be there was to drink beer and pretend you were in Bavaria celebrating Oktoberfest. I felt a lot of apprehension for the band. This was not your average bluegrass crowd. I wondered how they ever got the gig in the first place. I was in for an interesting evening.

This is not your average bluegrass band. I've even been questioned by my orthodox bluegrass friends as to why I enjoy them. What I admire in Dry Mill Road is their versatility and their total entertainment package. The longer they play a set the better they get as witnessed between two sets at this performance. The lukewarm, non-bluegrass crowd gently applauded after the first set. Sean Loomis was working hard for his money. The second set included their best material and the crowd started listening (well, mostly - luckily in the crowd were a small number of Dry Mill Road fans and friends to help center the attention, and I also ran into some other customers who at least knew a little bit about the music). On the second song of the second set a young female patron started screaming above the din of the crowd, "Play some Dead! Play some Dead!!" There was some applause. Ah Oh, I thought, here it comes. "Rocky Top" is next. Sean Loomis capitulated and did that song about 'the devil is a friend of mine' or whatever that Grateful Dead song is. Needless to say, I never followed Garcia and his ilk and I don't care. It worked in the band's favor. That over with, good riddance, the audience really came alive for the rest of the set. They were even asked to do two encore numbers. I have a feeling they'll be asked back to play. Maybe the crowd will give up shower slippers and start wearing cowboy boots. From traditional to new to doing their own songs, Dry Mill Road is a 'listening' experience. I'd rather experience them in a place where I can closely listen to what they are doing. The bass guy nevers gets any credit in bluegrass, Dave hurt on bass is one of the best in my book. There is no one real driver in Dry Mill Road. It's an equality of each member recognizing the other guy's talents. That's rare in a band that's been around for such a short time.

After a rough road tour they'll be back at the Barns at Rose Hill in Berryville on October 13th. Tickets are available on-line. Get them quick because the last time they played there they sold out in a short time. After last night's show they packed up immediately and headed for the Big Outer Banks Festival in North Carolina and some gigs in between. They're working hard for the money - and delivering. My reward for the evening was talking with a 30-something who sat near me and intently listened to every song. He turned to me and said, "This is really difficult stuff to play, isn't it? Maybe I should learn more about this kind of music." You got it, son. Another recruit for bluegrass music. Garcia could be heard rolling over in his grave.

Dry Mill Road:  Sean Loomis, guitar. Douglas Ross, mandolin. Robert Mabe, banjo. Dave Hurt, bass.