The Last Straw

9 September 2013     

        I promised myself I would never use this public space for political ranting. I promised it would be about bluegrass music and my occupation, which is traveling. Last week was a watershed of sorts. Old angers returning to haunt me as an inept leader tries to bluster himself out of another fine political mess. More talk of sending our youth into harm's way as we attempt to become the New Centurions - the World's Police Force for the oil cartels. This blog also has a military attachment in its banner - 782 Gear. Marines know what that means. I don't even need to explain it to the rest of you. Just like I don't have to explain anything to you if you are a parent or a grandparent who has a son or daughter serving anywhere in the world today in our military services. You live each day with a certain gnawing worry about your family, just like my parents did every day when I was in Viet Nam. Now I have my own son and my own grand daughter. I promised years ago that no government would ever lay a hand on my child. Would never take him away from me if I had anything to do with it, or only, if he really wanted to sign on the dotted line and face the consequences of his actions.
       Facing the consequences of your own actions is what this is all about. We currently have a U.S. leader who doesn't understand the concept. I did not vote for him therefore my conscience is clean. He also doesn't understand the first rule in a street-fight. If you pick it, you better complete it, or else have help waiting around the corner near the dumpster. The smart guy doesn't pick the fight in the first place. He doesn't pick a fight and then go knocking on doors to see if any of the local citizens will take a vote on whether or not he should throw any punches. The smart guys in the military are laughing right now at this ridiculous charade. It would be great theatre if it weren't so horrendously scary for the future of our foreign policy and the future of our country. Just when you thought America's image around the world couldn't get any lower, we have  a third-rate political hack drag it down even further. People who pick fights understand the meaning of a Line and they're willing to lose a tooth or two defending it. This man just showed his hand to our enemies abroad and exposed his own personal gutlessness. He's no better than Snowden and Manning - two other wonderful examples of never having to live up to the consequences of your own actions. I fear for the outcome of this senseless exercise. My heart sinks another notch every time I see PBS listing the names of the men we're losing each day in Afghanistan. You conservatives may hate PBS and NPR, but I don't see any of the other news outlets offering any sense of  honor to our brave men and women in our military services. Now if only our current U.S. leader could learn some lessons in honor and leadership. What an incredible waste of time, our country's resources, and more important, the lives of our sons and daughters.
      
      

Lazy Afternoons - BLUE TRAIN Performs Again at Goofy's

 Blue Train:  Mike Hartnett, Dave Propst, Tom Reeves, Rick Miller, and George Osing at Goofy's Eatery and Spirits (Spring Grove, Pa.) One of the last bastions of traditional bluegrass music in the Pa. Md. Del. W.Va. region.

1 September 2013

       Nobody on the dance floor; at least not yet. It's a holiday weekend near the border-line of Pennsylvania and Maryland. Even though it's the Labor Day Weekend it hardly feels like the end of summer. As a matter of fact, it's still hot and sticky. But I know from experience that as the sun starts declining in an hour or two it will soon be very pleasant in the rural valley along the road to Hanover. Blue Train has almost finished the first of three sets. I look around and there aren't too many patrons. This could be a wash, I'm thinking, A holiday weekend could be a boom or bust depending on how many people are off at family picnics. Donnie Hudson says "Stick around. They're coming." Another regular customer confirms the prediction. I'm hoping they're right. This is a band you don't want to miss. And besides, there's no predicting what kind of entertainment they'll throw your way. The band breaks into "Pain in My Heart." George Osing on banjo is going nuts on it. One of the best renditions I've heard in a long time. Out on to the empty dance floor comes a tossle-haired little wild child who's mesmerized by the banjo - children can't resist the twanging of a banjo. The kid starts moving like a wind-up toy that's out of control. Naturally there's adult laughter and a combination of human fascination and flashes of memories, an evocation of lost days when we were all kids moving to live music, or watching our own little ones staring in awe at someone manipulating a wooden box-full of strings producing music. We're there rooting for the kid, maybe the kid in all of us. I watched the child and realized how primal it was. You have to get up and move when the rhythm urges you. It's a lazy afternoon and the folks are sipping cool drinks in the heat. A high-energy group of musicians had just started their work-out which would last another three hours.

      It was almost as if the kid was calling us all to get out of our seats and have fun. I hadn't looked behind me in a while and more bluegrass fans were filtering in and filling up Whitey Runkle's back pavilion. Soon into the second set it had already grown into a party with a lot of Goofy's regulars taking their usual seats and picnic benches. The drink and food orders started multiplying. A few motorcycles came roaring into the ample parking lot. The day was cooling off and it was going to be a nice evening for music. Surprises were in store, but we didn't know that yet. Into their second set, Blue Train was just limbering up. By the end of the second set the house was packed, and here's the best part, by a lot of people who had never been to Goofy's before, but had heard about Blue Train's first two appearances at Whitey's establishment. Whitey runs a tight ship. He'll only give the audience the classics: whether it's classic rock, classic country, or classic hard-core bluegrass. I like that. You can depend on it for a good time. He's also not afraid to step out and take a risk on a new band, as long as it entertains his steady customers. There are only one or two of these places left near the Rt. 83 corridor and you have to do some searching to find them. Goofy's Eatery and Spirits on York Road outside of Spring Grove, Pa. is one of them. Owned and operated by 'Whitey' Runkle, this is where the bluegrass cognoscenti hang out - but they, the experts, don't consider themselves experts. They wouldn't dream of calling themselves that. But they do enjoy talking about the music form and who's who, and who was, and who's playing where these days. It's a better source of information than you'll ever get on Google. Right from the horse's mouth so to speak. Being a gardener, I've also learned why my eggplants didn't do so well this year and the older ladies have taught me a thing or two about how to improve my bean and tomato production. I don't get this kind of knowledge from conversations I have in my Fairfax County subdivision. Whitey provides the platform - keeps the ship in motion for the passengers to gather and commiserate about the weather and the reason for the voyage - to listen to some traditional music done the old-fashioned way. Build memories for a small child who is going totally ballistic on banjo-music.

       Blue Train is a relatively new band, but not really. Each member is a professional. They each have long histories of working with some of the best traditional bluegrass musicians in the U.S. - let me repeat that - in the U.S. More fascinating, they haven't even hit their stride yet. They've been together for such a short time and have had such few rehearsals they don't even have a website. Just drawing on the strengths of the names of the players, and their individual talents, they've already filled up their dance card to Christmas. This is an amazing feat when you consider how many bands and musicians out there are starving to do the same thing, or have tried for years to obtain this level of quality and somehow, just can't get their act together. When you know the names, then you understand:  Rick Miller (guitar). Dave Propst (mandolin). Tom Reeves (bass), George Osing (banjo), and Mike Hartnett (fiddle). These guys live and breathe bluegrass - hardcore bluegrass. None of that New Deal communist stuff with a lot of 21st Century suburban angst or psycho-babble. Jimmy Martin and the Johnson Mountain Boys would offer their stamp of approval. Most bands bring along a lot of personal baggage. Blue Train provides surprises. Tonight was just another testament to the good times.

     Word soon spread that Harold Tipton was there for the party. He's a legend in the Maryland bluegrass circuit. He says he's retiring. Not only that, but Mike Munford had returned a second time to have some fun with Blue Train. Mike was there when Blue Train appeared at Goofy's the last go-round. Toward the end of the third set Tipton and Munford mounted the stage and really turned it into a party - an event. The dance-floor was packed and people were hooting and hollering. Everybody was shouting requests. Blue train took over again and closed out the evening with a rousing encore of Jimmy Martin's "Sunny Side of the Mountain."

       The last person to leave the dance floor was the tossle-haired little wild-child. He'd been dancing and running around for four hours. His name was Tyler. I talked to his father, a nice young guy. Years from now Tyler will be remembering the night he heard the guys with the acoustical instruments. He'll remember way back in the recesses of his human DNA the ringing of George Osing's banjo-picking or how fast Dave Propst could pick his mandolin. He has no idea right now that he was there listening to Harold Tipton and Mike Munford, but when he grows up, and if he gets hooked on bluegrass, or even returns to it years from now, he'll know those names. He'll be telling his friends he was there that night to see it for himself. The night he spent with his Dad listening to the experts.

Next Stop: Blue Train will be at the Williamsburg Inn at White Marsh (Baltimore area) October 5th, 2013, from 8:00 to midnight.
      

Another One of Those Phone Calls

24 August 2013:

       Another one of those phone calls. I had just driven all the way back to Virginia from Westminster, Maryland - 72 miles. What a great show with some serious bluegrassers at the kind of place you'd never catch me hanging out at. But as performance spaces go, it was unique. Good acoustics and an amazingly spacious new dance-floor to boot. I'm settling in all my camera equipment, checking my e-mails one more time and thinking about sack-time. I usually have a cup of black coffee before bed-time (Yeah, I know, sounds sick and it is, but hey - I'm a caffeine addict). I went into the kitchen and my land-line rings. Who uses a land-line anymore unless it's a family emergency, and who calls at this time of night? I looked at the clock. That's a natural habit of mine as a writer. When a phone rings look at the clock and remember the time in case you later have to talk to the cops. That's the first thing they'll ask you. "Sir, what time did this happen?" If you're ever in a bad car-wreck and you're laying there covered in blood and wondering what happened, make sure you can still see your cell phone so you can record the time. The cops and insurance people will ask you a thousand times when it all happened.
       I wasn't going to answer the phone, but that Pavlovian response takes control. After I answered it, I regretted it. Bobby Joe Bettencourt was on the other end. He wanted to tell me about a gig he had just finished down in Old Town, Alexandria. I think he had had a few beers. "That's great," I said. "Nice to see you're getting some work." I didn't really mean it. He described the gig to me and I knew he had done the work gratis. "Did you have a good audience?" I asked, implying that I wanted to know what the house-count was. "Yeah, not many, but the audience was good! We were all happy with that!" Bobby Joe replied. I wonder if the bar-owner was happy with that. After so many more minutes of my bed-time ticking away, and Bobby Joe droning on about upcoming gigs, I finally popped an action question to Bobby Joe: "Great. well . . .Why did you call me? It's late my friend, and I've got a busy weekend." I made a huge mistake by referring to him as my friend. "Well it's like this, you know, I thought you were coming out some night, you know, like tonight to take some pictures and maybe write a story?" I tried to tell him I never made the promise, but I knew he'd never believe me, and besides, considering the hour of the early morning and the fogginess caused by the alcohol it would be tough to try to convince him that I had never made the promise. " I'm tired," I said. "and I've really got to get to bed. Nice talking to you." I eased the phone down and ended it.
       Bobby Joe isn't his real name. It's Craig. Later I found out he assumed the name 'Bobby Joe' so he could 'feel' more Southern. I saw his Virginia driver's license once and the  'Bettencourt' isn't real either. I always wondered why he had assumed this disguise and then a friend of his told me he wanted a more French-sounding name since he lived for two years in Metairie, Louisiana. When I asked his friend what Bobby Joe had been doing down there all that time, he answered, "Studying the music, Man! Paying his dues!" This was right after I had seen Bobby Joe Bettencourt for the first time. I had been conned into seeing him. Conned into seeing his act. His name and the name of his band had been posted in a flyer for a local arts festival (we have a lot of them where I live.) You never know what you're going to run into at one of these public gatherings. It's hit or miss. Sometimes I see some well-known people - at least in bluegrass circles. On the rare occasion I'll see somebody who's just starting out and they may be rough around the edges, but you can see promise - maybe a future if they stick with it and run into the right contacts. The flyer said "Bobby Joe Bettencourt: southern music, bluegrass, folk music, and americana. - on stage at 2:00."  I got tied up in traffic and then had a hell of a time finding a place to park in Alexandria. I got there late and missed the whole show except for a few bars of Bobby Joe's final song. It didn't sound like bluegrass to me, but maybe I missed the best part. My fault. I tried to talk to Bobby Joe or maybe some of his band members, but they were gone in no time. I picked up one his business cards laying on a chair. I decided I'd save it and maybe try to give him a call later. I'm always interested in new names, new acts. I talked to some people who were still hanging around the performance area and I asked them if they had seen Bobby Joe perform, and I asked them if it was bluegrass. A woman with a toddler in tow said, "Oh yeah, bluegrass, or maybe folk, but they were OK." The woman's husband said "Nah, it was blues. I think it was more blues than folk." Both looked at each other. The disagreement between them could have gotten ugly if I continued the questioning.
       I did call Bobby Joe. Quite a few times but never seemed to reach him. When I finally did get through it was after ten o'clock. He seemed in a muddle. "Just finished a gig over in Tacoma Park. Do you know Rance Barnsworth?"  No, I said, never heard of him. "One of the best washboard-players in the South. Won some kind of competition once in Baton Rouge. Well, the bastard walked out on me half-way through the set!" That he had a wash-board player in a bluegrass band should have been my first red flag. But it would be the first of many red flags.

Bluegrass Nirvana

 Dave Propst - Darren Beachley - Mike Munford. 

(Warren Blair and Steve Streett are 

to the left and out of camera-range)

24 August 2013: Westminster, Maryland

       It sounds so 80's man, yeah. I found my bluegrass Nirvana this past Saturday. I like to skip that stuff and call it Mount Olympus. I've always been more of a classicist than a New Age guy. I'm continually intrigued by how quickly Yoga has become the new religion among a lot of my peers. Or call it religion du jour. Like every day new food threats,  (don't eat this, don't eat that) Yoga will be supplanted in five more years with a new religion du jour.  Maybe some techno-based form of internet Taoism. We are suffering through nothing more than what the Victorians had to endure every summer when they flocked to the new "Chautauqua" on the lake-fronts and picnic grounds of New York state or other New England camp grounds. They would gather to hear about new philosophies, the latest trends, or a new religion. The women would be treated to Victorian fashion shows and lectures on the evils of their husband's drinking and smoking habits. The weird thing is, this is how the upwardly mobile of that age spent their vacations - and enjoyed it. Now we're blasted every minute of the day with the insidiousness of the digital revolution. Too much information. Too much information. My own search for a purer form of bluegrass music is really no different. Except that my search wants to take me back (probably) to a gathering of the bluegrass gods that will never happen - ever again.
     
        There is a  near-religious purity to this music when it's presented in precisely the right way. When you hear it and when it's experienced by an audience that knows how to listen to it maybe a loud unanimous shout will go up into the air, or maybe, just a gathering of old-timers nodding their heads. First to he musicians, and then to each other. The beauty of the experience is this:  you'll never have it very often. Like an epiphany, you have to be ready and willing to be open to its possibilities. I'm like an addict. I want more and more of a good thing. I try to be as available as possible - to the possible. You never know in this business who might be on their way to Mount Olympus. I'm fortunate. I know some of those people. Their names mean nothing right now to the public at large. But you'll hear their names twenty or thirty years hence.  They'll reach the top of their artistic game and wonder why and how they got there. On the way, they're busy working, paying their dues and putting up with a lot of crap. More than anything else, they are defining their futures in the here and now.

       I'll set the stage for you:  It's a Thursday night in Westminster, Maryland, a beautifully cool, August night and one of my favorite bands (The Martin Brothers and Aspen Run) is playing at The Stables Restaurant on Old Westminster Pike. The band is great - pulling out all the stops on all the old hillbilly standards. There's a dancing crowd and local folks are out having fun. The band is promoting a recently-released new CD, Steve Unkart is belting out "Wild Bill Jones" and the crowd is going nuts. Herb Martin wants me to meet someone, but before the introduction is even made the guy reaches out his hand and says, "Yeah Ed! I'm Rob Miller."

       We talked. We had a very interesting conversation. The kind of conversation I've had with other true-believers. They get this crazed look in their eyes when they start talking about the current state of bluegrass music or the past state of bluegrass music. Marvin Ashby has that crazed look. Brett Smeltzer has it bad. Doug Ross should probably be on some sort of medication for his. Dempsey Price needs to be locked up for his bluegrass addiction. I'd heard about Rob Miller and what he's been doing for a while now up in Westminster, Maryland. Word gets around. He runs a concert series called the "Reunion." He's resurrecting all the old bands and old players who contributed to the historical significance of Maryland's rich field of bluegrass - Maryland Style. It all happens in a place everyone knows as "Rob's Barn." I had already been invited to the next 'gathering' but Rob reinforced the invitation to "come and check the place out." I was tired of driving that week. I didn't need another night out. The show he wanted me to attend included musicians I knew, and I had seen,  playing by themselves or with other configurations of players. I had seen all of them, at different places, a lot. They were the Cream of the Crop. The Creme de La Creme. If you wanted a "Maryland Ambassadors Team of Maryland Bluegrass" this would be it. I finally couldn't refuse any longer. The more I thought about it, the more I thought if I miss this I may be missing one of the best bluegrass moments in 2013. A day and half later I was driving back up to Westminster to get the full Rob's Barn experience.

       I don't know anything about all this fantasy football, basketball, or baseball stuff. Actually, I'm the worst sports fan because I ignore sports. Everyone laughs at my great lack of knowledge of sports. The fantasy thing is dreaming up a team or something like that. I don't know. I have no interest in what they're talking about. But if it applied to bluegrass, then the fantasy team showed up this past weekend at Rob's Barn. Imagine this line-up on stage: Darren Beachley, Dave Propst, Mike Munford, Warren Blair, and Steve Streett. If most of these names are unfamiliar to you it's because you're not from around here or maybe you're not really into bluegrass. When I say you're not from around here I'm referring to west of the Rocky Mountains. When I accuse you of not really being into bluegrass I do so because you may not be familiar with the common knowledge that Maryland, and especially the Baltimore area produces some of the best bluegrass music in the U.S. There are regions that used to. There are regions that still do. There are regions that used to and now bluegrass music is a dead entity, like a calf's heart stuck in a jar full of formaldehyde up on a museum shelf. You have to hand it to bluegrass true believers like Rob Miller. There was once a traditional music mecca called the Friendly Inn and every Maryland Bluegrass Great played there. There was a band called "Line Drive" who played there to capacity crowds. It was the early 90's. Friendly's closed up and all the great players moved on to other bands and other venues. True Believers still talk about all the magic moments that happened at the Friendly Inn. On this particular night Rob Miller is re-uniting Line Drive. The place is packed with a lot of the people who remember the Friendly Inn.

       The old Friendly Inn sign is hanging up on the stage and it makes the perfect backdrop for the return of these guys - but in actuality, they never left Maryland's vibrant bluegrass scene. They all just moved up several notches in their showmanship and musicianship. These are working musicians who've played with the best. Dave Propst is working nearly every night and every weekend- somewhere. I don't have to say anything about Darren Beachley that hasn't already been said. Warren Blair continues to amaze with his work schedule and flexibility between vocals and fiddling. Just when you're about ready to get sick of hearing  Stanley or Monroe tunes, Warren throws in "San Antonio Rose" to shake up the mix. And then there's Mike Munford - probably one of THE best banjo-pickers in the world. IBMA is finally acknowledging his value; his talent. The irony of the "best" award, if he gets it this year, is, we've all known this for a long time. Nobody in the mid-Atlantic bluegrass belt needs an introductory lecture on Mike Munford. The newest guy on the block Steve Streett (Bass) lives in the York, Pa area and has been playing the Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, Delaware circuit for years with Baltimore Bluegrass and a lot of other fine musicians. Quiet and reserved (until you discover his sense of humor) Steve's beautiful vocal-renderings were called upon several times for the performance. I'm always shocked when the quiet member of any group steps up to the plate - and then makes everybody's jaws drop in amazement. Darren Beachley drove the show. He usually does. Darren expects the best out of his stage-mates and he usually gets it in spades. People who don't know bluegrass wouldn't have a clue as to what Darren was doing up on the stage. He never sounded better or smoother. Considering the work schedules of these guys I doubt if they practiced much for this evening. It was obvious to all they didn't have to. The audience there that evening knew it was Darren being Darren at his best. Being former military, I call it excellent leadership. Getting the best out of what you've been given. Darren's level of professionalism separates the men from the boys; the pro's from the poseurs. The barn that night was packed. The excitement was high. I knew I was in for an experience I may never have again.

       The show started at 8:30. I don't even think you can classify what happens at the Barn as a show. More like an intimate evening to sit around with old friends and hear some good music. This is what I truly appreciated. The listeners were there to listen. Once the music started every ounce of attention was glued on this unique gathering of musicians. The Barn was packed with an audience that spilled out into and under a 60-ft. tent. There was food before and after, provided by an audience-generated pot luck system. Rob Miller wants to provide a well-regulated party atmosphere for folks who appreciate traditional bluegrass. It's a very simple premise that somehow seems to work successfully. Thirty-one songs later the evening wound down toward going-home time. Two encores. Three rounds of standing ovations. Everybody in the audience saying to each other "We've got to do this again." Sadly, that may never happen. These guys are working too much. Their schedules just happened to come together like the alignment of the planets for this particular date. It was an event - in the truest sense of the word. I left wishing that every bluegrass moment could be like this. We all know life isn't like that. The good things happen only once in a while and sometimes we're lucky enough to be there when it happens.

Coming soon:  Rob's Barn and The Friendly Inn Connection.

 

Memories Passed Away

 Released August 2013: Memories Passed Away by The Martin Brothers and Aspen Run

21 August 2013

       Welcome to the fourth album of music produced by Aspen Run - and the first album which launches The Martin Brothers and Aspen Run. At least I think they're still called albums! So much has changed in the music industry since I first heard bluegrass music coming over the airwaves at night while my Dad listened to his old Philco radio. It wasn't called bluegrass back then. It was just plain old Hillbilly Music, with an emphasis on the "Hillbilly" for definite politically-incorrect reasons. We early rock-and-rollers laughed at Dad's music; the twang, the non-electrified instruments, the songs about dying on the cross, and women giving up on their men for the honky-tonk life. Older and supposedly wiser now, I know I've reached a turning point on that Great Road of Life when I begin to regress, begin to re-examine why my old man listened to that stuff, and I begin to realize there were musicians from way back in that era who are still being listened to, still selling albums, and being studied now in university programs for the music they produced. A whole new generation of younger musicians haved picked up the torch from the old guys.

       On February 16th 2013 I got a privileged call from Herb Martin, Jr. to come up to Westminster, Maryland and sit in on the birth of this collection of songs. It was cold. Snow decorated the trees when I passed through Reisterstown, but it had been an easy winter so far. Donna, Herb's wife and mother to the Martin Boys had a big pot of stew going. The Band was in the kitchen tuning up and going through a few licks before they went into the home-made recording studio in what everyone calls "The Old Stone House." I had grown used to hearing the Martins (with the inclusion of Steve Unkart and Guy Herbert) perform their normal play list at numerous live performances. I had seen for myself the energy this unique group of musicians can bring to a stage. A rare thing indeed when any bluegrass group can make an audience get up out of their seats and dance. Unlike the third recorded collection of mostly Ralph Stanley and Jimmy Martin covers, Aspen Run: Wanted. (2011) this latest effort includes more than a few pleasant surprises along with audience favorites that have earned the Martins a reputation for delivering solid performances all over the mid-Atlantic region. This collection includes five original songs written by Aaron Martin, Herb Martin, Jr., Herb Martin, III, and Steve Unkart. I've singled out "Memories Passed Away" by Aaron Martin as one of my favorites, and I wasn't surprised when it was elected as the title-cut. All the originally-written songs are good and enjoyable, but this one makes you sit up and listen because there is a story involved. A painful human condition experienced in loneliness.

       It's now early August and the Boys are just a little bit older. The first time you see them on stage their youth astounds you if you're my age. Herb, III was born in 1985. Clayton is the middle sibling, born in 1987. The youngest, Aaron, was born in 1988. They already have a legend growing up around their family background. They didn't even play any kind of instruments until seven or eight years ago and when they began they gravitated into old-time bluegrass, bypassing the normal route of young folks attempting to become the next Rock and Roll stars. Family friend Ed Tillman remembers running into them at a local bluegrass jam at the Village Inn in Lineboro, Maryland. "They were great. I remember that night because they wouldn't quit. That was in 2006," says Ed. Shortly after that, it was only a matter of one or two years before The Martins (under the name of Aspen Run) was becoming a popular favorite bluegrass band in the Carroll County region of Maryland. They are following a long tradition of families involved in bluegrass. In their region the same names keep popping up in conversations about bluegrass: Paisley, McCoury, Lundy. Tippett, Meek, to name just a few in this treasure trove region of old-time music. The Martins stuck to tradition as they set out to make a name for themselves.

       Tradition is an important element in the story of Martin Family history in Westminster, and especially at the plot of Martin farmland and the Old Stone House. That day in February, Herb Martin, Jr. invited me to watch old films (probably from the 40's and 50's) of Martin Family members in past days making music, and having a good time on the same porch that still stands today. Nothing about that old house has changed much. After hearing "Memories Passed Away" Aaron entertained me with a whole notebook of songs he was working on. I was more than a little stunned. This kid can write!. It was time to go into the recording room and crank them out. Brotherly bickering broke out every few minutes about what was bluegrass and what was not. Beneath it was the deeper purpose of refining their craft, perfecting what was real and cleaning up what sounded phoney. The vocal jabs were normally settled by Herb Martin, III, the eldest. Clayton is the perfectionist. Aaron is the decent-hearted joker. Steve Unkart and Guy Herbert, older than any of them, are stabilizing forces for the process. At the center is the united quest for a pure bluegrass tradition. On this, The Martins will not waver. In a bluegrass business of today where so many younger musicians are trying to break the rules and be 'unique' the Martins don't have to. Their music is so old and traditional it's refreshing to hear it.

       Aaron's title cut is an anthem of sorts for the whole collection. It's about never forgetting those who have gone before and those who are still with us. You can say the same thing about music, families, and struggling to maintain one's human dignity in a complicated world. Sometimes it all seems like a very good or very bad dream. Out of dreams we create. It's the human spirit to do so. Memories Passed Away couldn't have been chosen as a better title for this collection. Every song reminds us to never forget where we came from - especially those closest to us who we call family.

Ed Henry

Vienna, Virginia,  2013

"Livin' The Dream!"

 Danny Paisley and Southern Grass at Port Deposit, Maryland, May 2013

17 August 2013

"I have my dreams, Mr. Starbuck, they may be little dreams, but they're my dreams!"
                                                                                  Lizzie, from The Rain-Maker

       Anyone who thinks the bluegrass life is easy needs to talk to Danny Paisley. He's popularized a  well-worn, tongue-in-cheek life-phrase here in our neck of the woods. The first time I heard it I fell out of my chair with laughter. One of his band members made a comment about an uncomfortable situation and Danny responded with "You're livin' The Dream now, Buddy!" In other words, suck it up and like the fact you're able to get up in front of people and entertain them. Danny's got a sense of humor I can appreciate. He's always got that smile on his face that lights up when all his musicians are running full-bore on synchronized pistons. I've written previously that he may have one of the best configurations in bluegrass music. Danny's "Livin' the Dream" attitude has a lot to do with it. Every time I hear him say it I have some deep thinking to do about how hard it is for a few of the better entertainers to work a room - and then get maybe just enough money to cover their gasoline expenses for the day.  The life of hard work and little recompense goes way beyond the guy up on stage or the band cranking out old time music just to bring a little enjoyment to a room-full of beer-drinking dancers. Recently, at Jumbo Jimmy's (Port Deposit, Maryland) I watched for the umpteenth Sunday afternoon, as the manager handled a big crowd of people who had come out to enjoy AcrosstheTrack Bluegrass. The beer flowed and so did the steamed crabs and sandwiches, she got people seated, and took care of the usual customer whinings. What I didn't know, is this person also does all the entertainment bookings and handles all the relations with the entertainers. Her sense of modesty prohibits me from mentioning her name. She's a hard-worker and she's "Livin' the Dream" of running (single-handedly) a clean, well-lighted place that takes people away from the hum-drum for a few hours out of their work-week. She makes sure the bands get paid. She's part of the process that keeps musicians employed.
       I talked to Rick Miller last night. Much recognized in Maryland for his life spent in the music business, he's busy trying to establish another new group. Actually, up to this point, they're doing well as far as new bands go. The gigs are steadily building. What I like about Rick is his honesty in dealing with a new situation and his total honesty in dealing with a strange, obscure part of the music world - bluegrass. You almost have to be crazy to think that it will make you rich someday. Our conversation was like a dream sequence flipping from (Father) John Michael Talbot to Molly Hatchet to Pope John Paul, II. I studied this kind of literary form in college - it's called Stream of Consciousness. We laughed a lot about Danny's turn of phrase because Rick realizes what he's up against in trying to make it in the bluegrass music business. It's OK to dream, Rick.
       Without dreams you're a dead entity in a dead world of non-creativity. I've been fortunate in my life to be around dreamers. They want something a little more out of life than struggling with an  8 to 5 job and paying a mortgage. I'm happy when I see a Dreamer get his or her just-due. Their dreams bolster our dreams, they become the stuff of novels and movies and pop-culture. Watching PBS one night, I heard a scientist make the remark that the only thing that separates humans from the rest of the animal world is our ability to dream, and thus create from that process. Here's to the Dreamers. Here's to all those practitioners of the bluegrass trade who are out there trying to get better at what they do by steadily working, steadily practicing, and steadily growing. If you hang around long enough, you see the good ones fulfilling their dreams, reaching at least some level of their perceived goals. But it's that way in any art-form, propelled of course by a huge shot of luck and making the right connections. At the basis of it though, is "Livin' the Dream." Success is hard work.

Understanding Poland - After 1939

 Police Officer Marcelli Konieczny - 1897-1940  Murdered at Katyn

With only a few remaining relatives in Poland, my wife and I have been traveling to Poland in an attempt to put together her family history. On this latest trip we discovered that Marcelli Konieczny, a ranking Police Officer, and one of her family members, was abducted by the Soviets and murdered along with thousands of others at a place called Katyn (1940). The name of the place, let alone the name of this horrific event is known today to few Americans. The mass executions were first blamed on the Nazis by the Soviets.  The Russian government finally,  fully admitted through release of documented records that Stalin ordered the mass-executions. Most of the Polish Army Officer corps, Naval Officer corps, and just about every policeman vanished into mass graves. Read the full account:


       "Both occupying powers focused their terror on the educated and ruling elite of the country, and, in the Nazi case, also on the Jews. The eastern half of Poland, except for the region of Wilno which was handed over by the Soviets to the Lithuanians, was formally annexed by the USSR after bogus local plebiscites. Mass arrests took place of key figures in the Polish military, political and economic establishment, of civil servants and trade union leaders. All private and public enterprises were taken over; the press was shut down; all Polish political, cultural and social organizations were dissolved. At first the soviets made strenuous efforts to win over the local non-Polish populations by promoting the Belarussian and Ukrainian languages, by distributing confiscated landed estates among the peasants, and by extending the welfare system. Once effective control had been established, the Soviets launched an attack on all religions, dissolved all local autonomous organizations, including the highly developed Ukrainian co-operative movement, and arrested all local Ukrainian and Zionist leaders. Conscription into the Red Army was introduced, and in April 1940 Soviet-style collectivization was imposed. The entire population was now terrorized into obedience.
       In 1940 and 1941 up to half a million people from all social classes and all ethnic groups, but mostly Poles and Jews, were deported from the Soviet-occupied territories to Siberia and Soviet Central Asia. Entire families, deemed in any way 'unreliable' by the Soviets, suffered this ordeal; scores of thousands were to perish in the inhospitable conditions of their places of exile or from forced labour in the Gulag. By mid-1941 many small towns of pre-war eastern Poland had lost much of their Polish character. The NKVD meted out special attention to captured Polish officers (regulars and reservists), civil servants, policemen and border guards. On orders signed on 5 March 1940 by Stalin and the Politburo, over 21,000 such prisoners were shot in April 1940; of these 4,000 perished in Katyn near Smolensk. For half a century, until Gorbachev's admission in April 1990, Soviet governments were to deny their responsibility for these atrocities. Yet while merciless to those he considered enemies of Soviet power, Stalin sought to recruit Poles, especially left-wing intellectuals, willing to co-operate with the USSR. This policy gained momentum after the unexpected defeat of France in June 1940, which left the USSR alone facing a Nazi dominated European continent. In any confrontation with Germany, the Poles could be useful. In the autumn of 1940 the 85th anniversary of Mickiewicz's death was publicly celebrated in Lwow (L'viv) and in early 1941 the Comintern revived its Polish section.
       Soviet terror was soon outstripped by its Nazi counterpart. The Nazi occupation lasted longer, it effected the majority of the Polish population (indeed, between 1941 and 1944 Nazi control extended to the entire area of pre-war Poland) and it took a heavier toll of life. A vast track of western Poland, including Poznan and Lodz (renamed Litzmannstadt) was incorporated directly into the Third Reich, and its populations classified according to crude and inconsistent 'racial' criteria. To affirm the German character of Upper Silesia and especially of Pomerania, two-fifths of their population were registered wholesale as "German" (and therefore subject to military sevice) as opposed to 2 percent carefully screened in the Wartheland. Those classified as Poles were reduced to the status of a helot underclass, deprived of all property and of access to all but the most basic schooling, and subject to compulsory labour or deportation. In the Wartheland virtually all Polish Catholic churches, monasteries and charitable institutions were closed; in Upper Silesia and Pomerania German was enforced as the language of religious life. Patriotic Polish priests were expelled, arrested, or shot. The central part of Poland, administered separately by the so-called Central Government (to which Galicia was added in 1941), was subject to a regime of terror, semi-starvation and ruthless economic exploitation. It became a dumping ground for all unwanted Poles and Jews from the lands annexed by the Reich. Most Catholic parishes were allowed to function in the Central Government but under many restrictions. Polish Protestants were especially victimized by the Nazis. A policy of  "Spiritual Sterilization" brought with it an attack on Polish high culture; museums, libraries, universities, most secondary schools, and theatres were closed down, and the public playing of Chopin's music was forbidden. Only some primary schooling and limited technical training was permitted  . . . The incarceration in concentration camps in September 1939 of the staff of Krakow University was a foretaste of the fate awaiting the entire Polish educated class under Nazi rule."

( excerpt: A Concise History of Poland. 2nd Edition. Lukowski and Zawadzki, eds. Cambridge University Press. 2006. )

Birkenau Death Camp - May 2013 - Photo by Ed Henry - On a recent visit to Poland