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When we played on Saturday, I schmoozed with him backstage and we established our bona fides as native San Franciscans. I did my best to impress upon him just how much it meant for lovers of American roots music to have such a patron as him. Beyond the insanely generous material support he provided, he gave so many of us a feeling of validation that learning and playing this music is worth all the time and effort we put into it.

Since that time, I’d see Warren a few times a year and would chat with him. He was always very friendly and very genuine. If it seemed odd or eccentric to some that the billionaire descendant of California pioneers took pleasure in playing obscure folk tunes on a banjo and hanging out with a motley collection of professional and amateur musicians, Warren couldn’t have cared less. He was a having a good time doing what he wanted to and didn’t feel the need to impress anyone.

Warren’s old-time string band, the Wronglers, provided him with a musical outlet and an opportunity to perform. The band was formed by fellow students of Bay Area folk-music guru Jody Stecher, along with Colleen Browne, Warren’s executive assistant and a veteran bass player of several rock bands. Warren’s wife, Chris, was also in the group for a time.

I emceed a number of shows featuring the Wronglers and never passed up an opportunity to rib Warren a bit. “Ladies and gentleman,” I’d announce, “please welcome five very talented musicians – and a banjo player.” He loved it! Warren had more than a little bit of the ham in him plus a self-effacing sense of humor that made him the perfect foil.

It was a few years later that we got to spend a good bit of time with him and really got to know him. In April of 2010, Jeanie and I took a three-week road trip through the Southwest. Our ultimate destination was Austin, where we planned to attend the Old Settler’s Music Festival in Salt Lick, just outside of Austin.

It was an ambitious trip for us that required a lot of planning and an equal amount of flexibility. Because we like music festivals, we did some research on what the Lone Star State had to offer. Old Settler’s seemed like our kind of deal – a tasty mixture of country, rock, bluegrass, blues, and folk. While perusing the lineup, we noticed that the Wronglers were playing. Great, we thought, we’re going anyway and it’ll be just be that much better to see some hometown faces around.

Before we left, I contacted Colleen to see if she could arrange backstage passes for us. I’m always trying to get backstage, because that’s where the stories are. Colleen did us one better and provided not only backstage passes, but put us on the guest list as well, saving us a chunk of change.

We arrived at the Ben McCulloch campground on Thursday, the first day of the festival. The skies were cloudy and rain was predicted, but no one seem too concerned. We found a nice spot and quickly set up our camp close to Onion Creek, which winds through the campground.

For the first two days the rain didn’t come down in torrents, or in great, gullywashing waves. The rain wasn’t trying to rout us with a spectacular frontal assault. No, the rain was fighting a steady war of attrition. It knew that the campers were there for four days, and it wasn’t about to unleash all its artillery in one cataclysmic barrage.

But down it came, heavily and steadily. Our camping spot, which had looked so inviting when we set it up, became a tributary of Onion Creek. Two to three inches of water flowed briskly through our camp kitchen, and, while the popup shelter and tarps kept the rain off us, it made preparing a meal a challenge. We arranged several large stones to step upon so we could get in and out of our van, thankful at least that we were not sleeping in a tent pitched in the streambed of a now incessantly babbling brook.

On Friday morning we set out looking for Warren and company and found that they had wisely rented a couple of trailers. The trailers were equipped with nifty little kitchens and all the necessary pots, pans, utensils, and dishes. Unfortunately, they didn’t include any food. The Wronglers thought they could snag something to eat from local vendors, but both the backstage food and the concession stands were located about half-mile away at the Salt Lick Pavilion.

Suddenly, an idea popped into my brain. We had food – they had shelter. “OK, Mr. High Finance Hellman,” I said, “we’re going to revert to the ancient barter system here.” So for the next two days, I cooked blueberry pancakes for the Wronglers’ breakfast. Warren made such a fuss over my pancakes, you’d have thought that the recipe came from Julia Child instead of Aunt Jemima.

Warm and dry in the trailer, Jeanie and I enjoyed the company of all the band members. There’s a deep bond of friendship among this crew, forged by endless hours of rehearsing and the shared love of the music. Talking with Warren was always fun. He had a zest for storytelling and loved to hear tales of other folks’ adventures. If you didn’t know who he was, you’d just think he’s some nice old banjo picker with some funny stories.

Occasionally, we’d be reminded just how wealthy and influential he was when he made an offhand remark about a politician (“He’s so vain about his hair.”) or a trip he took (“Have you ever been on a Lear Jet? The aisle is really narrow…). But when he was hanging around musicians, Warren just wanted to be one of the guys and was in every bit as starstruck by artists like Emmylou Harris and Hazel Dickens as any of their other fans.

A couple of months later, Warren was our breakfast buddy again at the CBA summer music camp. He and Jeanie were in the same banjo class and he spent a lot of time at our campsite, playing, sharing meals, and talking. We brought Warren along to our friend Lou Felthouse’s camp for a memorable feast. The other dinner guests were thrilled to have the opportunity to tell Warren how much they loved Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. He clearly enjoyed the attention and graciously answered questions and listened to comments and suggestions.

One of the best parts of music camp are performances by campers and instructors. Warren asked us to help him perform “End of the Roll Blues,” his epic tale of finding, then losing, than regaining his prized Whyte Laydie banjo. He’d even written new verses that included a response from his banjo asking why he’d dumped her in the first place. The first line began “Loser, loser, why did you leave me….”

We quickly rehearsed the song and Jeanie sang the new verses. Warren was kind of nervous about performing without his regular band, but we assured him we’d be fine. When we hit the stage, we made it through the first half of the song perfectly. When her turn came, Jeanie momentarily stumbled on the first words and I frantically shout-whispered “loser, loser” to prompt her, and we all three started giggling hysterically. We never made it to the end of the song.

Warren laughed his assets off and we had to laugh at ourselves. Ever since then, we tried to find a chance to perform the song again and get it right. We never did get that opportunity, but I don’t feel too bad about it. We were very fortunate to have been as close as we were to him and we are just two of thousands of people whose lives were enriched by knowing him.

A couple of months ago we saw Warren playing his banjo at a rally supporting a public employees pension reform initiative. The rally was sponsored by several unions that had worked with Warren on the compromise plan. He gleefully plunked along with Colleen on bass and Nate Levine on guitar and got the crowd singing with him on choruses.

I cornered him after his performance and said, “Warren, you are the sorriest excuse for a capitalist I’ve ever seen. What kind of titan of finance plays banjo at a union rally, for crying out loud?” He laughed and replied that putting the crowd through his performance was the price they had to pay for his involvement in pension reform.

I saw Warren one more time after that – at an event at UCSF where he was also receiving treatment for the leukemia that was to eventually take him. Frail, but game, he played a couple of songs. He left shortly after his performance, but there was time for us to exchange a few words – just small talk. I wondered when I’d see him next.

The memorial service was one of the most touching ceremonies I’ve ever witnessed. The governor, the mayor, a senator, and many other civic and business leaders came to pay their respects. Emmylou, Ron Thomasson, Heidi Clare, and Jimmie Dale Gilmore were among the many musicians there, and the Wronglers played the original “End of the Roll Blues.” A particularly poignant moment came when Warren’s twelve grandchildren sang “I’ll Fly Away.”

I’ll miss Warren Hellman. He was the best friend bluegrass music ever had in San Francisco and a good friend to me. His life is an inspiration to all of us to reach out and share what we have with others. You may not be a billionaire, but you have something to give, whether it’s teaching someone a G-run or working the gate at a festival. Let’s all remember Warren’s spirit of generosity and neighborliness as the new year begins, and do our best to give just a little bit more.

Ten Items or Fewer
Today’s column from Brooks Judd
February 6, 2015

Item 1: There’s a multicolored vehicle running around our friendly town of Turlock. The guy who owns it apparently is in the pest exterminating business. The motto on his truck says, Just Say “No!” to Bugs.

Item 2: I received three calls last week from a gentleman identifying himself as Steve Martin. Steven has a very thick Indian accent and he was kind enough to inform me that I have some very serious “tax” business I need to attend to immediately. In a very concerned tone he tells me that the treasury department wants to talk to me. Mr. Martin needs all my vital personal information so he can “help” me out of this pressing difficulty.He tells me it is important I trust him and provide him with all the information he needs.

UMMM! I wonder how many senior citizens unfortunately fall for Steven’s little scam. Some do. If these vermin are apprehended senior citizens everywhere should be able to stone them with family sized full bottles of Geritol.Read on.

Item 3: Two weeks ago my oldest daughter was in Fremont and decided to take a little stroll around the local park before picking up her son from school. She pulled into a parking space, and hid her purse carefully under her sons car seat so it would not exposed. She came back 30 minutes later to find the back window bashed in and her purse taken.

My daughter spent not one or two but four hours at the Fremont DMV to get a new license.Then she spent another couple of hours canceling checks, other credit cards, passes to the zoo and other various child friendly establishments. She phoned the local police but was informed the incident was a very low priority. (On January 23 the Fremont Police called my daughter saying someone had turned in her purse completely intact save the $30 in cash that was in it.) There is hope.

I hope the jerks who do the smash and grab will someday have to suffer for their transgressions and serve some time as punishment. Maybe they should be sent to the DMV to stand in line for a day or two.

Item 4: It’s 2015, a brand new year is upon us, filled with hope and yet the terrorists are in full bloom striking us down. It seems all sanity is lost. What a marvelous idea if our Just say “No” to Bugs man could wind his way around the world spraying these vermin and then have them ferried across the River Styx into a place they so richly deserve, the fiery pits of Hades.

Item 5: I just got back from another vigorous one hour five mile walk and was feeling quite proud of myself, that is until I sit down to read about the two men who spent 19 days on El Capitan scaling the sheer face of the rock using only their fingertips, toes, and grit to inch themselves up the 3000 foot sheer cliff.They are the first climbers to accomplish this feat.To repeat, that was 19 days AND NIGHTS on the sheer face of the rock suspended only by a safety rope and nothing else.

While I am devouring this bit of news my eyes are directed to another article. This item is about a San Franciscan who just completed seven marathons in seven days on seven continents. To make this more remarkable the young man completed all seven marathons in five hours or under. Somehow my five miles seem so insignificant.

To make my own claim to fame I will eat a Snickers Bar under seven seconds, on seven consecutive days in seven different rooms of my home of the seventh day of the seventh month of 2015. I do not feel so bad now.

Item 6: Sheila and I just got back from the wonderful Gallo Theater where we saw the great Johnny Rivers perform. Johnny is seventy-two years young and he put on a wonderful show. The theater was sold out and the fans were appreciative and boisterous. It was a rewarding show.

Johnny played all his hits and was able to use his shiny red guitar he used when he recorded in 1962 the million seller “Johnny Rivers at the Whiskey A Go Go.” The wonderful “Memphis” is on this album and Johnny played a rousing version to a wildly appreciative audience. Thanks for the great show Johnny.Next stop at the Gallo.... The Buddy Holly Story and then the dynamic Buddy Guy.

Until March 6: Read a book, enjoy a film, hug a child, pet a dog, stroke a cat, eat a bar of chocolate and .... “IKIRU”

Exploring The Secret Life of Banjos
Today’s column from Bill Evans
Thursday, January 29, 2015

(Editor’s note—Well, we’ve got ourselves a nice little knot of FIFTH days of the month, so we’ll be doing some strolling down memory lane. If you’re going to go exploring the banjo, not many better to take on the trip than Bill Evans, who published this piece right here for the first time in 2010.)

Like a lot of us, I discovered bluegrass and the banjo in a somewhat non-bluegrass kind of way: I saw Roy Clark playing banjo on “Hee Haw” and said to myself, “I think I could do that!” It’s been an interesting journey since 1970 along the banjo road but one of the most fascinating side trips has been following the five-string banjo back in time, back to the classic days of bluegrass in the 1950’s, and back further still to the early recording era (not just the 1920’s but even earlier to the recorded banjo music of the 1890’s and 1900’s cylinder recordings) and even farther back still to late 19th and early 20th century ragtime and classic banjo and mid-19th century minstrelsy and ultimately back to the “root of the root,” exploring the foundation of today’s banjo music in African and African-American culture and music dating back 200 years and more.

One of the things that I’ve discovered along this journey is that the banjo has been right in the center of many of the most important intersections in American music history for more than 200 years. It was sometime in the early 1800’s that a white person, probably in the Chesapeake Bay area near where I was raised, or perhaps in New Orleans or New York City, became so fascinated by the music played on banjo-type instruments by African and African-Americans that he decided to learn to play the instrument himself. A truly American music was born at this moment.

In the 1840’s, the banjo, along with the fiddle, was at the forefront of blackface minstrelsy, America’s first popular music form. Minstrelsy popularized the banjo all across the United States and brought the banjo to California and England. The banjo, which usually now sported all five strings, was the electric guitar of the mid-19th century: it was so popular that instructional manuals were written, teachers hung their hats out for students and small factories started making the first production banjos.

In the 1860’s, fingerpicking guitar styles began to be adapted to the banjo, leading to a flowering of complex and virtuosic playing styles that today are grouped under the heading of “classic banjo.” The classic banjo movement in the United States and England led to frets being put on banjos by the 1880’s and created stage stars like Vess Ossman and Fred Van Eps. Classic banjo music directly influenced Scott Joplin, Tom Turpin and other early ragtime composers and performers. Ragtime was America’s most popular music at the turn of the last century, enduring into the 1920’s before evolving into early jazz.

Many of us are more familiar with the folk and bluegrass styles of the 1920’s recording era and beyond, populated by such performers as Charlie Poole, Uncle Dave Macon, Dock Boggs, Molly O’Day, and, by the mid-1940’s, Earl Scruggs and his three-finger bluegrass style and beyond.

What I’ve learned from this lifelong adventure is the complexity and beauty of the American music story. The flowering of folk/popular/jazz and beyond five-string banjo styles that we enjoy today is the result of the rich history that laid a foundation for the diverse styles we enjoy and play today.

I’ve tried my best to learn as many of these historical styles as I can and I’ve collected a few instruments from various eras. Check out my YouTube channel to experience some of these historical banjo styles: http://www.youtube.com/user/BillEvansBanjo.

With the banjo, there’s always strength in numbers and I’ve had the great pleasure of working with old-time and bluegrass music legend Jody Stecher over the last several years, as we explore together the various side streets of banjo history. We’ll present our latest discoveries at the Freight and Salvage Coffeehouse tonight at 8 p.m. as we present the return of “The Secret Life of Banjos” for one show only (learn more at http://www.freightandsalvage.org/secret-life-banjos-jody-stecher-bill-evans).

Come join us if you can!

All the best,

Bill Evans


A Sound for the Ages
Today’s column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Not too long ago, Ted Lehmann wrote about the difficulty and improbability of a band developing a signature sound, and what he says is true - regardless of the musical genre. Anyone that goes to bluegrass festivals can tell you, there are an awful lot of great pickers and singers out there. But there are only a handful of musicians whose sound is so distinctive that it is instantly recognizable.

These rare talents are so distinctive, they often have long influential careers, with a variety of sidemen. Jimmy Martin, Bill Monroe, and Ralph Stanley, for example, played with dozens and dozens of sidemen over the years, but whatever band they were in bore their names - and for good reason. The core might be a duo, like Jim and Jesse, or Flatt and Scruggs, but with these names at the top of the marquee, an audience will know they will hear something they can’t hear anywhere else.

The recent passing of Bill Yates reminded me that sometimes, whole bands can take on a soundthat carries on its appeal despite numerous personnel changes. Yates was in the Country Gentlemen, and that band’s sound was defined by Charlie Waller’s amazing voice and (for me, at least), John Duffy’s searing tenor and cyclonic mandolin playing. I always loved Eddie Adcock’s playing too.

Seldom Scene went through many personnel changes, but they maintained their appeal, and to my ear, at least, preserved their smooth, highly polished sound. That’s probably why I liked the Duffy years the best, because his great vocals were a natural fit in that band, but his frantic mandolin lent an edge that I really liked.

Some of these seminal bands provide a rich training ground for excellent musicians who go on to well-deserved fame on their own. The most famous example, of course, is Flatt and Scruggs splitting off from Bill Monroe’s Bluegrass Boys.

If these talents are so rare, how can there be so many great bluegrass bands? LIke I said, there are lots of great musicians out there, and they often get together and make bands whose music is exciting and fun - and get high profile gigs at bluegrass festivals all over the place. But I bet most of us, with our backs to the stage, might have a hard time telling who’s playing the banjo, or even singing lead, unless we have already heard that band do that song.

But if the singer was James King, or Allison Krauss or Ralph Stanley, we’d know right away. If it was Chris Thile or David Grisman on the mando, you’d know. If it was Tony Trishka or JD Crowe on the banjo, you’d know. If it was Michael Cleveland or Vassar Clements, you’d know. If it was Clarence White or Tony Rice on the guitar, you’d know that, too.

I remember the first time I saw Chris Thile play. I thought, “Wow, this must be how people felt when they first heard Jimi Hendrix play guitar!”. His talent was so obvious, and so singular, it had an instant effect on me.

I have hundreds of records and CDs - do they all contain these major talents? Nope - I like lots of different types of music and every good musician has something to say worth hearing. But some have a sound for the ages.

Today’s column from Nancy Zuniga
Tuesday, January 27, 2015

(It’s hard to believe it’s been this many years since Nancy retired from her Welcome columnist job. Here’s one of her pieces from 2010. As always, a fun read with a point worth making.)

This coming Sunday, I'm looking forward to a visit with one of the greatest people I've ever been privileged to know. Flossie Lewis was my English teacher during my sophomore year at Abraham Lincoln High School in San Francisco. As the classic nerd, I wasn't a happy kid in high school, but Mrs. Lewis' class was the one bright spot in my otherwise gloomy school days. A gifted writer, Mrs. Lewis encouraged her students to stretch the boundaries of their imaginations, often through methods as non-traditional as climbing atop her desk to make a point, or lacing her speech with pithy Yiddish aphorisms. This tireless educator was in her seventies when she returned to school to earn a doctorate degree. Whatever pleasure or inspiration I've ever had in writing anything, be it a letter, song, or CBA welcome column, I have my old teacher to thank for her acceptance of my sometimes unorthodox means of self-expression. I was especially fortunate in that Mrs. Lewis (or “Flossie”, as she asked me to call her in later years), became a family friend, which made it possible for us to keep in touch through the years. Now in her mid-eighties, Flossie still writes short stories for publication in magazines. She always looks forward with delight to hearing my newest original songs, and, since meeting Henry, she has embraced him as if he had also been one of her students. In a sense, we both continue to be disciples of this remarkable woman. The boundless fountain of inspiration and creativity that is Flossie Lewis has nurtured generations of students and enriched countless lives.

so why am I talking about Flossie Lewis in a bluegrass welcome column? Flossie was and continues to be my mentor, someone who believed in and encouraged me even when others were less than enthused with my endeavors. I've witnessed this mentoring spirit numerous times since joining the bluegrass community. Some folks have natural talent and intuition and seem to require little direction, but there are so many more who might have become discouraged after their first feeble attempts at playing an instrument or singing a song, were it not for someone who gave of their time and showed an interest in that individual's progress and potential. So often, someone within our bluegrass family will take a newcomer aside and teach him or her a guitar lick, a breathing technique, a more comfortable way to bow the fiddle, or a pointer on jam etiquette. Those persons may just think that they are passing along a bit of friendly advice, and it may never occur to them that they are, in fact, mentors. Nonetheless, they are imparting their wisdom based on years of experience and observation, and in doing so, they may be setting their protegé on their way to many years of enjoyable playing by helping them to develop good habits and by nipping bad ones in the bud. Sometimes mentoring takes a more formal and intensive approach, as in music camp or festival workshops. Who has mentored you? Who have you mentored?

When Flossie earned her doctorate degree, her former students surprised her with a congratulatory party where one person after another stood up to give a testimonial on how their beloved teacher had shaped their life's successes. Rest assured that when you give of your time and attention, your gift may impact the recipient in ways that you can't imagine, and may be passed along to enrich the lives of future generations.

THE DAILY GRIST…”There's a little white note on a gate by the road, That a man put up yesterday, And when we saw it we all ran out, Just to see what it had to say, And when we read it our eyes filled with tears, And they fell to the cold hard clay, Something 'bout a mortgage, Something 'bout foreclosure, Something 'bout failing to pay.”—Fred Eaglesmith lyrics to Thirty Years of Farming

A Special Treat to Start 2015
Today’s column from Yvonne Tatar
Monday, January 26, 2015

News flash……..Much to the amazement of many bluegrass fans, James King made a surprise appearance at the 28th Annual Blythe Bluegrass Festival held just last weekend January 16, 17 & 18th at the Blythe, CA fairgrounds. You see James King was not on the festival lineup to perform. Both Seldom Scene and Larry Efaw & the Bluegrass Mountaineers (on the bill) delighted the crowds there as they had James join them on stage to perform a couple of songs with the band. The audience was enthralled as he sang and strummed along on the guitar. What a way to start the 2015 Southwest festival season!

Showing the effects of his current battle with cirrhosis of the liver, James appeared much thinner and weaker, but he still was the consummate professional as he belted out 3-part harmonies with icons Dudley Connell and Lou Reid of Seldom Scene and the boys from Larry Efaw’s band. While on stage, he took a couple of minutes to update the crowd of his latest medical status, i.e., he needs a new liver. With mounting medical expenses, he has been trying to perform here and there and sell some CDs to raise needed funds. He also had a DVD of a recent concert he did that he was selling, as well as raffle tickets for a quilt to be raffled off at the Gettysburg, PA fest in August. His friend in VA has made a unique quilt depicting James’ life moments in photos, such as a photo of when he was a Marine. It’s a very pretty and heartfelt tribute to James. There is also a website at www.GoFundMe.com where folks can donate to his medical expense fund. You can read more about James and what’s being done to help him at www.bluegrasstoday.com/tag/james-king.

On and off stage, James humbly thanked his fans at Blythe many times for their ongoing support throughout his long bluegrass career. And he personally spoke with many who stopped to wish him well or who contributed to his fund. It was hard not to tear up seeing this all as we listened to him singing and performing for us there. As I watched him perform, I knew I was witnessing a very special moment in bluegrass. He so touched the crowds that his booth after each show was mobbed with well-wishers. Many, many fans just came to shake his hand and give him cash without buying any products. It was touching. It is what bluegrass folks do.

James, here’s hoping your medical expenses are covered and you have a bright and healthier 2015! Your bluegrass fans want to hear you sing Thirty Years of Farming many more times in the future.

Best 2015 to ya’all, Yvonne

THE DAILY GRIST…”Life is a song – sing it.“—Sai Baba

The snowbird sings the song he always sings…
Today’s Column by Jeanie Ramos
Sunday, January 25, 2015

Greetings from sunny Yuma, Arizona, a place where the snowbirds come to roost for the winter; some of us come to “pick.” So far, every person I’ve met here is retired (except for those who work in the local businesses).

The rules of the road don’t seem apply here in the Foothills area; it’s not uncommon to see people riding golf carts, ATVs, and other off-road vehicles on the city streets and on some of the four lane roads. Terry brought his Polaris RZR with us for desert exploration and trail riding but when in Yuma, we do what the locals do.

One thing about retirees in a resort area (including myself), they are not big on fashion, but they are real big into comfort. I should buy stock in Rockport, Easy Spirit, Hush Puppies and Birkenstock. I didn’t come prepared for weather in the mid 80’s but never fear, Thursdays are garage sale days, the old folks are out in force buying each others junk. I got a whole new summer wardrobe for seven dollars.

Every morning I put on my Rockports and my garage sale T-Shirt that advertises a Casino I’ve never visited and I take a long walk. It’s always wise to take some “walking around money” with you. The citrus fruit is at it’s peak and the folks hang sacks of fruit on their gates with either a sign that says “free” or there will be a coffee can for donations.

On our street, there is a public “library,” well, actually it’s like a large birdhouse on a fence post and it’s filled with books. You take what you want and put your used books inside for others to read.

For the non-picking people in the area, the two big social events of the week are going to the Laundromat and the grocery store. I’ve been warned not to go to Fry’s on Wednesdays, as that is Senior Discount Day. The parking lot is usually full; a handicap placard is of no consequence. The grocery aisles are filled with shoppers and you will find carts parked around with no owner in sight and sometimes you will see a bewildered shopper walking around trying to find their cart. I’m tempted to attach our dune buggy flag on my cart next time I go shopping. I also had a hard time finding slightly green bananas. As my buddy JD Rhynes says, “Nuff said.”

As I mentioned before, some of us come here to jam. There are regular weekly jams at nearly every RV Park and at many of the churches. During my first week here, I went to four jams; made lots of acquaintances and lined up one gig at a church. All the jams I’ve been to are made up of retirees.

Many people my age and older suffer from hearing loss and when we are jamming, someone will call out the Key of G and everyone says in unison , “Huh?” It’s like that child’s game of “Gossip.” One person says, “I believe I heard him say C ,” and the next person says, “Alrighty then, D it is,” and the person next to him Capos on the fourth fret to play in B. At one jam I went to, someone came up with a solution to the problem. They had a big wheel (think Big Spin) with all the keys marked out. When it’s your turn, the person with the best hearing will turn the wheel to where the arrow lines up with the key you called. Don’t laugh, it works…well it works if they remember to spin it. This leads us to another topic, memory.

When we are on vacation, which is most of the time, I have trouble remembering what day of the week it is, that’s where my pillbox comes in handy (if I’ve remembered to fill it). Being a senile…I mean senior citizen has its challenges but we laugh it off and carry on. Laughter is good medicine.

I went to a jam one day with a couple other ladies; I’ll refer to them as Lucy and Ethel. While at the jam, I saw a woman (Let’s call her Maxine) coming through the door. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet (she should have worn her Hush Puppies). When she sat down across from me it was obvious that her boots were on the wrong feet. I wondered if there was some tactful way of making her aware of it without causing embarrassment. I kept on picking and figured that her feet would probably begin to hurt and she would discover the problem herself. Needless to say, at the end of the jam they were still on the wrong feet.

When the jam was over, I packed up my guitar and other gear and began to load it into a van I was sure I had arrived in…wrong! I almost went home with Maxine, the shoe lady. After a bit of shuffling things around, Lucy, Ethel and I were on Interstate 8, headed in the right direction in the right car. As we neared the neighborhood where we were to drop Lucy off, she began rummaging for her house keys in a large black purse. She pulled out a cell phone with a pink cover and handed it up to Ethel, who was driving. She said, “Here’s your cell phone, I have no idea how it has ended up in my purse.” “And, I can’t seem to find my house keys.” “Are you sure that’s your purse?” asked Ethel. “Of course!” came the reply. “Well I always keep my purse right here by the console, I guess we’ll have to go back, I must have left it at the jam.” Then Lucy exclaimed, “Oh wait! Here’s another purse, oh, I think it’s mine.” “ I guess that’s why I was finding all your stuff in that other handbag.”

By then we were all laughing and I said, “I guess this would be a good time to tell you ladies about something I saw at the jam.” “Someone showed up with their shoes on the wrong feet!” Instinctively, they both looked down at their shoes and we all burst out laughing. Later that evening, I received a text message from Ethel saying that Maxine had called her and told her how her feet had been killing her all day and she had just noticed that her shoes were on the wrong feet. I have a feeling I will have fodder for some future columns before our vacation is over.

We will be in the desert a little while longer. As I mentioned before, there are many jams to choose from, the weather is perfect and the people are interesting. Until next time, read a book, eat an orange, learn a new song, and take a walk. Just make sure your shoes are on the right feet. God bless.

When You're Tongue-Tied and Just Don't know What To Do!
Today's column from Prescription Bluegrass Radio Host & Blog Editor, Brian McNeal
Saturday, January 24, 2015

One of my disc jockey friends was having an unusually and incredibly tough day this past week. This is the sort of thing that happens to all of us from time to time and sometimes it is just so overwhelming, it can seriously impact the way we function.

Some of us can find ways to get by, to mask the situation, to shrug it off and plow through. But for radio announcers, it can get so bad as to even effect the way we speak. Our tongues get tied in knots similar to a sheepshank. Every word we utter over the microphone can sound like your old cassette tape that was left on the dashboard of your car mixed with the CD you disc'd and plowed under last year and then found come spring planting … “skip-whir-skip-whir-skip-whir.” Pretty hard to hold an audience, wouldn't you think?

So for my friend and anyone else who finds themselves in trouble – especially the inability to speak clearly due to “one of those days,” I offer this:

Maybe a refresher course at the Brian McNeal School of Broadcasting would help … we have a full semester on "Coordinated Articulation with Digital Gesturing On the Air".

We'll put you through all the paces of a real broadcast studio with real audience members listening. You'll learn to announce the time and temperature and to correctly pronounce the names of at least 50 obscure cities that may or may not pop up in a newscast. Your full final semester is your final exam. After working as hard as you can, but at your own pace, we'll give you the test. You must pass the test with 100% in order to graduate. The final exam consists of stuffing your mouth full of marbles and doing your show on the air. Each day your listeners are invited to call in and give us just ONE word you said that they understood. If they get it right, we'll allow you to spit out one marble each day they answer correctly. Of course it gets easier with practice but finally at the very end of your semester, we'll grant you Full Broadcast Certification to be an honest-to-goodness Radio DJ … when you've lost all of your marbles.

If you wanna take the Brian McNeal Night Club DJ course, it's just a bit more advanced and difficult. With our Night Club DJ course, you must continually prove on a daily basis that you have lost all your marbles.

Don't forget that we also have the Brian McNeal School of Public Address Announcing course … it's a lot easier. Many of our students have gone on to successful careers working on the P.A. at Wal-Mart and other such fine institutions. This course is where you keep all the marbles in your mouth while eating a peanut butter sandwich and talking on the mic simultaneously. No one can understand what you say and that makes it easier for the company who hires you to ring up higher-than-sale prices when the customers get to the checkout counter.

So, if you're ever having a day that is just too tough to handle by yourself, remember, we're here to help. Contact us by phone for an audition but remember, if we can understand what you say, you probably don't really need us so have a great BLUEGRASS day!

Thank You!
Brian McNeal
Prescription Bluegrass Media

Afternoon Delight
Guest column from Bob Schwartz
Friday, January 23, 2015

(This piece, from back in 2007, continues to be one of our favorites.)

So this is how it starts: with a simple, deceiving phone call to my wife. I told her I'd be in an afternoon meeting and would be unreachable the rest of the day. I hoped that I sounded convincing. The truth was I had arranged -- by email -- a secret rendezvous with someone I'd never met. We had agreed to meet that day, in a nondescript location near the airport at 4 p.m. I needed to leave my downtown office, get to our destination, take care of "business," and return home to my family by dinnertime so that no one would be the wiser. Could I really pull it off?

I left my office around 3. I was excited -- I was, after all, on my way to what I hoped would be the first of many encounters with a tall, slender beauty, but I also knew that such pleasures don't come cheaply. The email said she was Asian -- I hoped we'd be able to communicate with each other, and that my clumsy American style would nonethless strike a responsive chord. I boarded the BART train and watched the stations go by one by one as the train hurtled toward the airport. Finally, the train arrived. I grabbed a cab to our meeting place, hoping that this object of my desire and I would hit it off.

I entered the room and wasn't disappointed. She was beautiful. I admired her for a few moments, and then ran my hands lovingly along her neck. She let out a soft, low sound. I put my arms around her waist and traced the contours of her curves. Her foreignness was alluring; she was much younger than I, but I'm hardly the first man to succumb to the allure of a fresh beauty. We spent some time getting acquainted (in a manner of speaking), and I was smitten -- I hoped that this curvaceous beauty would have a place in my life for a long time to come.

The hour grew late. I got back on BART and headed home. I spent the hour-long train ride knowing that I couldn't keep what had happened that afternoon secret for very long. I was going to have to explain this to my wife, and I fretted about how she would react. Gail is an understanding woman, but a secret Friday afternoon rendezvous? This would take some doing.

I got home and began my confession. I told my wife that I hadn't really been at a meeting that afternoon. She looked at me with a worried look on her face -- just what had I done, she wondered. I explained that if she would just come outside, she would realize where I'd been. We walked outside together and there was the Asian beauty on our porch, displaying her classic curvature for us to admire.

My wife shrieked with delight. She had been wanting a new bass for awhile, and she loved the new Chinese bass I had just brought home on BART. She thanked me profusely for going to Steve Swan's shop in Millbrae and picking it out for her. I told her that she deserved it -- she is and always will be the love of my life, and it was time for her to upgrade from the used starter model that we'd made do with for the past year. It had indeed been a delightful afternoon, and the three of us -- Gail and I and the Asian beauty -- went back inside to make some beautiful music together.

Too little temptation can lead to virtue.
Today’s column from JD Rhynes
Thursday, January 22, 2015

I apologize to you folks for missing my fourth Thursday welcome column last month. About two or three times a year, for some unknown reason I cannot focus my eyes properly for a day or so, and that struck me again on the Wednesday before the fourth Thursday when my column was due. Thankfully I can see good this month.

Here is the column that I was going to write last month to honor the memory of my friend Joe Carr who passed away early last December. Joe was one of the funniest men I've ever known, and his sense of humor was second only to his ability as a world-class musician. Joe, along with Alan Munde, delivered the keynote address to the attendees at IBMA in 1996. It was one of the funniest presentations I've ever seen, and brought down the house. In May of 1997 Joe and Alan were appearing at the Mariposa bluegrass Festival, and we got to talking backstage of that keynote address the previous fall in Owensboro, Kentucky. Joe perked up and said hold that thought, JD. He rummaged through his guitar case and brought out a copy of that same keynote speech and said here you can have this. So believe it or not, I still have it right in front of me as I write, and you're going to get to read that whole keynote speech courtesy of Joe Carr, although it is posthumously. Later this week I'm going to send it back to the IBMA bluegrass music Museum in Kentucky for their archives. So for now, enjoy the humor of Joe Carr and Alan Munde.

Dateline favorite 24th 2005, Nashville Tennessee.

Bluegrass conspiracy theorists around the world were vindicated when Nashville police stormed into a suburban residence today, and arrested the man responsible for keeping bluegrass music off the radio across the nation since the 1950s. One bluegrass fan commented, its going to be so good to be able to hear bluegrass on the radio anytime day or night.I just hope they play the right kind of bluegrass and I hope it doesn't get too popular or it might ruin it.

Dateline May 6, 2010, Los Angeles California.

The national collegiate bluegrass Association announced the second season of college level bluegrass band competition this fall. The colleges recruited heavily at bluegrass festivals this summer and they have signed many of the top-ranked high school pickers and singers in the country.

Last season was marred by a scandal involving the use of hormones to help male singers saying in higher keys. This year mandatory pre-jam testing will hopefully stop this practice. Teams in the big 12 conference include the Fighting Flat pickers of Notre Dame, Alabama's Crimson Grass, The Seldom Sooners, of Oklahoma, and the Nebraska Shuckin' the Corner's. All-star musicians from each region will compete at the end of the season for the coveted Bluegrass Bowl Trophy. The college bluegrass bowl will be held on New Year's Day. Halftime entertainment will feature a brief football game.

Dateline; June 22, 2025, Everywhere USA

Experts are baffled at the growing popularity of bluegrass music among American teenagers. At shopping malls and on street corners in major cities across the nation, the teens, or grasser's as they refer to themselves,gather to jam using guitars, banjos, fiddles, mandolins. Periodically, one of the youths overcome by the intensity of the music begins to clog dance, much to the enjoyment of the crowd. Scattered throughout the crowd our kids dressed and jodhpurs, I riding boots and Ralph Stanley for Pres. T-shirts.

IBMA officials attribute the phenomenon to B – TV, the 24-hourr bluegrass music cable network that features videos by newsgroups such as Lazergrass, and old-timers such as Alison Krauss. The animated series"Bevis and Banjo"has become the most popular program.

Dateline; October 5, 2051. Lunar colony, Delta 4

Delta 4 hosted the IBMA [the interplanetary bluegrass music Association] convention this year, marking the first time the organization has met on the lunar surface. The event proceeded without a hitch with the exception of a brief interruption of gravity service during the popular fan Fest. Performers and audience members alike floated aimlessly about the festival site for several minutes until service could be restored. One picker had to be rescued from the support structure of the helidome. The lineup included; Jimmy Martian and Sun Mountain, playing his hits; "my rocket shoes don't fit me anymore"and "on the sunny side of the moon".

Also on the program; the Moonrow Brothers, 75th Timeout, the Good Ol' Lifeforms, and Sonny and Bob, The Airborne Brothers.

the theme of this year's event was"bluegrass music; it's out of this world". Keynote speaker Joe Carr who turned 100 years old this year commented, whether you like space grass or traditional musicians like Bela Fleck, it's all here. Bluegrass music is alive and well in the 21st century.

So there you have it folks, the 1996 Keynote address as delivered by Joe Carr and Alan Munde to the IBMA attendees, while we were still in Owensboro Kentucky. They got a standing ovation at the end of their presentation, and later Joe told me backstage; JD we would have been a lot funnier if the audience was a little bit drunker. That was my friend Joe Carr and his irrepressible sense of humor. Rest in peace my friend, and may God bless your soul. Yer friend, JD Rhynes

So Many Moving Parts
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, January 21, 2015

I attended the band scramble at the Great 48 jam, and it was very interesting to see a series of ad hoc bands consisting of members with wildly varying amounts of skill and experience, doing a performance on a real stage. I’m sure the performers’ own assessments of their show was wildly varied too. I bet some players who were pretty confident initially were left a little shaken, and others who expected to flop surprised themselves with their aplomb.

The fact is, it is hard to master all the things that go into a compelling performance.

There’s the playing of course. You have to be able to play a song all the way through, obviously. And ideally, get all the way through it with as few discernible mistakes as possible. Hardest thing of all, your rendition has to be interesting somehow. Everyone expects the folks on stage to know how to play their instruments - so how is your perfect (or nearly perfect) version worth listening to?

Then, there’s the stagecraft aspect. A stage is a crowded place, with a million things to bump into (other musicians, mic stands) and trip over (other musicians, monitors, cords). And there’s the darn mics - which I could tell surprised a lot of people in the band scramble.

We know what the mics are for, of course - they amplify our instruments and voices so the audience can hear. But to get a good, consistent quality sound, one must position their instrument in the precise spot, and only move it when you want to alter the sound. Let this slip your mind for a second, and you’re a bull in a china shop, bumping into the mics, or getting too close and causing feedback loops - all of which make your performance much less interesting.

Then there’s the ensemble aspect. I’m sure many folks who play really well by themselves are shocked to find it difficult to play along with others - there’s a lot more listening involved than one might expect. Similarly, many musicians who are veteran jammers find it a challenge to tighten up for a brief set onstage. Everything’s condensed! Whereas in the jam, you’re hitting your best solo the third time around the circle, onstage you get one shot, and you may have the “wait, I know I could do this better!” blues.

Experience and quality practice helps all of these things of course. I hope any of the musicians who found the band scramble daunting will continue to seek out more chances to play onstage, if that is their desire. Bit by bit, all the pieces come together, and eventually, everyone knows their parts and can deliver them effectively through the mics without wreaking havoc on the stage. And they will be very interesting and very entertaining, and they will have a lot of fun!

Knowing firsthand how difficult it is to perform well on stage also makes us appreciate the professionals who make it look so easy. Although I have seen professionals trip over stuff onstage...

Today's column from Rick Cornish
Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Good morning from Whiskey Creek, where, though it seems quite impossible, Lynn and I are about to celebrate our fifteenth anniversary living up here in relative isolation. ("Relative" is the key word here; the move reduced the number of citizens with whom we share our town by 1,000,324, a reduction mostly to our liking, with a few notable exceptions, probably the most painful being dependent on Sam Walton and his little store on Sanganetti Road for nearly every purchase we make. (We learned soon after moving up here that WalMart had just opened two years before we arrived, and during the 24 months that followed no fewer than 45 commercial establishments shuttered their doors, utterly unable to compete with an enterprise whose inventory required a store the size of two and a half football fields.

But all that's neither here nor there. What I'd like to tell you about isn't a what so much as a who, the who being my oldest son, Phillip, and how it was that he took up playing the same music his pop plays...read "tries" to play. Now I have to warn the handful of people who, when they begin reading a story feel a moral obligation to finish it. With this story, you have NO SUCH OBLIGATION, moral or otherwise. It's a long one and I quite understand that you have missions to accomplish today, or a least reading to do that's in one way or another better aligned with your personal wants and needs than some rambling tale about a son by his father. So, you've been warned. It's a long one, but if you DO take the time to finish the story, you'll understand that it took as many words to tell it as I used, and not one syllable less. So here goes...

The story starts on a warm July evening in 1997. I’ve driven to the BART station in Fremont to pick up my oldest son, Phillip, who’s traveled down from school in Berkeley so he and I can attend a little bluegrass festival together. Though we’ve gone to probably a couple dozen such events since he was a toddler, this one, the Good Ole’ Fashioned Bluegrass Festival, will be the first that just the two of us have attended, without the rest of the family, and the first Phil’s gone to as a ‘picker’. Always in the past he was dragged along by dad and his step-mom, by middle school kicking and screaming, and by high school, he’d quit going altogether. But this evening’s different—my son has been playing the mandolin for several months now, and singing too, and he’s ready to venture out and try his hand making music with other people, he’s going to jam. And I am thrilled beyond words.

On the way down to Hollister we stop at a Super K-Mart store to buy the necessaries…beer, bottled water, apples and cheese, peanuts in the shell and Irish whiskey, ice…and as we walk back to the old, beat up F-150 in the parking lot my son asks if I’d like him to drive. I say sure. There’s something different about this, something not quite the same as the adventures we’ve taken since my boy was tiny. There’s a camaraderie not unlike that shared by two friends, peers, and it makes us both a little giddy.

Once we’re on 101 the commute traffic slows to a crawl but we hardly notice. So much catching up to do, easy, relaxed give and take about his classes, my work and, of course, we now have the music…bluegrass…to talk about. We luxuriate in it, we joke and laugh and, for just a moment I find myself trying to remember if I’ve ever been happier. We’re headed to a bluegrass festival, picking buddies, with plenty of cold beer, a bottle of hooch and no textbooks to read or inter-office memos to write.

We consider stopping in Gilroy to grab a bite, but both of us are too excited to eat and, besides, we want to get to the fairgrounds before the sun sets to set up camp. Once we pull off 101 and are headed east on 25 the traffic thins to almost nothing. Even though the sun has begun its descent, the evening is still quite warm and, though we’d be cooler with the air conditioner on, we just roll the windows down to let the rushing wind wash over us. The pungent, musty smell of garlic, for which Gilroy is known, fills the cab. Fields of tomatoes and peppers and lettuce stretch brilliant green in all directions and beyond the Diablo Range begins to darken into gorgeous pastels of purple and mauve.

We’ve been quiet since turning east, the natural beauty of the lower Santa Clara Valley too richly textured, too beautifully painted by the gigantic orange sun behind us to have to compete with words. But then Phil reaches over, takes my left hand and places it on his neck.

“Feel that?” he asks, “whatcha think that is.”

“A ganglia,” I say, “I got ‘em all the time when I was your age. Or is it ganglion? Anyway, a cyst. That’s what it feels like to me. But you should get it looked at.”


“I mean it, Phil, you go in next week and have them look at it.”

“Yeah, yeah, pop, I will, I will,” my darling boy, my sweet little boy, the offspring I’d sworn never to bring into the screwed up world, promises.

“Well, you’d better. You go in on Monday and have it looked at. I’ll be checking to see that you did. Do you hear?”

“Yup, I hear.” And as quickly as that, with a just slightly impatient, “Yup,” the conversation ends and will be forgotten by me for sixty-three days and four hours.

I love to share with friends the story of how my oldest son got “hooked” on bluegrass. It’s an unlikely story and, really, it’s beginning had nothing at all to do with music. When Phil went away to college after high school, his mother and I had every reason to believe it would be a simple transition for him. Our son had always been very mature for his age, always up for adventure and never one to shy away from change; he was a confident kid who made friends as easily as some people nod and smile hello to a stranger in the check out line; and, after all, he’d be close by…the drive from San Jose to Berkeley was not much over an hour. For all of these reasons, then, Claudia and I were surprised when he came home for Christmas break and, without really admitting it, was showing clear signs of having been very, very home sick.

It was after pizza and a movie, (the notoriously bad Batman and Robin) the night before I was to drive him back up to his dorm in Berkeley that Phil came into my study and made a strange…really, you could almost say bizarre…request.

“Hey, you got any of those Grass Menagerie thingies left,” he asked with forced nonchalance.

“You mean the band’s cassette? Are you kidding, I’ve got boxes of them. Why, you wanna buy one? I can give you a good deal, buddy,” I laughed.

“Well, as a matter of fact, ah, I would like to have one. Of course I don’t want to pay for it if I don't have to.”

I turned away from my Mac and looked at him square on.

“Wait a second, you want a Grass Menagerie tape? A tape of MY band? A BLUEGRASS tape?”

“Sure,” he said, “why not? What’s so strange about that?”

“Hmm, let’s see. Where to begin? Ah, you don’t like bluegrass music and never have. Your opinion of my band is, well, we won’t even go into that. You wouldn’t be caught dead listening to hillbilly music by your dorm friends. Shall I go on?”

“That is not true,” Phil said, “I like some bluegrass music and I don’t think your band sucks that bad. Just…are you gonna give me one or not?”

I studied my boy’s face, looking for signs of an impending punch line, but there was none to be seen. He’d learned to be a big kidder from his dad and, like his dad, favored edgy humor. But there was nothing.

“Sure, I’ll give you a Grass Menagerie cassette. I’d love to give you one, son. I gotta admit, though, I’m a little curious about why you would want it.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is. I like lots of different kinds of…” Phil stopped mid-sentence and his eyes teared.

“Okay, so I miss you guys. That’s all, I just miss you living so far away and that’s the reason I want the stupid tape.”

“Sonny boy, there’s nothing wrong about missing someone,” I said quietly.

“I know there’s not, so just hand it over, would you?”

The next time Phil came home from school there was no mention of being homesick, he was upbeat and talked in quick bursts about his classes, new friends, dorm life and especially living in Berkeley. He loved Berkeley, he said, and he couldn’t think of any reason he would ever leave it. It was his new permanent home. And neither of us mentioned the Grass Menagerie tape called ‘Buffalo Bluegrass’.

In fact, I’d forgotten all about the incident by the time June rolled around and it was time to head up to Grass Valley for what was, and still is, the biggest bluegrass event of the year—the California Bluegrass Association’s Fathers Day Festival. I hadn’t missed a single Fathers Day Festival since I began going back in 1976…in fact, Phil never missed from age three until he was in high school. I remember particularly well the festival in 1998, and especially the second day of the festival. It was a balmy, early evening and a half dozen of us were standing around two huge bbq grills watching our dinner of chicken and sausage and baked potatoes cook. When my turn came around I banged out, without announcing the song, the first two slow, droning chords of High on a Mountain…D…Cmin7th…and instantly the entire circle fell deftly into the slow, wistful cadence of Olla Belle Reed’s beautiful ballad.

“As I looked at the valleys down below,” I began, “they were green just as far as I could see. As my memory returned, oh how my heart did yearn, for you and the day that used to be. “

And then, as I sang the first line of the chorus, “High on a mountain oh, wind blowin' free” an amazing thing happened. From behind me, a clear, strong tenor voice came in above my lead, pitch perfect and phrasing the lyrics in exactly the same way I was. Without missing a word, I continued on the chorus…”wonderin’ where the years of my life have gone…” I spun around and there, to my absolute amazement…shock even…was Phil. Aside from humming along with his brother to the theme music of their favorite video games, I’d never heard my son sing a word…not a single note, and there he was, dead on the not-uncomplicated high tenor part of a relatively obscure Appalachian Mountains song. We sang the last two lines and ended the song.

“What in the hell are you doing here,” I asked, wrapping my arms around him, fiddle in one hand, bow in the other, in a tight bear hug. “You haven’t been to a festival in three years.”

“Well, looks like I’m back, eh?”

“But why? What the…”

“Where else am I gonna find somebody to sing High on a Mountain with,” he said with a broad grin, “these two guys suck at it.” He gestured toward the two dorm buddies who flanked him.

Over dinner the three told me the story behind the surprise appearance at the Fathers Day Festival. When Phil had returned to Berkeley after the Christmas holiday he played the Grass Menagerie cassette tape continually. Most nights the dorm residents…boys and girls, Channing Hall was co-ed…would come down to the unit Phil shared with his roommate, Kenny, (since pre-school my oldest son had always been pretty much smack in the middle of things) and share the music each had brought along to school. Phil’s contribution was Buffalo Bluegrass. At first the hillbilly-sounding music with its twangy banjo and down-home lyrics about mountaintops and rivers flooding and barefoot Nellies was a joke, a novelty.

“But after a while,” Kenny said, “I don’t know, the shit…” he stopped…”ah, you know, the songs on the tape, just sort of grew on people, probably because Phil played it so much. Kids would come down and ask to hear this song or that song on the ‘buffalo tape’.”

“Yeah, dude, it became ‘the Cult of the Buffalo’,” laughed Daemon, gulping down his third chicken leg, “that’s what it was called, and Phil was its Jim Jones. People would memorize whole songs and then sing ‘em together in the shower.”

“Yep,” said Phil, “that’s pretty much what happened alright. It was weird…but cool, too. And, no, dad, the showers ARE NOT co-ed”

Phil and Kenny and Daemon stayed through Sunday. Mostly they just hung out, checking out the girls, sneaking beers when they got the chance, but my boy and I did sing a bit more together. He really had memorized the lyrics to each and every song on the cassette, but, even more…and this is what amazed me…he’d picked up the tenor parts on each song and had the phrasing down…my phrasing. “So I could sing along with you, pop,” he explained. (In retrospect, of course, it wasn’t all that amazing. Bluegrass music, a fair amount of it sung by me, had been seeping into the poor kid’s head since just after he started walking. It’d been there all along and, almost coincidentally, it’d been awakened.)

When Phillip returned to U.C in September he asked if he could take along my old baritone ukulele, essentially a miniature four-stringed guitar, and a handful of bluegrass tapes. I said sure, wrote out a simple chord chart for him and pulled all five of the ‘Bluegrass Band Albums’, (a series of records done by the top five singers and instrumentalists in the business at the time that included pretty much all the traditional standards you’d need to get started.) And that, as they say, was that. The kid who’d never shown a lick of interest in music, except the kind that blared on underground f.m. radio, had all along carried around somewhere deep in his frontal lobe a remarkable gift. It seemed that each visit home from school Phil had some new discovery to report…a new band, a new cd, a new sub-genre within bluegrass music, a different way to split harmonies. By Christmas the boy had devoured the chord chart I’d given him and had begun working the uke’s fret board, and by spring he spoke longingly of a Kentucky mandolin he’d seen. “Where I’d get five hundred bucks to buy it,” he said glumly, “I just don’t know.” He knew.

A year and a half later, the summer between Phil’s junior and senior year at Berkeley, we attended our first bluegrass festival together “as pickers,” (the Good Ol’ Fashioned Festival in Hollister). By then my son was a passable mandolin picker, a better than average tenor and lead singer and we’d played a whole lot of bluegrass together. He and Ivona, the love of his life with whom he’d been sharing a tiny flat on Shaddock Avenue for a year, would take BART down to Fremont once or twice a month for the jam I held each Friday night. And he began showing up to Grass Menagerie gigs with his college chums and, before long, was being asked to come up on stage for a song or two. Truth be told, everybody in the band was getting a kick out of seeing this young kid soak up as much of the music we all loved as he possibly could.

It was because Phil had gotten some solid stage experience that summer sitting in with my band that in September we asked him to fill in for our mando-tenor, my long-time bluegrass pal Bill Schniederman, for our regular monthly gig at a little coffee house in Mountain View. Bill was stuck back in New York for the weekend and we didn’t want to give up the job. Cuppa Joe’s was situated smack-dab in the heart of Mountain View’s downtown district on Murphy Street and, with more than four dozen restaurants and pubs and clubs and shops, the place was jumping on a Saturday night. Phil was downright nervous, (a condition I was unaccustomed to seeing in my boy), leading up to his first, honest-to-God gig, but after attending a rehearsal the Wednesday night before and making sure he had all the starts and ends down, jitters gave way to pure, high-octane excitement. The second to the last semester before his graduation had just begun, he was living with the woman he planned to marry and make babies with, and he was going to do an actual job, as an actual musician, with his pop. Hard to imagine a kid flying any higher than my boy that last week in September of 1997.

Joe’s was completely full, with people lining the walls and waiting in a queue outside, even before we’d finished setting up the sound system. Phil had invited half the kids in his U.C. Environmental Studies Program, all of the old high school pals he’d left behind in San Jose and anyone else he could think of. Even his mom and step dad had driven up for Phillip’s ‘stage debut’. As we did our sound check, it was me who was feeling a little queasy, me who’d been front man and bandleader for going on twenty years, who’d played run-down coffee houses to elegant soirees, cheap dives to corporate picnics, music festivals and more weddings than a Methodist minister. But never, of course, with my boy standing next to me. He chopped into his instrument mic and then ran up and down an A scale, sound-checked his vocal mic with a dangerously high key of B tenor line from ‘I’m Lost and I’ll Never Find the Way’. And all the while he smiled that broad, not-a-care-in-the-world smile of his. I recognized it as the same smile he’d worn standing at the free-throw line in the All-League game held at the San Jose Memorial Auditorium, his last high school contest. It was the same vibe…exactly the same vibe. And I felt the same butterflies standing on stage next to my son that I’d had sitting alone in the stands four years previous. And then, I counted the “one, two, three, four…” into my mic and we were off and running, full tilt into ‘Ain’t Nobody Gonna Miss Me When I’m Gone’.

And in what seemed like just moments later we’d finished the encore to our first set and were inching our way off the stage and through the tightly packed crowd, still thundering their applause and hoots and hollers of approval. “We killed,” I whispered to Phil. “We did,” he grinned.

I went straight out the door of Joe’s onto Murphy Street and straight back into Johnny’s Moonlight Lounge right next door.

“Old Bushmills neat and a Negro Modela,” I said to Sally as I passed the bar on the way to the men’s john. When I returned Sally had me set up and I handed her a ten.

“Sounds like the hounds were set loose next door,” the barmaid said over her shoulder while making change.

“Big crowd, bigger than usual. My boy’s setting in with the Grass Menagerie tonight and a big bunch of his friends came in to cheer him on.”

“Well, whatever it took to fill the Joe’s up, keep it comin’. We’re gettin’ major spill over.”

I drained the shot glass and took a long pull on my beer.

“You know, Sally, I’ve been doing this music for a pretty long time, standin’ up in front of crowds singin’ and playin’ my butt off. But I’ll tell you, I don't ever remember having more fun than that last set next door. Being up there on stage singing with my kid…I don’t know, there was just an intensity to the experience that was new to me…brand new.”

“I can dig it,” she said, “tonight’s a special night for you, and that’s for sure. Would be for me. I’ll bet you never forget this night, Rick.”

“I’ll bet I don’t,” I replied and finished my glass of beer in two long gulps.

When I edged back into Cuppa Joe’s Phil was waiting at the door.

“Hey, come on,” he said, taking me by the hand and plowing a path through the long, narrow room. When we got to Claudia’s table he pulled her out of her chair and guided her forward through the crowd. Phil held both our hands now as we continued to snake towards the back of the coffee house.

“Come on,” he said, now leading us through the double doors of the brightly lit kitchen, past the busy baristas and finally out the back door and into the night.

“Too loud in there,” Phil said. He still hadn’t let go of our hands. It was a warm night, lovely and still, and we’d moved just far enough from the kitchen entry that only the light of the moon illuminated our faces.

“I found out yesterday that I have cancer,” Phil said, “and this is the best way to tell you. The three of us, me and my mom and my dad, here alone. Sorry, but this is the best way.”

Claudia gasped. I jerked my hand out of my son’s.

“WHAT,” I said angrily, “what do you mean? No, that’s not right…you’re not. No, I just don’t…”

‘It’s true, pop. I’ve got cancer all right. Kind of have known for the past week, but found out yesterday for sure from the doctor.”

“Past week,” Claudia asked in a whisper, “past week? How can that be, Phillip. How is it possible you’ve known for a week and not told your father and me?”

“I didn’t know, mom. I just kinda’ knew. They had to do tests and stuff, to make sure. But now they’re sure, so now I’m telling you.”

The clanging of dishes and cups coming from Joe’s kitchen and, beyond that, the low rumble from the room jam-packed with people, seemed far, far away. It was as though we three were in another place, soundless, featureless.

“What…” I began but then realized I could not make another word. I was in a kind of paralysis, my body’s only possible movement the involuntary shaking of my knees.

“I’m gonna be okay,” Phil said, “I’m gonna be just fine. The doctor at Kaiser says I’ve got a good kind of cancer…actually, the best kind I could have, Hodgkin's Lymphoma.”

Claudia began to sob quietly and covered her face with both her hands. Standing between his parents, Phil put one arm around each of us and drew us in.

“You guys need to trust me,” he said softly, I’m telling you the truth. I’ve got a kind of cancer that’s very curable and I’m going to be cured. That's it. That’s the whole deal.” Our son pulled us closer together and Phil’s mother and I sobbed in his arms for a long while. We’d become the children, he the parent.

When the potency of despair reaches a particular level in the mind, certain natural phenomena are triggered and I’d been unaware of this fact until that weekend in September of 1997. One presented itself the very next morning after the show at Cuppa Joe’s. I remember so well, in such great, vivid detail, the seven or eight seconds of waking up to the sunshine streaming into our bedroom, my eyelids fluttering open, the nothingness of dreamless sleep slowly giving way to conscious thought, kernels of the new day beginning to take shape, then reaching back to find a temporal context, nine seconds, ten seconds, stretching, toes curling…and then the instantaneous and indescribable pain of remembering. The paralyzing sense of loss falling like a heavy, black curtain. In the days and weeks that followed I got used to this strange phenomenon, actually found myself half-way looking forward to the eight or ten seconds out of the days 86,400 that I forgot about my boy’s cancer and life returned to normal.

And there was another strange discovery I made after my life changed that night at Cuppa Joe’s. I found that my sensory perception, the way I saw and smelled and heard the things around me, shifted ever so slightly. I don't’ know how else to describe it. It wasn't a bad shift or a good shift…things just appeared different to me. The color of the sky, the smell of coffee, the sound of a car door slamming. I didn’t, and still don’t, know what to make of that, how to quantify it and certainly not how to explain why it happened, except to say that learning that my oldest son had cancer altered every aspect of my life, every cell in my body, every thought and memory and feeling, good or bad, that I’d ever had.

I need to give a little explanation here. It really was despair I felt. It settled over me like a heavy, suffocating blanket as the three of us stood in the shadows in the alleyway in back of Cuppa Joe’s. Despair is a powerful brew of human emotions, with equal amounts of intense sadness and terror, but mainly what despair is is total, complete hopelessness. Hopelessness is the key ingredient in the human emotion we call despair, and from the instant my son uttered the word ‘cancer’, it fell upon me with such a completeness that makes me shutter to this day. You see, seventeen years before Cuppa Joe’s my mother’s cancer had taken its sweet time to properly educate me about the true nature of despair. For just a little short of three years my mother’s cancer made its slow, plodding but inexorable march to the sea, winning small skirmishes here, wiping out whole cities and armies there. Each hope…a new test, a different treatment plan, yet another specialist…was in turn cut down and set ablaze until finally, I lost the most important person in my life. In those two years and ten months I‘d progressed through grade school, high school, undergraduate and graduate studies, and on June 23, 1980 I was awarded an advanced degree in the scorched-earth campaign that is cancer, and in turn learned the true nature of hopelessness.

So then, when on the Wednesday morning after Cuppa Joe’s all of the parents, Claudia and her husband Bruce, my wife Lynn and I, met Phil at Kaiser Hospital on West Macarthur Boulevard in Oakland I came fully prepared to see right through the inevitable line of crap we’d be fed by the doctors. Phillip’s upbeat manner, broad smile and easy banter, all unmistakably genuine, shamed the adults into doing their level best to put on buoyant faces; it was, of course, hardest for me, the only one of the four parents with an advanced degree in cancer’s special brand of despair.

It was clear that the people in Oncology had been expecting us. We were immediately ushered into a small, windowless conference room by the receptionist and hadn’t waited more than a few minutes before Dr. Thomas Gordon, the doc who, through a cosmic throw of the dice, had had our boy’s life placed in the palm of his hand, joined us. Gordon was of medium height, bald, trimmed facial hair, gold framed glasses and eyes that seemed just slightly too small for his head. He was, for the five of us who sat at the conference table when he walked through the door, the most important human being on the face of the earth. And when Dr. Gordon began to speak to us I knew within thirty seconds, maybe less, that he was a disingenuous asshole who wanted nothing more than to get himself out of the room and away from his patient’s family in the least amount of time possible. And here’s the thing—by the time we finished the sit down, which included an almost formal presentation by the oncologist, complete with slide projector, x-rays and thick packets of written materials to take home and study, followed by a question-and-answer period that lasted roughly twice as long as the presentation, what I thought of the doctor didn’t matter a hill of beans. A non-issue. (Years later, Phil would sum it up very succinctly…”Yup, Dr. Gordon had a fake personality. He tended to gloss over a lot of stuff and get out of the room as fast as possible every time I met with him. But I decided this was because I was an easy case and he had way more important cases to worry about.”)

My assessment of the oncologist who’d been given Phillip’s case didn’t matter a hill of beans because of what he told us about the Hodgkin’s type of cancer that was growing inside my boy. It was, he said simply, the ‘cancer of choice’ for young men and women Phil’s age.

“The cure rate,” Gordon told us, “even for patients at your son’s stage, is nine in ten. That’s pretty much the best odds you’re going to find in my line of work. So, that’s the good news. The GREAT news.”

“And the bad news,” I asked impatiently, well trained in detecting the old medical bate-and-switch, “what’s the bad news, doctor?”

“The bad news is that your son’s disease went undetected long enough for it to reach stage three. Again, infinitely curable but we’ll have to work harder…a lot harder. Longer, stronger drug therapy…chemo…and in all likelihood radiation after that. But again…and please hear me, moms and dads, this is extremely doable.”

And here’s the thing. Despite the nearly three years I’d spent twisting in the wind while my mother’s life slowly drained from her, clinging desperately to each new reason, in an endless succession of reasons, for holding out hope, I’d taken what my son’s oncologist said as the simple truth. The ‘cancer of choice’. Sure, I’d have plenty of doubts in the months that followed, I’d play back old, painful scenes burned into my brain a decade earlier, but I…we…were starting this battle on solid ground.

When we finished and were filing out of the room, I held back and positioned myself between Gordon and the others and turned just as the last person exited, effectively blocking his way out.

“Dr.,” I said in a hushed tone, “one last question. When you spoke of Phil’s cancer going undetected long enough to have to warrant radiation, what time frame are we talking about? For instance, if this thing had been caught, let’s say in early July instead of late September, might we be looking at a lesser stage of development?”

Gordon didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, “that’s a distinct possibility,” and with that he brushed by me and out the door. As I stood in the empty conference room, I looked over and saw that the oncologist had left the x-ray of my son’s neck and chest in the light box. It was still illuminated. I studied the dark spots Gordon had pointed out to us and I could feel my eyes welling up with tears. “Well, you’d better. You go in on Monday and have it looked at. I’ll be checking to see that you did. Do you hear?”

No amount of discussing, ordering, cajoling, demanding, threatening or pleading from his mother and father would budge Phil. Yes, he said, he absolutely agreed that the optimal place for him to live while beating his cancer was at home, and the little apartment on Shaddock Avenue that he shared with Ivona was his home. As for school, yes, he said, he knew he would have to drop his classes, but only for one semester; his chemo would be finished in March and he had no doubt he’d be ready to jump right back in. And finally, yes, he agreed that at least until he was all through with treatment he would add meat back into his diet. (I found out years later that it’d been a nurse practitioner at Kaiser rather than his mom and dad who’d convinced him that protesting the slaughter of animals via diet restriction was fine for healthy kids but not ideal for those in mortal combat with one of earth’s deadliest killers. Common sense seems so much more, well, sensible when it comes from perfect strangers.)

And so began what was the darkest six months of my life, and I’m sure the lives of Lynn and Claudia and Bruce. But when Phil started his six months of chemo all of us, even me, who’d been so horribly jilted by false, bullshit hope all the while my mother faded away, believed absolutely that our kid would be among the nine in ten that beat Hodgkin’s. We knew too, though, there’d be a cost; every other week this strong, healthy and vital twenty-year old would take the bus down to Kaiser for his three-and-half hour ‘hook-up’ as he called it. The oncologist had warned us that although Hodgkin’s was one of the easiest cancers to conquer statistically, the treatment needed to do it was one of the hardest on the body. “Fortunately,” he’d told us, “95% of Hodgkin lymphoma victims are young, in their late teens or early twenties, and their bodies are strong enough to hold up under the ABVD protocol.” (ABVD stood for a hyper-potent cocktail of Adriamycin, Bleomycin, Vinblastine and Dacarbazine developed in the early ‘70’s by an Italian research group in Milan.) “It’s going to work,” Gordon said, “but it’s going to kick the crap out of your kid.”

For quite a while it didn’t. During that winter we saw Phil and Ivona a lot…we’d gotten them a car to make traveling between Berkeley and San Jose easier…and we saw them most weekends. He’d have his treatment early in the week, feel lousy for a few days but, by the weekend he’d be almost back to normal. The kid had no nausea issues at all and, in fact, was eating better than he had since moving down to Berkeley four years before; Ivona made sure of that. By Christmas time Phillip had lost all of his hair…scalp, eyebrows and lashes, even the hair on his arms. (Right up until the time I retired I kept a framed photo of my son hanging on the wall in my office; in it he wore a stocking cap to cover is entirely bald head, had deep, deep dark circles under his eyes…really more like around his eyes ala-raccoon and was playing his mandolin and singing. I kept that photo there on the wall to prevent me from ever taking either of my boys for granted. Now it hangs in my study.)

Phil practiced his mandolin almost obsessively during this period. He’d always been an excellent student in school and, now suddenly with no studying to do, he poured all of the energy and determination and concentration he’d applied to academics into his Kentucky mandolin. Those six months of playing hours and hours each day gave him a huge bump and quite literally transformed him from a beginner to an advanced player more quickly than most of those around him thought possible.

The other accelerated transformation, driven in part by the six months of raw and exposed emotions, ever-present highs and lows and always just-below the surface dread of the unexpected, occurred in the relationship between Phillip and Ivona. For the better part of the year leading up to my son’s diagnosis the two seemed like a well matched couple with a better than average chance of making a future together; but by the time the dark winter of intense chemotherapy drew to an end, the bond between them had taken on the look and feel of a connection forged from decades of sharing a life together. What young woman, so beautiful and so vital, just graduated and ready to jump into a new life and career, wouldn’t have hightailed it away from the immediate job of caregiver and, longer term, the partnering up with a cancer survivor and everything that can mean?

By the time the Christmas holiday had come and gone the massive quantities of Adriamycin, Bleomycin, Vinblastine and Dacarbazine pumped into my boy had begun to take their toll. Phil was slowing down and regaining less and less of the bounce he’d seen in the days following his treatments. Then, in late January, Phil’s veins started to give out and were becoming harder and harder to find. Eventually his team at Kaiser had to start drugging him to get to an adequate vein. By then Phil was sleeping through the three to four hour treatments; and he was sleeping more and more in his tiny Shaddock Avenue apartment too.

Sunday, March 15th, 1998, was going to be a day of great celebration; at least that was how I had it planned. The next day, Monday, Phillip would go in for his last chemotherapy treatment. All the testing and x-raying and scanning showed exactly what they were supposed to show—the tumor shrank and shrank and shrank until there was nothing left of it. On Monday they’d zap the damned thing one last time for good measure so, of course, there was reason for celebration. Phil and Invona had driven down to San Jose the day before and spent the night at his mom’s. They’d be showing up at our house by noon so we spent the morning getting ready for them. Lynn made a big poster that read “Phil 1, Cancer 0…GAME OVER, MAN.” I went to the Safeway and loaded up with everything I could think of that were my son’s favorite’s to eat and drink. Together we blew up balloons and then waited for the two to arrive.

At one o’clock I wanted to call Claudia’s house to see what was up but Lynn said no. “They probably slept in…some people do that on Sundays, you know.” At a little after two I’d just picked up the receiver to make the call when we heard the back door open.

“It’s them,” I said bolting our of my chair, “they’re finally here.” We both rushed excitedly into the kitchen to meet Phil and Ivona but what we saw stopped us both in our tracks. Our son was bundled up in his green Army surplus coat, a heavy woolen neck scarf and a fake fur hunting cap with the ear flaps down. His eyes were those of a weary old man, sunken into his skull with deep purple circles around them. His skin had a grayish pallor to it. When he saw us he made a half smile with what was obviously great effort. Ivona, who looked as though she’d been crying, spoke first.

“Hi, you two, sorry we’re late. Phil…Phil isn’t feeling very well. We had a long night last night. Phil was pretty sick…a lot of pain in his stomach and...”

“But no throwing up,” Phil interrupted, “not once in this whole thing have I thrown up.”

I rushed over and gave them a big hug, one in each arm. Ivona stiffened slightly, Phil felt limp and seemed unsteady.

“Well, you’re here and that’s what counts,” said Lynn, “come and sit down in the living room.”

“I need to use the bathroom first,” Phillip said and Ivona followed behind him.

“So much for Cajun fried prawns and steak fries and coleslaw,” I said after they’d left the room.”

“Well, what did you expect? The kid’s sick. All those toxic chemicals, they were sure to take their toll sooner or later.”

“I expected this,” I lied, “I expected EXACTLY THIS. I just didn’t…I didn’t.” My voice trailed off into silence.

“I know, I know,” said my wife in a whisper, holding me now, cradling my head on her shoulder. “We just have to hold out, just a little while longer. If he can do it surely we can.”

“Of course we can,” I said, “yes, of course. I just, I don’t know why I…” Again I stopped mid-sentence, now on the verge of breaking down.

“I’ll tell you why. It’s simple. You’re reacting this way because you…we…have only had to deal with the IDEA of Phil’s cancer, at least for the most part. For most of the treatment he’s held up fine…great really. But now we’re at the end, thankfully, and it’s caught up with him. It's terrible to see him like this, but we’re at the end. Now, don’t be moping around, be happy to see them…I know you are, but show it. Let’s make him comfortable and happy to be here.”

So, for most of the after noon, that’s just what I did, in my inimitable way, in the always-larger-than-life, more-is-better way I do everything. I followed him around the house. “No lunch…okay, how about a little fruit…I bought mangos, your favorite…Burned you a CD of Stanley Brothers stuff, the ‘Complete Columbia Sessions’, let’s go in the study and listen to a bit of it…How about a little walk…Just around the neighborhood, get some fresh air…Oh, I picked up some Snyder's sour dough, best pretzel’s in the world, and of course some Newcastle to wash ‘em down…Whaddaya say…Warm enough…I could build a fire…I taped the Clippers-Golden State game last night…Did you see it …How’s your stomach…Are you gonna be able to have dinner…deep-fried jumbo prawns… with golden steak fries…or I could make potato skins…Or, you know, like, ah, stuffed potatoes the way you like…Or…”

“ENOUGH,” he finally said late in the afternoon. We were alone in my study, he still bundled up and sitting in the over-stuffed leather chair, me at my desk. “NO MORE, PLEASE, NO MORE!” There was anger in my son’s voice, no longer weak and tentative, and there was anger in his eyes. We stared at one another for a moment.

“I was just trying to…”

“I KNOW what you were trying to do. Do you honestly think you have to explain it to me? Am I an idiot? Don’t you get that you can’t have your way every single solitary friggin’ time, dad?” His voice had lowered but was strong and steady and angry.

“I…I just…thought…”

“Ya, I know what you just thought. You thought you were going to take care of the situation just like you always take care of the situation. Except, guess what—this time you can’t. YOU CANT! I’m really, really, really sick, dad. I feel awful and there’s nothing you can do to change that. Absolutely nothing. Do you understand? Please, can’t you try to understand? I know you love me, I know you’re hurting having to see me like this, but there is nothing in the world that you could do to make me feel even a microscopically tiny bit better.”

“Okay,” I said, “okay.”

We sat in silence for probably five minutes. It wasn’t an awkward silence, or tense in any way. The anger had drained out of Phil and was replaced by a deep, deep weariness. After a while he closed his eyes, and soon after I got up and left the room.

A few minutes later I returned to the study with my leather jacket on. “Here,” I said, tossing him his stocking cap. “Put that on and come with me. I have a quick errand to do. Ride along with me. Will you?”

Ten minutes later we were driving north on 101 in my old Ford pickup truck. It was a cloudless March afternoon, but bone-chilling cold. I’d read the day before that a front from Alaska had settled in over the upper half of California and would be with us for another couple of days.

“So cold,” I said. “Isn’t it odd that we can be effected by Alaska’s weather.”

“Well, it’s not Alaska’s today, it’s ours.”

“Do you remember the last time we were on 101 in the old F-150, headed in the other direction?”

“Ah,” he thought for a moment. “Was it the time we went to Hollister? Last summer?”

“Yep, we were headed toward the Good Old-Fashioned Festival. Just about this time of the day, but with the temperature about sixty degrees warmer. Seems like a long, long time ago, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it was a long time ago. So, like, dad, where are we going? What’s the errand? Is it far?”

“Not too far. Do you remember on our drive down to Hollister, do you remember that you had me feel the lump on your neck?”

“The ganglion?” he said with a chuckle, “yeah, I remember that. It was a good guess, but no cigar.”

“I told you not to worry about it.”

“That’s right, but you also told me to have it checked out.”

“I did, and I made you promise you’d do it right away. And I told you I’d keep bugging you until you had it checked out by a doctor.” My voice cracked and I gripped the steering wheel hard with both hands so Phil couldn’t see they were trembling. I’d waited so long to have this conversation, never knowing for sure whether I’d ever have the courage.

“I know, and I promised I would but instead I waited till school started and I’d be covered by our student health insurance plan...to save money. To save sixty bucks. Can you believe it? Dumb”

“I keep asking myself…over and over and over…why, why didn’t I…

“Huh? What? Why didn’t you what?”

“Why didn’t I call you the following Monday to make sure you went to the health clinic. And the next Tuesday, and the next Wednesday and every day until you went? Do you know that that could have…” My son interrupted me.

“So that’s what this is all about? Sure I know, of course I know how things might have been different. You think I haven’t thought about it? If we’d found it in July instead of at the end of September there’s a chance the tumor wouldn’t have gotten as big as it got. And that might have meant the chemo would have been a lot shorter. And that I wouldn’t have to do the radiation part of the treatment. Yeah, I know that…Gordon told me that. But if you’re telling me you’re the cause of that…you know, for not staying on me about seeing a doc, well, that’s pretty much just bullshit, isn’t it. The never-ending Rick Cornish to the rescue scenario…the my-dad-can-solve-everybody’s-problems principle. But you can’t. You do know that, don’t you? Oh, my God, you don’t, do you? “

“Look, I just wanted to get clear with you on this. To ask your forgive…

“And let me guess what’s next. It turns out that, in fact, the radiation treatments next month do cause me to become sterile…the doc says there’s a thirty percent chance of that…so now you get to take credit for fucking up my entire life, and Ivona’s, too. Do you know how crazy that sounds, dad?”

“Now, wait a second, dammit...”

“No, YOU wait. You followed me around all afternoon. The ‘fixer’. Well, you’ve been fixing things for me my whole life, you’ve been fixing things for everybody, whether they like it or not. But this time, this one damned time, you can’t fix it. I feel like shit, a steaming pile of dog shit, and there’s nothing in the world that you can do to make me feel one little bit better.”

“Come on now,” I began, but then stopped. Something had changed about my son since last fall…since Cuppa Joe’s. It was gradual, almost imperceptible, but every time I saw him I could sense the difference. The cancer, or more accurately his way of dealing with it, and dealing with the possibility that he would die before he really even had a chance to start his own life, was speeding up the natural maturation process. He was learning and becoming aware and taking on new understanding about life and people and relationships and what is and isn’t important…and, yes, a new understanding of his father…all, it seemed, at the speed of light.

“This is our exit,” I said as I took the Oregon Expressway off-ramp and headed west toward the El Camino.

“What’s in Palo Alto?”

“My errand. It’ll just take a second,” I replied without taking my eyes off the road.

We drove the five minutes to Lambert Street in silence and parked in front of an old, white-washed converted warehouse

“Gryphon’s?” Phil said with more animation than I’d seen all day, “your errand is at Gryphon’s? Cool, I want to come in with you and look around.”

Gryphon’s Stringed Instruments had for close to forty years been the preferred source of fine instruments among serious musicians throughout Northern California. No one had a better selection of the brands and models of the stringed instruments of bluegrass music…the guitars, banjos, mandolins, fiddles, dobros and basses.

When we walked through the door and into their cluttered showroom brimming with treasures, vintage and brand new, a salesman, actually a picker that both Phil and I knew, approached us.

“Hey, John,” I said, “My boy and I are looking for a mandolin.”

Phillip laughed out loud and a broad smile, the first I’d seen all day, washed over his face.

“The fixer,” he said, shaking his head, “always the fixer.”

The next day my kid had his last chemotherapy session. April 3rd he had the first in a one-month series of radiation treatments. The last week in May Phillip was pronounced cancer free and in remission. The following month we camped together at the Fathers Day Festival and by then his hair had nearly grown back. In September 1998, Phil proudly announced to his family that he’d graduated from the University of California, Berkeley. (I’ve never fully understood how he managed this after dropping out for a semester…extra units he’d squirrelled away as a junior, then some requirements picked up post-illness at summer school.) By late fall my boy joined the Grass Menagerie and for a blissful eighteen months father and son played every date we could get our hands on. Exactly five years after living through massive doses of toxic chemicals and dangerously high levels of radiation, my son was formally proclaimed a cured cancer survivor, (Phil one; cancer zero…game over, man). In 2005 Phil married Ivona; the next year they bought a condominium, less than a mile from the house he’d grown up in in San Jose’s Willow Glen district, (so much for NEVER leaving Berkeley); three years later they had their first child, a girl named Lexy; then two years and a few months after that they had their second daughter, Ava. I am called gramps. Phillip still plays the Red Diamond mandolin he picked out at Gryphon’s that cold March day in 1998. He’s tried a lot of other axes, he says, some very, very expensive ones, too, but he’s never played a mandolin that sounds as sweet as the Red Diamond.

Me, I’m still playing my fiddle and still ‘fixing’, or trying to, whenever the need arises. But thanks to my boy, I take it a little slower.

THE DAILY GRIST…“The high speed hum of a passenger train becomes a part of the heart and the soul and the mind of a boy who’s raised by the railroad line.”… (Chris Ledoux)

The Fifty Eight Hour Jam
Today’s column from Bert Daniel
Monday, January 19, 2015

What could possibly be better than jamming at the now famous Great 48 Hour Bluegrass Jam in Bakersfield? There’s nothing I can think of that even comes close, especially during the otherwise slow first weekend after the New Year’s holiday. One fall day I mentioned to my fellow weekend jammers how much fun I had had at the two Bakersfield jams I had been to. I was planning to go again this year and I hoped at least a few others might be interested. Sure, it’s nice to meet new people at a big event but it’s nice to see familiar faces too.

Many of my fellow jammers had heard of the event but I was one of the few who had ever been. “If I only had the time” seemed to be the sentiment, Then Jason, came up with a truly brilliant idea: “If I could go, I’d go on the train. You could jam all the way down and back”. The train ride happens to be five hours each way. Thus was born the idea for the fifty eight hour jam.

Lorraine took Jason’s idea and ran with it. She had ridden the Central Valley AmTrak train too and knew all about it. Before you knew it, Jack and Lori were on board. Now there’s a band! But it’s only guitar and bass with some good singers. They need a mandolin but at this point I’m reluctant to go by train because I took my bicycle last time and had some fun rides down in sunny Southern California. Lorraine e mails me some information about how I can easily take my bike on the train so now I’m wavering.

Meanwhile, several of us show up at a great party at Jim’s house the first weekend in January and jam like there’s no tomorrow. Except there is a tomorrow. Jim might be interested in going and bringing his guitar and mandolin. I decide this is a rolling party I don’t want to miss, bike or not, so I’m in with both feet. Too bad Jason, who had the idea in the first place, can’t go. He’s an English teacher and it’s tough to get coverage for your classes at his school.

But at the last minute, Jason finds a substitute and I’ve got a roommate to halve the cost of my room! All we need now is fiddle and banjo. Nobody else signs on from our group but when we gather at the train station in Martinez on Friday, I meet Fred the fiddle player whom several of our group know from music camp. He’s decided to take the train too from his home in the east bay and he’s happy to have fellow Bluegrass jammers in his midst. Everyone is excited, we’ve got a great jam all the way to Bakersfield.

Excitement on the platform turns to disappointment on the train. First, we are told by the conductor that we can’t bring a stand up bass onto an AmTrak train. Lori explains to the conductor how she had already cleared it with Amtrak and had even bought a separate ticket for her bass. We ask about playing our instruments and are told that it is not allowed. We ask about relocating to play in the next car, where there is only one passenger and we are told that we can’t do that either (even though the passenger does not object). After an hour of silence on the southbound train we decide to sing some a cappella gospel songs. The few passengers within earshot seem to enjoy it but the conductor walks by and tells us that people have complained about the noise so we have to stop. We do but in retrospect, i wish we had held our ground and let them throw us off the train so we could sue.

As advertised, the 48 hour segment of the 58 hour jam went seamlessly. We had some great jams, met some great people, ate some great food and heard Michael Cleveland live! We even got a few hours of sleep between about two and six. We hated to leave, especially knowing that we might be silenced on the train again.

Fortunately, the train ride home was the complete opposite of the train ride down. We found a space on a different kind of rail car that was split between storage and seating. It was just the right size for our group, but three other people chose to sit with us and listen. Two of them independently said it was the most enjoyable train ride they’d ever been on, and a few curious music lovers crowded the open space, applauding after each number. One listener took video and said she’d post it on You Tube.

Let me tell you, that was a great jam! We had lost time to make up and everybody had their favorite train song ready for the occasion. And the acoustics in that sardine can were awesome!

I hope we can make the fifty eight hour jam happen again next year. If enough people are interested, we could rent out a whole car or two and call the shots both ways. Fifty three hours this year maybe, but I’m looking for the whole enchilada next year.

It’s Easy When You Know How (And We Can Show You How…..At Music Camp)
By Geoff Sargent and Peter Langston
Sunday January 18, 2015

I used to be crazy about fishing and I particularly enjoyed catfishing. I would use a nice chunk of smelly bait, made out of liver, bread dough, and cotton, (a very secret recipe) press it onto my hook, and cast the line out. In my neighborhood the best way to catch catfish was bottom fishing, no bobbers allowed. We would set our rods in the crook of a y-shaped stick stuck in the ground and watch the line. You would know when a fish was tasting the bait because all of a sudden the line would go a little slack, and it was almost time to set the hook. Sometimes the fish would run with the bait and set the hook itself, sometimes you would wait for that moment when the line went really slack, letting you know the fish had picked up the bait, and whammo you would pick up your rod and set the hook. With a little practice on how to read the line you and your buddies could spend all afternoon catching nice cooking-sized catfish; easy when you knew how. But it didn’t really matter if the fish were biting. There was plenty of time to fool around with your friends while waiting for the fish to figure out there was free food on the bottom of the lake.

While I am pretty sure we won’t have workshops on catfishing, or how to make secret bait, at music camp I am sure that we will be able to show you how play a lot of good music and maybe tell you a few bluegrass secrets. And yes, there will be plenty of time to fool around with your friends and there will be plenty of time to pick all that music you are going to learn.

We have a really good lineup of teachers and some we haven’t seen for many, many years. Jack Tuttle will be teaching Bluegrass Band II?, Kathy Kallick will be teaching Bluegrass Band III?, while Bruce Molsky is going to be teaching Old-Time Band II/III?. The ever popular Bill Evans will be enlightening all those early stage 5-string prodigies with Bluegrass Banjo I?, while Wes Corbett will be focusing on Bluegrass Banjo II/III? and Joe Newberry of the Jump Steady Boys will be teaching the secrets of Old-Time Banjo II/III. Trisha Gagnon, a name familiar to many of our campers as bass player for John Reischman and the Jaybirds, will be teaching Acoustic Bass I? while Sam Grisman, who already has a bluegrass, jazz, and you name it, bass pedigree will be teaching Acoustic Bass II/III?. Since Geoff owns one of those guitars modified with a hubcap he is partial to the camp lineup for dobro. Mike Witcher will be teaching Bluegrass Dobro I/II? while Sally Van Meter, who we haven’t seen at camp for an awfully long time, will be teaching Bluegrass Dobro III. ? Our fiddle Corps…oh fiddle sticks we don’t have fiddle corps in bluegrass. Our Fiddle teachers are John Mailander, Beginning Fiddle I; ?Paul Shelasky Bluegrass Fiddle II/III?; and Tom Sauber Old-Time Fiddle II/III?. Jim Nunally is coming back to teach Guitar with Singing I/II?, while Rafe Stefanini will be teaching Old-Time Guitar Backup I/II, and Molly Tuttle teaching Guitar Solos II/III?. Between the music camp and the 40th Father’s Day Festival we are going to experience Monster Mandolin Madness (imagine a deep echoing voice announcing that while you picture a giant mandolin spewing flames out of its headstock….forgive my flights of fancy here). John Reischman is at camp this year teaching Mandolin I?, Chris Henry is covering Mandolin II?, while Mike Compton will be off the starting line with Mandolin III?. Some of our most popular classes are the vocal workshops. Carol McComb will be teaching Traditional Singing Styles II/III while Keith Little & Laurie Lewis are teaching Harmony Singing. No music camp would be complete without Kathleen Rushing’s Fungrass which is a music-based program for kids aged 4-10 involving song, dance, musical games, jamming, tie-dye and crafts, water and bubble play, and serendipitous moments of musical fun and learning!

Registration for the 2015 CBA Music Camp will open on February 7 come rain or shine. The 15th CBA Summer Music Camp will take place June 14th to 17th at the Nevada County Fairgrounds in Grass Valley, California. More information is available at the music camp website http://cbamusiccamp.com. And we would like to remind you that you can give CBA Music Camp as a gift for Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Graduation, Birthdays Valentine's Day, and even April Fool's Day. Check it out at our web site.

Bluegrassian Questionnaire with Roland White - Part I
Today’s column from Cameron Little
Saturday, January 17, 2015

Due to extenuating circumstances that I don't need to bore you all with, I wasn't able to write a column for today, so I decided to repost the first half of my interview with Roland White from 2011, which was one of my first columns. It's a rather lengthy interview, which is why it's broken in half, but it's one of my favorite interviews, so here goes:

Roland White, legendary mandolinist, devoted family guy, bluegrass community icon, and beloved teacher and mentor. Along with brother Clarence, just happened to help guide and shape bluegrass music into what it is today. Roland is a humble guy, a real gentleman whose calm personality belies a whip-smart mind and a blazing talent. Patient and gracious, and dare I say it, also rather mischeivious. A guy after my own heart. Marty Stuart said it best when he called Roland a “timeless musical spirit”.

Roland White simply IS bluegrass music.

What’s your idea of perfect happiness?
Well, I would be happy if I could play music until the day I die, with my wife, Diane, and my friends. I have a lot of friends in Nashville who play good music, a lot of good musicians.

What is your greatest fear?
My greatest fear is if I should lose my friends and my loved ones. I don’t fear death, you know. I want my children and my grandchildren, all my relatives, to be safe - no harm to come to them.

What was your first instrument and when did you get it?
Well, my first instrument was actually the guitar. My dad was a musician, an old-time fiddle player, and he had a couple fiddles, maybe two guitars. He was French Canadian, and he had a lot of the French Canadian style too, that he played. One day I came home from school and he had a mandolin. I heard this instrument and I walked into the house and he was playing “Rag Time Annie”, then he played “Soldier’s Joy”. Then when he finished that, I said, “What is that instrument?” And he said, “The mandolin.” I said, “How’d you learn to play it so fast?” He said, “Well, it’s tuned the same as a fiddle, it has frets so you don’t have to guess at your position, and you play it with a flat pick.” He played another tune and then he handed it to me and said, “Here!” Never gave me a lesson or anything and I just started playing it. That was my first instrument - and it was mine. It was an old one with the round bottom, we called them “tater bugs”. That was the first mandolin I had.

What bluegrass event or recording first “blew your mind”?
I went by the music store one day walking home from work after school and I asked the man, “Where can I buy some records?” He sold mostly pianos, organs and sheet music there. But he said, “Well, there’s a catalog here on the counter. What are you looking for?” I was looking for Bill Monroe but I didn’t know any of the names so I pointed out “Pike County Breakdown”. A week or so later, I went in and picked it up. I had seen 45’s but I’d never handled one before. When he handed me that I thought, “How’d he get all that music all on this little disk?” [laughs] Really that’s what I thought!

I took it home. And it just blew us away, it changed our lives. That instrumental just changed our lives, we never heard anybody play so fast.

What blew my mind is that on Christmas evening Bill Monroe was a guest on the Town Hall Party show. It was sold out but we watched them play on the television, and we saw how they did it. By this time I had a couple of Monroe records and we could hear the G run on the guitar but we weren’t sure exactly how it was supposed to go. So Clarence got to see how they did that. And I got to see the mandolin chords, that’s how I learned my mandolin chords, because all I knew were open C, G, D, open A. I didn’t know the chop chords yet. Those two things really blew my mind.

Who are you listening to these days?
A friend sent me a cd of Bill Monroe instrumentals. Really good stuff, all instrumentals that I listen to that in the car. I’ve got some early blues cds, we have a couple of radio shows we listen to, old-time blues, as far back as the 20’s. And a lot of jazz: Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald. Thelonious Monk, I love his stuff, ah! All the jazz of that era. We have all of that music. All kinds of jazz. We call it “real” jazz [laughs].

When and where were you the happiest?
Right now! I was happy growing up and everything. But right now I have a lovely wife, great children and great grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and they’re all doing well. I’m just very happy.

Today's column from Don Denison
Friday, January 16, 2015

Dear Friends:

I have been thinking lately about how frequently bands come and go. Even bands that stick around for years seem to change personnel frequently. I once wondered why bands were not more stable, but over the years working with the CBA on the board, as a Festival Coordinator, and Entertainment Coordinator, I no longer wonder. We are fortunate that the bands are as stable as they are.

The first difficulty is getting the sound and the personnel that one wants, then learning to work together towards a common goal. Egos, abilities, musical tastes, leadership, or the lack of it, all make it difficult just to put together a band with a sound that the leader and the band can agree on. Once an approach is established, it is necessary to keep everyone working together. This should be easy, but with 5-6 different personalities it is a tough job. Some of the top bands seem to do this better than others, usually behind a strong leader. This works until someone wants to go a different direction, or leaves the band. This is not unusual, indeed with 5-6 musicians, it is the rule more often than not.

The second problem is having enough work, work that pays enough to hold that perfect band together. Producers being who they are naturally try to hold down their entertainment budgets, bands would like to get paid more. Enter the booking agent. Bands that play regularly and that are paid enough find that they need the help of an agent. Here again personalities and conflicts can emerge, most bands change agents at least two or three times during their existence. Having dealt with Agencies and agents, I can tell you that the range of competence varies tremendously. At best a good agent will prove to be a good advocate for the band, keep it in work, arrange appropriate compensation, and interface well with the producers. At the other end of the spectrum, an agent can make a producer and band both wish they had never seen or heard of him. I've worked with good ones, and some that tried my patience to the breaking point.

So far we have got the band developed to the point they are touring, and are making at least enough money to make it worthwhile, these things are difficult enough, but touring and living on the road with the band and whoever else tours with it often proves the undoing of many good ones. Think what a national tour means for a few minutes. First of all the band will be separated from home and family for extended periods. With some individuals, this is a good thing and probably prevents domestic problems between the family members. For almost every one else though, these extended absences put a strain on marriages and relations with the children and the missing family member. I had one band leader tell me that they had played in excess of 320 dates the previous year. I can't imagine how that would effect family life, even if many of the appearances were near home.

Related to the family situation are the problems of touring. Such mundane things as getting regular and decent meals become almost impossible, then come simple things like getting clothes washed, maintaining the vehicle, or getting everyone on the plane on time. Living in a bus with the band and probably a driver and another assistant maybe 2-3 additional assistants, has got to cause lots and lots of stress, or even open conflict. Even best of friends or husbands and wives often have difficulties under such conditions. Then there are the annoying personal habits of other band members, I imagine a simple little habitual gesture can wear thin after the first few days, God forbid that someone have intestinal difficulties, or flatulence while trapped in a bus or on a plane. Problems at home that one can't attend to because he isn't there also cause difficulties, these and many other problems occur on the road.

Given the things that are possible, it is a wonder that bands stay together or stable at all. Having had to help out band members with problems that arise when they are absent from home, I know how much stress is put upon a traveling band, I am glad we have so many that are willing to put up with the difficulties and stay together long enough to entertain us. I have heard some stories that would make you all wonder how these bands we love are able to do it. Last but not least is that new member that proves to be a major pain in the butt. I heard one story of a good musician, after being warned repeatedly, was put off the bus with the words, "this is as far as you go son". Thankfully these events are rare.

The next time you sit down to enjoy your favorite band at the festival or elsewhere, think of the things these men and women have to do just to play the event you are attending. Be sure to thank them for what they do and for the grace that they do it with. I often wonder at the patience and dedication of the bands who put on good shows even if their day or week for that matter has been one from Hell. Lets hear it for the bands!

THE DAILY GRIST...“Looking at 2015 through Bluegrass Colored Glasses”

”A Man Can Dream, Can’t He???”
Today's column from James Reams
Thursday, January 15, 2015

If you’re like me, you get really excited about having a brand new year stretching out in front of you…the possibilities are endless and as to probabilities, well fuggedaboudit! I love watching all those “Year in Review” shows too as they look back over the major happenings and then make predictions about the upcoming year. And it got me to thinking about living in a perfect bluegrass world and what might be in store for the next year. I popped the top off of the best bottle of bubbly I could afford, Pabst Blue Ribbon in case you were wondering, put on my bluegrass colored glasses and settled back in the recliner while visions of the following monthly headlines floated off the calendar.

January – At last the United States Post Office recognizes the demographic that still uses their blasted stamps by announcing the latest addition to its Music Icon series…slap bass, please…it’s a commemorative stamp honoring the Stoneman Family!!! And no one in bluegrass circles argues about who it should have been. Pinch me, I must be dreaming.

February – In one of those “what took you so long” moments, the Grammy’s finally embrace banjo-toting Steve Martin as the host of the award show. The enormous popularity of the bluegrass sound rocks the music world as Coldplay takes Best Album with Hillbilly Lullaby featuring Chris Thile. Lady Gaga and Ralph Stanley win Best Song for the revamped “I’m Not A Man of Constant Sorrow Anymore.” Bill Monroe spins like a vinyl record in his grave.

March – Bluegrass fans had practically turned blue in the face waiting for the Bill Monroe film “Blue Moon of Kentucky” to be released. But our patience paid off as the movie swept the Oscars including Best Film, Best Soundtrack (duh!), and Best Actor/Actress for Michael Shannon and Olivia Wilde. Ed Helms and John C. Reilly dueled it out for Best Supporting Actor with Ed just edging out John by a pick and a peg. Move over “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” there’s a new blockbuster in town!

April – UN Peacekeeping Ambassador, Si Kahn, wins the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts in bringing about world peace through bluegrass music. When the humble songwriter was reached for a comment about his achievement he replied, “I’ve always heard that music soothes the savage beast – I shoulda known it would be bluegrass music!”

May – In honor of Bluegrass Month, everyone involved in bluegrass finally reaches agreement regarding what defines bluegrass music. And now for the weather report…hell has finally frozen over.

June – As presidential candidates start coming forward, the US is rocked by the announcement that Alison Krauss, the Queen of Bluegrass, will seek our nation’s highest office. With seasoned veteran Del McCoury as her running mate, polls are predicting a landslide victory. Even critics agree that her angelic voice will charm the pants off…no wait, scratch that…win over the most hardened world leaders.

July – The #1 Show on TV is the breakout hit “The Wives of Bluegrass.” Americans are glued to their sets on Tuesday nights, fascinated by the inner workings of the bluegrass world. From the makers of Duck Dynasty and The Wives of Orange County, this reality show includes such great episodes as “The Bluegrass Spa” and “Don’t Make Me Get the Skillet.”

August – Inductees into the Bluegrass Hall of Fame are announced and Hazel Dickens finally made it! In a related event, hospitals are overrun by bluegrass fans experiencing symptoms similar to a heart attack.

September – Bill Monroe’s birthday (September 13th) is declared a National holiday and every radio station in the US is required to play bluegrass music for 24 hours straight in tribute. Folks everywhere pulled out their folding chairs, popped the tops on cans of Vienna sausages, and jammed along. In financial news, Walmart posted the lowest earnings ever for a single day.

October – As host city for “World of Bluegrass” (only the biggest event of the year!), Raleigh, NC announces that they are changing the name of their airport to the Earl Scruggs International Airport featuring bluegrass themed restaurants, shops, art and live bluegrass music. Officials claim, “We wanted to make the airport a destination, not just a starting point.” The Transportation Security Administration (TSA) adopts the slogan “I’ll Fly Away”.

November – In response to demands by its top customers ? yup, you guessed it, bluegrass bands ? Cadillac releases it’s new tour bus line. Models include the Breakdown, the Jammer, and the top of the line? Well, what else could it be but Rocky Top.

December – The Official Times Square New Years Eve broadcast features Rhonda Vincent as the host. The traditional ball drop is replaced by a giant rhinestone studded banjo sliding down the flagpole while picking out Bela Fleck’s international #1 hit “Old Dang Sign.”

And then I woke up.

In Praise of Amateurs, Gifted and Otherwise
Today’s column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, January 14, 2015

I really enjoyed Ted Lehman’s column from Monday (“Risk and the Issue of Professional vs. Talented Amateur”). In it, he outlines the considerable distinction between true professional musicians and amateur musicians, even extremely talented amateurs. I have peered across the gulfs between myself and extremely talented amateurs, and the even wider gulf between me and true professionals.

The pros play a level consistently beyond my reach, but the times I’ve had a chance to share a jam (or even a stage on rare occasions), it was fun to fantasize about “what if” - what if I could close that gap? Well that’s not going to happen.

Truth be told, nearly every musician I encounter has something about their playing I admire. For me, admiration is not a source of painful envy, but actually an emotion to savor. It helps add flavor to personal interactions, doesn’t it? It’s like when you have a conversation at a cocktail party with a really interesting person. You wish you were as interesting, but there’s a thrill sharing their orbit for a while.

I had this sensation over and over again at the recent Great 48 Jam in Bakersfield. I lapped it all up. Iplayed with people of all skill levels, and every single jam had something I could admire and music that made me feel good that I made the trip.

Great feelings were the order of the day, every day. Every nook and cranny of the Doubletree had folks picking and grinning! It sounds like a cliche but it was literally true - folks were in circles, some standing, some sitting, picking bluegrass, and everybody was smiling. Some were truly gifted amateurs, and they strove to get everything right - getting the solos just right, and seeking a precise vocal harmony stack.

Others were not looking to polish anything - they were just in the moment, and so what if the jam had three mandolins, four guitars, two banjos, three fiddles and a pair of basses. Harmony stack? How about three parts lead, two parts tenor and three baritones. And mixed amongst the joyous cacophony, peals of laughter as friends revel in each other’s company. There is a great deal to admire in this setting, believe me!

So, it’s jam, jam, jam, and laugh - then repeat, repeat repeat until the hands of the clock meet at the top. You know what that means, right? Yes! It means finding Deb Livermore’s Grilled Cheese Sandwich Factory! Ingest some carbs and curds and then get back at the jamming.

I don’t know of any endeavor that brings so many people together, often for the first time, for such easy pleasure. Music is the conversation that binds us all together, and we get to ignore that “real world” that can be so annoying - if only for a few days. For the CBA, and many of the other bluegrass associations in California, this event is a way to announce the thawing of our barely discernible winter, and whet our appetites for the festival season to come.

Ten Items or More (A Nod to Brooks Judd)
Today’s column from John A. Karsemeyer
Tuesday, January 13, 2015,

1 – “Hoard your energy” (Bob Dylan). Yes, I agree. Save it for all things bluegrass
(festivals, jams, events, thoughts).

2 – The future is unknown, but the past is certain. Learn from your mistakes;
Like not attending that bluegrass festival you missed last year, and then
making sure you it attend it this year.

3 – Nothing lasts forever. We lost the Susanville and Plymouth festivals last
Year. Aren’t you glad you went while they existed, or disappointed because
you didn’t?

4 - Renew you license for eccentricity. Own two banjos.

5 – If think you are too old to camp at a bluegrass festival, do the next best
thing. Rent a motel room, or rent a nice RV. Lots of folks younger than you
do just that.

6 – Joan of Arc was not Noah’s wife. Noah and Joan missed out a lot in life
because bluegrass music wasn’t around back then.

7 – “If you are fortunate, there is a point in your life when you stop lying about
your age, and then start bragging about it” (who said that?) Seize the day,
and your bluegrass instrument.

8 – Make the rest of your life an unwritten one. Attend a bluegrass event that
you’ve never gone to before.

9 - “Music can exist without the world, but the world cannot exist without
music” (author unknown). And, Bill Monroe could have existed without
bluegrass music, but bluegrass music could not have existed without Bill

10 – “He who sings prays twice” (St. Augustine). And if you sing a Bluegrass
Gospel song, well, think about it….

11 – “All music is folk music. I never heard a horse sing.” (Louis Armstrong)

12 - If you are reading this and are not at the “Great 48” bluegrass jam in
Bakersfield, make an appointment with your therapist. And if you are
at the “Great 48” and are not reading this, that’s okay.

13 – “Alcohol free bluegrass festival.” Thanks, I’ll take a six-pack!

Risk and the Issue of Professional vs. Talented Amateur
Today’s column from Ted Lehmann
Monday, January 12, 2015

Recently, a well-respected regional musician from New England, posted something of a rant on Facebook. He asked (maybe challenged would be a better word) major label artists whether, before they won a contract, they had other jobs and played covers before they made it big by obtaining a major label contract and broadcast recognition. He also challenged the legitimacy of the PRO's (professional rights organizations like ASCAP, BMI, and SESAC) to charge venues a fee for playing copyrighted and otherwise protected songs. Asserting that playing covers in minor venues (coffee and alcohol related bars, churches, vineyards, etc) provided these artists with the experience and publicity that made it possible for them to achieve their current prominence and have honor of being awarded a recording contract.

Let's start with the PRO's. Who would deny the opportunity for the music creator, the writer, to obtain the royalties due him or her from being performed. Why should local venues be able, essentially, to steal content by not paying for the music they offer? Despite the rapidly changing media and online environment, there are still ways to assure that artists get paid for their creativity. If a venue is gaining business from presenting “free” music, thus exploiting both the performers and the creators of the music, it's behaving in a less than ethical fashion, even if it doesn't get caught. But it's encouraging to note that NOW is the heyday of the singer/songwriter and the independent artist. A musician with a message and style to share can do so today in ways that were inconceivable less than a decade ago. A few microphones and a mixing board in the basement and an inexpensive HD video recorder on a tripod is all it takes to produce a relatively high quality video. Making titles and posting it to You Tube costs nothing. An inventive self-promoter can use a variety of social media, including focused music sources, to get the word out and publicize the work. Performances that can generate interest can attract significant audiences, make real money, and get an excellent shot at a tour and a career. It's an increasingly open system every day.

Now to the more important matter, at least for some, of moving from local or regional band into national status. I probably could make it into some sort of a formula like: Talent +Hard Work+Some Luck = Success. But everyone knows that's not exactly the whole story. The formula does at least suggest a process, rather than a formula. There's no guarantee it will work out for any particular band, because what we've taken to calling the “it” factor always comes into play. Not every band, not even every well recognized band has the “it” factor, and almost none have “it” with everyone who encounters their music. Irene and I have spent hours seeking to define “it”, but no go.

Most bands form at some point from a group of people who come together to have fun making music. For the vast majority of bluegrassers, that activity, the jam, is as far as becoming a band ever gets. Some, however, will say, “Let's form a band” and start performing, perhaps at their local bluegrass society, at homes and hospitals, for a friend's wedding, or at the local farmer's market. They meet together on Tuesday evening and rehearse, but many of these “rehearsals” are just a good opportunity to continue a weekly jam. The hard work of moving into regular paying gigs across an increasingly wide geographical range is only about to begin.

Perhaps the most difficult task a band faces is to find and develop a distinctive sound that can become recognized within the first few notes of being heard. If you listen to satellite radio or your mp3 player, you know that you hear many bands that leap out at you, while tons of others require you to look at the screen to realize who's playing. What knowledgeable bluegrass fan won't immediately recognize Del McCoury, Ralph Stanley, or, today, the Gibson Brothers when they come on the air? But it's fiendishly hard work to achieve this goal, and many bands never do. Along with the sound, a band must move towards developing a stage show and learning to make direct connections with their audience. These connection opportunities (requirements?) have become increasingly important, largely due to technology. A band must have a personality that reaches out not only from the stage, but through the ozone. A band's ability to make connections through social media and their web site have become increasingly important. To neglect that aspect is to court doom. Yesterday, as I was preparing a festival preview, I came across a band calendar that was completely blank. Since I knew they were booked at the festival I was previewing, this sort of neglect sends a clear message about the band's priorities. No, it ain't just about the music! All this work takes commitment and teamwork. Every member of the band has to be involved and active in some aspect of forwarding the band's prospects.

While every band begins life as a cover band, exceptionally few bands create a national reputation through their covers. At present, the very high impact “tribute” band The Earls of Leicester are making quite a stir channeling the vibe of Flatt & Scruggs. On hearing them live, one is immediately struck by the thought that this is what it must have felt like to hear Flatt & Scruggs for the first time. But this doesn't happen often. This anomaly should never be expected. Not to say that a band shouldn't play covers. It's crucial in bluegrass to honor the shoulders on which each band stands. Covers are a way to do that. A band must find itself and then either write or select original material adequately representing the unique vibe they wish to establish. This is an extremely difficult task, may take years, and requires time and energy. One element helping to make all this possible is staying together and working together with very few personnel changes over time. Look at long lived successful bands. The ones not having considerable continuity are notable as exceptions.

Finally, it comes down to being willing to take the risk. Most successful bluegrass musicians, it must be said, have a spouse with a full-time job including benefits. This aid can't be overestimated. The further personal support it suggests is beyond overemphasis. However, it's a trying commitment and means that many music marriages don't last, or else the careers don't. The rewards can be great, but the personal costs horrific. The simple four letter word “risk” carries a terrible, often unbearable, burden. Most people who have achieved top recognition have learned both the reward and the risk. In the end, nothing guarantees success, but the work, commitment, and, yes, suffering are all apart of what it takes to gain the reward.


Welcome Columnist's note:

The welcome column rotation is currently experiencing an aberration. Life will return to normal once the Bakersfield Great 48 is over.

THE DAILY GRIST..."The use of force alone is but temporary. It may subdue for a moment; but it does not remove the necessity of subduing again: and a nation is not governed, which is perpetually to be conquered.” -- Edmund Burke (1729-1797) Irish statesman, orator, political theorist, philosopher and member of Great Britain’s House of Commons.

Two sad farewells
Today's column from George Martin
Thursday, January 8, 2015

Two members of the music community passed away in recent days. The one who got national coverage, including even an obituary and photo in the San Francisco Chronicle, was Little Jimmy Dickens, who died January 2 at the age of 94.

But before getting around to Little Jimmy, I want to add my voice to the many who have expressed their sadness at the passing of our own Jim Carr, who died December 30. I wasn’t best pals with Jim, but we knew each other for at least 40 years, and played now and then at parties and jams. I always admired him because he had taken the time and made the effort to play Earl’s tunes pretty much note-for-note, and when he took a break on a bluegrass song you knew the style was going to be solid and traditional. He knew a lot about fine instruments and only played the best. He had an old Martin D-45 for years. People kept offering him larger and larger sums of cash for it and he finally gave in and sold it to a collector in Japan, bought a new Martin for himself and kept the rest.

He was a gentle soul, and he seemed to know everybody in bluegrass, not only in California but he had lived in the East some years ago and had befriended a goodly number of the best pickers back there. A conversation with Jim would usually yield a little nugget of gossip from back in Nashville that made one feel like we were one of the “in” crowd ourselves.

He and his wife, Linda, seemed to be devoted to each other. It is very sad that he was taken away at the relatively young age of 69.

By contrast, Little Jimmy Dickens was a flamboyant character, larger than life in spite of only being about 4-feet, 11 inches tall. He was born in 1920 in a little town called Bolt in the coal fields of West Virginia. “All my people are coal miners, but I never wanted to go into the mines,” he said. “From childhood on, I wanted to be an entertainer. And I set out to do that when I was still in high school.”

Dickens’ obituary in the Nashville Tennessean mentions that he played high school basketball in spite of his small size and 85-lb. weight. He also was senior class president in 1940. In spite of his small size he had a big voice, and in the days of small, inadequate sound systems, the crowd could always hear Dickens, even in the back of the room.

Dickens was brought to the attention of the Grand Ole Opry by Roy Acuff, who met him while on tour. Dickens was unusual in that he became an Opry member in 1948 before he had even made a record. The next year, though, he recorded “Take an Old Cold Tater (and Wait),” which made it to Number 7 on the Billboard magazine country chart. The song provided him with a life-long nickname, “Tater,” courtesy of Hank Williams Sr. Most of his hits were comedy and novelty songs such as “Sleeping at the Foot of the Bed,” “I’m Little But I’m Loud,” and his biggest hit, “May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose.”

In later years he was a folksy, avuncular, charming old fellow, but there was another side to Dickens that I found some months ago when I read Charlie Louvin’s excellent autobiography, “Satan is Real.” I highly recommend this book for its straight-talking, take-no-prisoners recollections of a tumultuous life in country music. It’s largely the story of the difficulties Charlie’s brother, Ira, had in life, starting with his brutal father, poverty-stricken childhood, and adult struggles with alcohol.

One caveat: Charlie uses a lot of salty language in telling his stories. If that disturbs you, give the book a pass. Here’s the interesting story of a fight between Charlie and Ira (and a bit about Dickens), not long before they broke up their partnership. The brothers had been arguing and had agreed to “take it outside.”

Here’s the story as Charley writes it:

“As soon as I stepped out the door, he swung at me. I dodged, got him by the hair on his head and bounced his face off the ground. Then I jumped on him and started hitting him.

“We were really getting into it when Jimmy C. Newman and Jimmy Dickens came out the door. Back in Newman’s younger days, he was an extremely muscular man, and he just reached out and lifted me off Ira by the head. I mean, I was on top of Ira, putting his face through the ground, and he just reached down, got me by the crown of the head and lifted me straight up.

“Ira started getting up, and Newman looked at him. ‘If either of you wants to whip somebody,’ he said, ‘you just try and whip me. I’d love to see either of you try it.’

“Neither of us wanted to fight Newman. We both knew that neither of us would have lasted a minute if we tried. But we all stood there cussing each other. We were really raising a ruckus, but we didn’t figure anyone could hear us out there in back of the armory. Then all of a sudden we were lit up by headlights.

“We all stopped talking and looked up and saw it was just some guy trying to get out of the parking lot, and went back to cussing. Well, the next thing we knew, the guy threw his car into park and stepped out. He was at least six foot six inches tall, bigger even than Jimmy Newman, and he walked right over to us and said, ‘Gentlemen, I got my wife out here in the car and I don’t appreciate language like that.’

“Little Jimmy Dickens turned and stepped right up on him. I believe his nose came up to about that fellow’s navel, but he didn’t care. He stood right up to him and put his finger and thumb almost together and said, ‘Mister, you’re just about this far from having me all over your ass.’

“Well that old boy just looked down at Dickens for a minute, then he pushed him out of the way and walked back to his car and he and his wife spun their wheels getting out of there. That was it. We all started laughing and couldn’t stop.

“That stuck with Dickens for all those years, too,” Charlie writes. “You can go up to him any time and put your finger and thumb together and he knows exactly what you’re talking about....

“Dickens was mean, though. If he fought you, he could slip up between your legs and de-ball you before you knew what happened. He was a dangerous fighting man because he was so low-down. He whipped Webb Pierce once, I’ll never forget that. Webb weighed over two hundred pounds and Dickens beat him up bad.”

Rest in Peace, Jimmy. I trust you’re not sleeping at the foot of the bed.

[The Grand Ole Opry's web site has a bunch of remembrances and videos of Dickens. And WSM is live streaming a memorial service for him this morning (Thursday) at 11 a.m. Central Time]

THE DAILY GRIST…”How many reruns of 'Abbot & Costello" can a guy watch on television?”—Bud Abbott

Sometimes, Reruns Are Just Fine
Today’s Column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, January 7, 2015

I have a large collection of books, and when people see them, they have two questions: One, “Did you read all of those?”, and two. “Why keep 'em after you’ve read ‘em?”

The fact is, I enjoy revisiting books. Many books (not all) have rewards in rereading them a second time or a third time, or in some cases, over and over again. Yes, the surprises are gone after the first read, for the most part, but a really good book continues to entertain.

I feel the same way about good movies, and in some cases, TV shows. There are some movies I could watch anytime, and some of those, I would be glad to watch any random 15 minute segment within them. Similarly, some books are written so well, I could open it up and read any page at random and enjoy it all over again.

Recurring jam sessions can be like this. Time and time again, we seek out the folks at these events with whom we had jammed in previous months or years, and we do it all over again. Now, obviously a jam session is much more dynamic than a finished film or a printed book. No two jams are the same, even with the same songs and the same people.

Often, a wonderful comfort zone is created at these events. You will almost certainly meet people you’ve never met before, and jam with people for the first time ever, and great times and memories will ensue. But, typically, you’ll find some old friends, and darned if you don’t drag out those same songs you play last year and the year before. Then, it IS like reading a favorite old book, and just as comfortable.

I haven’t been to the Great 48 Jam in the past couple of years, but I am going this year. And I intend to find some old friends and do some picking and singing, and I just know,halfway through at least one tune, I’ll be thinkin’ “Dang! I played this same tune 3 years ago with these same people!”. And I’ll be thrilled to revisit the fun at the scene of the crime!

Jeannie Ramos, Cliff Compton, Duane Campbell - I sure hope you’re going to be there! Rick Cornish, Larry Kuhn, Tim Edes, Montie Elston - I hope to see you there. Randy Weese? Paul Sato? Any chance? Cory Welch, Melissa Blas? Alan Bond, John Kornhauser? I hope our paths cross at some point! The two Larrys (Cohea and Chung) - will they make the trip? Jeanie and Chuck - the Ministers of Musical Mirth? I’ll be looking for you!

Maybe I won’t see ANY of these people, but I’m still gonna have a lot of fun!

One of Those
Today’s column from Marcos Alvira
Tuesday, January 6, 2015

(Editor’s Note—What we’ve noticed about Marcos’ Welcomes is that, most often, they seem to have a huge invisible arm that reaches out and grabs his readers somewhere during the first paragraph. This 2012 outing is no exception.)

This is one of those columns. Upon reading those words, every columnist know what I’m saying. It’s 11:40PM, and I’m struggling to stay awake as I type. I eschewed my customary tumbler of column-writing-Irish-whiskey for a pot of freshly brewed coffee; and lively music is streaming from Pandora on my computer. It’s not like I procrastinated writing. I’ve been thinking about this piece for over a week. There are about a half dozen themes on which I’d like to expound, but my eyelids are far too heavy at this moment.

I didn’t start out the day thinking, “Boy, wouldn’t it be great to wait till midnight to write. This Saturday was supposed to start with a run after the morning paper and coffee, the column, and then kick-back to watch some Oakland A’s and San Francisco Giants playoff baseball. I was about to pull on the ol’ sneakers torn tee-shirt for the run when the phone rang. It was my daughter, Annie. I knew she was in Fresno helping her best friend shop for a bridal gown.
“Hello Daddy.” I wandered what she wanted. My 24 year old was calling me daddy in the same tone as when she was eight years old. Winds up she had a gig that night at six that she had forgotten about and was imploring me for my help. She hadn’t realized that she needed two 45 minute sets. Well, normally I love picking with my daughter-- any dad that wouldn’t is an absolute Cretan—but I really wanted to see that Giants game. Not wanting her to think that her father had abandoned her in her early twenties, I resigned myself to the idea of watching a recorded game. As I was throwing-on my old tattered sneakers and sweatshirt to get my run going, two good friends of ours walked up to the door. They were just dropping of some teaching material for my wife and only had a couple of minutes to say hello. Two hours later, we were waving goodbye, and I knew my column would have to wait till tonight.

The gig wound up being a dinner show as part of an Octoberfest celebration. The evening temps were perfect and there was a nice little crowd amicably chatting away, swilling beer in the patio area where we were to play. This was perfect. Most folks would be busy and not focused on us. The lack of preparation really didn’t bother me. Annie and I have played enough shows that we had the material covered. Mostly, it was that while warming up earlier, I was having a decidedly unmusical day. And this is the crux of this column: why is it that one day one can be playing licks almost supernaturally well and the next day…even hour, the sonic emittance from one’s instrument sounds like rusty nails. So had been my case while we were warming up at home. Most of us have had those nights—the one when our otherwise steady rhythm is skipping beats and playing music feels about as comfortable as an American League pitcher with a bat in his hands.

This phenomenon is capricious and shows itself at the most inopportune moments. Of course, there is an inverse corollary as well: you absolutely don’t feel the music, but every note you play comes out sweet, pure, completely in sync. No amount of preparation, or lack of the same, seems to deter the course of this musical maelstrom. When our show began, the plan was to keep things simple until the veil of harmonic malaise lifted. Gladly, by the second set, it did. The audience was very appreciative and someone even requested Blue Highways, “Born With a Hammer in My Hand.” (I’ve got to learn that song—it’s a good one.)

Well, I’m typing at about a sentence every minute now as I dose off and begin dreaming about the music playing on the computer. (Note: Bryan Sutton’s barrages of notes can damage sleep). While I never did see the Giants game and my run will have to wait for later, I did get to spend an evening on stage with my beautiful and talented daughter--which is a lot more than an old dad can ever hope for in most cases. It’s all worth losing a little sleep.

Happy New Year
Todays’ column from Rick Cornish
Monday, January 5, 2015

Good morning from Whiskey Creek, where it is 3:15 a.m. and I am sitting in front of my computer updating the web site of the California Bluegrass Association as I have done for just shy seven months of fifteen years. What’s different about this particular morning, however, is that I am dressed in flannel long underwear, wool socks, a heavy sweat shirt, a full length robe, an enormous ranchers jacket with thick liner, a wool scarf and faux fur hunting cap and fur-lined gloves and yet I have never been so cold in my life. How, you’re wondering, can I type. Well, I cannot. I am dictating my Welcome into the computer and will hopefully be able to use my fingers to edit the amusing mis-cues taken by the Dragon software at a more Godly and, hopefully, warmer time…say, like, eight o’clock.

I should note that my old bluegrass pal, Ron Murray, bass player for the Grasskickers, is in Princeville this morning...that's at the southern tip of the Island of Kauai. I HATE Ron for being there in the tropical warmth. When I'm finished with this Welcome I will go through the CBA web site and delete every photo of his bluegrass band, every MP3 the band loaded, every reference to the band going back fifteen years and Ron's Hooked on Bluegrass story. I’d also destroy my copy of “Fresh Cut”, the GK’ers latest CD, except, well, by manipulating the balance and GQ controls on my player I can pretty much remove his bass work. Hope it rains today, Bear.

But much more seriously, we lost an awfully good one this week. If you haven’t heard, Jim Carr has died. Here’s what John Hettinger posted on the Message Board:

“Jim Carr, consummate banjo/guitar/dobro picker and jammer, passed over Jordan in Sacramento on December 30, 2014, due to complications from diabetes and congestive heart failure. He was 69, too young to leave us. Jim and his wife Linda had lived in the East Bay area for many years before moving to Sacramento about four years ago. He was a regular at our Thursday night jams and always kicked them up another notch or two. In addition to his excellent musicianship in both bluegrass and folk genres, Jim was also a fine teacher and luthier, especially for banjos. He was a former DJ with KCSM in San Mateo and became a walking encyclopedia of the history of bluegrass music and the many bands in the field. Jim also served on the CBA board a number of years ago. Jim very graciously shared music from the early days of bluegrass with his many friends and will be missed by so many of us. He was also a US Navy veteran. Memorial services are pending. If you would like to share any of your remembrances of Jim, you can send them to Linda Carr, 5064 Connecticut Drive, Sacramento, CA 95841.”

My friendship with Jim goes back about twenty-five years; I met him at a Santa Cruz Bluegrass Society campout at Mt. Madonna and, after having my socks knocked off by his incredible banjo playing, I was taken by the matter-of-fact way that he spoke of the greats in bluegrass music. Jim wasn’t a name dropper, not at all, but it was impossible to talk with him about bluegrass without hearing some fascinating tales wrought from so many years of living and breathing and eating bluegrass—the guy just knew and play with EVERYBODY. Jim Carr has left a hole in California bluegrass music that I’m afraid will never be filled.

And then there’s the case of the old Mt. man who, having fairly credible evidence that he was having a heart attack, was taken to the hospital via ambulance only to find that he had an E. coli blood infection, which the docs were able to chase away with anti-biotics and hospital bed rest, the latter causing a level of consternation in the old man that virtually oozes from his MB narrative about hospital beds. I’ll let you read J.D.’s account of the experience on the Message Board, but I did need to at least acknowledge it here, him being a particularly good old partner of mine...”old partner” being his term for our friendship, not mine.

And speaking of my study, where I can still see steam coming out of my mouth as I dictate to my computer, it looks like a hurricane has ripped through the room, and has for the past three days. You see, this is GREAT 48 week and I’ve been making buttons that we’ll be selling (giving away with a donation) down there in Bakersfield. You may recall my great button enterprise, which was to raise enough money to cover the costs of re-building the CBA web site. Well, like nine out of ten of my GREAT IDEAS, the button business fell well short of meeting the original goal; actually, according to our Treasurer, Montie Elston, the scheme has barely ended up breaking even. A lesser man might be discouraged after spending the hundreds and hundreds of hours the project has swallowed up…but not me. I look at it philosophically—even if they didn’t make the CBA a fortune, the buttons ARE purchased and ARE worn and the Association, and bluegrass music in general, are all the better for it.

A much, much, much more successful scheme, the running of a bluegrass and old-time music camp JUST FOR KIDS, has just launched Year III and enrollment is already at 40%, this after only four days of camp registration opening. Darby Brandli takes, quite deservedly, full credit for the Youth Academy and she has approached the project like she approaches everything else…with the grace and poise and absolute dominance of a Marine Drill Sargent. I’m certain Darby would like me to tell you that if you have or know of a child or children who you think would enjoy and benefit from the Academy experience you should get them signed up right away. There’s no doubt we’ll sell out again this year, and it looks like it’ll be sooner than later.

There is, of course, a lot more I could ramble on about, but I won’t. Today’s officially Marty Varner’s day for Welcoming; he missed this one but promises to be back next month. Have a terrific week and, if you’re able, join us down in Bakersfield for another GREAT 48.

"When You Wear My Flower, You Make It Beautiful"
Today's column from Marcos Alvira
Sunday, January 4, 2015

Some columns are simply difficult to conjure. As I write, it’s January 1 and and my wife and I have just finished a 24 hour celebration of the New Year and my her birthday with some close friends and family. By the time you read this, my we will have spent three days in San Francisco to continue the celebration with more friends and family. In the course of all the revelry, I’ve made a resolution for this new year: I will attempt to look at everything in the most positive light possible.

I am put to the test on the first day of 2015. Sometimes writing a column can feel a bit like homework, including all the procrastinations like eating an extra snack, paying the bills, and changing the oil about 1,000 miles earlier than necessary. After 24 hours of almost no sleep, spirits, and delectable feasting, my system is slowed to a sluggish crawl and and my creativity as palatable as a bowl of cold, plain grits. In the spirit of my recent resolution, I consider this deplorable state to simply be conditioning for the true test of one’s constitution, the Great 48 in Bakersfield, the most stupendous jam west of the Mississippi January 8-11. [What’s that you say? The 8 through the 11 is four days? Ya…it’s so much much that we needed another day to fit it all in.]

I should have simply bought a membership to a gym as a resolution. I may have a better shot of actually keeping fit than I do at seeing things in a brighter light. My family is rife with smart alecks and cynics, and as the current patriarch of the clan, I wear my mantle of wise guy and trenchancy seriously. These preceding two years, however, has seen the passing of some fine friends, and most ironically, this has forced me to look at my own sardonic temperament with a great deal of cynicism. In contrast to my own acerbic character, James Stewart plays an optimistic role in one of my all time favorite films, the 1950, Harvey. This character is the model upon which I will attwmpt to rebuold my surly character. Stewart portrays the imperturbably affable Elwood P. Dowd whose constant companion is Harvey, a 6’ 3.5’’ invisible pooka rabbit. Elwood explain his perpetual sanguineness:

“Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, "In this world, Elwood, you must be" – she always called me Elwood – ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.’ Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant.”

It was in this movie that the mild mannered, stuttering persona of Jimmy Stewart was born. My wrinkled forehead, hunched, rounded shoulders, and propensity to speak exuberantly preclude anyone from ever confusing me with Jimmy’s erstwhile character; furthermore 5’8 frame would never be confused for Stewarts own 6’3”. Nonetheless, In my quest to be positive, there are small behaviors I could adopt that are exhibited by Elwood P. Dowd.

1) He was kind—heartfelt compliments flowed naturally.
2) He listened with compassion.
3) He exercised humility—he welcomed those with less resources into his life and treated them as genuine equals.
4) He felt the joy in all things—he was grateful to meet a new companion or share a drink with a stranger.
5) He always gave the benefit of the doubt—when confronted with ill-will, he accounted it to unintentional accidents

Throughout the movies plot twists, Elwood refuses to see anything but the best of people and of his situation. Of course, life is not a movie, and sometimes we are wise to exercise a little skepticism, but overall Elwood’s approach might do one—or last me— well to remember. Films of that era did not often have a soundtrack as we know them today. If the movie were to be scored nowadays, we’d just might see Elwood enter his favorite tavern, Reilly’s, and in the background, hear the jukebox playing the old Carter song, “Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side, keep on the sunny side of life.”

Don’t cook tonight call Chicken Delight; or how my Sicilian surrogate Auntie Frances almost made me a priest
Today’s column from Brooks Judd
Saturday, January 3, 2015

(Editor’s Note—We went way, way, way back in the archive for this re-run…July of ’08 to be precise. Probably Brooks’ first Welcome. [Believe me, if it wasn’t his first, we’ll hear from him.] Anyways, this is the unvarnished Judd, the pre-Ten-items-or-less Judd, the Judd whose ultra-sophisticated and ever-nuanced style is still just a glimmer in his bespeckled eye. Oh, is there a Part II? We don’t know but will most certainly hear from Brooks on this as well.)

Part 1

First a little background.

At the age of 59 ¾ in April 2008 I took an early retirement from work. I wouldn’t be bringing home a weekly check (other than my subbing check from the local school district) and I got curious when I did start to bring home a weekly paycheck. I rummaged around and found my yearly social security statement and saw that my first actual checks were from 1964, my sophomore year at Hayward High School. They were from Chicken Delight. Actually I had been bringing home money much earlier than 1964. I began earning money while I was in 4th grade at the ripe old age of 10.

I had an Oakland Tribune paper route. I lived at one end of Highland Blvd in Hayward. Highland Blvd. started at Mission Blvd (or at the bottom of the hill to the locals) and ran up past my house up to Highland School about 50 yards from my house. Highland School was my alma mater K-6.

My paper route began a few houses down from my home on Highland Blvd and ended up about a mile farther on down the road. I didn’t use a bicycle on my route I preferred to walk. It was easier for me to make sure that my papers were always porched. I thought it was a sin to leave a paper on the lawn or in someone’s petunias.

Sunday deliveries were the best. I hated to get up early on Sunday mornings to do my route so I decided on another plan of action. An old green bobtail truck with chains hanging down the back of the truck, replacing the roll up door, would drop off the Sunday papers at about 2 A.M. Sunday morning. I wouldn’t go to bed Saturday night. I would wait for the truck to come. The Sunday papers were huge and were accompanied by inserts (ads) which I would have to manually insert into the main paper. Along with the rest of the ads each Sunday Tribune weighed about 3 pounds. It would take about 30 minutes to place the inserts in all the papers and to count the stack to make sure all my papers were there.

The papers were too big to be carried in the normal heavy cloth paper bags we all used, so my father, who was a welder-machinist, made a two wheel cart out of steel that stood about four feet high that was shaped like a tall lean triangle. It was narrow at the top and at the bottom was a metal plate the unfolded papers could rest on. I would start my route about 2:45 A.M. in the morning. When I got to each house I would carefully grab a Tribune and walk up the door. I would gently lay the paper face up facing the door so when my customer opened their door they could look down and the first thing they would see would be the Sunday morning Tribune headlines.

I would get back from my rout about 4-4:30 in the morning, and I would make a breakfast of hot chocolate and toast. I would read the Tribune (and the Chronicle) and go to bed about 5 A.M. I loved the stillness and solitude of the early morning hours and the quiet of those Sunday mornings was something that even as a young boy I could truly appreciate.

The Tribune didn’t send you a pay check. They did send you a monthly bill based on how many papers you were sent. You, as the paper boy, had the job of going to your customers once a month, usually at night to “collect” what your customers owed you. After collecting from all of your customers you would have your parents write a check to the Tribune and the money that was left over was yours. Making sure I put all the papers on my customers porch insured that I did receive my fair share of tips when I made my monthly collections which of course added to my earnings. It was a good business practice.
In 6th grade I realized that my paper route wasn’t providing me enough cash to live my lifestyle. There were baseball and football cards to purchase, weekly movies to go to at the Hayward or Ritz Theaters on Mission Blvd. in downtown Hayward and I also needed to add to my collection the latest 45 releases from Bobby Darin or the 4 Seasons. As I would do my daily route I would notice lawns that didn’t seem to get mowed regularly. I would pay these people a visit and hire myself out to take care of their lawns. This worked out for a while but it still didn’t provide enough capital.

I started asking some of my other customers if they needed any yard work done. I was surprised at how many people said yes. Come Saturday I would don my work gloves, put on an old pair of cutoff Levis, tie a bright red handkerchief (borrowed from my dads top dresser drawer in my parents bedroom) around my neck, lace my tennies up tight, grab my hoe, rake and shovel and march on down to the work site.

As I surveyed what had to be done I would look at the morning sky, smile and begin working. Mostly it would be weed pulling, raking, more weed pulling, more raking etc. Sweat would cascade down my face, trickle lazily around my neck onto my dirt covered tee shirt. I enjoyed working alone amid the dirt, weeds, and dust.

At the end of the day my employer would take out their check book and carefully write out my check. They would then hand me the check and I would stare down at the name written on the check, BROOKS JUDD, in big bold blue letters. It stood out like a neon light. I would then look lovingly at the amount. Wow! I was rich! I would carefully fold the check and gently place it in my Woolworths wallet. I thanked my employer and headed home as the sun slowly began to disappear into the shimmering San Francisco Bay. I was earning my keep and I was only 12 years old.

I told you that so I could tell you this. When I was in 8th grade, 1962 for those of you who are counting, I began my working relationship with my next door neighbor, Frances Tingley or more commonly known as Auntie Frances. She was a mad hatter Sicilian, a financial wizard, who had the energy of three tsunamis. She had purchased one of the very first Chicken Delight restaurants that were built in the Bay Area. She bought the store as an investment and a way for her three sons Steve, Frank and George to earn money.

Steve was three years older than me, Frank was two years older than me, and the musical prodigy George, the youngest, was two years younger than me. Auntie Frances was a dyed in the wool Roman Catholic and she felt it was her duty and calling to have one of her sons enter into the priest hood. She took this very seriously. But it wasn’t in the cards.

Steve was a track star, who loved women, Frank spent most of his time reading, and George spent all his time mastering the violin, piano, organ, guitar, bass guitar etc. There was no time for her sons to become priests. Auntie Frances set her fiery brown Sicilian eyes on her next best bet, me.

More to come…….

Ten Items or Fewer
Today’s column from Brooks Judd
Friday, January 2, 2015

Welcome to 2015: A few thoughts I would like to share with you.

1: I will no longer “embellish” stories or tales from the past with accounts of incidents that do strain the limits of reality.I am a grown man approaching the age of 40 and after several stories in the New York times and the less read San Francisco Chronicle a man of my character really does not need to rely on such subterfuge. In good faith I ask you, the reader of the “Daily Column” to email me at brooksjudd@yahoo.com or post on the message board if I fail on my attempt at true journalism. My inspiration is the master of truth, reality, and non-fiction,the existential Rick Cornish who I strive to be like every day.

2: I will no longer use Rick Cornish as some form of a “cheap laugh.To think that I or anyone would be willing to do this not only smacks of child’s play but demeans the whole process of professional journalism.I am better than that and gosh darn it there are better ways to make my point.

3: My beloved San Francisco Giants show the great state of California how a sports organization should be run and the San Francisco 49ers show our great state how a sports organization should NOT be run.

4: I received something called an I Pad for Christmas from Sheila, Jessica and Rhiannon. They tell me it will improve my life. I’ve been spending the last couple of hours trying to find an extension cord so I can take it into the computer room but I’ve had no luck. I misplaced the instructions but with a little help from Sheila I think I may get the hang of this little machine.

5: No more really lame jokes. Yes, I understand the jokes I have given to you have been of an A+ grade quality but someday down the road a clunker may fall in my column and what would you the reader think of me? Just the other day Rick told me the joke about the blonde, the plumber and the zebra. Rick begged me to use it in my column but in all honesty I felt it did not meet the standards of the CBA ethics board. For those interested you may e-mail me.

6: I resolve to spend a little less time writing about bluegrass and spend some more time writing about other significant and not so significant things. Folks can only take so much Bluegrass information in a month.

7: It’s getting late.Time to say,“Enjoy 2015 and keep good thoughts.”

8: Rick will probably censure this political piece but I have to say it.
Isn’t it strange _______ and then_______ the whole political party _______ would make you _______ and not only that ________ there is______ the gall of _____ wonder____ they have ____ temerity ______ statement for all the American Citizens_____ justice ____ in a million years. I do feel better.

9: But wait: There was this blonde. She wanted to energize her skin and decided to take a milk bath. She left a note for the milk man saying she wanted 25 quarts of milk.The milk man read the note and thought something was wrong and maybe what she really wanted was 2 1/2 quarts of milk. He knocked on her door and she answered. He asked her if she really wanted 25 quarts of milk. She said she did and then explained how she was going immerse herself in the bath tub filled with milk to rejuvenate her skin. He nodded and said, “Pasteurized?” and she replied, “No just up to my elbows. If my eyes need it I’ll splash some milk on them.”

Until February: Read a book, hug a child, pet a dog, stroke a cat, eat a bar of chocolate, walk a few miles in your neighborhood and enjoy.

THE DAILY GRIST… “My New Year’s Resolution is to not make any New Year’s Resolutions and now that I’ve broken it, I’m all done with resolutions this year.”

Happy New Year
Today's column from Dave Williams
Thursday, January 1, 2015

I’m ready to get back to normal. What is normal? No colored lights hanging from the gutters and ledges, the pine tree out of the living room and back outside, minus the lights and ornaments, drinking coffee from a real mug, without Christmas bears on them, all that is a start. Moving my bass, stands, stools and music back to the front room and Linda getting her mandolins and guitar back in there too are a very big part of normal.

Did I mention not having to play Christmas songs or carols for another 11 months?

All that stuff above is the comfortable appearance of normal. What really is normal is getting back into my routine, my regular exercise days, band rehearsal on Tuesday, two jams on Wednesday, maybe a rehearsal on Saturday, Mexican food on Friday and afternoons free to walk up to my bass and play some, sing a song that is stuck in my head or pick a little with Linda.

Is it okay to be a scrooge after Christmas if you behaved yourself during the season? I actually had a festive holiday with my family that I enjoyed thoroughly. Dinner with everyone, presents and, most importantly, spending time with them.

Helping my normalcy is that the days are getting longer now and have been for about 10 days now. I don’t know about you but I look forward to the 30-40 seconds a day of increased daylight. I’m in awe of the ancient humans who figured out the solstices and the equinoxes through observing nature. They seemed to be in tune to these natural changes and didn’t need any calendar to tell them when the days got longer or shorter.

As the grist quote lets you know, I’m not big on resolutions. I don’t need a calendar turnover to motivate me to make any necessary changes. I’m way to stubborn for that. I know I need to make changes periodically but I like to think that it happens more naturally for me than by the calendar changing to January 1. Nature could be the long days of spring inspiring me or it could be a different kind of nature, Linda telling me to get my self in gear. Both work well for me.

Along with getting back into my daily routine, I am looking forward to the adventures 2015 will bring. Camping trips, gigs, festivals, family vacations and hopefully more are on the agenda for next year.

Speaking about routines, I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you that this Sunday January 4 is the first Sunday of the month and that means the Santa Clara Valley Fiddlers Jam is happening from 1:00 – 5:00 at the Hoover Middle School in San Jose (at the corner of Park and Naglee.) Now that is a routine to get into.

I hope everyone has a happy and prosperous New Year.

Catch you next month.

Happy New Year!
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Three great things about 2014: I got to be the Welcome Columnist for the day before Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's!

Our notion of when a year begins or ends is arbitrary, of course. There's nothing global or astronomically significant about December 31st. But in life, as in business, it's interesting and sometimes helpful to turn a page and begin a new cycle.

It gives us a chance to look back over the period (in this case, our calendar year) and reflect on what has transpired. We mourn our losses, celebrate our victories, and steel ourselves for the challenges that lay ahead of us. In some cases, we use the occasion to make promises - the much-maligned "New Years Resolution".

The newspapers will be full of "2014 in review" articles, and we will marvel at the things that have happened - some will seem to be years ago, reading about them again now. I don't have the time or the inclination to look back and recount what 2014 contained.

I very rarely make New Year's Resolutions. I made one 3 years ago - to build more exercise into my life, and I have stuck to that. In 2015, I expect to become more involved in the CBA. A couple of years ago, I resigned from the Board and the Membership and Publicity duties - I had become burned out. I was a victim of my own enthusiasm - there's always so much that needs to be done, and it is exhilarating to be able to contribute, but I over-promised my time and needed to step back. I have agreed to step back into the Publicity role in 2015, and I am looking forward to getting back on that horse, actually.

I would like to attend more bluegrass events this coming year. In 2014 I attended more bluegrass concerts than festivals, so I got my listening in, but I'd like to get some more public pickin' in too!

It's all good - 2015 should be a great year for the CBA and for bluegrass, and partly because of that, it should be a great year for me and you, too!

President’s Message
From Darby Brandli
Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Happy New Year to all. The Great 48 Hour Jam in Bakersfield is almost upon us and I hope to see many of you there where we can ring in the year bluegrass style! This event gets bigger and more fun year to year. It is a time to meet up with all our bluegrass relatives from the north and south of the state. We hold a CBA Board meeting on Saturday (open to the public) and it is a place where you can join the CBA, register a child in the 2015 Youth Academy, purchase Early Bird tickets to the 40th Annual Father’s Day Bluegrass Festival, donate instruments to our Lending Library and donate money to our Youth Academy scholarship fund and/or the Youth Program. I will again sit at a table and introduce you all to our Association and to our events. Bring a checkbook, a credit card or cold cash and I will exchange your money for something special in 2015.

David Brace, Board member and Director of the Father’s Day Festival, and I attended a meeting with other event producers at the Nevada County Fairgrounds in November. Nevada County is rapidly becoming a music mecca with the Father’s Day Festival, Strawberry Music Festival, California World Fest, the Celtic Festival and Music in the Mountains all producing events there during the summer/early fall. We reviewed the 2014 season and began to make plans for 2015. It is always wonderful to meet face to face with those who produce similar events and to share ideas and information. The Fairgrounds staff were very pleased with the 2014 season and look forward to a successful 2015.

The CBA is the only event that allows pets to attend and we were reminded that ONLY Service Animals are allowed in the inner Fairgrounds and that dogs must remain on a short leash in the camping area and pet owners must pick up after their animals. We had some complaints last year that a few inconsiderate pet owners were present with their animals and there were reports of dogs off leash or on a long leash, dogs chasing ducks and geese and dog excrement left on the grounds and dogs in the audience area. The CBA instituted the pet policy to allow people in RVs who travel with their pets to bring them. We never intended for there to be an open invitation for everyone to bring their animals (my dogs always stay home) and we will print the Fairground Dog Policy in its entirety in this issue. The Fairgrounds reported to us that a flock of Canada Geese are now making their home on the Fairgrounds and dogs and geese are not usually compatible. Please know that we have not issued an open invitation for all to bring pets to the festival. There are dog boarding locations in the immediate area including boarding for about 10 immediately adjacent to the grounds. We expect to see fewer dogs June 14-21, 2015 and hope that most will be those animals who travel with their owners year round. We know that those of you who choose to bring your animals will review the Fairground rules and the CBA rules.

The Huck Finn Jubilee will not be held on the same weekend as the Father’s Day Festival this year for the first time ever. Huck Finn will in the future be held on the second weekend in June and Father’s Day falls on the third weekend in June this year. We are excited that maybe many of our friends from BMSCC, SWBA, BASC, SDBS, North County Bluegrass & Folk club will make the trek north this year for the first time. We are celebrating our 40th anniversary and it would be super to share the celebration with others who work so hard for their own organizations. Heck, many CBAers can also travel south for Huck Finn! We have quite a lineup booked this year. It is possible to spend an entire week on the Fairgrounds: enroll for the CBA Music Camp (June 14-17) and stay for the festival (June 18-21). We have week-long opportunities for kids: FunGrass (during Music Camp), our instructional Youth Academy (June 17-20), our recreational KidFest (June 18-20). Kids on Bluegrass is a performance event that occurs during the festival and is a highlight of our festival. Nevada County has numerous opportunities for tourism and fun. Drive north this year and join us and celebrate our anniversary!

Please make this the month to join or renew your membership. We have not raised our dues in years and years and your active membership is important to us. We are a volunteer driven, membership supported Association and your active membership is essential. We have saved your membership number for you if you have let your membership lapse. Our advertisers and sponsors always want to know how many active members we have so our total numbers are really important. Send in your $25 or $30 check or pay by credit card. Please make renewal or joining your New Year’s resolution.

THE DAILY GRIST…”Remember there’s no such thing as a small act of kindness. Every act creates a ripple with no logical end.”—Scott Adams

Random Acts of Kindness
Today’s Column from Jeanie Ramos
Sunday, December 28, 2014

The end to another year has nearly arrived. It’s a time to reflect on what lies behind and contemplate the possibilities for 2015. I won’t spend too much time thinking on the past because nothing can be changed. I can learn from mistakes I’ve made, forgive the trespasses of others and make amends for my failures and shortcomings.

I’m writing this just before Christmas and I’ve been seeing posts on Facebook saying “Happy Festivus.” As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not a TV watcher, I had no idea what this holiday was. I Googled it and it turned out to be something that gained popularity through the Seinfeld TV show. Part of the celebration was to air all your grievances. Wow! That ought to make your day! If you are on Facebook very much, you’ll see there are people who carry on this celebration the year ‘round.

While I don’t watch TV, I do keep up with current events through various Internet sources. I found that television has a way of burning unwanted images into my brain; I try to keep that to a minimum. We are bombarded from every side with a lot of negativity; a constant barrage of stories that focus on everything that is wrong with our world. I’m not suggesting we bury our heads in the sand, but we need to have a balance. Fortunately, for most of us who belong to CBA, we have the diversion of bluegrass music and related events to bring us relief from the stresses of life. Many of us have other hobbies that help us find the balance. Within our CBA membership, we have luthiers and other woodworkers, quilters, writers of prose and poetry, dancers, gardeners, fishermen and hunters, etc. I cannot relate to people who have no hobbies.

Of course there are many other ways to find some peace and joy in troubling times. Go out into the world; stop, look and listen for beauty. We are surrounded by it, in a fleeting cloud formation, in a sunrise or sunset, a flower in full bloom…It can be found in the song of a bird, the rain on a tin roof, the laughter of a child, a distant train, or a fog horn along the shore.

Every newscast seems to include some senseless random act of evil or violence and the most horrendous acts are broadcast over and over, and it seems some people just can’t get enough of it. I’ve decided that 2015 is going to be my year for “Random Acts of Kindness.” Who wants to join me?

Kindness is contagious. I would like to see an epidemic. It’s as simple as doing for others what you would like done for you. Many kindnesses can be done with little or no expense to you. It can begin with something as simple as smiling at a stranger, or surrendering a seat or parking spot to another. Try to remember a time when you were helped through a single act of kindness; when someone did something for you without expecting anything in return. Remember how it made you feel?

Kind words whether spoken or written are free and can make a big difference in someone’s life. If you are the praying kind, you can do that for someone at any time and any place. Last Sunday night I sang a song especially for a veteran at the hospital in Livermore and gave him a hug afterwards. He was pleased and I received more joy than he did. Didn’t cost a dime.

When you’ve lived as long as I have, you can look around your house and see a whole bunch of “stuff” that you no longer need. Wouldn’t it be fun to gift-wrap some of those treasures and leave them in a public place like at a bus stop, coffee shop, Laundromat, with a note to the finder, telling them to enjoy the item or pass it on to bless another. You get an opportunity to make someone’s day and to downsize at the same time. You could also do this with a book, leaving a kind message on a bookmark. Maybe you have some CDs that you no longer listen to or would like to “re-gift,” be creative.

Did you know that February 9-15, 2015 is Random Act of Kindness Week? Neither did I. No need to wait. I’d love to hear about the random acts that some of you come up with; you can post them on the message board.

I hope your New Year is one that is filled with all the things that bring you joy. We’ll see you soon. God bless.

"The Charge of the New Light Brigade"
Today's column from (Prescription Bluegrass Radio Host, Brian McNeal)
(Saturday, December 27, 2014)

Well, it seems that Bluegrass Music is not the only entity suffering from the clash of the modernists and the traditionalists. Just take a look around and you'll see it elsewhere as well.

The most obvious confrontation presenting it's discordant and ugly face occurs every night just after sundown and continues throughout the dark hours everywhere on the highways and by-ways, parking lots and city streets all over the world.

You see it in the on-coming traffic. It's the incompatible mix of the old-school yellowish headlights conflicting with the new-age blue hued headlights.

Also evident are the various factions of the two sides who don't always agree with the majority of their party, but partake in and observe only those aspects that appeal to them, ignoring the rest.

One odd-duck faction is the conflicted driver who has one headlight from the old school with it's yellowish glow and the other from the new-age with it's blue tincture. These are the same folks you see walking around with the Garth Brooks style western shirts popular in the early 1990s – blue on the left side and red on the right.

Another group are the folks, who for unknown reasons, choose to drive with no headlights at all - especially at dusk and dawn. It has been noted by some of the spectators that perhaps they are those who didn't quite hear clearly when the word HEADLIGHTS was spoken … as in: “What type of headlights do you want?” They must have misheard the statement as, “What type of HEAD LICE do you want?” and therefore replied “None”.

Still, and not to be left behind, are the folks who think that the old American “More is Better” song is the only way to go and you'll see them coming at you with four or more headlights from at least five miles away.

Lastly, don't forget about the professional drivers of the 18-wheel contingent. Headlights, schmedlights! These guys and gals don't stop there and cause the proliferation of lights of all colors to cascade down both sides, top and rear of their truck and trailer so that no matter where you happen to be driving, you're convinced that all of Las Vegas is headed toward you at 75 miles per hour.

So the next time you hear someone arguing about the merits and disadvantages of the bluegrass differences, remind them that they have no monopoly on disagreement. Just take it on the road for proof.


Today’s Welcome from Rick Cornish
Friday, December 26, 2014

Good morning from Whiskey Creek, which, even during the height of a down pour, which we’ve had, thank you Lord, plenty of, isn’t running much this year because a landowner upstream from us has decided, for whatever reason, not to replace a 36 inch culvert that has collapsed on his property. By now I would surely have spoken to the fellow, urged him to fix the problem, probably even offered to spearhead a fund raising campaign among the other down stream landowners to help with the expense, were it not for the fact that the guy with the caved in culvert is known in our county far and wide as an individual whose interest in collaborative problem-solving is limited to only solutions that involve fists and/or shotguns. Well, that’s not entirely true—there was a while back a story circulating about an issue he and a neighbor “explored” with the use of a 20-pound sledgehammer…his, not the neighbor’s.

But none of this has one bit to do with the subject of my Welcome column this morning. I want to talk a little about nagging and then finish up by doing a little nagging.

Women, specifically women who are wives, have a reputation for being naggers. Okay, I’m going to take a deep breath here, brace myself, and just come out at say it…it’s a reputation that is generally well-deserved. The fact is, most wives do nag their husbands. Lord knows mine nags me. My neighbor’s wife nags him, sons’ nag them, United States of America First Ladies nag theirs, rich women, poor women, young women, old women, neurotic women, spiritually enlighted/psychologically well-adjusted women…most all of them nag their husbands. True, there are some exceptions, but they’re nothing more than the exceptions required to prove any rule.

Now, I imagine more than a few husbands who are reading this are asking themselves, why in the name of God would this idiot PURPOSELY choose to write about PUBLICLY, and no less during those few days each year that much of the human race dedicates to GOODWILL AND PEACE ON EARTH, a topic so toxic and so utterly taboo? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because after close to thirty-five years of marriage I’ve finally come to understand that not only is wifely nagging as natural a part of matrimony as noodles are to chicken soup, it’s also very, very important to the fabric of society. And that’s society with a CAPITAL “S”…that’s all societies in all ages since Eve told Adam to hang up his fig leaf or put it in the dirty clothes hamper. The truth is, somebody’s got to make sure that stuff gets done in a household, and for whatever reasons, (and social scientists and cultural anthropologists have as many theories about this as there are social scientists and culture anthropologists,) women are stick with the job.

So, now on to my reason for risking the wrath of roughly fifty percent of the earth’s population. If wives have the job of nagging in marriage, then top leadership has the job in 501`c3’s…that is, not-for-profit, tax exempt organizations. I remember not more than a couple weeks after first being elected by the CBA board as chairman that I received a telephone call from Carl Pagter, the man who I’d just succeeded. Carl told me that the purpose of the call was to make absolutely clear that I understood the primary responsibility of my new job. It was, he said, to NAG. And boy oh boy oh boy, was Carl right. By the time I was finished with the twelve or so years as our Association’s leader I’d done such a thorough job that members would turn and run when they saw me coming.

Now, of course, I’m a civilian just like 99% of our wonderful Association’s membership, but, as they say about Texans, you can take ‘em out of Texas but you can’t take Texas out of them. Once a nagger, alas, always a nagger. So, in recognition of this fact, and as a special day-late Christmas present to our two current leaders, let me do just a bit of nagging for them. Please…

Consider making a contribution to our special Youth Academy program when our funding campaign opens next Thursday. If you give a wit about seeing that this music of ours continues into the future, nothing…ASBOLUTELY NOTHING will help more than getting kids playing it;

Look around the attic, in the rafters out in the garage, maybe even your uncle George’s attic or garage, and see if there’s a stringed instrument that is just collecting dust. Our Darrell Johnston Kids Lending Library has put scores and scores of axes into the hands of kids, but still there are needs we haven’t met.

Keep your CBA membership current. I’ll tell you true, friends, there’s very, very little that can be more discouraging to the men and women who work tirelessly to keep the Association humming along than to discover that Joe and Mary Whomever, who never, ever miss a CBA event and haven’t for years, let their membership lapse in ’03 and have just enjoyed a free ride ever since.

And most importantly, please finally give some serious thought to stepping up and taking on a job in the CBA’s leadership. It could be as a board member, one of our many team coordinator jobs, an area vice president…there are many, many jobs that need doing. If your life is enriched by the California Bluegrass Association, now may be the time to pay back.

Okay, that’s it. All done. Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

My Old Fireplace
Today’s column from JD Rhynes
Thursday, December 25, 2014…Christmas Day

(Editor’s Note—From Christmas time last year.)

In the living room of my house there is a beautiful old fireplace
that I just dearly love. The first time I used that fireplace in the
fall of 1994 it filled the whole house with smoke, due to the fact
that the smoke shelf was not high enough. That ain't no problem for a
country boy like my own self that understands how fireplaces are
supposed to be built, so I just outfitted it with a shroud on the
front to contain the smoke, and while I was at it I built a pot crane
to hang a pot of beans on to cook real slow on a cold winter day. I
have cooked many a big cast iron pot of beans that way, served up
with hot cornbread fresh from a Dutch oven cooked right there on the
fireplace hearth. Gourmet country vittles without a doubt!

A couple of weeks ago when it snowed 12 inches here on Bluegrass
Acres, I was sitting in front of the fireplace enjoying a nice hot
fire one evening and I got to reminiscing about when I was a little
bitty redneck, and how I used to wish that we had a big fireplace in
our house to enjoy on a cold winter evening. That wish did not come
true until I bought this old house back in the summer of 1994. As I
sat there that cold snowy night a week or so ago, I got to thinking
and wondering of how many young children over the years had played
right before this very fireplace on a cold snowy evening over the
last 80+ years that this house has been here? Even today I usually
lose power two or three times a winter when it snows. How many
families had to use this as a light source and cooked over an open
fire in the fireplace during power failures? How many times did a
mother have to melt snow for drinking water and to cook with over
this fireplace? I also wondered how many times a mother had heated
bathwater for her children in this old fireplace? It's about 100
yards one way to the spring for water, a distance that would seem
like 2 miles when there are 2 to 3 foot of snow on the ground. How
many families over the years used this as their only heating source
during hard times of unemployment or heavy snow bound winters when
the roads were closed for extended periods of time. Also, I wondered
how may times this old fireplace sat here cold because the people
that lived here had ran out of firewood during an extremely hard
winter, or simply for the fact that they could not afford to buy
firewood, or could not get out to cut some. I took solace in the
fact that I have a huge woodshed that is chock-full of dry oak,
cedar and pine firewood.

As I write this month's column, it is Christmas Day of 2013, and it is hard not to wonder how many young children over the years hung their Christmas stockings on the big thick slab of cedar log that they used for the mantle piece. I know it was quite a few, because there are several small nail holes that bear witness to that fact. They are kinda hard to see now, since I have my 50 caliber flintlock rifle mounted on front of the mantelpiece. Hey, this is a MAN CAVE! A REAL MAN lives here now not some pencil neck wimp.

I would be willing to bet that there have been several Christmas turkeys roasted right in this fireplace as well. A lot of the old-timers used to cook their turkeys over an open fire, and was the preferred method because it was so easy. You simply rigged a turkey on a spit, over a big pan of some kind to catch the juice and grease and set before a fire and turned it occasionally. Comes out perfect every time. I have a grill that I built especially to use in the fireplace. When I get a craving throwed on me for a barbecued steak in the dead of winter, I just rake a bed of coals out and place my grill over it, and within 20 minutes I have a piece of meat that's been cooked over a "wood far", the way God meant fer meat to be cooked!

There have been several nights I have also set in front of my fireplace and wondered just how many jam sessions have been held right here in front of this old fireplace on a cold winters night? How many times have fiddles guitars and banjos livened up the air and got folks up and dancing? It has probably happened more times than I can imagine. If I could only pull the notes out of the soul of the old fireplace that is stuck between the bricks and in the chimney, and stacked them up they would probably be as tall as the chimney itself. And speaking of the chimney, about three years after I moved here, I took that ugly chimney cap off and threw it away and built one that is in the shape of the pyramid about 3 feet tall. On top of the pyramid is a weathervane that depicts a Comanche warrior on his Buffalo pony with his raised Lance, chasing a wild buffalo, and they are both mounted on a huge six-foot long arrow. The warrior is about 12 inches tall and the buffalo is at least eight or 10 inches tall. The weathervane rotates and always faces into the wind, and it is a joy to watch clouds go scudding by on a windy day, which gives the illusion that the buffalo and the horse is running. There have been several nights when the wind was blowing extremely hard I'll swear I can hear that buffalo and that pony in hot pursuit running across my roof! I have a huge buffalo robe on my easy chair next to the fireplace and I have fallen asleep there many a restful night, wake up about daylight throw some kindling on the fire, go turn the coffee on, and in 20 min. I got a nice warm "far" to enjoy with my first cup of coffee of the morning. That is one of the most joyful things I get to experience with this old "farplace" of mine.

Looking back over my life, I thank God Almighty for the multitude of blessings that he has heaped on me. Ever since I was about eight or nine years old, I always wanted to live in the West Point area of Calaveras County. Twenty years ago God answered my prayers and put me here on bluegrass acres. I marvel every day when I wake up and realize I did not do one thing to earn this, other than pray to God every day for an old house that had a nice fireplace in it, one that my children and grand children can enjoy for many years to come. As I set here tonight in front of a nice warm fire I know that I am the luckiest man in the world, because God does answer prayers. I have been enjoying my prayers for a"farplace" for the last 20 years! It ain't no secret, you just have to believe and keep praying. May God bless and keep all of you, my big bluegrass family.

The Faces of Hope
Today’s column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Seems like there’s been a lot of nasty things happening in the news lately. Whether there’s more cruelty in the world, or it’s easier to report with modern media, I don’t know. But any student of history knows that mankind’s capacity and willingness to inflict harm on suffering on fellow humans is a sad thread that runs all through history.

Now and again, it just seems too much. When the stories seem to pile up, or a particular incident strikes a nerve, things can seem hopeless.

There’s always hope, and in hope, there’s strength, Strength to give yourself permission to take some time to enjoy the positive things in the world, and strength to devote time to ease some of myriad ills that plague us. There more problems than you and I can solve, of course, but that doesn’t make the situation hopeless.

Recently, I’ve been privileged to witness the faces of hope up close and personal. I have been working in Martinez as the town’s Santa Claus this month, and have had delightful interactions with hundreds of children, and they are hope personified.

We come into this world blessed with absolute innocence, and truly limitless potential. Life has a way of stripping away innocence and idealism, and potential seems to narrow with the years.

If that gets you down, take a moment and watch - really watch - the faces of the children. Hope and unlimited potential dwells in them, and therefore, in the world.

Magic can work, at times. Believe it! Have a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa - anything that returns your focus to the positive and recharges your emotional and spiritual batteries! And let’s make 2015 the best year - ever!

Greetings from Pyongyang
Posted by Kim Jong-un
Tuesday December 23, 2014

Good morning my fellow blue grassers. My what an eventful week it has been. First my country was accused of hacking into that whiney, Walkman-producing, excuse of an entertainment company that is a transparent tool of proletariat regimes intending to spread their propaganda and lies about my glorious country, which by the way we all know is the envy of the free world. And then Comcast goes and pulls the plug on our internet connection with the excuse that there was an outage due to construction in our neighborhood. Likely story….anyway when I called customer service to complain, I was on hold for 45 minutes…..capitalism at its finest, and then read a sales pitch requiring me to upgrade my account before they would investigate the so-called internet problem. Personally I think Comcast turned off our internet connection to sell my country a more expensive connection plan that would also prevent us from accessing Netflix. Whoever claimed that communist regimes were guilty of manipulating the world-view of our populations never met the Comcast marketing department. But I am not here to complain about my problems, rather I wanted to enlighten your fair readers about the state of bluegrass in North Korea!

Bluegrass is alive and well in Pyongyang. Due to producing too many aluminum O-rings for our missiles, we had the wonderful idea of using them as tone rings for banjos and now we are ready to flood the world market with banjos made from missile parts with necks made from an overrun of AK47s. Our ultimate goal is to destabilize the international money market by making banjos so cheap that everyone in the world will want to purchase one causing rampant inflation and earthquakes from all the racket made by beginner banjo players picking impossible to tune cheap banjos. Genius! But banjos aren’t the only infamous bluegrass instrument we can produce. My friend Dennis Rodman is a wonderful slap bass player….who knew? Maybe the tats were a giveaway. In collaboration with Dennis, who is embarking on a new career as a professional bluegrass musician, we are embarking on another strategically remarkable plan to flood the market with Korean basses that can be converted to a micro-RV with full electric hookup. We are still working out where to put the holding tank, maybe a hollow endpin….but come to think of it I’ve never seen a bass player take a potty break so maybe a holding tank isn’t necessary. Keep tuned (I’m so clever with my puns) for future developments….just be forewarned, we plan to test launch a fully armed bass over the Sea of Japan next time your government annoys me.

You might be asking how the humble son of a minor, though ruthless, dictator was invited to write a guest column for such a prestigious organization? Well I wasn’t. Let me just say: first Sony, next the CBA, and then those rogue capitalist music licensing companies whose names we are afraid to say in case they decide to come to Pyongyang to shut down our jams in retribution. Even we are afraid of those whose names we cannot say. However, we are very envious of how they operate and how they instill such fear and loathing.

Until next time comrades! If, at the next Father’s Day Festival, you happen to see a short portly man with large sunglasses carrying a banjo, dressed in a tank top and flanked by tall mean-looking bass players, please stop and say hi….unless of course you are Seth Rogen or James Franco. Then you better run! Be careful out there folks and don’t make any movie parodies about unauthorized interviews with leaders of repressive regimes!

DAILY GRIST… “Christmas time’s a-comin’; Snow flakes a-fallin’; My old heart’s a-callin’; For the folks at home; When Christmas time’s a-comin’.” – Bill Monroe

Christmas Times A-Comin’

Today’s column from Yvonne Tatar
Monday, December 22, 2014

Well, Christmas time is indeed a-comin’ … and I’m very fortunate to be part of a couple of worthy bluegrass endeavors that warm the heart with the true giving spirit.

First of all, the San Diego Bluegrass Society tried a new kind of jam format last month. Because of how the calendar dates fall this year, our annual 4th Tuesday jam for December lands on December 23rd, so the board cancelled this get together knowing the turnout would be low with folks busy with holiday plans, etc. Since I do the planning for these jams, I suggested we move this year’s festivities up one month to November and we planned a big ol’ Christmas gathering titled Christmas Times A-Comin’. And for even more festiveness, SDBS also wrapped up this whole gathering as a toy drive for Toys 4 Tots where admission to the jam was the donation of one new unwrapped toy. For the evenings entertainment, we kept the open mic and featured band slots, but added a Christmas sing along. So, press releases were created and sent out via Facebook, emails and newsletters. And the excitement built like the proverbial snowball rolling down that holiday hill! Local members really helped spread the word.

At the night of the event, the place was packed! Even past members we had not seen in a long time came out, as well as the club faithfuls. Grinners and pickers abounded! There was much jamming outside, a healthy open mic to open the evening and then Wayne Rice & Co. (which was a stellar cast by themselves with Wayne on guitar, Peter Varhola on bass, Tom Cunningham on fiddle, and the one and only Dennis Caplinger on banjo) led a ½ hour sing along that reveled something out of the ,Christmas Carol movie. Even Capt. Aveeda from the Marines showed up and talked to the crowd about their Toys 4 Tots drive. To cap off the evening, Next Generation (Zach Caplinger on guitar, Sebastian Green on mandolin, Orion Johanning on banjo and Steve Green on bass) really impressed the crowd with their bluegrass prowess at such young ages. And at the end of the evening, we were thrilled to see that not one, but two large boxes of toys had been donated, along with a sizeable amount of cash for the toy drive.

This fresh and new approach to the holidays was invigorating for SDBS members and gave a real feeling of togetherness. Hopefully, SDBS can do this again next year. I think the variety if entertainment and the inclusion of a good cause really got everyone in the holiday spirit. Bluegrass folks are so generous and are “salt of the earth” types when it comes to camaraderie and helping out others.

Another worthy bluegrass event would have to be the upcoming annual Cruise2Jam bluegrass cruise hosted by Jerry Turner. Each January Jerry hosts the bluegrass jam cruise on Carnival Lines that leaves out of Long Beach right near the Queen Mary. In the last couple of years he has expanded this cruise and now includes a jamming night on the Queen Mary the night before the first day of the cruise. This jam benefits disabled veterans (DAV). The money raised on the Queen Mary jam goes toward paying for the cruise expenses for one DAV to cruise. Lots of folks come out for this, even those who are not going on the cruise. This year the goal is to raise enough funds to send two DAVs. These veterans are usually pickers. They enjoy the trip, and really like the jamming onboard. Check out this 2015 cruise coming up in January at www.cruise2jam.com. It’s really affordable and a great little “getaway for a few days” trip.

I’m proud to be a part of the outreach done by San Diego Bluegrass Society partnering this year with the Marines in their Toys 4 Tots 2014 toy drive. Because of Toys 4 Tots, many more children will awaken on Christmas Day to find a toy who otherwise would have received no Christmas gift at all. And I’m equally proud of Jerry Turner for keeping the Cruise2Jam going these many years, and his work with the disabled veterans. The support this cruise provides to those worthy disabled vets is a real blessing indeed. Thanks to SDBS, Cruise2Jam, and the many, many others out there (you know who you are) with that giving spirit. Good on all ya’all! I can just hear Bill singing this now…Can’t you hear them bells ringin’, ringin’; Joy to all, hear them singin’; When it’s snowin’, I’ll be goin; ’back to my country home..

Blessing to ya!

Recipes for a Well-Baked Music Camp
Posted by Geoff Sargent
Sunday December 21, 2014

I think Julia Child would have made a great music camp teacher. Alas, to my knowledge she wasn’t a picker, but I see her as a banjo player. You know the kind of person, someone who, against all odds, makes a uniquely awkward-looking instrument sing beautiful music. Julia Child almost single handedly introduced and demystified French cooking to the US and made it accessible to everyone. I wasn’t paying much attention back then, but it seems like French cooking was considered something out of reach for the typical American home cook. Something that required special ingredients, a tricked out kitchen, and a culinary sense that just wasn’t part of our upbringing. Julia Child introduced French cooking with a style that was irreverent, full of panache, humorous, enthusiastic, yet graceful and sincere; the same traits our music camp instructors share. I believe that one of the hallmark successes we can be proud of with music camp is how we try to make the music accessible to students at all levels, and we try to do it with an enthusiasm and style that infects everyone passing through.

The part of Bluegrass and Old Time history that I am really fond of is how the music was shared at home between family members and neighbors. I want to imagine folks gathering at homes of friends and relatives, over a potluck of food, to jam and pick, making the music a family and community event. Maybe that history is part myth part truth but it is something I believe. We are carrying on that fine tradition and doing it during a time when it seems like our sense of community is certainly changing or maybe even disappearing. This community is now an important part of my life and one that I didn’t realize I was missing until I naively purchased this crazy guitar covered by a hubcap, that you play with a steel bar, and then went to music camp to learn how to pick it. My adventure started because all I wanted to do was learn how to play the dobro and then it turned into something far more important.

Most of the Father’s Day Festival main stage acts were signed over the past three to four weeks so Peter and Janet are frantically contacting potential teachers for the 2015 music camp. Stay tuned to the web site because we will be posting faculty announcements as we get the commitments. One of the wonderful things about cooking is that every cook gets to personalize the recipe. Recipes are just the starting point and really good, creative cooks know how to make something in the classical style and then know how to change it to create something unexpected. Peter and Janet are master music camp chefs…need I say more. We expect a few changes, some to try out something new, some changes in response to student and teacher comments. One of those changes will be a shorter meal line that if not a little cooler, will be shadier…but not in the criminal sense. I think this might have been one of the highest profile issues we had last summer. You can also look forward to more of the intensive morning classes, and a faculty to do the 40th Father’s Day Festival week proud.

So start the countdown, mark your calendars, set your alarms because registration for the 2015 CBA Music Camp will open on February 7. The 15th CBA Summer Music Camp will take place June 14th to 17th at the Nevada County Fairgrounds in Grass Valley, California. More information is available at the music camp website http://cbamusiccamp.com. And we would like to remind you that you can give CBA Music Camp as a gift for Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Graduation, Birthdays Valentine's Day, and even April Fool's Day. Check it out at our web site.

Open the Door
Today's column from Cameron Little
December 20, 2014

It’s an easy thing to cozy up to a fire that is already blazing. But it’s much harder to start a fire from scratch, to nurture the embers, and to help guide the fire to its full potential. Building a fire is hands-on and takes patience, time, and a bit of skill.

There are generous people in the bluegrass world who have fanned a spark in others, myself included. They’ve encouraged me in my writing and music, included me in their jams and gatherings, and offered guidance. They took time to share some wisdom, welcome me, and yes, they definitely put up with me. They took the time to fan a spark, a spark I didn’t even recognize was there. I call these people Fire Starters and here is a sampling of that Fire Starter wisdom in my life:

Roland White taught me about GRACE AND HUMILITY. It’s been my experience that the more of a bonafide star a person is, the more class and modesty they possess.

Rick Cornish taught me that EVERY STORY IS WORTH SHARING. Storytelling is an art that is already present in each of us.

John Reischman taught me that WHAT YOU ALREADY KNOW IS VALUABLE. Start with that and build on it.

Rick Rinehart taught me the value of a GENEROUS HEART. Go full throttle or not at all.

Wayne Nolan taught me that ONE KINDNESS CAN CHANGE A KID’S LIFE. I picture him smiling from bluegrass heaven every time I play a G-run.

Cliff Compton taught me to INCLUDE EVERYBODY. Cliff is gifted in the art of bringing people together.

Kids on Bluegrass taught me EVERYONE HAS TALENT. And everyone deserves their moment in the spotlight.

Bill Wilhelm taught me that EVERYONE IS WELCOME. Bill was a natural bluegrass ambassador who helped newbies feel at home.

My mom taught me that EVERYONE MATTERS. She has shown me how each and every person is necessary for the whole.

Open the door.

So, next time you attend a bluegrass event and have a closed-jam area, or a “by invitation only” gathering, consider opening the door now and then in a different way. Open the door to newbies, to the shy bluegrass fans, to the people who are not players. Open the door to the people who aren’t fans yet, and to the people who are afraid they won’t be accepted. To the screechy Old Joe Clark’s and the self-conscious singers. Open the door to the people who are just waiting to be invited in. These people might be our future members, friends, fans, volunteers, benefactors, and bluegrass enthusiasts.

Open the door.

“Forget not to show love unto strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

(Cameron Little promises to keep the door open as often as he can, and wishes everyone a warm, bluegrassy kind of holiday season.)

Dear Friends
Today’s column from Don Denison
Friday, December 19, 2014

Sitting here in front of my fireplace I have been thinking long and hard about the consequences of growing older. One of these involves attending my favorite events. Since the beginning of my involvement with The California Bluegrass Association, almost all of the events involved camping. I have reluctantly decided that I will no longer be able to come to our outdoor events and camp. The arrival of Suzanne and I on the Saturday or Sunday before Grass Valley was something we looked forward to all year long. Getting set up, renewing old acquaintances and friendships, meeting new friends, watching the event unfold as preparations began was part of the ritual for us for many years. I had looked forward to resuming these and other activities during the coming years. It isn't going to happen. If finances allow, I may be able to use a motel room, and attend the events whether they be the Festival, Camp Out, or any other outdoor event, but this in no way equals the experience of spending a week to 10 days with my friends and fellow members as the events unfold. Perhaps on a future date, I will be able to resume bringing a trailer and setting up early as I enjoyed doing in the past.

Since back in 1986 when I attended my first CBA event, the camping experience has been the center of my enjoyment of the events. To have to give this experience up has been a difficult decision for me. I am going to try to find a room for these events, but it just won't be the same. I have so many wonderful memories wound up in the Festivals and Camp Outs, that at this distance it seems I will be giving up the best part of these events.

The purpose of this lament is not to make you all feel sorry for me, but to impress upon you all what a wonderful privilege it is to be able to come early to the festival and be a part of it, to host jams, organize pot-luck dinners, catch up with what is going on in the lives of the friends that are seen only at these outdoor functions. Be sure to treasure the blessings involved in the camping experiences, none of us knows how much longer we will be able to participate in our events this way. I'm going to miss it a lot, indeed during the time Suzanne and I couldn't come because of her declining health we both missed seeing our friends very, very much. I'm going to make the motel/event program work as best as I can, but I will miss being on the grounds more than you all can imagine. Come to our events, support them, and most of all enjoy the experience of just being there, it doesn't last forever.

THE DAILY GRIST...“IBMA shines on in the cloudy skies of bluegrass”

”Yes, Virginia, There is a Silver Lining”
Today's column from James Reams
Thursday, December 18, 2014

The Internet has been a warzone of bluegrass-related activity lately as words fly back and forth across the sticky lines of the WorldWideWeb. At least we know that folks out there are actually gobbling up the recent articles, posts, and emails about the IBMA and not saving them, cocooned in the silken threads of email boxes and favorite folders, to be savored at a later time.

As a lifetime member of the IBMA, I want to do whatever I can to help this valuable organization continue to be successful in the years ahead. The fact that membership is growing faster than anticipated is a good thing! It means that some things are being done right.

The World of Bluegrass event this year was a phenomenal accomplishment. Kudos are deserved by everyone who had a hand in it. Yet, anyone who has ever managed even a small festival knows about the exhaustion that sets in once the event is over. Think about rolling weddings, birthdays, graduations, holidays and anniversary celebrations into one week long, non-stop, overload of entertainment featuring the entire extended family. How would you feel when everyone finally left for home?

The pressures of putting on a world-class event of this type takes a toll and it looks like the Board Members of the IBMA paid a heavy price for it. I was sad to see that so many of those I respect and am privileged to call friends have decided that the price just isn’t worth it anymore. I don’t know all that went on behind the scenes and behind closed doors and perhaps there are some accountability issues here; but as a wise friend once told me, “Sometimes no reaction is better than the wrong reaction.” Cooler heads will eventually prevail and, hopefully, this wonderful organization will emerge even stronger and more committed to its primary goal: promoting bluegrass music globally.

In an effort to encourage solidarity, I’ve decided to throw my hat in the ring to be considered for one of the available seats on the Board. I may not be the best qualified for the task, but sometimes the dedication and devotion of a foot soldier can be the spark that unites a diverse group of battle weary leaders behind the ultimate goal. If elected, I have no intention of going into this fray with guns blazing, rather, I’ll be waving a flag of truce.

There are plenty of positive things about this organization that we need to capitalize on and develop so we can continue to gain respect in the world of music. In light of all the recent chatter, it’s easy to lose sight of the many good things the IBMA does to bring international attention to bluegrass music.

Any bluegrass organization knows that connecting with young people is the key to future growth. The IBMA does an outstanding job of reaching out through programs like “Bluegrass in the Schools” that includes Teacher Workshops, matching mini-grants, on-line tools and resources, as well as the newly updated educational DVD “Discover Bluegrass: Exploring American Roots Music.” Plus, the affordable Youth Membership Level provides full member benefits encouraging up and coming bluegrass artists to stay with the organization that has supported them from the start.

As a retired educator, I’m also impressed by the various options for continuing education that are available through the IBMA including Leadership Bluegrass which has over 350 graduates since its’ inception in 2000. Competition each year for the limited slots is fierce and why wouldn’t it be? The list of graduates reads like a “Who’s Who” in bluegrass! This outstanding program pools the talents of the whole bluegrass community into a classroom experience that helps foster an understanding about what it takes to be successful in this industry. In addition to the annual Leadership Bluegrass program, the IBMA offers affordable monthly webinars on all kinds of trending topics (to members and non-members, I might add!). But many bluegrassers don’t take advantage of these opportunities.

The benefits of belonging to an organization like the IBMA also include things like insurance plans and access to databases to help grow marketing lists. And, the IBMA looks out after those in the bluegrass community that have been affected by disasters, family emergencies, and other needs through grants and loans from the Bluegrass Trust Fund. There’s just so many great benefits to membership that maybe we tend to overlook them or, sadly, take them for granted.

The IBMA has met and continues to meet the needs of so many in this music industry. Personally, this organization has been instrumental in my development and success as an artist. Yes, there are other groups that also serve the bluegrass community, but it is my humble opinion that none are able to offer as much to their members as the IBMA. Rather than focus on the deeds of a few, if we look at the organization as a whole we can see that the IBMA is a silver lining in the sometimes cloudy sky of bluegrass.

Send me an email james@jamesreams.com and let me know your thoughts.

Randy Pitts
Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Thoughts, sounds, and memories of the benefit for James King held at The Nashville Palace Monday night continue to swirl around in my mind this morning, two days later. James' musical peers in the music community came together in support of a comrade in need--as they always do in these instances-- and that was a heartening thing to see, particularly at this time of year, when the spirit of giving is supposed to prevail. The line up at the benefit would easily rival that of some of the better summer festivals I've attended over the years, featuring acts of the stature of JD Crowe w. Don Rigsby and Ricky Wasson, Doyle Lawson's crack band, The Grascals, and Marty Raybon, along with several other wonderful acts. The crowd, given that the benefit took place on a rainy Monday night as the holidays loom, a time when many people are consumed with shopping for friends and family and preparing for the busy season ahead. Saw lots of old friends and acquaintances from the bluegrass community in the crowd, plus a lot of familiar faces of people I don't know personally but that I know as members of this ever growing but still small and remarkably tight knit community. No doubt as many people from that community as could make it did so.

The truth of the matter is , sadly, that it is probably too small for the sort of challenge facing James, who in the best of times has never been a top tier musical star, even in our relatively small world, though his talent warrants that kind of stature and recognition. James has never been more than a road musician, struggling at times to hold a band together. This time last year, I dared to think that James might be poised on the brink of a major breakthrough; he'd recorded a wonderful, unique, Grammy nominated album, his first album of new music in eight or so years, and there was a significant amount of chatter about it, inside and even outside the world of bluegrass. I had hopes that a lot of people, not just me, my friends and family and discerning musicians, industry insiders and fans of the old school, Stanley Carter and Jimmy Martin influenced vocals of which James is the master, were going to hear him, and that things were going to get a lot better for James. The album, conceived by perhaps James' biggest booster, Rounder founder Ken Irwin, was, aptly enough, called "Three Chords and The Truth." I'm on record about my feelings regarding James' talent in general and this album in particular, capturing as it does James' ability to take a well fashioned lyric and sing it in a way that just takes a listener's heart and flings it over yonder, embodying, for me at least, the reasons that I've learned to love the old stuff so much.

What a difference a year makes. The wheels fell off for James last summer in a big way, and now he is in dire straits financially, is in desperate shape health-wise, and is facing a bleak future. He needs our help, financially, for sure, and lots of people are doing lots of things to help James financially...but at a time when the spirit of giving is upon us, I find myself pondering how it must feel to be in James' shoes this year as the holidays approach... I can't, of course...no one who hasn't been there can, but It has to be a lonely feeling for a man who has stood on stages all around the US and given everything he has time after time until he is emotionally spent-- if you've seen James in performance you know what I mean, and if you don't, go buy his recordings, you'll understand. There aren't many left like James, and I feel inadequate to the task of saying what his music has meant to me, and I doubt that I'm alone in that. But I bet he'd like to hear us try...

Donations can be sent to:

James King Medical Fund
c/o Deonia Jones
Wells Fargo
201 Jefferson St.
Roanoke,Va; 24011

And do yourself AND James a favor...go buy all the James King albums you can, and give them to yourself, your family, and friends. You'll be glad you did.

'Twas the Night After Christmas
Today's column from Bruce Campell
Tuesday, December 16, 2014

(Editor’s Note—Bruce Campbell gets all Christmasy on us in 2009.)

‘Twas the night after Christmas, and all through our home,
It looked like a place where a cyclone had blown
There was wrapping and ribbons and tissue and bows
Where my wife’s new earrings went, nobody knows

All the gifts were attacked on the previous morn
Ribbons were ripped and wrapping, violently torn
Till every last toy was exposed to the air
Games and pajamas and new teddy bears

The buildup to Christmas had taken far too long
It started before the Halloween candy was gone
Then came the shopping, on which hours were spent
Black Friday’s big sales came and then went

We Googled, and Overstocked and even E-Bayed
Brave online visits to the mighty Amazon were made
Our credit cards moaned and creaked from the strain
Till not the tiniest morsel of credit limits remained

And after all the frantic months and frenzied pace
The gnashing of teeth and the running in place
The day finally came we had been longing for
We shopped and spent and bargained no more

Christmas morning, of course, belongs to the young
And it is for they for whom the stockings are hung
But the feasting, the singing, and the happy hours spent
It’s for the whole family, these precious moments are meant

As Christmas day passes, with families together
With Christmas moments we’ll cherish forever
Like the feast at the table, and the children’s delight,
Happy holidays to all, and to all, a good night!

WEB TEAM NOTE--We're back at it with GODADDY...once again we cannot post image files on cbaontheweb.org. At least this time we know what the problem is.

THE DAILY GRIST…”I don't like country music, but I don't mean to denigrate those who do. And for the people who like country music, denigrate means 'put down'.” (Bob Newhart)

Old Country
Today’s Column from Bert Daniel
Monday, December 15, 2014

Suppose you decide to play a recording from Bill Monroe and his Bluegrass Boys, or the Stanley Brothers or Flatt and Scruggs. You’re about to listen to some Bluegrass music, right? After all, these are the bands that form the pillars of the genre we now call Bluegrass music. But I’m not sure this hypothetical question is all that simple. I submit to you that much of the time you play that tune from the founders, you will really be listening to what I would call Old Country. The classic “Bluegrass” tune you just selected might not have any three fingered banjo rolls. It may not even have banjo at all and yet most people listening today would call it Bluegrass just because of the artists who are being featured.

he originators of Bluegrass did not set out to create a brand new form of music, even though that’s what they eventually did. These bands were just trying to make a living back in the 40’s 50’s and 60’s. You can bet they listened to everything that was popular on the Grand Ole Opry or anywhere else, and they wanted to cash in any way they could.

The result for a lot of aspiring Bluegrass musicians of the day (even though they didn’t yet know that they were Bluegrass musicians) was a flood of tunes more in the style of a Patsy Cline or a Hank Williams. And if Elvis Presley changed the timing on Bill Monroe’s waltz, Blue Moon of Kentucky and sold a lot of records? Well that’s what you did too.

Old Country sounded great back then and it still sounds great now. Go to any modern Bluegrass festival and you’ll hear as much Old Country as you’ll hear straight ahead “hard core” Bluegrass, especially around the camp side jam sessions. For one thing, it’s hard to find good three finger banjo pickers. And for another, people still really love that traditional Old Country sound. Many lament how modern Country music has lost its soul in some respects by catering to the marketplace with amplified instruments and influences from Rock and Roll. Bluegrass by contrast, has held onto the traditional acoustic instruments including the fiddle, which like the steel guitar seems to be disappearing from Nashville.

In retrospect, Bluegrass music may have started when Bill’s new band, featuring Earl Scruggs on banjo, started playing a new dynamic version of the music. But it wasn’t codified as a new style until 1948, when the Stanley Brothers completely altered their musical style from a Wade Mainer style to a Bill Monroe style. For almost twenty years, the founders of Bluegrass didn’t know that what they were playing would one day be called Bluegrass. That happened in the mid 60’s, when Carlton Haney and Ralph Rinzler, both former managers of Monroe, staged an outdoor festival in Fincastle, Virginia showcasing the distinct style of music that Bill Monroe’s band was evolving.

Look at the list of inductees to the Country Music Hall of Fame. Bill Monroe is there (1970). Flatt and Scruggs are there (1985). Incredibly, the Stanley Brothers are not there. Granted, they had a very distinct individual style, often a mountain music style. But they composed and performed a ton of great Old Country music.

Lester Flatt’s famous “G run” is familiar to every Bluegrass fan. And fans of Old Country will recognize what I call the Country bass run which consists of the notes (in the key of G, all quarter notes): D,E,F#,G. If you haven’t heard that run a thousand times you haven’t listened to very much Old Country. And if you’re playing bass on an old Stanley Brothers song like God Gave You To Me, Little Glass of Wine, The Old Home, The Fields Have Turned Brown or the Lonesome River, you will have a tough time not playing the Country bass run.

What about some of the respected Bluegrass bands that followed the founders? Did the Osborne Brothers play Bluegrass or Old Country? How about Jimmy Martin? J.D Crowe? These bands are all steeped in the country music of their day and many of their greatest songs reflect that.

Good music has many voices. If a folk singer sings an Old Country or Bluegrass song well, I’ll probably like it just as much as when a Bluegrass band adapts a pop tune to their own style. Bluegrass as a genre is really an amalgam of many musical influences, from the Old Time fiddle playing of Bill’s Uncle Pen to the Blues guitar playing Bill heard from Arnold Shultz to the Gospel songs of the 1920s. Bluegrass has never been one thing and it still isn’t.

But for my money, one of the very best things that Bluegrass is… is Old Country.

THE DAILY GRIST…”Little Bessie was nearly three years old. She was a good child, and not shallow, not frivolous, but meditative and thoughtful, and much given to thinking out the reasons of things and trying to make them harmonise with results. One day she said --"Mamma, why is there so much pain and sorrow and suffering? What is it all for?””…(Mark Twain)

Little Bessie
Today’s Column from Bert Daniel
Sunday, December 14, 2014

One of the great things about the music we all love is that there is so much room for interpretation. Any good artist can take a tune people have heard many times before and put their own spin on it. As a listener, I’m often wedded to the first version I hear of a tune I like. It’s only natural to want to hold onto the moments of joy you experienced when you first heard a classic tune done well. But when a tune is done well one way, that doesn’t necessarily mean it can’t be done a totally different way to very good effect.

The way we listen to music has changed drastically over the years since recorded music came onto the scene. People went from exclusively live music to 78s to LPs to 8 tracks to cassettes to CDs to digital downloads. Now a lot of people just stream the music they want over the internet. You can use an app like Shazaam to identify any tune you’re interested in and search for stuff like that. You can also use the internet to search for new versions of any tune you might be interested in.
That’s exactly what I did recently when I started to listen again to the tune Little Bessie. I had found a CD in my car which I had never listened to. Strangely enough, I didn’t even know how it got there. I may have bought it previously and forgot, or some friend might have loaned it to me because I liked the artists. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that a tune I had heard many years ago was on it and the brand new version sounded fresh and interesting. So today, I thought I might share some of the various versions of this song I have listened to recently. They’re all different and they all add a richness to the knowledge of the tune.

The first version of Little Bessie I ever heard was by the Country Gentlemen. For those of you who are not familiar with the song it’s a song about a little girl who dies in her mother’s arms:

Hug me closer, Mother closer
Put your arms around me tight
For I’m cold in here, dear mother
And I feel so strange tonight

Something hurts me here, dear mother
Like a stone upon my breast
And I wonder mother wonder
Why it is I cannot rest

I’ll always love that first version I heard of Little Bessie. It’s from the Country Gentlemen’s Live in Japan CD. But after hearing the alternative version I had found in my car, I decided to use the internet and find more versions. One of the first versions that interested me was by Ralph Stanley. It’s very different. The Stanley’s sing “closer” both times as quarter notes whereas the Country Gentlemen sing a dotted quarter note for the first “closer”. And instead of singing “I feel so strange tonight”, the Stanleys sing “I feel so strong tonight”.

When I first heard the Stanley’s version, I thought I had mis-heard those lyrics but then I listened to a Ricky Skaggs a cappella version and, as one might expect from such a Stanley’s protege, he sings exactly the same lyrics. The original tune comes from about 1870 (lyrics by R.S.Crandall and arrangement by W.T. Porter). As you’ll see later, both of these variations are present in the original lyrics but they come at different parts of the story.

There is an abundance of lyrics available for this particular tune. I like to sing Molly and Tenbrooks at a big jam because it has so many lyrics and if you can remember only most of them, everybody gets a solo. But I’ve seen more printed lyric verses for Little Bessie than just about any other tune I’ve come across, including John Henry. I’ll give you all the lyrics I know for this tune but you might want to skip around some if you have a train to catch.

All the day as you were working
And I lay upon my bed
I was trying to be patient
And to think of what you said

How the King, Blessed Jesus
Loves his lambs to watch and keep
Oh, I wish He would come and take me
In his arms that I might sleep

Just before the lamps were lighted
Just before the children came
While the room was very quiet
I heard someone call my name

Most versions you hear omit the middle verse of the above three, The Blue Sky Boy’s 1938 is the model for most of the versions that followed, and they also omit the next five verses.

All at once a window opened
On a field of lambs and sheep
Some out in a brook were drinking
Some were lying fast asleep

In a moment I was looking
On a world so bright and fair
Which was filled with little children
And they seemed so happy there

They were singing, oh so sweetly
Sweetest songs I ever heard
They were singing sweeter, Mother
Than our own dear little birds

But I could not see the savior
Though I strained my eyes to see
And I wonder if He saw me
Would He speak to such as me

All at once a window opened
One so bright upon me smiled
And I knew it must be Jesus
When He said come here, my child

One of my favorite versions of this tune comes from the singing of Peter Ostroushko, accompanied by Norman Blake. The chord structure and tempo are a little different, more of a dirge. Ostroushko includes the last of the five stanzas above, which most performances skip and he alters some of the other lyrics a bit for dramatic purposes. For example, the line “just before the children came”. Ostroushko sings “just before the darkness came”.

Come up here, my little Bessie
Come up here and live with me
Where little children never suffer
Through the long eternity

Though I thought of all you told me
Of the bright and happy land
I was going when you called me
When you came and kissed my hand

And at first I felt so sorry
You had called and I would go
Oh, to sleep and never suffer
Mother, don’t be crying so

Now comes the alternative extra stanza that the Stanley Brothers and Ricky Skaggs place earlier:

Hug me close dear Mother closer
Put your arms around me tight
Oh how much I love you mother
And I feel so strong tonight

Now “feel so strong tonight” makes sense in the context of the full version. The little girl has been comforted in the image her mother has created and she is able to face death bravely.

And her mother pressed her closer
To her own dear burdened breast
On the heart so near its breaking
Lay the heart so near its rest

At the solemn hour of midnight
In the darkness calm and deep
Lying on her mother’s bosom
Little Bessie fell asleep

Many versions end with this last line but the Country Gentlemen add another one which I think is very appropriate given that they skip a number of the original story telling verses:

Now up yonder past the portals
That are shining very far
Little Bessie now is tended
By her savior’s love and care

Surfing the internet for alternative versions of a tune you like can turn up a lot of interesting ideas that add to the appreciation of a song you thought you already knew. Even amateur You Tube versions can be worthwhile to listen to. Let me warn you though, you might hear a Pandora version that is just too good to not own the CD or digital download. Here are some of the versions of Little Bessie you might enjoy listening to:

Country Gentlemen: Live in Japan and The Award Winning Country Gentlemen
Stanley Brothers: Old Country Church
Blue Sky Boys: (1938 recording)
Norman Blake and Peter Ostroushko: Meeting on Southern Soil
Norman Blake and Tut Taylor: Flat Pickin in the Kitchen
Ricky Skaggs: Ancient Tones
J.D.Crowe: Bluegrass Holiday
Red, White and Blue (Grass): Very Popular
Roscoe Holcomb: The High Lonesome Sound

Byron Berline – Fiddler off the Roof
Today’s column from John A. Karsemeyer
Saturday, December 13, 2014,

If you have learned, have been learning, or are just starting to learn to play the fiddle, you know that it is a difficult instrument to conquer. It has to be said that a person really never learns all there is to know on the fiddle, because like all musical instruments, you never stop learning (unless you quit playing).

There is a reason that the would-be beginner fiddler in the family is relegated to practice in the bathroom, basement, or wood shed outside the house. And it’s on record that sometimes the spouse learning the four string (sometimes five) wood and wire contraption ends up in the “dog house.” Learning the fiddle has been known to introduce another dimension of irritation into marriages. And there are known and unknown reasons why the fiddle has been referred to as, “The Devil’s Box.”

Be that as it may, in the year 1944, a person was born that eventually made the sound of his fiddle something that is music-in-the-ears to folks that appreciate fiddle music. That person is Byron Berline.
Sometimes you only hear or read about a thing or occurrence once, never again to be repeated. That’s the case when I heard about a recent book, “Byron Berline, A Fiddler’s Diary.” If you’ve been following bluegrass music throughout the years you probably know who Byron Berline is, and that he is a fiddle player who has graced the main stage at the CBA Fathers’ Day Festival held at Grass Valley, California (which has occurred for the past thirty-nine years). Byron has played the CBA FDF at least three times, but those three times are almost like three grains of sand at the beach compared to the number of other places he’s performed; which I found out from reading his book.

“A Fiddler’s Diary,” begins with “Forwards” by Mark O’Conner (fiddler), Douglas Dillard (banjoist), John McEuen (Nitty Gritty Dirt Band), Herb Pederson (Musician/Performer), Ranger Doug (Riders in the Sky), Mason Williams (musician, composer, writer, musician), and other noteworthy individuals in the roots music business. Reading what the aforementioned musicians wrote definitely motivated me to keep reading.

Byron’s book starts by letting us know that he came from a musical family, and that he started playing the fiddle at age five, growing up on the family farm in Oklahoma. He was ten years old when he entered his first fiddle contest, and from there he went on to enter and win many contests throughout the years. Bryon entered his last fiddle contest, The 1970 National Old Time Fiddle Championship in Weiser, Idaho, and won his division (his third win at this contest).

The book goes for seven chapters, eighty pages, telling the reader about Byron’s fiddle experiences on the farm, during high school, at Oklahoma State University, meeting and recording with The Dillards, The Newport Folk Festival, life in the U.S. Army with a fiddle instead of a rifle, and being a member of Bill Monroe’s Bluegrass Boys. There are many funny stories about Bill Monroe that have been told, and at one point Byron relates that Bill couldn’t pronounce “Byron” quite right. So Bill called Byron, “Barn.”

After Chapter Seven, the “diary” portion of the book begins, starting in 1969 and going through 2010. Turns out Byron’s wife, Betty, kept detailed notes on the who, what, where, when, how, and whys of Bryon’s playing (what a gal!). At first glance the next 300 pages of the diary section appear to bog down in copious journal entries, but that is not the case. If the reader sticks with it, the potential to find more than a few “gold nuggets” is staring you in the face. Here are a few highlights, brief in nature, but some have noteworthy short stories to go with them (you have to dig for ‘em yourself in the book).

Bryon recorded and/or played fiddle with The Byrds, The Dillards, The Rolling Stones, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, The Dillard Expedition, Linda Rondstadt, The Kentucky Colonels (sometimes at Clarence White’s house), Country Gazette, Flying Burrito Brothers, Stephen Stills, Emmy Lou Harris, John Denver, The Eagles, and a bunch of others you can read about. Byron also played on sound tracks for a number of different movies, and appeared in some (“Fiddler on the Roof” was not one of them, but “Star Trek” was). During this time Byron was the go-to-fiddler in Los Angeles and Hollywood for records and movies. Like I related, there are many good stories to go along with the above, including his world-wide music performances playing his fiddle in bands.

Byron now resides in Guthrie, Oklahoma, where he owns the Doublestop Fiddle Shop, and he produces about twenty shows a year at his Music Hall in Guthrie, and still does some touring. If you are a fiddler, or just interested in an accomplished fiddler’s world, this book that follows the music career of Byron Berline, one of the world’s premiere fiddle players, is a good read.*

“Do your young men still fiddle with thoughts of growing rich?
And slowly turn to old folks, whittling on a stick?” Those two lines are from the song, “Arkansas.” They do not apply to Byron Berline!

(*information in this column from, “Byron Berline, A Fiddler’s Diary,” used with permission from Byron Berline. No financial interest on my part)


The three day image loading problem has been resolved. Expect to start seeing fresh content on the CBA's web site again. And the second piece of good news is that we tracked the problem down to GODADDY, our ISP. In short, not a CBA problem, a GD problem, and, of course, the tens of thousands of their customers. And finally, thanks to Josh Micheals for staying with this. He took a ration of you-know-what from the web master and still hung in.

THE DAILY GRIST…”The problem with the banjo is that it makes you want to happy dance even if you are determined to enjoy your misery. ”--The Bard

Christmas times a'coming
Today's column from Cliff Compton
Friday, December 12, 2014

It’s Christmas time, and I’m thinking about gifts. The family sent a bunch of them to Samaritans purse, a faith based organization that disperses them to third world children and spreads a little cheer to places that could probably use it. Gift giving is fun. It makes you feel all warm and fuzzy and broke, and it’s one of the best things you can do to justify your existence on this here celestial ball, …and gift getting, well, that ain’t half bad either.

I thought I’d address both sides of this process.

Now if I were to ask my thirteen year old son what he wants for Christmas, he’d present me with a list of electronic gaming devices and computer games that, if I were to purchase them, would bump the stock for “Best Buy” up to Reagan levels overnight and would send my son into ecstatic bliss for a solid week, after which he would be ready to present me with another list.

Now as for me…I have simpler tastes. Just send me the latest C.D. put out by one of my friends. Every day is Christmas when you’re friends have recorded a new C.D.

And it doesn’t always have to be a new one. Sometimes it’s a great surprise that sort of shows up out of nowhere… I was perusing the used C.D.s at the local Goodwill, and came across a sweet Recording of Pete Grant playing a bunch of fine instrumentals on Steel guitar and Dobro. Now I’ve picked with him at grass valley, but I was unaware of this C.D. Well… that situation has been rectified and I’ve been blessed with some great traveling music.

And I remember when Snap Jackson came up to me at Colusa and showed me the new C.D. that he had just brought out of the recording studio, and he let hear it before anybody else, and I soaked up so much pixie dust that I could hardly sleep. And that gift just kept on giving. I’m still reaping the benefits.

Randy Morton brought me into the studio to listen to the touch up on the final mix of his “Pine Ridge” C.D. And that’s where I learned that he had put Kelly Broyles and Me into one of his murder ballads , combining Kelly’s first name and my last name to make the murder victim. What a gift! …I guess…
About the same time “Rock Ridge” came out with their fine C.D. and I got to enjoy Rick and Josies buttery voices and John Shaffer’s sand paper gospel singing. And it was Christmas, right there in the middle of the year.

And anyhow…I guess I told you all that so I could tell you this.

I got a package in the mail yesterday from Dave Neilson. It was in a familiar shape, a little square package remarkably similar to that of a C.D. I opened it (I never could wait till Christmas), and what to my wondering eyes did appear?...This precious piece of gospel plastic in a cardboard square that said “Amber Cross” My kind of church. This was a live gospel set recorded at Parkfield this last year by Dave N. and it wasn’t just her kind of church…It was my kind of church. All these great heaven songs (mansion over the hilltop) Christian life songs (working on a building) and personal pieces she had penned herself (like Walking in the fields of summer). Here’s a sample of the lyrics.

We walked just one mile to get to God
Spent the Afternoon playing in the church yard
Walking to the church just beside you’re dad
Two steps to his one, ain’t half bad.

And them lyrics ain’t half bad either. In fact they’re about as good a set of lyrics as you’re ever gonna find in any Christmas present.

I remember the first time I heard Amber Cross sing. I was walking across the fairgrounds inTurlock and Yoseff Tucker was pickin’ with this little gal that looked like she’d have humming birds voice. But that was not the case, When she started to sing the sound cut through that spring night like a buzz saw on steroids. Shivers went up and down my spine. It was like hearing Hazel Dickens for the first time, only better. I recently bought what I believe to be her first C.D. It was a masterpiece. The lyrics, honest at level rarely seen in music, the arrangements were impeccable…, and that voice….whew!

You might say it sort of spoke to me. Maybe in the language of my DNA. Amber it the daughter of a Baptist minister. I’m the son of a Pentecostal preacher, and we grew up with the same hymn book.

As far as I’m concerned, Dave Neilson is Santa Claus, and Amber Cross is a Christmas present. And if you haven’t heard that girl sing, you ought to.

Merry Christmas, all you pickers. Happy Yule to you all.

THE DAILY GRIST..."Right now I am just taking things a week at a time. I plan on putting my trust in the Lord and turning this all over to Him. My wife Greta and I do ask for your prayers and support during this difficult time.” -- James Alan Shelton, in May 2014 as he learned of the advanced state of his cancer.

Gone but not forgotten
Today's column from George Martin
Thursday, December 11, 2014

Probably 20 or so years ago I saw an ad in the back of Banjo Newsletter for a leather banjo strap that could be personalized with one’s name. It was offered by one “J.A. Shelton” of Weber City, VA. The strap I ordered was beautifully made, thick high-quality leather in a rich, dark brown shade with my name in a lighter tan. It was hand-tooled, looked great and was very comfortable.

The only down side was that with “George” emblazoned on the strap, everybody I met would say, “Hi, George,” and I would have to figure out if I had ever met this person/jammed with this person, could know his/her name, or should know his/her name.

Not being the shiniest string on the banjo, it took me some years to realize that “J.A. Shelton” was actually James Alan Shelton, Ralph Stanley’s lead guitar player. When that finally dawned on me I thought that strap was cooler than ever, and I started noticing that a lot of the pro pickers who came through Grass Valley, or whom I saw on TV, were wearing that same strap. It was like being in an exclusive club, except anyone with $50 and a banjo could join.

In the fall of 2013 Dr. Ralph and his band were making their “Farewell Tour,” and played at the Freight and Salvage in Berkeley. Barbara and I felt it was imperative to catch the good doctor for the last time and went to the show. (During which, Ralph’s grandson, Nathan, announced that the old man was reconsidering the “farewell” thing and might be back again -- but that’s another story.)

After the show I talked to Shelton in the lobby and asked if he still was in the leather business. “Oh, yes,” he said, and offered me a business card. I ordered three guitar straps the next day: one each for Pauline, my long-time singing partner, Kenny, my niece, and one for me. They came in a few weeks, beautifully done, and I salted them away for Christmas.

Those were among the last straps Shelton made; in April he was diagnosed with cancer. The cancer was far advanced and nothing could be done. He passed away a month later at the age of 53, leaving the bluegrass world in deep mourning.

James was by all reports a sweet guy, a great guitar player and family man. He was Dr. Ralph’s close associate, handling most of the band’s business and serving as road manager. In previous years he even did the booking.

After he was gone I began to wonder if anyone was going to continue the strap business. I didn’t know if it was a one-man operation, or if he had friends or kinfolk helping him. Jamesalanshelton.com remained up on the internet, with CDs available for purchase, but the straps vanished.

Then some weeks ago the e-mail I regularly get from Janet Davis Music arrived featuring the “Golden Gate Shelton Hand-Tooled Banjo Strap.” The photo looked just like my strap, said it was made of “Scandinavian leather,” and was priced at $39.95 plus shipping. I figured I could do without my name on it, and send off for one, to put on my other banjo. I also phoned Saga, to see if I could get any information on how the company took over the brand, and if the Shelton family was getting any royalties. But I never got a call back.

I wish I could tell you that James’ beautiful straps are still available, but this version is made in China of very thin leather. The deep embossing James used to do is now shallow and ill-defined. The Chicago screws that hold it on the banjo are tiny and difficult to manipulate, with very fine threads that are hard to start.

Sometimes in this world a wonderful product just disappears, and there is no way ever to get another one. In my lifetime, Bireley’s Orange, a lightly carbonated soda in a wide-mouth bottle (that tasted of real orange) went away, as did Sun Drop Citrus Cola (which I understand is still around in Kentucky, Tennessee and other parts of the South). Original Fosters English Muffins are only a memory. If, as the hints I am reading in the press are true and JC Penney is about to go broke, where will I get my heavyweight T-shirts and tighty whities?

I hope my original Shelton straps last a long time. No more will be forthcoming.

IMPORTANT NOTE FROM WEB TEAM--Those who visit the CBA web site regularly may be noticing that for the past three days we've been posting OLD material (news items, mastheads, etc. The reason--we are experiencing a problem with the administrative side of cbaontheweb.org and are unable to load any new images. We thought we had the problem fixed on Sunday, but it's reared its ugly head again. We're shooting for getting back to normal by the end of the day. For 15 years the web team has taken great pride in delivering fresh content to our web site visitors each and every day, so this bug has been especially frustrating. Please bear with us.

The Overwhelming Presence of Presents
Today’s Welcome from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Well, it’s that time of the year again. The Christmas season, also known more by the more secular Holiday Season. Whatever the reason, a lot of good things happen this time of year. By and large, families are together more, and we all - all of us - try to take the time to get along and do nice things. Personally, I like to think I act this way all year long, but everybody needs some reminders, I suppose.

It’s a time of giving, too. Donations to charities tend to peak during the holiday season, as people get swept up in Altruistic Fervor. Soup kitchens are actually advising people NOT to volunteer their time at Christmas - they are awash in volunteers looking to cram 365 days worth of kindness into a 2 hour stint of ladling out soup. Donations of cash will be more useful to keep these charities running past the Christmas season.

Among our families, friends and other acquaintances, the giving means gifts, too. This is the area where I am exposed as someone who doesn’t do well when it comes to gifts. I hope this isn’t because I’m shallow, uncaring and self-centered. I actually spend a great deal of time mentally appreciating all the wonderful people in my life. I have trouble, however, translating that admiration and love into gift ideas.

I am not advocating the abolition of the exchange of gifts during the holiday season. I just wish I was better at shopping for, and choosing gifts. I suppose enhanced wrapping skills would come in handy too...

Luckily, musicians are easy to buy for, like anyone with a hobby. Like all hobbies, music requires constant replenishment of consumables such as strings, picks, rosin. Also, there is always the need for new capos and tuners.

I tried to change up last year. I bought little boxes of candy and gave them out to bandmates, and reveled in my creativity and thoughtfulness. Recently, however, I was reaching for a mic in a cable bag and found the box of candy from 11 months ago. The Bad Gifter has struck again!

If there are bad gift givers, I’m sure there are bad gift getters, too, and maybe the prevalence of both (they walk among us!) is what makes the overall gifting culture and customs so complicated.

The whole notion of giving gifts is rooted in thoughtfulness and generosity. And for every mediocre, marginal or horrible gift giver and gift getter, probably 20 perfectly chosen gifts find recipients who are genuinely delighted and touched. Who would want to mess with that?

Big Tent – Small Tent Reconsidered (the Beginning of a Musical Autobiography, Part I)
Today’s Welcome from Ted Lehmann
Tuesday, December 9, 2014

For about a dozen or so years my wife Irene and I have spent a goodly portion of our lives listening almost exclusively to bluegrass music, that grand amalgam of old English folk music, gospel, jazz, western swing, and, yes, pop that emerged from Bill Monroe's restless search for a way to express the music within him and make a living some other way than in the factories of northern Indiana. My first exposure to bluegrass came in the mid-sixties when a friend gave my mother a reel-to-reel tape of Flatt & Scruggs, I think it may have been the Carnegie Hall concert. I listened to it some, but didn't much like it, although between that recording and the album of 10” 78 RPM recording from my childhood of the Almanac Singers (Millard Lampell, Lee Hays, Woody Guthrie & Pete Seeger) called Sea Chanties sparked lifelong interest in the banjo. But these weren't the only musical influences in my early life.

Our house was filled with music. There was album after album of the operettas of Gilbert & Sullivan. These now nearly forgotten pieces of late nineteenth century comic musical plays featured operatic singing supporting wonderful melodies and always interesting plots. We also had a book of the plays themselves, allowing me to listen to a song, then read the dialogue. I can still sing a few of these songs. My Dad loved Broadway shows, so soon after the invention of the LP record, albums like South Pacific, Annie Get Your Gun, Guys & Dolls, Kiss Me Kate and many more were available, and I avidly devoured them. Finally, the great bass Paul Robeson's 1940 recording of Ballad for Americans captured my imagination so much I wore it out. At the height of the Red Scare in the late fifties, I scoured the record shops around Greenwich Village in New York City seeking a used copy of this wonderful patriotic piece. It was then I learned the Robeson was a communist whose works shops wouldn't carry. When I went back to my Aunt Dot's home on 15th street, she said, “Oh, we have a copy of that. Why don't you take it?” I was thrilled. At around the same time, Dot's husband Frank Mollenhauer, a fine artist, took me to his studio, where I heard him play his White Lady banjo and his 1940's era Martin dreadnought for first time. Uncle Frank had grown up in the shadow of Yankee Stadium. We went to the Yankee v. Cleveland Indians double header in 1955 which the Indians swept on their way to winning the pennant and breaking a five year Yankee run of World Series victories. During the same period, my mother took me to see Arturo Toscanini conduct the New York Philharmonic. Toscanini conducted without a baton, and she talked a lot about his beautiful hands. Meanwhile, my Dad took me to the Metropolitan Opera to see Rigoletto. During this period, while my parents' marriage was dissolving, I was studying violin, which I not-so-cordially hated. I wish there had been electronic tuners then! It was a pretty big tent.

For me, as for so many people for whom music has been important (that's most of us, isn't it?), high school and college were crucial elements in setting my musical tastes as they coincided with puberty and sexual awareness, where much of our musical consciousness resides for the rest of our lives. Read Daniel Levitin's excellent book This is Your Life on Music, the best explanation I know of why we love the music we love. I graduated from high school in 1959. Westtown School was a Quaker boarding school in suburban Philadelphia.

A bunch of us spent endless hours in the dormitory listening to music - Dave Brubeck's jazz, Chris Connor, a magical, sexy blonde jazz stylist, Ella Fitzgerald's songbook series of Gershwin, Porter, Rogers & Hart and others, The Kingston Trio, The Limelighters, and on and on. Somewhere during this time I picked up my first guitar, and took a few lessons from a graduate student in Philadelphia who later became the chair of the Folk Music department at the University of Texas. There was a group of guys at school who regularly traveled to Sunset Park in West Grove, PA to listen to country and bluegrass music, I wasn't one of them, and the music escaped my attention then. So, for the most part, did Elvis and the Beatles. I think this was because I was fat, awkward, and didn't think I could dance very well, so I stayed away from dance music, although during this period I did see the Louis Armstrong All-Stars at Sunnybrook Ballroom in Pottstown, PA. I also saw live concerts by Pete Seeger, Josh White, the Chad Mitchell Trio, The Stan Kenton Orchestra, and Ray Charles, along with 15,000 mostly black fans in the Palestra at the University of Pennsylvania. During this time I met Irene at a football game and we began our journey together.

While she majored in Physical Education in college, she had been an active member of the band in high school, sang barbershop quartet, played the flute and other woodwinds, and (still maddeningly accurate) sang close harmonies to anything we heard on the radio. Her listening background was in her father's beloved Big Band music and her mother's preferred country music.

What has sparked this first effort at exploring my own musical roots? A couple of weeks ago I began reading a new biography of Billy Joel. I also realized that I was at home in New Hampshire with unlimited bandwidth. I re-activated my Spotify membership. Since Spotify streams almost every recording a listener could imagine, I embarked on an orgy of listening to Joel. As I read about his life I was introduced to some of his early music I was unfamiliar with, allowing his intense driving musical hunger to again reach into my consciousness. It was wonderful way to experience his music, even with the ads, and I think I wrote a pretty good review of the book. Next on my book list was a new thriller by Tim Hallinan. At the end of each of Hallinan's wonderful books he attaches a list of the music he listened to while writing. I jotted down Tim's list (he has become a Facebook friend of mine) and started listening to it. He introduced me to a bunch of new Indie musicians I'd never heard of, but some of whom I found I really liked. At the same time, our son Alex, a guitarist and lover of, particularly, the works of Bob Dylan, but also widely literate in rock music mentioned some of his favorites I should try, too. The easy availability of Spotify and some new influences have begun leading me down some new paths. While writing this piece, I revisited many of the artists mentioned, each raising wonderful memories. Next month I'll pick this up after Irene's and my wedding in 1964, and continue down the musical journey, which has given our life such richness during not only the last decade or so, but for the past fifty years.


Future Leaders
Today's column from Randy January
Monday, December 8, 2014,

I was shocked and disappointed to see in the message boards that yet another fine bluegrass festival, Bluegrassin’ in the Foothills, is no more. Shocked because it seems like the few small bluegrass festivals that are left are dropping like flies, and disappointed because in the two years since I got “hooked” on this music, I was unable to make it up to Plymouth even though it was the closest festival to my home. It also got me thinking that though these types of things tend to run their course, as we can only ask so much of such legendary organizers as the L&S duo, where is the next round going to come from?

As an organization, the CBA has done an excellent job cultivating the musical talents of the youth. When you see of some of the musicians that have been involved in the programs such as A.J. Lee, Luke Abbott, Molly Tuttle, and countless others, there is no denying the success. Now granted, many of them would have been great musicians anyways, but giving them a venue to perform at and bringing them together for collaboration and growth; that is the value in the programs and it is paying dividends in the preservation and growth of the music in California.

Certainly those youths that were involved in the program are doing their part to continue the education aspect. Molly is a regular as an instructor at the CBA music camps, Luke is an excellent music teacher and has been really great with the kids at the Youth Academy, and in general most of the up and coming younger bands in the area are really dedicated to giving back to the kids (Front Country comes to mind!). It’s covered, check the box, hats off to all involved, the youth programs have been a huge hit and I hope everyone continues to support them (see Darby’s current call for donations and keep giving!).
The question that is burning in my mind though, is where will the future leaders come from? Not necessarily the ones with phenomenal musical talent, but the ones behind the scenes making it all come together. Who will organize the next set of festivals for all that talent to showcase itself at? Who will champion for the youth that come after the next generation? Who will organize volunteers, run the website, print the newsletters, build the stages, run the sound booths, put together the camps, and essentially keep the association alive and new and fun and prospering?

It’s just astonishing what the current group of leaders, and those that came before them have accomplished. There are so many great people involved to be mentors for the next generation, but are there enough in the next wave to fill the big shoes someday?

Now I know I’m generalizing here, since my initial thought processes was triggered by the L&S scale back and those festivals were not technically “CBA”. I’d still wager a pretty good bet that most of the folks going were card carrying CBA members though, and it’s certainly in the CBA’s interest to foster and encourage these smaller and more personal privately organized festivals. If there is one thing I’ve learned about this music, is that it is about community. To keep these traditions going that community will have to continue to grow and thrive, so I think it is well within the CBA charter to encourage all aspects of that community whether it be CBA controlled or not.

So I think the message, for me at least, is that us Generation X and early Generation Y folks should try to get involved early and do what we can to be a part of this, as in another ten or twenty years from now we will be the ones trying to fill the voids and keep the torch moving forward. It’s not an easy task at times trying to find time to be involved. My own personal schedule involves two young kids, a full time job, and a desire by all of us to experience as much of this wonderful world as we can. Free time is a non-existent thing, so tasks must be weighed and prioritized. Still, it’s not efforts of one that make a great community, but the culmination of the efforts of all. Doing what you can in one small part of the equation can have a profound effect on the whole. Now if I can just resist that urge to kick up the feet and unwind after a long day, and dedicate just a little bit of time here and there, then maybe I can help make a difference too.
Happy holidays to you and yours!

A Peculiar Duel
Today's column from Marcos Alvira
Sunday, December 7, 2014

The fine mist floated a half meter above the damp pampas earth. The sun had not quite lifted its sleepy brow above far off mountains that formed a crooked line at the extent of the plain. Octavio de Ponferrada Suarez Scarambolli sat in the wooden folding chair; the seat wobbled on the uneven ground. Blowing warm moist air into his cupped hands to keep his gnarled joints loose for the grisly business at hand, he shivered— his black wool morning coat, silk vest with the white ascot wrapped snugly around his thin, long neck were not enough to ward off the chill in the early amanacer. Even in the thin light of predawn, when the world is still flat and grease gray, he could clearly make out the thick form of Gregorio Zarrate, or simply Tio Goyo to his faithful lackeys, goons and street mobs that served and adored the caldillo, a brutish local boss of this remote region.

Zarrate commanded the loyalty of the area’s simple campesinos and tough independent gauchos. He understood their distrust of the soft politicians from the large cities. Through his defiance of national politicians and his indefatigable ability to sit and share yerba mate with those whose hands were calloused from a lifetime of rough work, he had gradually attained control of the local consejos and bureaucracies. Octavio, however, knew the truth--the undeniable fact that Zarrate, for almost three decades, had built his hinterland empire upon propaganda, broken backs, lies and ultimately fear from those that opposed him. His common man reputation dissembled the monster that he was. Octavio was the last voice of reason, and he had come to this particular moment when his words of truth would prevail.

Goyo stood among the tall grass, before the sun would cast its first long early morning shadows, his heavy overcoat draped over his broad round shoulders and the sharp, large blade facon tucked into his built as was the traditional style of the gauchos. His thick right hand gripped the rosewood handle of the revolver that he had chosen has the weapon, its bright steel frame contrasting against the flat, colorless sky and earth. Forty feet from him sat his antagonist of many years, the local publisher of a third rate newspaper, a thin periodical that was more innuendo and vitriol than fact and news.

Scarambolli had come to the area many years before, following a young woman who had left the pampas to make her way in Buenos Aires but returning a year later. She had never accomplishing anything more than serving tables at the small street cafes; dancing the Tango at night for a few pieces of copper, and her grand achievement: luring the emaciated young writer, Scarambolli, to her small town. She thought that his education would make him powerful in such a small place as her village and outlying area. Instead, he had engaged in a holy crusade against the ascension of Goyo. To defy and fight Goyo could only result in death, a broken body or poverty. The latter was the destiny for poor Scarambolli, with the ridicule of anyone with enough education and ability to read his preposterous publication.

Eventually the young woman found an other amorous interest in the arms of teamster passing through. On an icy spring night, Scarambolli lay cold and shivering in bed without his beloved, green eyed maiden by his side to keep him warm. Of course, the writer could only blame the great satan, Goyo for this calamity, for who else, in the beguiled academic’s mind, could possibly drive his woman away from true love?

The charcoal sky began to lighten to a hazy gray. Goyo watched, as the intermediary dropped the handkerchief, thus beginning the duel. In the dim light, Scarambolli rolled a white sheet of paper into the ancient, oversized black typewriter. The glowing tip of the cheroot bobbed up and down as the writer held it between the fingers of the same hand he used to turn the roller in the carriage. Even through the mist whisping upwards in long fingers, somewhat blurring Scarambollis extraordinarily thin frame, he could make out the long thin strands of gray hair that hung about man’s ears and collar like the an old bare mop.

“Octavio” shouted Goyo, “don’t be a fool. You are going to die. Pack and leave.” Scarambolli hunched over the typewriter.

Goyo could never understand the nature of animosity between the two. Although his rise to prominence had occurred without the occasional use of forceful persuasion, Goyo had treated his people well and protected them against the exploitation that had befallen many other rural areas such as his. He even provided them with bread and beef when harvests were poor, and he would help rebuild their homes when great storms swept across the plains reducing the earthen hovel to piles of rubble and mud. But now he was tired and wanted to retire from his accomplishments and leave the work to his son. That, however, had become increasingly difficult as Scarambolli tripled the vehemence against his progeny that had once been reserved for him. Moron. Puppet. Idiot child. Child of the beast. Slaver. The insults proliferated the weekly paper until Goyo could take it no longer.

One damp afternoon, as the two passed on opposite sides of the square, Goyo abruptly stopped and called out, “Scarambolli, you are a liar, a coward, and a despicable snake. You were not man enough to find the thief that stole your woman and defend your honor. And now you hide behind your paper and print words that you would never defend to my face. I wish I had really taken your women, for you would do nothing but talk and write. A real man would use his facon to carve his message into his enemies heart.”

Goyo’s voice boomed and echoed. Fine gentlemen and their ladies stopped mid stride. The delivery men reigned in their large draft horses to a stop. Everyone was familiar with the voice of the strong lunged Goyo from his many speeches proffered from the center of this very plaza, but there was menace in his tone today.

And then the unexpected happened: Scarambolli cleared his throat. Just as he had thought--indeed, Goyo had been responsible for the loss of his woman. No doubt he had used her and then sent her away to become one more of his capital assets. Scarambolli could feel his throat tighten with fierce anger...so much anger that tears began to collect around the folds of his small, wrinkled eyes.

He screamed, “You are vile, Zarrate. No woman or child is safe in the streets with animals like you roaming them. It’s time we finished this business. I swear before all present that I will claim justice for every injustice and and evil that you have perpetrated upon me and our citizens. I will exact justice in the form of your life.”

Even the the ladies attired in the finest silks and richly adorned hats could not help but smile mocking at the folly of Scarambolli’s bravado. He had actually threatened Goyo to a duel to the death. Word spread rapidly through the region, but it wasn’t until a few days later after the most recent publication of the paper that it was learned that Scarambolli had chosen as his weapon, his decrepit old typewriter. Some had supposed that the publisher might attempt to drop it on Goyo’s head, but Scarambolli was clear in his message: the printed word was more powerful than brute might.

He would argue to anyone within hearing that his accusations born out in fact would bring Goyo to his knees and put an end to the monster. In fact, he would defend himself with his typewriter in the field. And so that is how Goyo came to be here this dark, bone chilling morning. And now with a shrug, he raised his arm with the pistol. He noticed Scarbolli’s hand begin to move rapidly toward the typewriter as he glanced up at the hulking caldillo. “That typewriter has killed the damned fool,” he thought as he looked down the sights of the American .45 caliber.

Octavio saw the white handkerchief drop to the ground. Strange, he thought that it might poetically slowly float there, but the morning dew had made it heavy and it fell like a stone. His typewriter was loaded, and he put down the cheroot. In the distance, the hollow winded mourn of a great horned owl called out, perhaps for the last time before it’s wide amber eyes closed sleep. For a moment, he thought he heard Zarrate call. His voice had always reminded Octavio of a bears deep snort, huffs, and growl. He began to type, his long delicate fingers accustomed to striking the heavy, chrome rimmed round keys; simultaneously as he glance up in time to to see the orange muzzle flash and hear the thunderous report of the gun slowly roll across the forty feet like a storm gradually crawling across the pampas.

“Odd,” he thought, “I would have thought the bullet would travel much faster.” He saw the elliptical point slowly float toward him, emerging from the blue cloud emitted from the barrel, spinning, in a line with a singular purpose and destination. “Well, then, I suppose I really must get busy,” he continued to think as he began typing furiously, banging the keys, so fast that the black oily levers with the letters on their tiny heads would not come to rest before five more were already driving toward the paper with a fatal force. “Zarrate is a dead man,” he mused and he hammered out paragraph after paragraph of detailing the the litany of Zarrate’s cruel acts over the many years. He wove the murders, the bribes, the extortion, and the torture together in a journalistic tapestry that be worthy of hanging on the walls of a large city newsroom. His arm was like a teamsters whip, it moved so rapidly striking the polished carriage return. And he stacked each completed page in a neat little pile to the left of the typewriter. Zarrate is a dead and he doesn’t know it.

He arched his back to provide relief from the tension from his hunched position and he noticed that the eastern clouds were tinged pink. He glanced up to see that the bullet was had covered half the distance between the two. He was amused with the irony that the lead cone was now the inverse color of the gradually brightening world around him. This observation vitalized him. The world was awakening this morning to the truth of his words, for his words were truth and light. Evil cannot hide in the light and this morning, once and for all his light will slay the beast, Zarrate.

His eyes pinched closely together as he strained to see the bullet and estimate its accuracy and velocity. He was sure he had time to write more, for his tome was complete, the indictment and evidence against Zarrate sat right there on the rickety little table. He was sure that in a moment he would see Zarrate fall into dirt and grass with a perplexed expression of bewilderment, permanently fixed by death, over the irony of his demise at the hands of Octavio. He wondered if Zarrate would fall face forward strike the earth with a loud thud or would he rumple at the knees with his head arched back as to plead with the heavens one last time for mercy and understanding?

The bullet continued its course, but he decide that he had time to continue to write. Looking up again at the dull flat face standing across from him, he decided to write a poem to the woman whose love was stolen from him. It would be grand, perhaps in the tradition of the sonnets written by the English poet Robert Browning to his beloved Elizabeth Barrett. Or perhaps he will show the world his passion and longing for the woman that that had inspired his own light, like the Nicaraguan poet Ruben Dario. And he began to type, his words breathing, dancing, twirling adagios of love, his words of light illuminating a bleak, humorless world just as the sun was breaking across the horizon. His words spread a myriad of light and color across the sky, the clouds absorbing their pink, orange and yellow from the word that pour from his chest into his hands, onto the paper and into….

The second, standing a mere ten feet away flinched when Octavio’s head snapped back and then lurched forward again in recoil. Bits of skull, brain and blood sprinkled through the air as if the pink clouds of the sunrise decided to shower the earth with red. The second hesitantly stepped forward. The journalist’s white ascot was rapidly turning crimson, and remarkably, Octavio’s hands had managed to remain on the typewriters keyboard. The second’s eyes followed the path from the writer’s arms , to hands, to machine, to paper. At the top left corner of the blood splattered sheet was one neatly typed word, “Banjo.”

The elephant in the room
Today's column from Loes van Schaijk
Saturday, December 6, 2014

Welcome, and pleased to meet you! My name is Loes, I am a new columnist here on the website of the Californian Bluegrass Association, reporting to you from Europe (zooming in: Rotterdam, the Netherlands).

I would like to devote my very first column here to the elephant in the room. On multiple occasions I've heard of American artists cancelling their tour to Europe or not even considering going there in the first place, because they're afraid the whole continent is a war zone or is generally underdeveloped. I've also heard rumors about American citizens being targets for terrorist organisations in the whole world, making it unsafe for them to travel.

If an irrational fear keeps people from doing things that they would actually love to do (like connecting to people from another culture by way of your passion, which is bluegrass music), I think that's sad, a waste both for the artist and the audience that have to miss out on what could be a fantastic experience. So of course I could be really quick to say that the Netherlands are not only very far away from Ukraine and Russia but also perfectly safe (and we have the best drinking water coming from the tap in the whole wide world!). But it would be naive to deny the political tensions between Russia and "the West". So, is the fear irrational or not? I thought the best thing to do was to ask an American living in Russia for his take on things.

Robert Palomo was born in Columbus, Ohio, went to high school in Cleveland and studied music at Indiana University. That's where, in 1971, he first heard Earl Scruggs, and started playing bluegrass banjo himself. The bluegrass image was a bit too conservative for his taste, though, so he dropped it until he encountered The New Grass Revival and Steve Martin in the late 1970's. He fell in love with a Russian woman, and they married in 1992. They moved to St. Petersburg, Russia in 1996 and have lived there ever since.

Q: When you moved to Russia, how did the people around you react to that?
A: On the Russian side, I would say with curiosity and warmth. On the American side, with a lot of head scratching. (That's an English expression meaning they wondered what the hell I was thinking of!)

Q: What was your motivation for moving there? Was it a hard or easy choice?
A: First of all, it was never intended to be a long-term move. I had been working in the computer software industry in Seattle and Silicon Valley for some 5 year without a vacation and I was burned out. Since my wife had an apartment and a job waiting for her in Saint Petersburg, we decided I would take a 1-year sabbatical over there. The added benefit would be that my 2 step-daughters would keep up their native Russian language. We always wanted them to be thoroughly bi-lingual, which they did!

Q: Did your opinion of the Russian people, and your contact with them, change after you learned the language and learned more about their culture/history?
A: I still don't speak the language well. I really improved a lot when I started meeting and playing with Russian bluegrass musicians who don't speak English. Motivation + music, the universal language. I think I was pretty open-minded about the people. My paternal grandfather was a linguist and businessman, and used to host people from all around the world at his home. There I encountered people from Spaniards to Saudis. I was used to conversation going on around me in languages I didn't understand. What I did not really know about Russians was how warm and generous they can be when you meet them on an individual/personal basis. They can be pretty tough and unpleasant to deal with officially, but I guess the same could be said of many peoples. I was impressed with their ways with children and the amazing after-school institutions and programs that were available free to our kids. I am firmly convinced that you can't begin to get close to a people or their culture without some of their language... more than just "hello", "thank you", and "beer please".

Q: What's it like for an American to live in Russia? How would you compare that to life in America?
A: In most ways, it's just living life. There are things that are great, and there are things that drive you crazy. They are just different things. St. Petersburg is a beautiful city. After almost 20 years I still am a little amazed when I drive or walk around in the center. We just don't have architecture like that in the States.

Q: Do politics influence your everyday life?
A: Considering my wife is the chief editor of the Saint Petersburg edition of the opposition newspaper "Novaya Gazeta", I do hear a great deal about what's going on in politics. To the extent that she comes home agitated or stressed out, I'm affected. I probably hear about a lot of stuff that never gets reported internationally. I think the biggest influence politics has on my daily life is to inspire me to make and share music in such a way as to bring people together, countering in some small way the damage the political types inflict on the rest of us.

Q: What was it like over there when the M17 crashed? What did Russian media say about it?
A: My language skills pretty much preclude me consuming Russian media, so most of what I know is second hand. Of course, 99% is state controlled. Mostly the government line sought to focus blame on Ukraine and the West. As in the U.S. there are some rabidly extreme media, not directly state controlled, who were putting out some pretty off-the-wall stuff, like saying it was done by the CIA to discredit Russia, etc. I think not too many people outside of the lunatic fringe actually believed any of that.

Q: Have you ever felt any anti-American sentiment or even hate, living in Russia?
A: Personally, no. Not once.

Q: Have you ever felt unsafe, being an American living in Russia?
A: The streets of Saint Petersburg are one heck of a lot safer than any other city of 5 million I can think of. If I have ever felt unsafe, it was not due to my nationality. As in any big city, there are those who target foreigners generally. At the same time, I would be naive to act as if there were no anti-American sentiment around, so I am somewhat cautious about revealing my nationality to people I don't know.

Q: How are homosexuals treated in Russia these days? Are there ways for a gay tourist or musician to safely visit the country?
A: I am not part of this community, so most of what I do know is second-hand. I've been a musician so long that sexual orientation is about the last thing I care about when I meet someone. Russian officialdom, both religious and secular, is of course very down on LGBT. They have passed some pretty draconian laws, but the thing here is they love to pass tons of laws with no thought to implementation or enforcement. So laws often don't affect anything. However, they are on the books and if someone does something that pisses off the wrong person, the law might be used as a retaliatory weapon. There is certainly a gay community active in the major cities. If someone visiting Russia has a history of activism, or gets invited by persons or groups associated with LGBT or activists, they might get hassled by the authorities. Worst case would likely be detention followed by quick deportation. The official reason would be "visa irregularities".

Q: Is there any bluegrass going on in Russia (Russians playing bluegrass themselves)? If so, would you please tell us something about it?
A: Yes, but not on a large scale. I've met pickers from Novgorod, Moscow of course, and a few other places. When I came here, it was mostly unknown. I'm pleased to be able to save I've had a small hand in helping it to become better known, like organizing the Russia-America Bluegrass Jamboree since 2010. I play regularly with a bluegrass band, the "house band" for the St. Petersburg Country Club. This is not what Americans think of - it's a club whose members are aficionados of American country western and and roots culture. There is no problem with them existing or having activities. Russians in general still don't know bluegrass. They know "country", but not the bluegrass sub-genre. But when they do hear it, they love it. It's hard for bluegrass musicians to form bands, and for bands to find venues because the bar and club scene is very rigidly partitioned into major genres. There is little in the way of variety or art clubs. I know some folks here in Petersburg that are trying to change that and I've already done one show in one place, and am looking to do another couple of places in town next year.

Q: Who's a Russian bluegrass artist of whom you think: everybody in the whole world should know his/her name?
A: Natasha Borozilova. She's on the same label as Donna Ulisse, who was over here several years ago.

Q: What would you advise bluegrass musicians on tour who want to steer clear of the tensions in Russia-Ukraine?
A: I should think they would want to steer clear of travel near the Russia-Ukraine border (Uncle Sam has an advisory out on this), but I think it's unlikely they would be going anywhere but Moscow, Petersburg, or Yekaterinburg. I would advise them to consider who is sponsoring them. If the sponsor is any kind of NGO, or activist or political group, something like that, then the potential for hassles exist. If they would be paid for their gig, they should check carefully about receiving any money in Russia. It's probably best not to. The pros I know who have performed here received payment in their home country. I would also advise them to bring good photos of their instrument, and any documentation they might have of the purchase, and check with Customs officials on entering the country to see if they should have it documented, so they can take it back out with no hassles. This is especially important for instruments in the violin family. They have had a lot of problems with people illegally taking old instruments out of Russia. Guitars, banjos, resos, and probably Gibson style mandos should be no problem, but it never hurts to check with the Red Line customs. They'll probably just send you thru the green line.

Q: What would you advise bluegrass musicians who want to support bluegrass in Russia?
A: Come and perform, meet musicians and jam, and maybe teach a class or two.

Q: How cold does it get in winter where you live?
A: Minnesota is worse. :-) Petersburg is on the Bay of Finland, which tends to mitigate the harshness of winter. We can get a week or more of Siberian style arctic deep-freeze, usually in January. The worst part is the northern latitude. We have the famous White Nights in summer when it never really gets dark, but in winter we have a long period where it never really gets light. That's harder than the snow or temperature.

Q: What are your plans for the holidays?
A: Looking like a visit to the American southwest and a visit with family in southern California. A respite from the long dark winter here.

Q: Are there any important issues that I forgot to address?
A: "Do Russian really drink that much vodka?" Yes. But they can hold it. Don't think you can keep up with them. You can't.

Read more:
Robert Palomo: http://www.robertpalomo.com
Russia-America Bluegrass Jamboree: https://www.facebook.com/russiaamericabluegrass
Natasha Borzilova: http://natashaborzilova.com/

Ten Items or Fewer
Today’s column from Brooks Judd
Friday December 5, 2014

Item 1: October 1970. A friend of mine had a cat that had just had a litter. He asked if I would like to pick out one for my own.I said OK and went to his house and saw six tiny kittens all curled up beneath their mother.My eyes fell on a gray Persian mix and I knew that was the one. I named her Disraeli Spoonful (Dizzy) for short. Dizzy was in our home until 1984.

November 26,2014: Piper, our beautiful cat given to us by our daughter,Rhiannon 7 years ago suddenly became sick and we had to say good bye to her. For the first time in 44 years there is not a cat or a dog or a cat and dog or a cat and dogs living under the Judd roof.

Much has been written about “empty nest” situation. Children grow up and move out into the world on their own leaving a huge empty vacant house for their parents. Sheila and I have been able to adjust to our empty house especially now since we have four grandchildren who visit frequently.

Adjusting to having no pets can be in itself quite an emotional experience. Seven short years ago we were sharing our home with three dogs and Piper. One by one our dogs left us.It is an eerie, empty feeling not having your dog wagging it’ tail at you when you say, “Wanna go for a walk?” and what better start to your day to have your cat curl up beside you on your favorite chair as you drink your morning coffee and do the daily crossword.

All that is gone now. There is a silence that we will have to get used to. Sheila and I have made a promise to ourselves that after we do some traveling and are able to tear out and replace all the carpeting our pets lovingly “marked” for us it will be time to bring a pet back into our home.

Until that time a huge debt of gratitude to: Dizzy, Spot, Vanessa,Betsy,My beloved Sadie, Pepper,Chloe,and to Piper.

Item 2: Just because it is cool: Christopher Walken: “MORE COWBELL!!!” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GCd0OjjCz88

Item 3 Things that are beautiful and don’t cost a cent.The changing of the leaves on our thousands of trees here in Turlock. Sheila and I have been fortunate to spend the last 34 years here and as every autumn turns into winter a colorful painter’s delight awaits us all. We do love it so..... And now the rains have come! Thank you.

Item 4: A few years back I was going through a very tough time. Of course Sheila, my two daughters Jessica and Rhiannon and my sister, Maria Nadauld (Above the Bay Booking) were there every step of the way. I phoned Rick and carefully explained my situation and Rick simply said, “What can I do?” I knew all I had to do was ask and I know he would be there.

I would like to offer this quote to everyone one out there who has a trusted friend they can rely on. From Epicurus: “It is not so much our friendship that helps us as the confidant knowledge that they WILL help us.”

Item 5: Many years ago Rick and I attended our K-6 Highland School. I would walk over to Rick’s home every morning and wait while Rick would finish his breakfast and get ready for school and then we would take the walk to school.

One morning while waiting for Rick to get ready I began reading the Oakland Tribune and came upon a poem that for some reason I memorized right there. It was called “An ode to an aging hipster.” I think Herb Caen had just come out with the term Beatnik and from that that came the phrase “hip cats” and then “hipster.” This poem was an early ode to the aging beatnik with a green thumb looking for employment.

Man like I’m tired of making this scene,
It’s a slow drag, you dig what I mean.
This looking for work man, leaves me cold
Like all I get is daddy-o you’re too old.

So like I’m a 49er, but man I feel fine.
I have muscle will hustle
And I don’t tap the wine.

If you want a real gone cat
With a hoe and spade,
Well turn me loose dad
You’re garden is made.

Like this is no jazz man,
I dig the cool soil,
You can’t bug this gate
With honest toil,

So call my pad man
And offer me bread,
And I’ll grow your hip flowers,
As big as your head.......

Item 6: Not to be out done Rick had memorized “his” poem and would recite it to his dates prior to asking for a good night kiss.

They strolled down the lane together,
The sky was clustered with stars,
We reached the gate together,
For her I lifted the bars

She did not heed or thank me
For she did not know how,
For I was only the hired hand,
And she the Jersey Cow.

Rick said this worked every time and I do believe him.

Item 7: Thanksgiving at JJ’s in Fremont: All the family, grandchildren etc. came together for a wonderful Thanksgiving Day celebration and feast. Our three grandsons decided to stage a play in their bedroom. My youngest grandson, five years old, came up to me in the living room with a self made ticket and program handed it to me and said the play was about to begin.My other grandson’s blinked the lights off and on to notify everyone else the play was about to begin.I reached for my can of Pepsi and my grandson said in a matter of fact tone, “No unopened cans or bottles allowed.” I quickly reached into my wallet and pulled out a $1.00 bill and offered it to him. He quickly grabbed it and said, “Be careful and don’t spill it.”

Item 8: This column would be longer and more legible but I just got released from Kaiser Hospital in Manteca for minor surgery and my thoughts are still under the spell of anesthesia and therefore more scattered than usual. I’ve double checked it and I hope I didn’t mention politics, religion, or Rick in my column. If so I’m sure I will hear about it.

Until January 2015: Read a book, hug a child, pet a dog, stroke a cat, eat a bar of chocolate, and say something nice behind someone’s back.

THE DAILY GRIST…“Never lose the groove in order to find a note.” Victor Wooten, The Music Lesson

Chasing the Groove
Today's column from Dave Williams
Thursday, December 4, 2014

It is Tuesday and I need a welcome column by Thursday morning. Even at this late to my deadline date I’m not sure what I am going to write about. This will be my 36th column and I have never missed a deadline although there are some months when I’ve done a better job than others.

So I sit down to get started writing but in my normal procrastination routine, I decide to go surfing first. Obviously not the surfboard and the ice cold water kind but the kind with the keyboard and monitor. I surf all my normal spots, email, Facebook, Yahoo, check for hits on my band’s web page and finally the CBA website. On the top of “News” column on the left side, I spy the name Edgar. A click on that and then I am an hour and a half down the road (I watched them more than once). For those that haven’t had the chance, please do yourself a favor and go to the archives and go back a couple of days and click on Edgar. It takes you Bluegrass Situation article that is in honor of Edgar Meyer‘s 54th birthday and has links to six videos of Edgar playing the bass, some solo pieces and some with an all-star group of collaborators. Anyhow thanks to Rick, I found my hook for today. It must be editor or webmaster intuition. Good news for me but for you it means I’ll be talking about bass playing again.

Listening to Edgar play is both very humbling and very inspiring. It’s all about the groove. Whether he was playing solo or with others there is always the groove. I am not a good enough writer or musician to describe it but fortunately I am in tune enough to hear and more importantly feel it. The one with Bela called “B’ song is all outside the lines but the groove is there.

My favorite video was the collaboration with another of my favorite bassists Victor Wooten. This video has a bass solo performance, on one bass, shared by these two masters of the instrument. They play two on the bass and also switch off playing without dropping the groove and they are obviously having fun. I posted this one on my Facebook page.

Getting back to the illusive groove, I’m always chasing it and actually find it on occasion and when I do I remember why I play the bass. When you have a good groove, all the music comes together. The leads are better and the fills are hot.

In getting to the groove, I’m not sure where talent and nature take over from the hard work and practice on the bass. It is an age-old question that I think answers itself. Could I practice enough to be able to play like Edgar Meyer? What is enough and how far back in the time machine do I need to go in order to have that much time?

The answer from my perspective is that, most assuredly, I don’t have the talent that Edgar has and I believe that part of that talent is a different level of love of the instrument above all other things in his life that give him the motivation and freedom to put the extraordinary amount of time necessary to play like that.

A friend of mine who is a very accomplished jazz bass player in the bay area told me that the first time he saw Edgar Meyer live he didn’t know if he should go home and practice more or burn his bass.

I’m keeping this all about the bass (sic) but I’m sure it is the same for all instruments. The talent of the top musicians is very evident and that includes the work developing the talent.

So what do we do? We can’t go back and claim all that missed practice time but if we can draw on the inspiration of the Meyers, Flecks, Grismans, Bushes, Thiles, Rices and others, we can find the freedom and enjoyment to put more quality time in on our instruments.

Works for me. I’m off to the woodshed to work on my chops so that the next time I play out, I’ll be ready to find the groove.

b>The Scottish Umbrella
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Well, the rains finally came, and that meant I had to learn all over how to include an umbrella into my life. But there was another, more disturbing development - my little Scottish umbrella is getting beat up, and that makes me sad.

This Scottish umbrella was the first umbrella I’ve ever owned. And I bought it in Scotland, and it reaching the end of its useful life means one less physical connection to a great time in my life. The scotch I bought (Mortlach, single malt) is long gone. It wasn’t really a Scottish umbrella, except that I purchased it in Scotland, and it was plaid. I’m sure it was made in China or Thailand.

I had similar pangs as my marriage outlasted all our wedding gifts. One by one, over the years, these useful reminders of one of the greatest days of my life simply wore out, or became lost. How does one lose 11 cheese plates?

I don’t really collect mementos that are only useful as souvenirs - I like to buy real stuff I can use in everyday life. I relish the connection between these (often mundane) thingsand the stories behind them. So, instead of posters, stickers or little silver spoons, I buy shirts and glasses and, an umbrella.

I try to be the same way with instruments. I still have the very first guitar I ever owned, although it’s no longer playable, and too cheap to be worth repairing. Every instrument I own has a story - some have very long and interesting stories, and I treasure thinking about those stories almost as much as I enjoy the music that comes from them.

Other instruments have slipped through my fingers. I pawned a guitar once to go on a date with a very special girl, and although I miss the guitar, I still have the girl, so I think I came out ahead in the deal. Other instruments were sacrificed to upgrade efforts - an Aida banjo was sold to buy an Epiphone banjo, for example. But my wife bought me the Aida - so it hurt to lose that connection.

Another guitar - also a gift from my wife --slipped away, but not in a bad way. My oldest son needed a quality acoustic guitar, and having it now reside at this house with his wife is a pleasing continuation of that instrument’s story.

So, it’s not really the things I cherish - it’s the stories within them. The umbrella, and cheese plates, the guitars and the banjos. The good news, even when the “things” slip away, or wear out or get passed on, I still have the stories.

How far would you go?
Today's column from Carolyn Faubel
Tuesday, December 2, 2014

(Editor’s Note—In 2014, just in time for Thanksgiving, one of our regular columnists at the time, Carolyn Faubel, asked us this question.)

How far would you go to make your host or hostess feel comfortable, that is, not embarrassed, by a his or her culinary lapse or anomaly?

Let’s say you are having dinner with your sweet mother, or your dear auntie, and she has served your favorite—meatloaf topped with barbeque sauce and caramelized onions. You slide some mashed potatoes over to join the beef and take a big bite. It’s then that you feel the unmistakable sensation of a hair in your mouth. What do you do? Do you abruptly stop chewing, squint your eyes, stick your thumb and index finger into your mouth and grope around until you find it, pulling it out and then holding it up for inspection? “Oh look! I found a hair in my food!” Or do you discretely spit the bite out into a napkin, not saying a word?

Maybe it’s not a foreign object in the dish, but the dish itself. It tastes weird, not to your liking at all. In fact, you would rather not even try to choke it down.

Perhaps you are eating over at your best buddy’s house, or maybe your in-laws. You didn’t know until you took a bite that the chicken was baked with a curry powder crust on it. And the soup tastes sort of swampy. What do you do? Do you say, “I can’t eat this. Do you have any peanut butter so I can make a sandwich?” Or do you politely pick at it and then stop by In and Out Burger on the way home?

When I was a kid, we used to go visit the relatives in another state. One aunt invited all her family over to join us in a dinner, using the “good china” in the top cupboard. As luck would have it, I got the top plate. Which was dusty. The pattern hid it, but when I sat down to my food, I could see the layer. It wasn’t that appetizing, but I did feel very noble about not embarrassing my aunt.

The best story I heard was from my sister. She was visiting her husband’s family and was served pheasant. The host was very proud of his presentation. She was served her section. Crunch! He had forgotten to remove the craw! She ate around it, not wanting to embarrass him by pointing it out. Yikes!

I knew one man who was so terrified and disgusted about the mere idea of a hair in his food that he required his wife and daughters to have very short hair. Does a hair do it for you? Or is it bugs? Grit?

Would you be discreet? Or do you feel like all the participants need to know what you found, or how you think the food tastes?

December President’s Message
Today's column from Darby Brandli
Monday, December 1, 2014

The CBA has had a very busy autumn. Please read Lucy Smith’s article on the International Bluegrass Music Association’s (IBMA) World of Bluegrass in Raleigh, NC in this issue. Almost every Board member attended as did our hardworking team of volunteers. There were many California Bands in attendance and six of our very own Kids on Bluegrass: Josh, Jake and John Gooding, Jesse Personeni, Helen Foley and Amaya Rose Dempsey were invited to participate in the IBMA Kids on Bluegrass program. We were able to provide $500 to each young person to help with travel and hotel reservations because of your very generous continuing contributions to our Youth Program. Lucy Smith did a fabulous job as “captain” of our team and has volunteered again for 2015. Put this event on your bucket list for 2015: Raleigh estimated that more than 180,000 people attended various events this year at the World of Bluegrass and $10.8 million was deposited into the local economy.

The Fall Campout and Annual Membership Meeting was held in Lodi and attendance was good and the weather perfect. Thanks to David Brace for working so hard to produce this event. Board members were elected (minus me and plus Maria Nadauld and the other incumbents), year round officers and Coordinators were confirmed, Tim Edes was reelected Chairman of the Board, I was reelected President (hence this monthly message) and the Executive Committee now consists of Tim Edes, Montie Elston, Geoff Sargent and newbie Mark Hogan.

The annual donation drive for scholarship money for the 2015 CBA Youth Academy is in effect and there is almost $1000 in the fund. $3000 was collected last year and all was distributed to attendees and the goal is to surpass that amount this year. Donations (tax deductible) can be sent to me at 2106 9th Avenue, Oakland 94606 with checks made out to the CBA Youth Program. Registration for the 2015 event begins January 1 and tuition will remain at $300 per child for the four day camp. There must be a scholarship fund in order to offer scholarships so please consider donating again this year. We have increased attendance to 49 children this year but remember that the 42 enrollee event was sold out with a waiting list by May 1st last year so get those registrations in early (registration information will be on the website and in the January issue of the Bluegrass Breakdown).

Festival Director David Brace and I will meet with the Nevada County Fairground staff on November 14th in Grass Valley along with all the other festival and concert directors of the Fairgrounds. We met last spring when it was announced that the Strawberry Music Festival would make its temporary home on the Fairgrounds. The Fairgrounds is fast becoming the place to hear music in Northern California with Father’s Day, Strawberry, World Fest, the Celtic Festival, Music on the Mountain all making their home on the Nevada County Fairgrounds.

Early Bird tickets are available for the 40th Annual Father’s Day Festival now (available to members only) and the Full Hook Up raffle (again for members only) is set for January so get busy and purchase tickets and fill out your form for the raffle. Membership in the CBA is paid for when an Early Bird Ticket is purchased. All volunteers for the festival and Music Camp must also be members (volunteering is a privilege only afforded to members) so make plans to join or renew a membership. All contracts are out for performers and performers will be announced when we receive the contracts. A great lineup is planned for the 40th Annual.

The next big event is the Great 48 Hour Jam in Bakersfield held Thursday through Sunday, January 811, 2015 in Bakersfield. As of today (10/29/14) close to 200 rooms have been reserved at the discounted price. If you do not act soon you will be staying in a neighboring hotel (within walking distance). The Bakersfield event is almost entirely planned with showcase performances Thursday night in the Presidential Suite, Michael Cleveland and Flamekeeper concert Friday night and special events (KOB, Band Scramble among others) on Saturday night.

There will be round the clock jamming and the event (except for the Friday night concert) is free. The Brotemarkles will again be hosting a Teen Jam Room and we even have teens from Nashville coming to celebrate with us. Various California associations and Music Caravan will host suites with entertainment and space for celebrating the music. The Amtrak station is a couple of miles away so consider taking the train (we are thinking seriously about it this year). Every year this event is attended by more and more people, which computes to more and more fun. Lots of our Southern California family shows up. There will be opportunities to: join the CBA, purchase Father’s Day tickets, register for our camps and simply meet us.

Thank you all for your continuing support of the CBA (demonstrated by active membership) and just wait to you see who will be performing at Father’s Day this year. Please keep your membership current. We count on the income and also count on the numbers of members to demonstrate to our advertisers and sponsors that we are an Association worth their while to support. Active membership is very important to the Association. Give a membership for a holiday gift. Happy Holidays and Happy New.

Top Ten Tips for Happy Bluegrassers
Today's column from Cameron Little
Sunday, November 30, 2014

(EDITOR’S NOTE—Cameron’s tips from last spring seemed to have worked for a whole lot of pickers interested in upping their game at the FDF. Here they are again.)

The California Bluegrass Association Father's Day Festival is a breathless 27 days away and counting. Here are our top ten festival tips to keep you knee-deep in bluegrass happiness:

1. Use Your Sunscreen
Just do it. Nobody needs a leathery, peeling neck just to prove their redneck-ed-ness. Also good to use on the top of your feet if you're the Birkenstock type.

2. Bring Cash
Not just for my tips, mind you. You'll want cash for the late-night hot dog stand, for purchases big and small, and to snag that new guitar you've been lusting for.

3. Give Yourself Permission
Deconstruct your schedule. Roam the booths, sit in the best seats (when empty), stay out of the sun, cool off with the luthiers, jam in the campground, schmooze with the vendors, take a nap, hang out on the grass, drink in the night. It's a whole festival kind of experience and you deserve it all.

4. Wear sturdy shoes, ladies
I'm not kidding. Most of the lovely womenfolk I know have this one down, but every year we download our entire supply of mole skin, bandaids, and golf cart rides to the clueless fashionistas. Don't be one of them. I'll give you a ride even if you don't have blisters.

5. Goodwill
It's a nice thing to remember that mentors and celebrities always hobnob with us regular folk at bluegrass festivals. At one of my first Father's Day festivals, I was between sets at a side stage, chitchatting with a gentleman and his wife. We were laughing about something and he crossed his legs to reveal a very one-of-a-kind cowboy boot. Well, danged if I wasn't shooting the breeze with the legendary Doyle Lawson. I'd never seen him without a hat and snazzy jacket but man, I'd recognize them boots anywhere!

6. A Canopy for Your Flamingo Lights
Just sayin'. They could be little martini glasses or bass fishes or leg lamps from the "Christmas Story" ("FRA-GEE-LAY. That must be Italian!")

7. Baby Wipes
Okay, okay. Just work with me here. Good for cleaning your feet before you get into bed if nothing else. Great for wiping all the blackberry crumble off your shirt.

8. Bring Earplugs
Seriously. These tiny little pillows of love have saved my sanity at bluegrass and other festivals more times than I can count. Not only do they help insulate you from honking vocals and off-key serenades that sometimes define after-hours in Bluegrass-land, they also let you sit a little closer to the speakers if you need a nose-to-the-glass view of your favorite headliner.

9. Pace Yourself
It's practically a rite of passage to stay up all night at a minimum of one festival in your bluegrassing career. Not too long ago, my pal and I did just that, chugging contraband Starbucks in the wee hours of the morning. I had great plans for the daylight hours that day: volunteer for gate duty, jam in the campground, and catch some main stage acts, especially the Seldom Scene. All of this SOUNDED good at the time. The reality was that after our volunteer shifts, and musicating, we basically crawled to our seats, determined to bask in the glow that is the Seldom Scene. Could I keep my eyes open? No. Did my mom take pictures of me, head all the way back on the lounge chair with my mouth wide open? Oh, yes. Am I ever gonna do that again? No. At least not as long as she has a camera in her hand.

10. Bring your Attitude
Healthy, workable, and playful festival attitudes result from experience but here's a tip Bluegrassers of any stripe can benefit from:

No matter how early or late you get to the campground, you might encounter a "grumpy person" or two. Sometimes folks just need to decompress after a long drive or whatnot, and sometimes a little tizzy is thrown to let off steam. Cocktail hour is often the prescription the doctor ordered, but if you or anyone you encounter needs a little help in this area, just direct them to a staff member. These guys EXIST so you can have a great time and believe me they'll do everything possible to ensure you do. Plus we love using our walkie-talkies because it impresses the girls.

THE DAILY GRIST..." That pygmies could cast such giant shadows, only to show how late in the day it has become."--Erwin Chargaff

"If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants."--Isaac Newton

Today's column from Bert Daniel
Saturday, November 29, 2014

(On this fifth Saturday of the month, we reach into the vaults for an essay from Dr. Bert, whose “grist” quotes he selects for his columns are matched only by the gritty quotes he manages to produce himself. Remember, a week from today we have our first-ever across-the-Atlantic Welcome column.)

One new thing I like on the CBA web site is the grist feature. It's a series of pithy quotes, not necessarily directly related to Bluegrass, that makes you think as you start your day. I used to check the Wikipedia page every day for similar intellectual stimulation but now I don't have to. My favorite web site has it covered already. And if I forget, it's no problem unless the quote is lame, which it rarely is. How do these great quotes get up there? I heard at one point that there was a contest with prizes but I don't know if anybody ever won. Maybe I missed it. I sent in a few good quotes, but I never won the prize.

I love grist so much that I even created a file in my computer to save ideas for future welcome columns. I had to bypass it just now when I tried to save the draft of this column. Sorry, that file name already exists. I guess I'll have to just knuckle down and finish writing this column.
Like I say, I never won a grist prize but I did try. Maybe I should have sent in the two quotes above. They are two of my favorites. Erwin Chargaff was a biologist who discovered a very important fact about DNA. The base ratios he documented allowed Watson and Crick to figure out what the physical structure of that molecule was. Maybe Chargaff was envious of the fame Watson and Crick had suddenly achieved when he penned his pithy imagery.

Newton was one of the greatest geniuses who ever lived. We all know about Newton's laws. Calculus originated with Newton and with his contemporary Leibnitz. Although the quote is associated with Newton, it was actually first attributed to Bernard of Chartres centuries earlier. If I had been as smart as Newton, I doubt I would have been quoted with such modesty.

If you've read this far you're either a nerd like me or you're desperately hoping for some Bluegrass content to hold your interest. Your buddy Bert usually gets to the point. Doesn't he?

Here's the point. Good grist, like the two quotes above, applies to Bluegrass just like everything else. It's up to the modern practitioners of Bluegrass to live up to the promise of the genre that was created by people like Bill Monroe, the Carter Family, Flatt and Scruggs, Jimmie Martin and many others. Those people I mentioned have all passed on but the music they loved has not. At least not yet.

Many others have come along, before and after, and enriched this special music. Those of us still getting vertical are lucky. We can stand on the shoulders of giants. So go out there and play this music. And listen to it with an open mind. If someone plays an old standard in the classic Ralph Stanley style, honor that and be grateful that the old harmonies are still alive. And if a new edge band plays Wildwood Flower with some Rap style lyrics, keep an open mind and listen to that too. Maybe you'll like it and, if you don't at least you might learn some new ideas for a music that is vibrant, not static. Stagnation would mean death.

As a Bluegrass fan, I personally favor the old classic style. I can never get enough of it and there's as much variety there as I could ever take in. But, if I hear a hot new band that plays Bluegrass well and doesn't fit my style preference, I try to listen. After all some of my very favorite music now is stuff I didn't appreciate on first hearing.

Here's another quote from old timer Clint Howard. It comes from the Kruger Brother's CD: Carolina Scrapbook: "Any kind of music that I can listen to on the radio, TV or anywhere else, there's SOME of it that I like. Just some of it I like MORE."

So listen to what you want at your next festival. And if you hear some good Bluegrass, that's just too "modern" for your taste, wander on back to the camp area and jam with me and my buddies. We might be getting a little long in the tooth but we can still learn a few new tricks by listening, and we'd be the last to say that the pygmies are casting long shadows.

So What's It Really Worth?
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Friday, November 28, 2014

(Today we repost Bruce Campbell’s ruminations from 2010, the day after Thanksgiving way, way back then. Just a reminder, we’ve still got two Welcome slots open…if you’d like to be considered for one, drop us a line.)

Every once in a while, some enterprising person will calculate the market value for the sum total of the raw materials that make up a typical human body. It usually comes in at around $100, give or take a few pennies. But that’s not really accurate is it? The human body, and bluegrass, is really priceless isn’t it? Recent columns on the “worth” of bluegrass or bluegrass shows really got me thinking. This is one of my favorite subjects to ponder and debate.

But in the most literal sense, the worth of any product a seller has is worth what the market (the buyer) will pay for it. So, today, in a rare fit of empathy, I’ve decided to try and see things from the point of view of those who pay for bluegrass.

One group is those who hire bands, and this runs the gamut of coffee shop proprietors to wedding planners to big time promoters. For the small venue owner, the worth of bluegrass is a pretty simple equation. If having a bluegrass band can increase the number of customers and the drinks or food they buy, then the worth of a bluegrass band is some portion of the increased revenue that featuring that music will bring. If they know some bluegrass bands are a sure draw, then those bands are probably worth a greater portion of that increased revenue, because it’s more of sure thing. If the proprietor sees the music as only a “sonic background”, then he or she is not likely to want to pay the band anything more than free drinks.

Folks who hire bands for weddings or corporate events have a vested interest in hiring a band that can be counted on to play well, be presentable, and be comfortable with the odd demands of a wedding or corporate gig. The band will likely be required to be at the venue for several hours, be willing to stop and start playing as the ceremonies demand, handle requests with aplomb and generally conduct themselves in a professional manner. Bands who can do this well can command very good pay for the day’s work. Since the guests at these events are invited, the band doesn’t need to be a draw (although big time corporate events sometimes hire big name bands).

For promoters, the draw is everything. Festivals and concerts live and die by ticket sales, so how good you are is almost irrelevant – instead, the question is, how many butts will you put in the seats? Your worth is again, a math problem – how will your addition to the event’s lineup effect the bottom line? Your worth is a portion of that.

Patrons who pay to see and hear bluegrass bands at these venues have a “worth” in mind, too, when deciding which shows or festivals to attend. Bands don’t have to guess this amount – this is risk that the promoter or proprietor has to take. Price the tickets too high and the audience will “stay away in droves”. Price them too low, and you’ll fill the place, but the take at the gate won’t cover your expenses.

So, obviously the push pull is like this: Bands would like to get paid as much as possible, and those who pay them would like to pay as little as possible. Boo hoo – this is just capitalism. Bands – if you want get paid more, always be improving your act and building up your fan base, Proprietors – if money’s tight, offer what you can reasonably afford, but close the gap by making an effort to show respect to the musicians who play at your establishment: feed them and don’t be stingy with the drinks – the profit margin on beer is huge. After all, this is really business, and business is best conducted when buyer and seller show proper respect for each other and try to understand each other.

THE DAILY GRIST..."It seems that women who put on a few extra pounds live longer than their male counterparts that mention it.”—Claimed by JD Rhynes in much the same way Bill Monroe claimed Little Maggie

Laurie and Kathy, Sing the songs of Vern and Ray
Today's column from JD Rhynes
Thursday, November 27, 2014

I am setting here tonight on the eve of my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, in my Calaveras County Mountain home. I have wrestled in my mind with the subject matter to use for today's welcome message for the last month. It has been on my mind for the preceding month and for the life of me I could not come up with the subject matter to use. Usually I am able to dredge up a memorable event for me, from the last 30 or 40 years of my musical adventures, but this month I kept coming up with a blank. That is until this morning, when I jumped in "Shang Sha Sha" my trusty Cummins powered three-quarter ton four-wheel-drive Dodge truck and headed for Jackson, California to get some groceries. As is my custom, I turned on the CD player and lo and behold what came of the speakers, but Laurie and Kathy on their tribute CD to Vern and Ray! That's it I yelled to myself! I'll talk about the music on this album, what I know about the songs, and how they came to be part of the repertoire of two of my best musical friends I ever had the good fortune to play music with.

Now to start with, this is not a record review. This is merely my story of what I know about the music on this record, and I want to thank Laurie and Kathy not only for doing it, but asking for my input on what songs use on the record. Ladies you done a magnificent job.

The first song on the record is an old Stephen Foster song that we have all heard, probably for most of our lives. If I remember right,Del, Keith, Vern, and myself were sitting around picking one winter night in Vern's kitchen and for some reason we started picking Oh Susanna, kind of out of boredom, while thinking of something serious to play. Before we knew it, we had worked it up into a full-blown presentation, worthy of Stephen Foster's best. That's how that happened. Cabin on a Mountain. This song needs no introduction by me because it has become a standard in a lot of bluegrass bands repertoires. It was written by a good old boy from Oklahoma, Clyde Williamson, one of the original "Carroll County Country Boys", who were Vern and Ray's original band. Del McCoury told me one time, this is one of the best bluegrass songs ever written, and I have to agree with him.

Cowboy Jack. What a wonderful ballad. This song was brought to the Vern Williams band by my good friend the late Sonny Hammond from Portland Oregon. When I lived in Valley Springs California, Sonny came down for a four-day visit one time and naturally we picked music every night with Vern and the boys. We were on my patio playing music one night when Sonny told Vern I have a cowboy song that is perfect for the band, and within 30 min. we had worked up the complete song. I can still hear that wonderful three-part harmony echoing off the mountain on that still summer night.

Little Birdie. Nobody could do this song like Vern and Ray could, their harmonies on this would put goosebumps up and down my spine that you can hang your hat on.

If I had my life to live over again. The song was penned by my good friend Chester Smith, a well-known disc jockey and bandleader from Modesto California. Chester was a contemporary and good friend of the Maddox Brothers and Rose, and they both broadcast from station KT RB in Modesto. It was due to Chester's efforts that Ray Park was signed to a recording contract by Capitol records in 1954.

Happy I'll be; one of Ray's finer gospel songs. What I would not give to hear Vern and Ray harmonize on this again. I'll never forget that Ray's dad Bill Park always told Ray, no matter where you're playing, be at a bar or a church, always do at least one gospel song. And we always did.

Black-eyed Susie; this song was a staple of the Vern Williams band repertoire. Vern always said his favorite verse in the song was the one where it said, I love my gal, I love my baby, I love my biscuits sopped in gravy! I have to agree with him on that, because who doesn't love their biscuits sopped in gravy?

To hell with the land; I asked Ray one time, what gave him the idea for this song? He said he was driving by this sawmill near Placerville California one day and the smoke from the incinerator had virtually blocked out the sun. He said the thought entered his mind, these people are letting the land go to hell. Then the song title popped into his head; to hell with the land, and that's how that came about. Ray said he wrote the song within 30 min..

Flying cloud; a wonderful traditional fiddle tune that Ray could absolutely fiddle at hell out of ! I always loved to hear him fiddle this whenever I had the chance to play with them, either on rhythm guitar or bass.

Montana cowboy; another wonderful cowboy ballad that I love to hear Ray play the fiddle on and Vern sang the high lonesome sound as only he could. It was in early spring of 1972 when Vern, Ray,Del, and myself got together at Vern's house for a jam session, when Ray said boys I've got a new song I want you to hear. Then he took the guitar and sang it for us so we could learn it. And here's a little secret I don't think I've told anybody before now. The song was in B flat, so Ray tuned his fiddle up one notch so he could play it as if he were playing in normal tuning. He laughed and said, years from now fiddle players are going to be wondering how I did that. So now you know.This song has become a standard in the bluegrass basic repertoire of a lot of bands.

Down among the budded roses; this is a song that I brought the Vern Williams band about 1974. I had a copy of Tony Rice doing this song and I knew would be a natural for Vern and the boys, so I took it to Vern's house and played it for him and the next time we get together to practice we worked it up. I still love to hear Vern do this, and Kathy and Laurie did a wonderful job on it.

Thinking of home; another one of Ray's fine songs he penned while thinking of his boyhood home in Arkansas one day. Ray told me he was thinking of his boyhood home there in Arkansas one time, and reminiscing of how things were when he was a boy, and got kind of homesick thinking about the way things were in years past. We compared our feelings about how we were raised and the memories we had, but we both realized they were gone forever, but we would never forget them.

Field of flowers; a beautiful love song of broken hearts and memories, never to return. I always loved to hear Vern do this ballad.

How many times; another song from the pen of Ray Park. I must've heard Ray do this song 50 or 60 times before I ask him where he got the idea for this one? Well, he said. I got home from playing music real late one night, around three in the morning and before I knew it me and my wife were in one hell of argument ! We argued till damn near sunrise, when I said to myself; have many times must we fight? I said to myself wait a minute ! That's a hell of a good song title ! By the next day I had this one totally finished. True story.

My clinch Mountain home;one of my all time favorite songs that I loved to hear Vern do. To this very day this song brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it.

My old Kentucky home; another one of Stephen Foster's masterpieces. We were sitting in Vern's kitchen one night when he said; boys, there's an old Stephen Foster songs I've always wanted to work up and do bluegrass style, and it's my old Kentucky home. We all agreed that song was a dandy, so we clamped up into be natural as Monroe would say and kick that little baby off, and within 30 min. time we had added another song to the Vern Williams band repertoire .

Bluegrass style; this song was written by Vern and Ray's original banjo player, Luther Riley. Vern always did say that Luther had the wildest thumb on his pick'n hand of any banjo picker he'd ever heard. I have to agree with Vern on that one, because Luther could get sounds out of a banjo that I have never heard before or since. One of the finest banjo pickers to ever come out of Hazard Kentucky.

Touch of God's hand; this song was written by Hazel Houser who used to play in Ray Parks country band in the early 50s. One of the finest gospel songs ever written, and nobody, I mean nobody could sing this song like Vern and Ray, and Herb Pedersen as a trio. This song would put goosebumps on my heart when they would do it.Hazel Houser was a wonderful songwriter, and she wrote a lot of wonderful songs that were hits for different country artists. She was also a wonderful vocalist as well and some of my most favorite memories are of her and Ray singing duets on a lot of old country standards back in the early to middle 50s.

So folks there you have this month’s meanderings by the old mountain man. I hope you have enjoyed my recollections of the music of Vern and Ray that I got to experience starting back in the late 50s. Looking back at all the wonderful times we had playing music, all I can say is, we had one hell of a lot of fun and I wish I could do it all over again.

I thank Laurie and Kathy for doing these songs of Vern and Ray, and I will never forget how you made tears run down the cheeks of me and my buddy Jack Sadler as we watched you perform these songs at the Grass Valley Festival last June. ladies, those were tears of joy, and I know I can speak for Jack when I say we enjoyed it immensely. We both thank you from the bottom of our hearts for doing this tribute album to two of our best friends we will ever have on this earth. God bless you!

THE DAILY GRIST..."Thanksgiving, man. Not a good day to be my pants." - Kevin James

Thankful, Even for the Rough Times
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, November 26, 2014

I’m a very lucky guy. For the past half dozen years or so, I have written a weekly column for the CBA website and THAT means I get to write the column on the day before Thanksgiving - my favorite holiday.

Today I’m going to go a little outside the box. I have a great deal to be thankful for, and in previous years, I attempted to quantify and list those things, but that can get tedious for the reader, and maybe come off as smug. This is not a competition.

Bottom line - if you’re even a little happy with your life, you have a ton of things you can list for which you are thankful. Having good friends, family, a nice home - of course we’re thankful for these things. If you like your life and who you are, you’re thankful for that.

But how did you get to this place? If your life is happy, certainly some things have turned out in a way that is pleasing. But you’re not just the product of your lucky breaks and your triumphs. You’re also the result for all the dumb things you’ve done and even the bad things that have happened to you.

Happiness is not just the result of good things around you. “Folks are about as happy as they make uptheir minds to be.”, said Abe Lincoln. That’s the truth. The happiest people aren’t necessarily the people with nicest stuff or the best luck. The happiest people are the folks who have made up their minds to be happy. And why are they able to make up their minds in this way? Because of how they see the world - as a place where it’s good to be.

So, let me take the time to be thankful for things I will not be mentioning at the Thanksgiving table tomorrow. The obstacles in the primrose path to a trouble-free life. The embarrassing things I’ve done, the stupid things I’ve done. The times I was not at my best or at my nicest. The lessons I learned from these times helped me a person who has decided to be happy - I am thankful for that.

Even the jerks who were mean to me in middle school and made me fairly miserable. Because of them I learned to cope with people who seemed determined to keep me from being comfortable or content - that was a good thing to learn, and despite the pain - I am grateful for those experiences.

I would like it if I could be sure my remaining years will be free of painful lessons, but that seems unlikely. Life doesn’t often work that way. I do hope that every single year, I will find it as easy to be thankful as I do today. I hope I can continue to make up my mind to be happy. I hope all of you make up your minds to be happy as well! Have a great Thanksgiving, and feast and play and sing!

CBA-on-the-World Wide Web
Today's column from Rick Cornish
Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Good morning from Whiskey Creek, where, if you weren’t a member of the human race and thus hadn’t been inundated with news about the worst drought in California’s history (and that’s no exaggeration…not but a few months ago I saw a piece in a London newspaper about our dire lack of rain), you’d think it was a typical fall at the old homestead. (See photo above.) Betwixt and between all of the rich and glorious fall colors can be seen a fine brilliant carpet of grass, blades not more than two inches tall but clearly pining for those next gulps of water that, if all goes well, will be knee-high by late April. Yes, indeed, if all goes well.

Used to be that not more than three our four months would go by before I’d write another “status report” on the California Bluegrass Association web site. They were chalk-full of statistics, detailed descriptions of how we’d solved cyber attacks, plans for new features, pleads for Web Team volunteers and pretty much every other thing that could possibly be deemed cbaontheweb.org-related. I think it’s probably been close to a year that the webmaster (that would be me) has had anything to say about the web site and, as my wife, Lynn, would say if I asked her, that’s probably just as well. “Who cares about this stuff besides you, Rick? All people care is that when they click on their bookmark the damned thing opens.” Which it always does. But this morning I do want to share a few things. Oh, and I’ll end with the best.

Traffic-wise, cbaontheweb.org is amazingly consistent. Daily hits range from between the low six thousands to the low eight thousands. Interestingly the number of unique visitors we attract, right around 4,000, also has remained the same for the past five or six years.

Since it’s unique visitors and not daily hits, which sometimes spike at as much as 11,000, that are considered by ad buyers, we continue to straggle along with selling space on the site. We do sell some, but not as much as we could and should were we to have someone whose job it was to outreach to possible customers. (What a truly wonderful volunteer job for some loyal CBA member out there. Hint, hint.)

Welcome columnists have remained fairly static, which is a good thing, but we are ready to bring on two new columnists; Randy Pitts is one, though he’ll only be contributing four per year, but the other is a young woman named Loes van Schaijk, who’ll take over first Saturdays. Loes lives in Denmark and is a writer who does a lot of freelance work in Europe’s bluegrass community. Saturday after next you’ll meet her.

The Message Board is, well, the Message Board. It ebbs and it flows. Just when you think there’s no good reason to check it out because postings have been so slow we’ll have a spate of new threads. With all its faults, structural and otherwise, the MB is still a solid source of information about our little bluegrass slice of heaven here in Northern California.

This most recent period since our last web site update is, without question, the longest we’ve gone without the introduction of some new feature or technical improvement. And the reason for that lies in our last and most important bit of webby news. It’s beginning to look very much like we’ve finally figured out a way to replace the current CBA web site with a new one. I’ll be more specific…it’s beginning to look very much like we’ve finally FOUND SOMEONE to take on the job of re-building the site. In the past year we’ve gone out of our way not to sink a lot of time and money into cbaontheweb.org because it’s clear that after 15 years, it’s time to rebuild from the ground up. Yes, I’m certainly including the look and feel of the site in that statement but, way more importantly, what I’m suggesting is that we’ll be using newer, more contemporary coding for it.

Back in 2000, when the board gave me the assignment of launching a new web site for the Association, I chose a language called asp.net, which, at the time, was THE up-and-coming language for web-based computer systems. Well, asp.net, now called simply, .net, is still an industry leader but the problem is that it’s changed drastically since the early days and the CBA web site is a patchwork of original asp.net and current .net. Our site’s functionality has stood up very well given this layer upon layer upon layer of pasting new to old but, as with any “legacy” system,” it’s gotten harder and harder to find programmers with the skill set and background needed to work on the system.

So enter a relatively new CBA member who’s willing to use his considerable technical expertise to lead a complete re-build. I’m not going to share the guy’s name yet because, in truth, the project is not quite yet a definite GO. But we’re close. Obviously close enough that I feel comfortable sharing some of my excitement.

It was fifteen years ago that I gave up my perennial volunteer job at the ice booth at Gate Six and joined the CBA’s leadership team. I’ve covered a lot of ground since then but nothing has taken more of my time than designing, launching and then maintaining cbaontheweb.org. Over the past few years I’ve realized that my stress level around the long-term health and vitality of the site has been steadily rising. Bandages and sealing wax and transitional code can only last so long. So, folks, cross your fingers with me that we can finally get this re-building effort underway. It’s been a long time coming.

THE DAILY GRIST…” If you have knowledge, let others light their candles in it”. - Margaret Fuller

Shine Your Light
Today’s column from Yvonne Higby Tatar
Monday, November 24, 2014

At this year’s World of Bluegrass business conference, Mike & I had the pleasure of being speakers at a workshop titled All Together Now: An Associations’ Focus that happened on Thursday afternoon at the Raleigh Convention Center. It was for local, regional and statewide bluegrass association leaders and others interested in discussing association issues. Being a member of a few different bluegrass associations, I have attended my share of these types of seminars, and they have only been given in two types of formats that I know of. Some were informal gatherings where folks who showed up would discuss topics they brought to the meetings , while other workshops were more formal where a panel of experts discussed topics, and they fielded questions from the audience, if time permitted. I usually walked away from these with a smattering of new knowledge, but nothing new and different. I reflected on this and realized that I got more out of these workshops when I first started to attend WOB, but after a few years, new information that I walked away with dwindled. I surmised that my experiences had been growing over the years, and the folks attending the more recent workshops were newer to bluegrass associations than I, and had more questions, e.g., they had a bigger learning curve.

But this year’s seminar format was a bit different and with that change, I felt it was much more successful. The format was more unique in that there were 7 different tables or “stations,” with experts on specific topics at each one. Folks who attended were able to stop at the station of their choice and speak with the experts there one-on-one on any questions they had pertaining to that topic. Every 15 minutes the bell was rung and that’s when they decided to stay on at that station or continue on to another station and another topic. It was indeed “speed association dating.”

As an attendee, you could share your concerns with the expert and others gathered at the table and really come away with some solid answers. And as a speaker, I learned a lot about the issues facing so many others out there regarding our table’s topic – “Starting and running a festival.” There is such a plethora of folks that are looking for answers to this topic. Granted this topic is a large one and we actually just scratched the surface on some points, but I found it quite gratifying to be able to offer suggestions and information for those who came to our station. And I think the use of small round tables was less intimidating than the panel/audience type of format. People shared more easily because of that. There was some overlap of questions as people cycled through, but others presented some interesting scenarios. Mike & I were really happy to share what we knew. And like we told them, we have been involved with producing Summergrass since 2003, so we’ve learned a lot, but we are also still learning things as we go forward, and sharing information with other producers, etc. In essence, we’re just like they are in seeking new and helpful knowledge. This festival business is constantly changing so there’s always something new to learn.

Here’s a few topics were discussed at our table for Starting and running a festival: locating a venue, publicity, your vision or mission for your festival, are you a private or non-profit endeavor, marketing, budgets, negotiating with bands, workshops, vendors, camping, volunteers, and ticket prices. You can see how lively the discussions were by this list.

Other stations covered the following topics: 1) Finding and recruiting sponsors (Denise Jarvinen and Leah Ross); 2)Recruiting and retaining volunteers (Dwight Worden); 3) Navigating BMI, ASCAP, SESAC-When do Associations have to pay? (Betty Wheeler); 4) The business of associations: taxes, paying bands, raffles, filings, etc. (Alan Tompkins); 6) Insurance and Risk Management for associations (Elizabeth & Phil Wightman). And all the stations had many folks stop at their tables, which again speaks to the validity of this seminar and what people got out of it.

This successful workshop was championed by Dwight Worden from San Diego Bluegrass Society. Good job, Dwight! This format is definitely worth doing again, in my opinion. If I had one suggestion to make it better for 2015, I would have the speakers gather 30 minutes before the posted time of the seminar so we could speak with each other on our topics. Or a “meet and greet” before the workshop. I have some questions of my own for those other presenters. I was proud to be part of this successful workshop. And that’s how it all works, doesn’t it? Sharing information with each other so bluegrass music can keep shining brightly.

THE DAILY GRIST…”The older I get, the more I see there are crevices in life where things fall in and you just can’t reach them to pull them back out. So you can sit next to them and weep or you can get up and move forward.”–Alex Witchel

Another Milestone
Today’s Column from Jeanie Ramos
Sunday, November 23, 2014

One of my favorite albums on my iPod is one done by John Prine and Mac Wiseman. They do a song titled, “Don’t be ashamed of your age.” The jist of the song is, as you look back on your life, be satisfied that you have lived it to the fullest, that in the “old book of time you haven’t missed a page.”

Tomorrow, I will flip yet another page in the old book of time, a milestone birthday; I’m not ashamed to tell you that I will turn seventy.

I don’t think of myself as an old lady. I have not taken up needlepoint and settled in a rocking chair. I am more likely to settle into the bucket seat of our Polaris RZR; strapping on the six-point harness and heading out into the dunes or exploring the desert. In lieu of orthopedic shoes and polyester pants, I’ve opted for jeans, T-shirt and boots. On bad hair days, I have a hat for any occasion. I’m not going down without a fight.

It’s important to keep mind and body busy as we age. I enjoy learning new things. In the last five or so years, I’ve spent some time improving my guitar skills, learned to play the upright bass and mandolin. I have found that if you want to learn humility, you take up the fiddle. I think it will be the challenge that will prevent me from getting Alzheimer’s disease. I try to learn at least two or three new songs each month, I believe that memorizing song lyrics is good for the mind with the added bonus that you can sing from the heart and not have to carry along a notebook and music stand.

I realize that some folks have a forced sedentary lifestyle due to illness or other conditions. Oftentimes, it causes them to look inward and focus only on what is “wrong” in their life. It would be hard not to become depressed and cranky, and we know that depressed cranky people do not make good company. It has been my experience that if I get down, the best thing I can do is reach out to someone else. I don’t like talking on the telephone but I do enjoy making greeting cards and sending them out to folks, especially those who need to know that someone cares. The nice thing about cards and personal notes is that the recipient has something tangible that they can read as many times as they want. They can prop a card up on a shelf and each time they pass by it, they are reminded that someone loves and cares for them.

It’s been a busy month for me, musically speaking. If you’ll indulge me, I’ll do my version of Harmony Road in memory of our friend Regina Bartlett.

As an early birthday gift, my husband took me to see Vince Gill and the Time Jumpers at the Bob Hope Theater in Stockton. I’ve been a Vince Gill fan for years and became familiar with the Time Jumpers by watching Dawn Sears videos on You Tube. She is one of my favorite singers. The Bakersfield album by Vince Gill and Paul Franklin is one of my most frequently played; it’s a collection of Merle Haggard and Buck Owens songs. Paul Franklin can get more emotion out of a steel guitar than many singers can get out of vocal renditions. Vince Gill sang all my favorites and Paul Franklin had me mesmerized. My only disappointment in this concert was that Dawn Sears wasn’t there; she is bravely fighting a battle with lung cancer.

I went to the monthly jam/open mic at Armando’s in Martinez. In addition to the house band; Bruce Campbell, Jonathan Bluemel, and Alan Bond, the usual “suspects” were there. The Redneck and Redhead, Bob Bonovich, Colin Sacks and several others all had their chance to do three numbers from the stage. Tom Bailey did a great job of filling in for Lynn Quinones. I met a wonderful fiddler named Art Kee, it turns out that he lives near me here in Brentwood, almost within shouting distance of my house. I brought my friend Bonnie Grace with me, she didn’t sing this time but we are going to work on a duet or two for next month.

The day after the Martinez jam, I loaded up my Jeep and went to a big jam hosted by our friends Burl and Doris, down in the Central Valley. They own a beautiful old Arts and Crafts period house that is a bit like visiting the Winchester Mystery House (without the creepiness). There are three levels with many nooks, crannies, and closed doorways to explore. The attic was really fun, like taking a trip back in time. The basement was a warm, welcoming place for friends to gather and jam. The main jam/party was held on Saturday at the Senior Center. I knew many of the attendees but I also made several new friends, too many to name. One person who particular stood out was a vocalist, Joanne, from Tracy. I’m not easily impressed but this lady left me with my mouth agape as she sang Patsy Cline’s “Sweet Dreams.” I look forward to getting better acquainted with her.

I spent Friday and Saturday night at the old house and we jammed almost non-stop. I got up early Sunday morning and had breakfast with Jim and Carol Johnston. I made it back home in time for church then I was on the road again. This time, my friend and I headed to Livermore to the monthly jam at the Veterans Hospital. What a blessing! Many thanks to Wes Spain for coordinating this event and bringing pizza for everyone. As I said previously, if you want to avoid depression, especially during the holidays, there is no greater joy than to bring a smile to the face of another. In other words, “Keep on the Sunnyside of Life.” Have a blessed Thanksgiving.

If You Can't Beat 'Em – Leave 'Em!
Today's column from Prescription Bluegrass Radio Host, Brian McNeal
Saturday, November 22, 2014)

By now I imagine that quite a lot of the bluegrass community has heard and already formed opinions on the current situation at the IBMA and the mass exodus of directors. I have my opinions too, but without knowing all of the facts or actually speaking with any of the board members on either side of the fence, I'll reserve them for another time.

What I found very interesting, though, came about quite by happenstance. This weekend on our broadcast news program heard on over 30 radio stations around the world, the lead story was the IBMA story. In the format of the news program, the sponsorship message always follows immediately after the lead story. For some time now, the CBA has been a regular sponsor of our Front Page Bluegrass News. As a good practice, we've had several different scripts recorded so that a better story of the CBA and all it entails can be told. We normally run the various scripts in a rotation pattern.

Today, the sponsorship script started out … remember now, it was right after the lead story about IBMA directors resigning their positions over a lack of confidence in the board and all the myriad other problems between the board and the membership … the script for the CBA Radio Spot starts out with, “Why does the California Bluegrass Association have more members than any other bluegrass organization in the world?” And then it goes on to list several of the CBA's accolades.

I assure you that the timing and position of the news story and the sponsorship message came together quite by circumstance and not by design, but I must admit that a small chuckle and smirk did occur when I realized the underlying message that may be carried by that combination. I also must admit to having a certain amount of pride in my association with the CBA, especially in light of the rumblings and tremors shaking up the IBMA.

Have a GREAAAATTTTT Bluegrass Day!!!
Brian McNeal

Terminal stage fright, and assorted other related thangs
Today's column from JD Rhynes
Friday, November 21, 2014

(The Old mountain Man is filling in today with an offering from 2010. And folks, you can take every dang word this old boy spings as the honest to God truth, so you help, buttermilk pan cakes.)

Lookin' back at a career of 62 years in this business we call bluegrass, I guess the onliest, well, make that the onliest two times I got stage fright was the first time I played onstage at the California State Fair in 1948, and 42 years later at the Late Summer Festival in 1990. When I was a little bitty redneck I was fascinated by the fiddle, and I kept buggin' my parents to get me one to play. I absolutely loved to hear the music of Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys, which was on EVERY radio station back in the 1940's when I was growin'up. Ya gotta remember that it wasn't till 1946 that Bill put together THE seminal Bluegrass Band of all time, and if you heard ONE Bluegrass record on the radio a month, you were lucky! Well, I bugged my folks fer a year er so, till my daddy got tired of hearin' it so he told my momma to find a music school and get me enrolled so I could learn to play the fiddle. In no time at all, my momma found the Alice Baker School of Music in Stockton, Calif. got me enrolled, and I was rollin' then baby! I found that if I heard a tune one time, I could play it by ear from then on. YES! Fast forward to the summer of 1948, and I was 10 years old and could play any country tune I heard on the radio. WELL, Alice Baker School of Music had a lot of political chooch back then, and they would put on a HUGE Show at the California State Fair every year to show off the progress of their students, and to garner new students for the school. Since I was one of about 2 er 3 students that loved COUNTRY Music,[out of about 150 students, ] I was chosen, to play a fiddle tune, accompained with one of the older boys playing rhythm Guitar. I was as nervovus as the proverbial cat on a TIn roof, before we started playing, but after we hit that first note, it was all business, and when we got through playin' our number, we got a standing ovation! Needless to say, I was hooked from then on!

Well, you might say, what has the stage fright of a 10 year old boy got to do with a 52 year old man that's been in the business fer 42 years at the time? Well folks let me enlighten you. Over the years it had been my pleasure to introduce a lot of Bluegrass and Country stars onstage, and it was jes a matter of doin' a show fer the audience, and a job I really enjoyed. I had introduced folks like Jim and Jesse, Mack Wiseman, Del McCoury, Vern and Ray, Rose Maddox, and Emmy Lou Harris, to name a few, BUT come that Saturday Nite show when I was to introduce Mr. Bill Monroe fer the first time in my life, why I came down with the "Golly Wobbles"! I was backstage reviewing my notes of Bill's musical life when I started shaking like a leaf in an Oklahoma hurricane! My knee's were shaking, I had a knot in my stomach and my throat was as tight as a fiddle string and I couldn't hardly talk. It was about 5 minutes before show time and I was on the verge of panic! I literally had to talk myself into calming down! Here I was, a seasoned veteran of playin music fer all of my life, an M.C. that had introduced literally hundreds of folks on stage fer most of my life and I couldn't talk? PANIC ATTACK! Well, I looked around fer some kind of help, when I realized that NO BODY knew what I was a'goin through, and they were jes watin fer me to say out loud like I always do; SHOW TIME! SO, I sez to my self; SELF! Lets do it! SHOW TIME FOLKS, stepped throught the curtain, and we were off and running with another great show featuring the father of Bluerass, Bill Monroe.

After the show, I got to introduce Bill to my parents, and Bill complimented my mom on the soup and cornbread she sent to his bus fer supper that evening. He said; Mrs. Rhynes, that was my favorite kind of supper you sent me this evening. FREE!

That folks was the mostest nervous evening of my life as an Emcee and musician. GOD, I'd love to be able to do it again!

THE DAILY GRIST...“Sibling Rivalry Between Bluegrass and Old-Time is Just Part of Being Family”

”It’s All in the Family”
Today's column from James Reams
Thursday, November 20, 2014

Thanksgiving ? it’s not a lukewarm kind of holiday. You either look forward to it or you dread it. For me, I love the food…and especially the pies! I remember Dad was always in charge of the turkey and he had this special electric porcelain oven that he used solely for the purpose of putting out the best tasting bird in the county. And, not to be outdone, Mom would spend days making pumpkin pies from REAL pumpkins. Most kids nowadays probably never had the pleasure of scooping out the soft, creamy pumpkin innards that are then magically transformed into that traditional delight for young and old. Oh man, I’m drooling just at the thought of it!

But for a lot of folks, getting together with the whole fam damily can be a recipe for disaster. Even in our family we had some friction. My uncle (we called him Uncle Uptown behind his back which should give you a hint of the source of the friction!), used to blow into our little country town wearing his fancy suit and flashing his silver cigarette lighter and a fat money clip. He was a few years younger than my Dad, and boy did he rub Dad the wrong way. His apparent success got under my Dad’s skin just like the butter that Dad slipped under the turkey skin before he cooked it. I wouldn’t say you could cut the tension with a knife, more like scoop it up with a spoon. A big spoon.

But, we were family and we managed to smother our differences with a big ladle of love poured out over all of us by Mom. I was, and still am, truly thankful for my family and all those wonderful days (even the holidays!) we shared together.

And that got me to thinking about the so-called rivalry between old-time music and bluegrass. Seems to me that it’s a lot like that rivalry between my dad and my uncle. Just like families, big brothers and little brothers (or sisters!) don’t always see eye-to-eye. Heck, more often they see fist-to-eye!

Big Brother Old-Time had been around awhile and was used to having all the attention. Then Baby Brother Bluegrass came along and grew up as the spoiled-rotten, bratty little addition to the family…always snagging the limelight and generally being loud and obnoxious (at least in Big Brother Old-Time’s estimation). But we still share the same Mom and Pop! Our DNA may be a hodgepodge of ethnicities, but it has much more in common than, say, jackhammers and songbirds. And while in some circles, Baby Brother Bluegrass is thought to “get away with murder” of the ancestral music, in other eyes it’s seen as preserving all the different aspects of the family that produced both siblings.

Now, I love my younger brother but I don’t want to lose my identity by becoming just like him or by having both of us morph into one person. It’s the same with old-time and bluegrass. These are two distinct styles that should be allowed to continue to flourish along their own path and not be forced to meld into one twig on our family tree. We both have something important to give to the world of music in ways that are unique to each of us. It doesn’t mean that one is better than the other. And it doesn’t mean that since one has been around longer, it’s somehow right and the newer style is wrong.

This same premise holds true within the extended family of bluegrass music as well. There are all kinds of different styles being born: jazzgrass, atomicgrass, jamgrass, newgrass, redgrass, and neo-traditional bluegrass to name a few. But just like in real life, you have some family members that prefer to remain unmarried for reasons of their own and others that jump from one marriage to another. However, the children of these marriages still retain the family connection and should be welcomed at our gatherings.

So I guess what I’m saying is perhaps Big Brother Old-Time and Baby Brother Bluegrass should recognize their similarities rather than focusing on their differences. Instead of excluding what some consider to be a reclusive or perhaps an eccentric “Uncle or Aunt” let’s welcome them in and give them the recognition, as well as love, that they deserve as a valued member of our family.

And just like family get-togethers, let’s invite ‘em all to the feast (or festival). Even those annoying cousins! What traditional music festival wouldn’t benefit from the inclusion of both old-time and bluegrass music? It’s been my experience over the past 15 years promoting the Park Slope Bluegrass and Old-Time Music Jamboree that a lot of bluegrassers welcome the chance to get out of their seats and dance around once and a while (and not just because they’re sittin’ in a pile of fire ants). And the old-time musicians enjoy sharing their talents with younger generation bluegrassers, maybe even secretly admiring a few of their new tricks!

Perhaps the family surname is really Music. So what’s stopping us from including Old-Time and Bluegrass Music in the name of our festivals? It’s certainly one way to promote family harmony!

Send me an email james@jamesreams.com and let me know your thoughts. Can we be one big happy family?

The Big Bluegrass Tree
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, November 19, 2014

What is the future of bluegrass? What do we want it to be?

For some, bluegrass should progress in a thick, straight line, embracing, celebrating and emulating the sounds and songs of the beloved pioneers of the music. Banjo playing must sound like Earl Scruggs, or JD Crowe. Mandolins must sound like Bill Monroe, John Duffy or Jesse McReynolds. Guitars must sound like Jimmy Martin, or Lester Flatt. The path to the bluegrass future shall follow the creed of pure, simple arrangements, and fervent solo, duet and trio harmonies.

The future of bluegrass will certainly contain a large component of the above - it is the trunk of the Bluegrass Family Tree.

But, bluegrass is an art form, and art always probes the boundaries. While some musicians can make a life's work out of trying to exactly nail that classic sound, others will seek to impart their own sensibilities onto the standard bluegrass template, and often with astonishing success.

The power and simplicity of classic bluegrass makes it an ideal jumping-off point for a number of different directions. Some of these directions will inspire others to join in and contribute, and the Bluegrass FamilyTree grows branches in many directions.

I saw a band this weekend - familiar to many of you: Front Country. Extremely capable young musicians, playing with great energy and respect for bluegrass, but their muse definitely takes them out to the branches. As I watched them again (they're local musicians for me), I thought "Wow! This is the future of bluegrass!"

As I thought about it more, though, I realized the future of bluegrass isn't any one band or any one sound. It'll just be incremental additions to most of the branches on that Bluegrass Tree.

For those who despair that not enough attention is paid to the core sound of bluegrass, I say "Feh!". We're all doing that, and it matters. Walk around any festival, and many, if not most of the jams are playing the classics, and everyone's trying to step into the shoes of the masters, if only for a few glorious minutes.

And then there are other jams with a swingier tone, or a gypsy-jazz flavor, or a country state of mind. And quite often, musicians will move freely among these jams and stretch their musical muscles and enjoy the joy of just playing.

Every one of these jams contribute to the future of bluegrass music, and none threatens any part of that future, in this writer's opinion.

The weather's gettin' cold folks, let's hunker down and play some music to get us through the winter!

Writing Criticism
Today's column from Ted Lehmann
Tuesday, November 18, 2014

(EDITOR’S NOTE: I have a confession to make: when Ted Lehmann wrote me over the weekend to let me know that he just didn’t “have a column in him” for November, I was secretly pleased. Ted’s never missed a Welcome for this reason and it’s just damned satisfying to know that his feet are made of clay jus’ like da rest ‘a us bums. But, in truth, if you read this piece, written in ’09 about his labors as a professional writer, you just may end up question my conclusion. Brother Bruce is up tomorrow.)

There’s been a thread running on Bluegrass-L about the role of criticism writing within bluegrass. It began with a discussion of the imminent demise of the online version of Bluegrass Now magazine, which had switched from print to electronic publication last spring. Someone commented that CD reviews in BN, and later, by extension, the music press, tended to be bland, supporting bands almost without regard to whether the music was any good. Some people involved in the conversation held that the bluegrass press was unnecessarily kind to CD releases, not criticizing them sufficiently. Another current ran suggesting that writers present their material so that thoughtful readers reading between the lines could see lack of huge enthusiasm on the part of the reviewer. Ron Block, with his usual restraint and wisdom, commented: “We must do our best to understand a recording - its purpose and intention - and give it several listens before making judgment calls. It's the only way to deal with reviewing something justly. Expectations must also be put aside. Many reviews, especially on Amazon, are like this: "I expected A. The artist did C, D, and E. Therefore I'm giving it two stars, because it isn't what I wanted the artist to do." There are other reviews which are simply variations on this theme - the reviewer's likes and dislikes running the show.” Lynwood Lunsford chimed in that reviews are just someone’s opinion, and it’s up to the review’s reader to decide how much credence to give the comments or commentator. Several issues grow from this discussion.

Writing Criticism
Today's column from Ted Lehmann
Tuesday, November 18, 2014

(EDITOR’S NOTE: I have a confession to make: when Ted Lehmann wrote me over the weekend to let me know that he just didn’t “have a column in him” for November, I was secretly pleased. Ted’s never missed a Welcome for this reason and it’s just damned satisfying to know that his feet are made of clay jus’ like da rest ‘a us bums. But, in truth, if you read this piece, written in ’09 about his labors as a professional writer, you just may end up question my conclusion. Brother Bruce is up tomorrow.)

There’s been a thread running on Bluegrass-L about the role of criticism writing within bluegrass. It began with a discussion of the imminent demise of the online version of Bluegrass Now magazine, which had switched from print to electronic publication last spring. Someone commented that CD reviews in BN, and later, by extension, the music press, tended to be bland, supporting bands almost without regard to whether the music was any good. Some people involved in the conversation held that the bluegrass press was unnecessarily kind to CD releases, not criticizing them sufficiently. Another current ran suggesting that writers present their material so that thoughtful readers reading between the lines could see lack of huge enthusiasm on the part of the reviewer. Ron Block, with his usual restraint and wisdom, commented: “We must do our best to understand a recording - its purpose and intention - and give it several listens before making judgment calls. It's the only way to deal with reviewing something justly. Expectations must also be put aside. Many reviews, especially on Amazon, are like this: "I expected A. The artist did C, D, and E. Therefore I'm giving it two stars, because it isn't what I wanted the artist to do." There are other reviews which are simply variations on this theme - the reviewer's likes and dislikes running the show.” Lynwood Lunsford chimed in that reviews are just someone’s opinion, and it’s up to the review’s reader to decide how much credence to give the comments or commentator. Several issues grow from this discussion.

In 2008 I wrote 35 book reviews, 7 CD reviews, and 83 festival commentaries, including both previews and reviews, out of 130 blog entries so far. There may be some overlap in these categories. I received or bought a number of CDs I have not yet written about, partly because I find writing good reviews (as distinct from positive ones) to be the most difficult task I face in blogging. Earlier in the year a group called Woodpecker and billing itself as Indie, Punk, Bluegrass sent me a CD titled “f-hole.” This title, or course, referred only to the sound hole on an f-style mandolin. I listened to the music and lyrics several times through, finding its content quite scatological and the music abrupt and generally devoid of melody. Our son listened to the CD and remarked that it sounded like pretty good Punk music to him. In the end, based on the sexual content of much of the lyrics and my lack of any background in punk music to which I could compare this work, I decided not to review it. In doing so, I made a less obvious decision not to pan it. This raises the question of whether I’ve been untrue to my critical muse by not writing a bad review.

A quick look at any mass market or special interest magazine easily reveals that they depend for a significant portion of their income on advertising. Whether it’s “Vanity Fair,” “The New Yorker,” “Field and Stream,” “TV Guide,” or even “Bluegrass Unlimited,” magazines rely on advertising. In these days of changing economic and technological relationships, advertising support becomes even more important. In a bluegrass magazine, advertisements from instrument manufacturers, festivals and other events, and recording companies constitute the bulk of advertisers. Publishers take on these people to their peril. Media outlets must always balance their editorial independence against the risk of lost revenue. Even little bloggers like me must consider their comments before publishing material too critical of the organizations on which they depend. While I don’t accept advertising (yet) and insist on paying for tickets to all events we attend (still), my ability to do my job well depends on my developing and maintaining good relationships with artists and promoters. I’ve developed a reputation among members of bands for not divulging information they’re unwilling to go public with. This enables me to know and understand events in the bluegrass world in ways that some others may not be able to. Nevertheless, it behooves me to maintain good relations with performers, promoters, record publishers, and so-on.

I’m not without opinions about what I see and hear, but I’ve become increasingly reluctant to express negative ones on first exposure, especially where it concerns bands. I can think of several instances when I’ve been unimpressed with bands on first hearing them and then found them growing on me as I became increasingly familiar with their work. One good example is the very good Tennessee band Blue Moon Rising. On first hearing them at a festival, I thought they were pretty good, but unspectacular. They played and sang well, but exhibited little stage presence or showmanship and their singing didn’t set them apart from the many other good regional groups out there. Over a period of something more than a year, we encountered them at several festivals, and with each hearing they seemed to me to have gained along every front. Furthermore, Chris West and Keith Garrett’s song writing was excellent as was the group’s presentation of these very good songs. Garrett’s baritone voice is truly excellent. Harold Nixon on bass has added a new vibrancy to the group. I see them now as truly excellent. The question is: Has their work improved or has my ear and attention? It may be both, but I’m certain I approach their performance with a greater willingness to see the excellence that may have been there all along. I’ve learned to allow my opinions of a group to mature, especially when my first impression tends towards the negative.

Thoughtful criticism is hard work, and I like to think I work hard at it. But it’s also clear to me that good criticism is not just “one person’s opinion.” A critique becomes increasingly reliable based on a body of experience attained with an open mind and heart for the spirit of what’s being offered. In many ways, Earl Scruggs’ standards to tone, taste, and timing govern bands, CDs and even festivals. Bands who allow bad taste to dominate their performance can perhaps bring in fans for a while, but ultimately they’ll lose their audience. Attention to audience is crucial to both bands and promoters, and to critics, I might add. Carefully thought out criticism can illuminate the strengths and weaknesses in performance. A critic has a responsibility to his audience as well as to his critical stance. I try to be very consistent in my pleas for a large tent approach to bluegrass and to bluegrass promoters for their responsibility to educate their audience to a broader version of bluegrass. I seek to apply the tone, taste, and timing criteria to assessing bluegrass performances, both live and on disk. I also try to place a band’s performance within the context of their goals as a band. I don’t want to judge a traditional band by a standard saying they’re not progressive enough, for instance. Meanwhile, I continue to enjoy writing about my experiences in bluegrass and giving thanks for the new and exciting opportunities it has offered me so late in life.

THE DAILY GRIST…”Why does anyone commit murder?' he asked in a low voice.
'I-'I blinked.'How should I know?’,’ Three reasons,' Christopher said. He held up one finger. 'Love.' Another finger. 'Revenge.' And finally, a third finger. 'Profit...” (Meg Cabot)

Murder They Wrote
Today’s Column from Bert Daniel
Monday, November 17, 2014

Murder is a subject that will always fascinate people. The evening news never fails to mention the most disturbing murder of the day and if a newspaper web site has an intriguing murder mystery, that article never fails to get a lot of hits. Bluegrass and Old Time music feature the subject of murder in countless classic ballads. It’s a topic that always entertains. And it’s one of the many reasons I like to listen to Bluegrass and Old Time.

When I was a youngster, I heard a very compelling family story about murder. If the story as told had turned out differently, I would not be here writing these words today. I grew up in South Carolina, where my family has lived for more than two hundred years. Back in the early 19th century my direct ancestor was making his annual trip on horseback to market his goods and make his bank deposits at the port of Charleston. The trip from Saluda took several days and he usually stayed over the last day just north of the city but for some reason he was in more of a hurry one particular day and he resisted the invitation of an innkeeper who said she and her husband had reasonable accommodation for him and he really should stay because he was obviously very tired.

Tired though he was, my forebear pressed on. A short time later he learned what his fate would have been had he listened to the siren’s song. The innkeeper couple were arrested because of the disappearance of a number of travelers who had vanished after last being seen at their inn. The innkeepers had been poisoning guests who had money and disposing of their bodies in their basement.

Many people believe that Mary Surratt, who was involved in the Lincoln assassination, was the first woman hanged in America but she was not. That distinction goes to Livonia Fisher, the same woman who tried to murder my ancestor. It is said that she went to the gallows with the words: “If you have a message for the devil, give it to me for I believe I am about to see him”.

Tales of murder can send a chill down your spine like nothing else. The ballads of traditional music make use of that in song after song. Here’s a tip. If you’re living in a virtual world of murder ballads, the guy you need to watch out for is a guy named Willie. Who initiated the double suicide in Silver Dagger? Willie. Who offed Pretty Polly? Willie. Who gave a poisoned glass of wine to Molly? Willie. I rest my case. Your prime suspect at the banks of the Ohio has to be Willie and I’d be willing to bet that guy they caught in Thomasville after little Sadie’s murder was named Willie Lee.

Life would be so much safer if you only knew who to really watch out for. Maybe my ancestor had a sixth sense about Mrs. Fisher or maybe he was just lucky. Most murders are committed by people who already know their victim. How many times have you seen a story about a murder and read that the perpetrator was a seemingly normal guy, a good neighbor?

I’m here to tell you, a murderer could be in your midst and you might not even know it. About thirty years ago my family’s guest for Thanksgiving was a music teacher from our local high school. Everybody felt sorry for Rusty because his wife had left him. He was a really nice guy and he played piano while my mom sang old Broadway show tunes. We had a really great time together that holiday.

A short time later, Rusty’s wife was found. She was found in a steamer trunk Rusty had rented at a storage facility in Saint Louis. She was dead and Rusty was arrested for murder. Everybody in Greenwood who knew the guy was speechless. Murder can send a chill up your spine. Think about that next time you sing one of those classic murder ballads.

A Run Up to Music Camp 2015
Posted by Geoff Sargent and Peter Langston
Sunday November 16, 2014

Yes ladies and gentlemen, musicians, campers, and even banjo players, it is that time of year where we start thinking about things like the 2015 Father’s Day Festival and our most excellent music camp. To tease you a bit for 2015 here’s our summary of the 2014 music camp. Peter and Janet are in the process of hiring the faculty for 2015 and we promise to keep you updated as soon as we know who will be coming.

The 2014 camp was the second year of the California Bluegrass Association Summer Music Camp being run by the new directors, Janet Peterson and Peter Langston. Apparently the success of last year was not a fluke in that 2014 was similarly successful. As always, the 2014 roster of instructors was of extremely high quality, and consisted of both perennial teachers and long-time favorites such as John Reischman, Bill Evans, Molly and Jack Tuttle, Kathy Kallick, and Keith Little, and newer favorites such as Blaine Sprouse, Pat Cloud, Chris Henry, Greg Booth, and Sharon Gilchrist. All the instructors received glowing praise! Some of these favs will hopefully return for 2015….it just wouldn’t be the same without them!Every year we help out some of our students and in 2014 nine full or partial scholarships were given out to students who would not have been able to attend otherwise. The CBA has a strong mandate for education as part of our mission to promote bluegrass, old time music and gospel and this is just one way we get to help.

Overall, we are keeping the number of camp attendees at just over 200, 225 to be precise. This seems to be just about the right size to accommodate most everyone who wants to attend, yet keep the camp small enough to promote a friendly relaxed atmosphere. Of the 225 attendees, 197 participated in the morning intensive classes and we were able to keep the average class size at about 9 campers/class. We must be doing something right because the most common score given in evaluations that Peter and Janet solicit from faculty, staff, and students is a 10 of 10 rating……kind of hard to beat. But in spite of such a positive response, we can promise you that next year there are plans afoot to improve on what we believe is already a most excellent camp…..more on that in future columns, as well what you really want to know, who will be teaching.

So start the countdown, mark your calendars, set your alarms because registration for the 2015 CBA Music Camp will open on February 7. More information is available at the music camp website http://cbamusiccamp.com. And we would like to remind you that you can give CBA Music Camp as a gift for Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Graduation, Birthdays Valentine's Day, and even April Fool's Day. Check it out at our web site.

We’d like to leave you with a sampling of quotes from the evaluation for the 2014 music camp. Keep the batteries fresh in your tuners, keep your strings clean and polished, and keep your picks close at hand because we’re agonna be kicking up some sand come June 14.

"I had a great time at camp--thank you! Great people, great food, great music. I always meet new friends-that's the best part."

"Thank you Peter and Janet! You guys are amazing and did a wonderful job putting on the camp. I would love to be a part of any camps you guys are involved with."

"OUTSTANDING food. The camp facilities were good, despite the heat."

"Janet was great - as usual!"

"Camp exceeded my expectations; glad I didn’t wait any longer to try it. "

"Thank you Peter and Janet. I think you have transitioned the camp in an excellent manner. I am glad I HIGHLY recommended you."

"Excellent instructors!! Food was terrific, thanks for vegetarian option"

"It was good to have you, Peter, in a couple of jams. Both of you, Peter and Janet, are a positive addition to the music camp. You are truly listening and providing more and more each year. For us senior adults it's a miraculous thing to be able to fit in as campers. It's simply amazing!"

"Thank you for a great camp. I have been to the Kaufman Kamp one time and it was fun but the camps are so different. Your camp was much more engaging, better food and tranquilo. Hope you don’t get too much bigger as the size really pulled for getting to know folks and not feel intimidated. All of the instructors, not just dobro, seemed very accessible and willing to interact. Looking forward to next year. Hope to recruit a local friend to also attend. I know this is counter to keeping it size manageable but folks here [Colorado] need to know about the CBA music camp."

Hangtown Halloween Ball 2014
Today's column from Cameron Little
Saturday, November 15, 2014

What do cops on stilts, fuzzy chicken suits, and light-up hula hoops have to do with bluegrass? More than you would think actually. Imagine a festival, one with serious bluegrass roots, that has evolved into a multi-genre festivators paradise, thanks to organizers Pet Projekt and Railroad Earth.

Walk through the gate at Hangtown Halloween Ball and it seems like a typical music festival, until you receive a hello from someone dressed head-to-toe as an ethereal jelly fish. And if you weren’t already experiencing a “Toto…we’re not in Kansas anymore” moment, the 4-foot diameter Oreo cookie on a unicycle zipping past will do the trick. This festival nurtures unlimited creative expression, and often feels like a surreal family reunion, a family reunion with full-sized Eeyores and Robbie the Robots roaming around.

Three days (and a bonus Thursday evening) of music included Railroad Earth, Poor Man’s Whiskey, Dead Winter Carpenters, Leftover Salmon, moe, The Shook Twins, Brothers Comatose, and Father’s Day Festival favorites Front Country. And let’s see a show of hands for those of you who knew that Noam Pikelny played for a time in Leftover Salmon.

Aha. Just as I thought.

And yes. It rained. But it didn’t dampen the festive spirit one tiny wood sprite. The downpour that pummeled the KVMR 89.5FM radio tent was deafening, but somehow the broadcasters persevered. On the Gallows Stage, with angled rain drenching the stage and bouncing off the monitors, Paige Anderson and the Fearless Kin turned in a well-received set.

And yes. There is jamming at this festival. You have to work for it when it rains because many jams have moved indoors. But the jam groups are welcoming, and believe me, there ain’t no bluegrass police anywheres near this festival.

Beloved Emcee, Pied Piper, and Rascally Ringmaster Joe Craven won the Coveted Pumpkin Oscar, which I just made up, for most and best costume transformations. Seeing Joe around the venue was like looking through a kaleidoscope: shades of Kokopelli, John Phillip Sousa, David Bowie. A fearless classification-buster, Joe is a world-class trickster musician who personally knows nearly every performer. His stage banter is funny and fascinating, and he shares insider jokes and stories that leave you a better person for it.

It may have been the six-foot salmon twirling the hula hoop overhead, or the woman dressed as a bubblegum machine, but by Saturday night I was completely gratified by the music and the scene and the color and the tie dye vibe. Visions of top-hatted sugar skulls and floating jellies, dancing pandas and Dr. Who, stayed with me well beyond my dreams.

Family atmosphere by day, exotic psychedelic bazaar by night. Partake of bluegrass, jamband, rock, blues, Americana, funk, indie-folk-pop, fusion, and all the crossovers you can shake a wizard’s staff at. Dance workshops, face painting, yoga, kid’s activities, and a bazillion pumpkins carved by festival goers during the Pumpkin Murder 101 workshop. There were costume themes for each day of the festival like, “Straight Off the Mothership”, “Electric Luau”, and “Zombie Prom Disco”. A little sumpin’ sumpin’ for everybody.

The Hangtown Halloween folks transform the El Dorado Fairgrounds into a cross between the Hundred Acre Wood and a Willy Wonka carnival gone rogue. The organizers and loyal Railroad Earth fans (Hobos) welcome you like family. And by the time you’re ready to leave, you’ve been hugged and fed and tie dyed and smudged with glitter kisses to your heart’s content.

(Cameron Little enjoys juggling bluegrass, college, and festivating these days. He wonders when the sugar skull face paint residue will be gone but prefers to keep the glitter kisses for a while longer.)

THE DAILY GRIST”Everybody likes a little variety. Even the immortal and intractable Bill Monroe was once video'd chicken pickin on a pink electric guitar.”--The Bard

The Spice of Life
Today’s column from Cliff Compton
Friday, November 14, 2014

As sort of a big tent guy in bluegrass circles, I appreciate the variety of music I get a chance to play with the people that hang around this fine organization. The charter of the California bluegrass association says that they were formed for the preservation of old time, gospel, and bluegrass music, but in their wisdom, they didn’t define it beyond that, which gives those of us with broad powers of interpretation a lot of wiggle room in what compromises each category. One of the things I like about those of us who hang around this fine bunch of people is that we leave room under the umbrella for those whose musical tastes maybe walk along the edges of the basic definitions of what constitutes the three categories.

When I go to Grass Valley for the big Fathers Day fest, I know that I’ll be able to find a little of most everything I like, maybe not on the main stage, or even on Vern’s stage, but it will be somewhere out in the parking lot, or rooted in the middle of some R.V. encampment or hidden behind some bush in the upper level at the end of the road. And wherever it is…I’m gonna find it.

There’s the C and W folks, generally around Jeanie Ramos’s R.V., with Jim Johnston and Vic Yeakle, and maybe Chuck Polling, and all them lovers of Hank and Hank and Hank and Merle. And they’ll be singing them drinking, and heartbreak songs, and those little lessons on how not to live your life, and they’ll be singing them about as good as you ever heard them, and maybe if you’re lucky, Diana Donnelly might come over there and do some Patsy Cline that’s worth the price of your ticket.

And up there in the trees you hear those hypnotic fiddles sawing like a hundred angry bees with those songs from the turn of the century and see that crushed leather hat of Carl Pagter bent over frailing that five string and if you’re feeling adventurous maybe they’ll let you slide into their circle and let you play one of those wonderful songs with 37 verses and one crooked chord that you’ll miss every time it passes.

And how about those jazz guys with the keyboard and the sheet music with the chords sheets that look like Chinese hieroglyphics . I’ll pick a couple with them, just to see if I can, and they’ll put up with me, as long as I don’t play nothing with just three chords.

And usually there a contingent of folk singers with great harmonies and songs they wrote themselves that you can usually figure out the chords and chorus to about the time the songs ends. And if you know every song that Bob Dylan or John Prine sang, you’ll always be welcome.

And then there’s the crazy people, and those are the most fun. Last year I got to jam with them with 10 banjos in one jam. Doing bluegrass versions of pop standards and unbluegrassable rock & roll. Life don’t get much better than that.

And when I’ve had enough of the craziness, There’s the gospel folks over there behind the bathroom, bringing a little of the Glory of God and the gentleness of the spirit into the night air. I always search them out and spend one glorious night singing my heart out in thanksgiving for all this good stuff.

But my favorite place of all is Pat Calhouns R.V. This is Mecca for the big tent people. This jam runs from fiddle tunes, to gospel, to Ralph Stanley bluegrass, to swing and C & W. To old time, and Cowboy music to jazz standards and Beethoven. I’ve even seen I guy pull a trumpet out from under his trenchcoat of on perfect night under a full moon.

I still love them hundred mile an hour three chord mountain masterpeices, but it ain’t enough for me. Thank God and Django. There’s always music playing somewhere that’s just right.

I’ll see you up there in the trees.

THE DAILY GRIST..."Elvis just about starved us out. We had some hard times, some rough years in the mid-1950s. I still had my little farm, and I’d always raised a small herd of cattle on the side. Nothing much, but it was something. I remember one winter things got so bad I had to sell 13 head of cattle just to pay wages for the band.” -- Ralph Stanley in “Man of Constant Sorrow, My Life and Times.”

The blue(grass) bird of happiness
Today’s column from George Martin
Thursday, November 13, 2014

What makes one happy changes over the years. As a child a new toy, or going to the Saturday matinee (feature film, serial and five cartoons) would always do it. A little later, going fishing with my father (though we never caught many fish) or riding my bicycle through the cold tule fog that regularly enveloped Crockett, located just at the western edge of the Delta, were outstanding.

Sunday dinner was big. Mom often made fried chicken, and almost always devil’s food cake with her home-made raspberry jam in the middle layer. I got older and discovered girls. Alas, they did not discover me for several years, and besides this isn’t that kind of a web site, so we will consider other types of happiness.

I had been plunking around on an old ukulele my mother had for some years, but in high school I got an actual guitar, and began playing with friends after school most afternoons. That was certified, dependable, easily-scheduled happiness. It only improved when we all got electric guitars and started playing for Cub Scout carnivals and Red Cross volunteer dance gigs at the Napa State Mental Hospital.

Music has continued, all these years, to be a dependable source of happiness. In adulthood, though, it has had competition from the deep wells of emotion one gets from the love and companionship of an exceptional woman and the joy of watching one’s children grow and establish successful lives and families.

And now I have grandchildren. I think the joy they bring me is reinforced by the feeling that I am unlikely to experience another generation at my age. These two beautiful little boys are going to be my last hurrah in the DNA game. I have had two wishes for them: one, that they be healthy and happy, and two, that they be musical.

A couple of weeks ago I had a peak experience with Cassens, who is now seven years old and has been taking violin lessons for a few months. I went to visit and asked how he was doing on the fiddle and he said, “I learned the second part of Cripple Creek.” The A part, he’s been playing almost since he started, so I was delighted to hear that. When he played it for me, though, he had the timing a little off. ??I picked up a mandolin they have and told to boy to follow my phrasing and I went through it, line by line, until he got the timing right, and then we played it a few times through, and I don’t think a shot of heroin would have made me feel any better. I was playing music with my grandson!

Cassens’ teacher is a symphonic violinist and has taught him, among other things, Bach’s “Ode to Joy.” Now he’s working on the theme to “Star Wars,” which is a major good idea, I think, as the boy is a total fan of the movies, the books, and even the Lego sets.

I’m not greedy. I’m sure “Old Joe Clark” is waiting, just around the corner.

Talisman Magic in the Wood
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Some years ago, I was at the Wintergrass festival, jamming away and who should pop through the doorway behind me but Tony Rice! He had to walk right through my jam to go where he was heading. I said “Hey Tony! Can I get a picture with you?”

He agreed, and we posed while a friend took the picture (with a camera, not with a phone). Once more people realized it was Tony Rice, people began rushing towards him like lepers at Lourdes. “Hey Tony Rice! Touch my guitar! Touch my guitar!”. Mr. Rice beat a hasty retreat.

I played in a band for a while with a fiddler named WP Shields who claimed his fiddle had belonged to Bob Wills. I don’t know if it was true, but I think he believed it and I think it inspired him.

It didn’t occur to me to have Tony Rice touch my guitar, but I encountered a similar situation years later at IBMA. The Dillards were coming up to play at the CBA suite, but when they arrived, Rodney Dillard didn’t have a guitar with him.

“Does anybody have a guitar for Rodney?”, somebody said, and I quickly produced mineand now my D28 has Dillard magic built in. Oh, it doesn’t make me play even a little bit better, but I treasure the memory.

I recently saw an episode of Dave Grohl’s Sonic Highways series, and in it, he encountered a piano backstage at the theater where “Austin City Limits” takes place, When Dave hears that Ray Charles had played the piano, he’s in awe, and he’s just like the guys who wanted Tony Rice to touch their guitars.

I don’t believe in magic in the Merlin the Magician sense, but sometimes you can feel something emanating from inanimate objects or places. In Seattle, I saw the guitar Jimi Hendrix played at Woodstock, and it was an absolute thrill to be so close (inches away) from an absolute icon of musical history I stared closely at it, and could imagine Jimi’s long fingers playing the Star Spangled Banner on it. I got goosebumps.

One of the only two times I have had a physical manifestation of stage fright came from such a feeling. I had a show at a local music hall whose stage and green room (I’m a big fan of green rooms) had seen the likes of Jerry Garcia, Carlos Santana and other musical giants. I had to sit down for a while in that legendary green room and concentrate on not hyperventilating. The history of the place was overwhelming me, and thought of being on that stage shook me up a bit.

I think most people have encountered things like this - when places or things take on a talisman-like quality. Probably not detectable by scientific instruments, but still real enough!

Hooked on Bluegrass: a glacially paced evolution
Today's column from Marcos Alvira
Tuesday, November 11, 2014

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Our usual second-Tuesday columnist, Ted Lehmann, is having a richly deserved day off today. In place of his column we’re using Marcos Alvira’s now infamous Welcome in which he admits, openly and publicly…and apparently without the least bit of embarrassment or shame…that it took him a while to become a devoted follower of the Bill. It’s okay, Marcos, we understand.)

Frankly, I can’t really remember not ever listening to bluegrass, though I suppose that technically, mere listening does not necessarily equate to be “hooked.” I’ll never forget the time when in 1962, by dad brought home a brand new portable stereo. It was black with silver and gray speaker cloth. It had a pull down Gerrard turntable. The speakers opened up like a book and resembled the ears of a large elephant. It was one of those new stereophonic record players. The elephant ear speakers detached and could be spread across the room. My dad had two albums: one was of sound effects—race cars traveling across our living room; fighter jets screaming across our ceiling; etc. My dad would have guests sit at the center of the room in a stiff backed kitchen chair, the speakers placed in opposite corners, and they would marvel at the stereophonic journey in our San Francisco flat.

The other stereo LP he bought was “Bluegrass Banjo Hootenanny” by Ed Cassady and the Georgia Corn Stompers. At the tender age of four, I knew that I wanted to be a sheriff or cowboy, and that music just got me riled up. Whenever my parents put it on, I’d run off to my room, slip on my cowboy boots, six shooter, and Gene Autry hat and commence to dancing to the “cowboy music” in front of that stereo. Boy, my heels would be clicking when that banjo got geared up to 200+ beats per minute. My grandparents would clap and laugh, and offer me a dollar if I danced especially well. (It was always a dime because, as my grandfather said, all the taxes had been taken out). By 1964, our record collection had expanded. Our country records, as we called them included Hank Williams, Eddie Arnold, Marty Robbins, as well as Ed Cassady. I would act out the Marty Robbins ballads, but bluegrass was for foot stompin’.

Throughout my teens and through my thirties, I remained fond of bluegrass and listened to it often, along with other American roots music. There were many radio stations to nurture that musical relationship: KPFA, KPIG, KKUP, and a number of small college. Interestingly enough, I had a couple of close calls with bluegrass in the Eighties, that had they come to fruition, might have altered the musical and social trajectory of my life immensely. In 1984, there was a bluegrass band playing in Hayward. There was a pretty young gal singing lead at the time and, little did she know, I was one infatuated fan. During a break between sets at the newly opened Buffalo Bills, she and I got to talking. After a bit, she invited me to come up to a new bluegrass festival at Grass Valley with her and the band. As fun as that festival sounded, I was unclear about her signals and decided to sit that one out. I often wonder how my life would have changed had I gone. Undoubtedly, I would have met a young JD, Mark Hogan, and Rick Cornish…folks whom I count among my friends today. What might have happened had I gone and my young, unfettered exuberance had come into contact and become infected with the bluegrass fervor of the early CBA? I’m sure that in another parallel dimension, that reality might just be playing itself out now as I type.

As it winds up, it was about six years ago, when I retired from coaching baseball, that I found myself with time on my hands. I decided that I had come to a point in my life where if I wanted to become a decent musician, I needed to focus on one type of music. For whatever reason, that year listening to bluegrass had become an obsession. I can only say that it spoke to my heart. The tight vocal harmonies were always moving, and the deftness of pickers like Tony Rice, Doc Watson, Norman Blake, and Clarence White not only amazed me, but also had me baffled, as well. They were reminiscent of flamenco guitar players- one man, one guitar, and two hands concurrently produced barrages of notes that seemed to number in the thousands every second, rhythm and lead intertwining seamlessly. One weekend, I was invited to a private jam at a ranch hosted by my new friend Vince Janssens. It was there that I met Wayne and Betty Nolan, Corey and Robin Welch and a whole bunch of other folks that I count as friends today. What I discovered was that playing bluegrass is only half the joy. The greater half is the fine folks, pickers and listeners alike, that form community that at its best, feels a lot like family. By the season’s end, I had attended three festivals and was firmly hooked on bluegrass.

Simply Music
Today's column from Randy January
Monday, November 10, 2014

Being unshakably hooked on Bluegrass, as we like to say around here, often has me wondering why the broader population in general does not take to it. In general, mainstream music seems to be incredibly simplistic. Simple rhythms and lyric heavy songs seem to be the norm. Catch phrases and basic melodies are all that people tend to get. It’s got me wondering at times if Bluegrass and Old Time music is just too complicated for the masses.

Saying Bluegrass is too complicated seems so counterintuitive when you think about the roots of it. This is a music based on simplistic folk songs that were played primarily by uneducated rural families that past the music down by ear and played mainly on their porch or at gatherings and events. Not to discount the richness of the music, but we’re not talking about Bach and Beethoven here. In it’s heyday it was a music of the people.

So how did the music being passed on mainly by common folk with little to no formal music education become too complicated for the general public?

In my opinion a lot of it comes down to what you are exposed to while you are young. The tradition of family music time and live acoustic music at gatherings and events seems to have fallen by the way side. Music has become so easy that you just push a button now and it plays in the background with little to no respect and regard to how much skill it takes to create it.

The public school seem to have even less regard for it, as it’s usually the first program to be cut in times of tight budgets. In fact, the elementary school my kids went to let their music teacher (who was actually quite good!) go a few years ago. Some of us rallied to get the PTA to fund at least some kind of music program, but what they ended up with was an absolute joke. The parents involved in it had such little knowledge of what musical education actually is that they hired a company to put on a dance program and sold it off as a music program. Huh?!

All I heard from the crowd after the show was how much of a success the music program was, and any comment that it’s actually not a music program at all was met with a look of both confusion and contempt. How dare I point out such a basic fact about it when the kids had so much fun up there? So the kids grow up thinking that moving their body to match a person in the back of the room while pop songs play over the PA system is music education. Ugh.

No wonder why people have grown to think a simple music based largely off simple chord progressions such as 1-4-5 are too complicated, or worse they have no appreciation at all for any complexity to it. Meanwhile Pop, R&B, and even Country Western music has a simple beat that’s easy to dance to and simple lyrics that the masses can sing and move to and easily emulate the “stars”. Now anyone can picture themselves a music legend with no effort or training at all. Double ugh.

There is hope though, and a big part of it is the smart people on the board of the CBA who had the foresight to establish so many programs to reach out to the youth and bring them up learning and appreciating music from a young age. The only shame is that there just doesn’t seem to be a huge number of families taking advantage of these offerings. Granted, the Youth Academy has sold out two years running, but there are a ton of good instruments just waiting to get into the hands of kids wanting to learn, and there is always more room on stage for the little ones. That’s where we, the benefactors of these great programs, need to reach out more to people in our communities and let them know about these programs and start more of them.

We are in the minority, but there are some families recognizing the value of music in kids’ lives. Music camps and festivals are something to be looked forward to every year, but it’s that time spent together playing on a regular basis that counts the most. It’s interacting, bonding, and creating something special together. You can’t do that with a push of a button and the shake of a tush. Now if we can just share that experience with more friends, family, and neighbors, then we’ll really be on to something.

THE DAILY GRIST…”Don't waste life in doubts and fears; spend yourself on the work before you, well assured that the right performance of this hour’s duties will be the best preparation for the hours or ages that follow it."…Ralph Waldo Emerson

Tricks of the Trade
Today’s column from Bert Daniel
Sunday, November 9, 2014

You love Bluegrass music so you find your lawn chair and take a seat. Your chair is strategically positioned, near the center and close to the stage. Maybe it’s not as good a spot as you thought. The sun was in a different place when you snarfed that spot yesterday and you might not be so comfortable once the summer sun starts to blaze. Well, you’ve got your hat and sunscreen and you’ve been looking forward to this concert for weeks. You’ll be OK.

You got there early because one of your favorite bands is coming on soon. A local band you’ve never heard before warms up the audience and you get caught up in their enthusiasm and energy. You wish they had a CD to buy but they don’t. Oh well.

Then your band from Nashville comes on. They’re wearing fancy suits and they just grab you and the rest of the audience in a flash and you forget all about those local musicians you liked whose CD wasn’t quite out yet. You can bet that local band has all the love for the music that this polished headliner band has. But they don’t sound nearly as good on stage. Why?

One obvious reason is that they’re not as proficient musically. The local band’s members would be the first to admit that. They’ve all got day jobs and they can’t spend their whole day honing their craft like the full time musicians, much as they’d like to. But rest assured, they would be more than willing to do just as much as it takes to be on that bigger stage.

Aside from the musicianship of professionals versus would-be professionals, what sets the performances of these two bands apart? Here are my top ten reasons:

1) The Sound:

One of the best sound men in the business is Paul Knight, a familiar face to almost any CBA festival goer. Local bands and national bands alike praise his efforts at festivals. But you’ll notice that Paul works a lot harder when he’s setting up a marquee band versus an average band. I’m sure that has a lot more to do with the band than it does with Paul. He’s a perfectionist. He wants to make every band sound as good as possible. I’ve never heard a Paul Knight gig where you could’t hear the guitar solo. He gets it right.

Paul has to make more adjustments for the big name bands because those bands know more about what they want out of the sound system and they know Paul can give it to them. And if the sound isn’t right, they know how to recognize that and communicate it to the sound booth during the performance.

2) The Beginning:

A good stage band realizes that every performance is an opportunity to grab new listeners and turn those listeners into fans. The best strategy is to hit ‘em hard right from the get go. Don’t let ‘em come up for air until they’ve been impressed! Some bands even have their own special theme song to get things started, but if they don’t they’ll play two or three snappy numbers in rapid succession at the start of their set. When they finish the first number, they surge right into the next one without waiting for applause or anything else.

3) The Attire

One of my favorite local bands is the Central Valley Boys. And one of the reasons I like them so much is because they really know how to present themselves on stage from a sartorial perspective. They pop onto the stage like they own it in very elaborate pressed suits. One time you’ll see them in canary yellow and the next time it’s cardinal red. They even joke on stage about being in the business just so they can afford to buy their next new suits of clothing. They’re good musicians but the attention to detail about costume helps set them apart from other good musicians.

It’s truly shocking how many bands just don’t seem to care much about what they’re wearing on stage. You don’t have to all have fancy matching outfits but you shouldn’t look like the Trivago pitch man either. Any audience wants to see that the performing band respects their attendance by dressing tastefully.

4) The Chit Chat

Audiences at a music festival come to hear music. Inevitably, there is some down time between numbers for retuning, instrument changes, etc. Filling that space with some amusing banter is great and, if the chit chat is good, it helps endear the band to the new audience. Otherwise talk should be kept to an absolute minimum. Listeners want to know the names of the tunes and maybe some significant background, but generally speaking, it should be the music that speaks to the audience.

5) The Breaks

Good bands know how to pass breaks seamlessly. Every band member should know exactly when they are supposed to come in for their solo and be right on time. They have to adjust their position on stage and their playing as needed for other soloists. Audiences notice when the polish of a performance makes it clear that a band has worked hard on every last detail of their stage act.

6) The Split Breaks

Bluegrass at its best is high energy music. The more stuff going on the better. Long breaks in a backstage or campsite jam might be the rule because the situation encourages it. But for a stage performance, good bands favor the split breaks. It’s absolutely mandatory for the slow tunes. An audience likes it every time a little nod from one soloist to another produces a new spin on the music which is already hopefully spinning as wildly as Bluegrass can.

7) The Smile and Nod

If an audience likes something that is played, they have a tendency to applaud, even if it’s not at the end of a tune. A brief smile and nod of acknowledgement by the soloist for an applauded effort is always popular.

8) The Connection

Not every band can make the audience feel like they are a part of the performance. Some bands can do it simply by playing music so expressively that the audience feels it is a part of their soul. Other bands have a natural ability to entertain by involving the audience in other ways. Some know lots of tunes and take requests. Some get the audience singing along. A good band recognizes what their forte is along those lines and works hard to connect with their audience every night.

9) The Attitude

A good band knows that the reason they are there is to entertain. The performance is not about them so much as it is about giving the people what they want. They are inviting the listener into their living room.

10) The Adjustment

Inevitably, unexpected glitches come up in a performance, no matter how well rehearsed. A good stage band has to to adjust, relax and make their guests feel at home as much as possible.

So there you have it. If you go to enough Bluegrass events, you realize that there are a lot of really good bands out there. Although some average bands could sound better if they implemented the tricks of the trade, what really matters in the long run is the quality of the music itself. Some bands try to cover up a lack of talent by simply cranking up the volume to a more energetic level. Fortunately, I think that crude strategy is more common with Rock music than it is with Bluegrass.

The music isn’t just about what’s happening on stage. Recording sessions have their own very different tricks of the trade. And some of the most enjoyable music you’ll hear at a Bluegrass festival will always be those after hours jams that go on night and day.

What If Bill Monroe Had Never…?
Today’s column from John A. Karsemeyer
Saturday, November 8, 2014,

What if Bill Monroe had never been born? Would the foundation of bluegrass music have been created, as we know it, with Bill, Lester Flatt, Earl Scruggs, and the other bluegrass boys back in the 1940’s? And the big question that affects us in the here and now is, “Would we have bluegrass festivals all over the world?”

People who study probability say that if something is going to happen, it will happen. Eventually. So relating that to bluegrass music begs the question, “Was bluegrass music destined to happen?” And if the answer to that is “yes,” then who really was responsible for the creation of bluegrass music? Did it really start with Adam and Eve, and then was passed on genetically to Bill Monroe? Or if you take the view of evolution, that from a single cell organism at the bottom of the ocean that gradually, gradually, gradually, really gradually made its way genetically to Kentucky and gave birth to Bill Monroe, was there something that predetermined bluegrass music?

If you take the creationist’s stand you have to say that God created music, and then bluegrass music (in the long run). And if you accept that, you have to agree that God really created bluegrass music, not Bill Monroe. Bill was just the vessel, the vehicle by which bluegrass music made its way to us. And then Bill shouldn’t really have taken credit for it. And Bill Monroe should rightly be called, “The Earthly Father of Bluegrass,” because he wasn’t really the “Heavenly Father of Bluegrass,” the actual creator of it.

If you take the evolutionist’s stand you have to say, “Okay, Bill is the Father of Bluegrass Music,” because a single cell living organism divided, divided, divided, then divided some more and eventually became Bill Monroe, and Bill could really take the credit. Unless that single cell millions of years ago already had bluegrass music programmed into it.

But still, going back to probability, if Bill hadn’t created bluegrass music, would someone other than Mr. Monroe have come along and created it? Many of you know that often when somebody wins a Nobel Prize for creating something new and significant that there are at least one, or two, or three or more people in different parts of the world working on the same creation at the same time. But the Nobel Prize winner(s) just got there and did it first. I mean what if Bill had only taken up the guitar and stuck with traditional country music, would we still eventually have what we have today that we recognize as “bluegrass?” (think of big tent, medium size tent, pup tent here).

So let’s say for some strange, magical, mystical reason that bluegrass music bypassed Bill Monroe, and we bluegrass folks had to wait until more recent times to enjoy all things bluegrass that we have today. If the folks who study probability are correct, and if Bill hadn’t created it, somebody else would have.

Would it have been Vern (Williams), or Ray (Park), or J.D. Rhynes, or Laurie Lewis, or Kathy Kallick, or one of the other bluegrass boys or gals in California? Or New York? Or Kansas? Or the Ozarks? I get a warm feeling when I think that bluegrass music might have been invented by a group of folks living in California. Wow, what a legacy we could claim! California Bluegrassers could claim original authenticity, with swelling heads that would call for larger sized Stetson hats, riding britches, spiffy shirts, and well- polished boots when performing on stage (just like Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys did way back when).

Not too long ago I posed this, “What if Bill Monroe had never been born,” question to a bunch of bluegrass lovin’ primitive baptist preachers, and they all said, “Well that’s just a mystery that we have to accept.” And 75% of those preachers (all mandolin players) I asked went on to say, “If it would have bypassed Bill, I think it would have landed on me!”

All in all it’s just one of those questions that you should consider, but not dwell on too long, as it’s apt to make you go crazy. And in the end we need to settle on the answer that some great philosopher gave to other perplexing questions about the universe. Which is, “The answer is that there hasn’t been an answer, there isn’t an answer now, and there never will be an answer.” In the meantime, just enjoy the bluegrass music!

But now the question of the day is, “If Rick Cornish hadn’t been born, would you be reading this Welcome Column on the CBA website?”

Ten Items or Fewer
Today’s column from Brooks Judd
Friday November 7, 2014

Item 1: San Francisco Giants: What else is there to say but “Jolly good show! The SF Giants are a class A organization from the top on down. They have a great ball park, with a grand history. Three World Series in five years and sell outs to every game.Someone somewhere is doing something right and the fans are the winners. Thank you SF Giants.

Item 1A: I just read Monday’s Mold Man.How apropos. Herr Mold Man discussed his and Maude’s love for the Giants (if they are winning). At least he is honest. I think Mold Man has even been to the Yard a few times. Good column Mold Man and be sure to say hello to Maude for me.

Item 2: Putter. Things that old folks do around the house once they retire. What a sweet little word. It has nothing to do with that other word,a noun, describing an elongated piece of metal that is used to softly tap a small dimpled white ball onto an immaculately trimmed green plot of grass into a circular four inch hole. Many retired folks would rather use a putter on the course than take the same time to putter around their home.

Item 3: Missing socks. Since the invention of the washer and dryer there has been a well documented conspiracy concerning the loss of socks in the washer/-dryer cycle. Much has been written about this phenomenon and nothing has really been proven until now.
Just a couple of short weeks ago a rather sickly dog was taken to the vet by his concerned owners. After tests and x-rays it was discovered that the dog’s insides were crammed with some sort of material. Surgery was scheduled. After the surgery the vets made quite a discovery. The dog had consumed over 125 socks.Thankfully the sock emptied dog is resting comfortably.

Item 4: The customer is always right?
I was recently at a Subway sandwich shop ordering my usual grilled chicken sandwich when a young woman strode up to the counter and ordered a salami, ham and cheese sandwich on wheat bread.The counter person grabbed the foot long piece of bread, sliced it down the middle and began to ladle in salami, ham, cheese, etc.
The young customer cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me, I don’t want to be a pain but could you put that on another sandwich roll?” The counter person gave her a smile and began to carefully unload the slices of salami, ham, cheese, pickles, etc. onto a piece of saran wrap. She then pleasantly asked the young woman what type of bread she preferred.The young woman replied, “I still want wheat bread.” The counter person’s smile began to weaken and said, “What is wrong with the bread that I just had?” The young woman replied, “You didn’t cut it correctly.”

The counter person’s smile began to fade. She reached for another bun and began to carefully slice it down the middle. As she was slicing the wheat bread the young customer became chatty. “It was a traumatic experience. I was here a couple of weeks ago and ordered a sandwich and the person who made it incorrectly sliced the bread like you just did. When I got home and began to eat my sandwich bits of food dropped down onto my clothes because the bun was not cut evenly. It made quite a mess and I don’t want to go through THAT experience again.” The counter person stopped slicing the bread and held the roll up to the young customer and said, “Is this cut evenly enough?” The young customer carefully scanned the roll and pondered the slice of bread for a few seconds and replied, “ Yes, I guess that will have to do.”

I don’t know about the patient counter person but for some reason I was bothered by what I had just seen. A customer certainly has the right to order what they want and to get their order right. I think in this case the customer was just a bit too finicky.

My warm aromatic sandwich and I headed for home. I walked into the dining room and sat down. I carefully unwrapped my chicken sandwich. I took a huge bite into it lustily tearing into the tasty bread and watched in satisfaction as bits and pieces of chicken, lettuce, olives, onions, and jalepenos floated down triumphantly onto my shirt. “Take that!” I shouted and for some reason I felt better.

Item 5: From my cousin Bobby in Tracy: For your reading enjoyment.....

A. My good friend Rick told me he was addicted to brake fluid but assured me he could stop any time.....
B.My neighbor banged on my door at 2:30 in the morning. A good thing I was still playing my bagpipes!
C little old lady at the F&M Bank ATM in Turlock asked me to check her balance, so I pushed her over.
D.Statistically 6 out of 7 dwarves are not happy.

Item 6: Elections finally are over. All the lies, half-truths, and downright outrageous misrepresentations about candidates will be over for at least a few more months. Somewhere, in dark, smoke filled, liquor laced rooms are people from both parties creating these political affronts. They should all be ashamed of themselves. I think we deserve better.

Item 7: Enjoy Thanksgiving and whenever someone mentions Black Friday you have the right to get angry and tell them to get a life.

Until December 6: Read a book, hug a child, pet a dog, stroke a cat, eat a bar of chocolate and pay it forward.

THE DAILY GRIST… “He's fit to mind mice at a crossroads.” Old Irish Insult

Minding Mice at a Crossroads
Today's column from Dave Williams
Thursday, November 6, 2014

I always find it fun as my monthly deadline for this welcome column approaches to search for a catch phrase or a hook that I can use and riff on, if you will.

It turns out that I have been having a problem with one of the bands I’m in and I was intending to use the analogy “herding cats” to tell you about it but in my large number of seconds of cogent preparation for this column, I decided that “herding cats” was too cliché so I gave my research assistant (you know the one that lives in Mountain View by the bay) the task of coming up with an alternative that would describe my level of frustration and degree of difficulty in dealing with this assemblage of musicians masquerading as a band.

Up to the task as usual, Google delivered a very appropriate alternative, “minding mice at a crossroads”. This is an Irish phrase that seems to have a couple of meanings depending on the context. One is the obvious one, a bunch of mice at a crossroads will scatter at will so there is no minding them.

Another connotation is that the one who has the task of minding the mice is incompetent of doing much else. Both of these definitions work for my band problem…….and apparently for me.

Let me be upfront here. I like to gig. I enjoy playing in front of people. Big crowds, small crowds, senior citizens, toddlers, I don’t care. Being one of the retired folks in the band, I have taken the responsibility of trying to book gigs. If I do say so myself, I have done a pretty good job of finding work and most of them are paying gigs. We’re not talking full time or going on tour but rather looking for two gigs a month or so.

Starting in early July, I was hustling up some gigs for the summer and fall. I had found some at a San Jose brewery we have played at before, an East Bay pizza joint and at a new venue on the Peninsula. All these band buyers were very flexible about dates. An amateur band bookers dream, right? Nope, I couldn’t get a band quorum even with the flexibility of dates from the venues. Actually, this got downright embarrassing after a point and the band ended up turning down 3 or 4 gigs and cancelling one after booking it.

Luckily, I was able to maintain a good relationship with most of these venues although one bridge is burned at least for a while.

One of the issues is that this particular band has 7 players and while we could potentially play shorthanded sometimes, there are a couple of critical pieces that are necessary for any quality performance. Missing our lead singer or rhythm guitar player won’t work. If a venue offers an opportunity to play on a Friday in 3 weeks, I can’t say yes or no until I can confirm with 7 people, very hard to do in a timely manner.

I’m sure this type of situation is fairly typical with bands that don’t have someone’s name in the band’s name like Bill Monroe and the Bluegrass Boys or Flatt and Scruggs. If Bill said they were playing a gig, they were playing the gig but in our semi-amateur world that is not the case. We need to accommodate all the band member’s lives.

I am figuring out that it is going to take some “learnin” on my part to make this easier. Rehearsals are considerably more easily scheduled as you can keep calendars and plan in advance. It is gigs popping up on the short-term horizon (3-4) weeks that are difficult.

I enlisted some help from another band member and we worked with the others to determine what the gig schedule horizon could be and got commitments that if we book a gig in that 3-4 week window, everyone would be available.

So moving forward, I’ll get my gig fix more regularly in the coming year or so that’s the plan. I’m clear, though, that I’m still ‘minding mice at the crossroads” with both definitions in play.

See you next month.

THE DAILY GRIST..."In a band, a unique combination of elements that becomes stronger together than apart." - Steven Van Zandt
Hey Anyone Looking for a Pickup Game?
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, November 5, 2014

People who are more athletic than I (in other words, everyone on Earth) seems to have fond memories of pickup basketball games with their friends. Some of these games (I am told) feature some very skilled players, and I have also heard tell of organized pickup basketball leagues, which would seem to defeat the whole purpose of a pickup game.

Well, I’ve never played in a pickup game of basketball, and at this point, it seems like I never will. But you can keep your pickup basketball brother, because I have something better: Pickup bands!

If you’re in a bluegrass band (and I assume you are), playing parties is a pretty common gig. The pay is not often real good, but playing music you love with people you love and getting a few bucks, a few beers and some BBQ is pretty fun thing to do.

Here’s a situation that arises pretty regularly - someone in a bluegrass band has a friendwho’s best friend from college, a big bluegrass fan, is coming to visit in the summer. Wouldn’t it be cool if there could be a big fun barbecue party with a bluegrass band? The friend who’s in the bluegrass band feels a natural obligation to help a friend and checks with his or her band to see if they mind doing a really fun party, for a bit of money, some cash and dinner.

Fairly often, it turns out not everyone in the band can do this gig. Sometimes, it’s a money issue, but just as often there are other obligations on a fine summer night. Is the whole thing going to fal apart? Is the old college friend going to be denied some killer bluegrass at this summer soiree! Au contraire! Enter the Pickup Band!

How did this happen? It’s simple - some phone calls are made and players are recruited to fill in for the regular band members who can’t or won’t play the party gig. Will this diminish the musical experience for the Old College Friend? Not very likely.

As militant as I can be about musicians being paid appropriately, I enjoy playing in pickup bands in odd gigs during the year. The same everyone-on-vacation-in-the-summer dynamic means a lot of fine musicians are available and truth be told, it’s fun to play for a few hours with some good pickers and make good music on the fly.

Bluegrass lends itself to this practice more than most musical genres. It’s a folk music, after all, and there are dozens and dozens of songs that even a band full of perfect strangers will know. This type of gig is fun for the audience, too. I love it when people say “Hey you guys are good! How long have you been playing together?”

To which I reply “What time is it? I never even met most of these folks until this evening!”

THE DAILY GRIST..."’She was the kind of girl you didn't have to remember because you knew ya could never forget her.’ A line from First Yank Into Tokyo, on Turner Classic Movies. Say that's swell!”—Randy Pitts, Nashville Music And-Pretty-Much-Everything-Else Critique

FaceBook DID NOT Pay for this Welcome Column
Today's column from Rick Cornish
Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Good morning from Whiskey Creek, where absolutely NOTHING has changed since the last time I stroked that into my Mac.

I reiterate, this column IS NOT an ad for Facebook, the social media site that has more members than the majority of countries recognized by the United Nations have population; however, if you do not check out what’s on Facebook routinely…let’s say a couple times a week…after you’ve read today’s Welcome, I will have failed. And that’s because, as far as I know, checking in every now and again is the only way you can get the required dosage of vitamin P, a narrative supplement guaranteed to keep bluegrass and old country junkies awake and alert. I refer, of course, to the writing of Randy Pitts.

I remember the morning I logged onto my computer and checked my FB “notifications”…Hmm, I thought aloud, a friend request from Randy Pitts, an old pal of mine who lives back in Nashville with another old pal, Chris Lewis. My aloud “hmm” is a half-conscious technique I use to try to remember to DO SOMETHING with something that I’ve just read or heard or seen. In this case the something was to immediately accept Randy’s request and then write him an FB message asking if he’d consider writing for cbaontheweb.org. Randy would be a huge catch if I could snag him, and there are several reasons for that. First, he’s a fount of information about what’s happening in Nashville; second, imagine a fount five times as big about pretty much everything bluegrass; third, before Randy and Chris made the long trek back to Music City, they were both mainstays of the early days of California, and specifically Bay Area, bluegrass; and fourth, the guy’s a good writer who can be funny and informative at the same time…imagine that.

Well, my old pal was just as quick to FB message me back and decline the invitation to join our merry band of writers. He said he was too busy to make such a commitment, especially because of his latest venture, a FaceBook page from which he could broadcast his pretty much daily writings. I responded that I understood but asked if I could just swipe (and attribute) stuff I liked, he said sure, and that’s just what we’ve been doing the last several months.

So then, why all the fuss? What’s so good about Pittism’s anyway? Rather than try to tell you, I’ll show you with one of his longer Facebook posts, this one about making it to the IBMA Awards Show where he was nominated for his work writing liner notes for the latest James King album…

“The lure of hearing my name read out loud at The IBMA Awards Luncheon--and tickets to the Awards Show-- proved too strong to resist, so Chris and I went to Raleigh this past weekend with some trepidation, and I'm happy to say, had a wonderful time. Many highlights, beginning with having a drink in the hotel bar with Jim Rooney, musician, promoter, producer, author, wit, bon vivant, and raconteur; a man who has been in the room when it happened more than most, and a man who has forgotten more about traditional music than most of us will ever know; he was in Raleigh to honor his longtime partner Bill Keith ,a man who despite accepting a Distinguished Achievement citation for a lifetime of great and innovatve music, belongs in the IBMA's Hall Of Fame. In the same bar, later that night, I caught up with my main competition in the liner notes category--he won--Neil Rosenberg, who not only wrote notes for the very successful and groundbreaking album of Noam Pikelny's interpretations of Kenny Baker's versions of Monroe tunes but also was inducted into The IBMA Hall Of Fame Thursday night. Although Neil is a Berkeley boy and was a founding member of Berkeley's first bona fide bluegrass band (The Redwood Canyon Ramblers), his love of bluegrass and banjo playing has led to a life filled with academic and literary success--he wrote the definitive history of the music--and he too, has been in the room when it happened many times. I told him I figured I had scant chance of winning for my liner notes against the likes of him, and he pretty much agreed, but in a nice way...just a kiddin'...Neil was a gracious winner as always...and on Thursday humbly accepted his induction into the Hall Of Fame. I was particularly moved to hear him mention the importance of some who had been kind to him along the way, including Big Mon himself, but also people whose names wouldn't mean much to a lot of people. He mentioned Roger Smith as being particularly kind to him in his formative years. Chris and I got to know Roger in the 90s, and he was a fabulous, though largely unheralded musician during the early years of bluegrass. He was a fixture at The Brown County Music Park when Neil worked there and ran the place for Bill Monroe for a time--and was in the house band with Roger and Vernon McQueen, among others.

The original Seldom Scene was also inducted into the HOF, Original members Tom Gray, John Starling, and Ben Eldridge (the sole surviving member of the original group still active in the band) also joined the other current members of the band in an affecting version of Herb Pedersen's "Wait A Minute." THAT was a highlight, for sure, especially hearing John Starling sing the song once again...Choreographer Eileen Carson Schatz, an old friend, told me when we ran into her in a restaurant that we'd better be in our seats early for the awards show the next night, because her latest version of Footworks was going to open the show. We were, they did, and they blew the roof off the joint; great to see that her energy and innovations remain undiminished.

More later...”

And there WAS a lot more later. Besides Randy’s mostly random ramblings, his followers are treated every couple days with Randog's Daily Pick, three-hundred or so word record reviews. Since beginning his stint on Facebook Pitts has written about the likes of The New Lost City Ramblers, Vern and Ray, Jerry Lee Lewis, Norman Blake and Tony Rice and…well dozens of others.

Randy’s Facebook posts are nearly always brief, typically pithy and generally fraught with opinion. Oh, and he’s known for his inability (or is it unwillingness) to suffer fools, or more accurately, people adjudged to be fools by, who else, Randy.

You know, I just realized that I do not know if folks without Facebook accounts can read junk on FB. Can’t check myself being the owner of said account. But if the answer is YES, I suggest you bounce over to facebook.com and do a search on Randy Pitts. He’s an interesting guy with an interesting perspective and an interesting way of telling you just what he thinks.

That’s all for now…tomorrow the revered Bruce Campbell will serve up another healthy heaping of heartfelt homilies.

Today's column from Marty Varner
Monday, November 3, 2014

The reason why my article is Monday instead of its traditional Saturday slot, is because I was occupied to the gills in schoolwork and fun here at Clark University. I am finally understanding what my highs school teachers were talking about when they said that what we are doing now is a lot easier than what you will be doing then. Whether there is more work or not I still enjoy my time here much more than any other scholarly experience. Here, I am challenged and called upon to work to my full capabilities. So for a short answer, I forgot my article on November first and here I am a few days later.

Now, one may be wondering, how can one possibly enjoy doing more work? myself the same question. What I came up with is that work only becomes work when one treats it as such. Instead of saying or thinking that I need to do my work, I am thinking I get to do my work soon. I owe much of this mentality to my great professors and myself for selecting courses that I knew would be interesting to me. My least favorite class, which I already knew was going to be going in, is my biology 101 class. While, I am only taking this to fill a perspective, I still feel entertained in this class. More than any other science, I am the interested in Biology. My teacher is also a leading scientist on the Three Spied Stickleback, which is one of the few model species left in existence. As somebody who wants to go to law school after my four years at Clark University, I thought I would get a head start and take a trial advocacy class; and I am not disappointed in my decision. This class hasn’t only told me what it would take to become a lawyer, but it has also vastly improved my skills as a speaker in front of a crowd. In this class we wrote our own opening statements and did mock cases to learn about objections, evidence, and other procedures lawyers need to know. I am leaning towards joining our Clark Mock Trial team next semester, which has competed against some of the most prestigious schools in the country.

While I am going to be stating things that won t be popular to Giants fans, I must admit that the entire playoffs was very boring. Besides the World Series there was no game 7, which led to the World Series ending before November for the first time in my memory. As a Cardinals fan I should be mildly impressed by this year’s series, but our victory over the Dodgers wasn’t satisfactory enough; especially since we have made the same round four years in a row. For me the highlight of the baseball playoffs was that two of the smallest markets in baseball had the opportunity to make it to the world series for the first time in decades. The hard-hitting Orioles were one of the most consistent teams all year asnd had one of the prolific lineups in baseball. What I admire about it is that all of these players were drafted or traded for early in their development. If this team has pitchers coming up from triple A, then this team should only be better next year. The Royals were a story before they got on their winning streak to make it to the World Series. This team had not made the playoffs since 1985, which is the longest streak in any of the four professional sports. For reference, the San Jose Sharks became a team in 1992. This team has constantly been loading and unloading talent, but never keeping enough of it to make a competitive team. With new management they finally put in the money to bring in the veterans Infante and Vargas that teams need to be successful. With these additions they made steps necessary to be competitive for years to come.

Winter is here friends and I am frightened. I already see myself coming up with a bunch of excuses not to ever go outside and I feel like one day I may just start hibernating. I look forward to my return to sunny California in the middle of December where I will look forward to see all of you guys

“Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination.” Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Today's column from Marcos Alvira
Sunday, November 2, 2014

A Belated Halloween Tale, Part 2

There’s two things that all 13 to 14 year olds really enjoy: hearing horror stories and telling horror stories. A few weeks ago, we read Poe’s “Tell Tale Heart” in class. Naturally class participation and test scores just leaped through the ceiling for this unit of study. A few exuberant students confided to me that they enjoy writing, especially suspense. In fact a few of them are devotees to on-line writing groups that openly share their material. As the natural course of things goes, several kids now meet Wednesdays during lunch in a small writers circle to talk about what we write, lend support and encouragement, offer friendly advice , and even plan a film projects (movie trailers for their stories).

As they have learned, writers write best when writing about the things with which they’re familiar. On that note, I told them about a true story that I had been mulling over for a while, hoping to put down on paper.

The school at which I had been teaching was enshrouded for days in a dense gray fog that clung to your skin, clothes and lungs like thick grease. Even on the clearest early December day, the school was a dark smudge in the heavy vapor that enveloped it and the surrounding fields. The 8 foot brick walls were defenseless against this malingering nebulous malaise. As I worked late that Friday evening (even the night custodians had left), my room was a capsule of light in the bleak darkness outside the window. My reflection against the glass pane was the only sign of life to keep me company until the town’s limits a quarter mile away. I was working feverishly late into Friday night to finish grades before the Christmas break that began in just a few, short days.The funny thing about fog is that it not only limits visibility, but it muffles sound as well. That is why I was surprised to hear the soft clack and rattle of the chain link gate outside my room as someone was obviously trying to scale its galvanized mesh barrier. “Skaters,” I mused to myself. We had been issues with them coming onto campus during late night hours recently. I took a swig of my lukewarm acerbic coffee, and continued on with my work, glancing outside occasionally into the black amorphous mass outside my window. My work was interrupted, however, by the soft rattle of classroom door handle turning and shaking. Damn skaters, I thought. Slapping my red pen down on the desk, I pushed away from the dark simulated wood writing surface and stalked over to the door. I brief moment of reason overcame my anger, and I decided to slowly and quietly open the door instead of bursting into the dark without know who or how many people were outside my class.

Slowly, and quietly, knowing exactly when to lift the door by the handle to avoid its normal squeak, I pushed the door open and slid out a narrow opening, holding it ever so slightly ajar behind me by the inside knob. I leaned my head into the dank mist, straining to hear the intruders, only to hear the plop of fat dollops of water dripping from the eaves onto concrete as the the fog condensed against the cool metal flashing. After a few moments in the wretched fetidness that accompanies days long fog, I receded back into the warmth of the classroom.

Walking slowly back to my desk, still straining to hear the rascals outside, I recalled how one of the first teachers here at the school made headlines only four years before. Mr. Spinardo, an old, cranky math teacher had been assigned a room alone in the schools farthest-off wing, the very same as my classroom. He was a tired old codger: rude. ornery, but a hard worker nonetheless. Yet he was assigned to the school boondocks so as not to be a constant nuisance to the children and other teachers. One evening , when wiser men cuddled with their wives on a couch near a roaring fire, he slipped off to his class to get a little extra work in. The next morning, the school called his home. Spinardo had not shown up to work. His wife answered. She had been ill and having gone to bed early and waking up late, she though that she had merely missed her husband.

After the police arrived to investigate the missing person report filed on Spinardo’s behalf, it was discovered that he had indeed been in his classroom the previous night. The lights were one. A half eaten sandwich lay on his desk with a cup of cold coffee next to it in his stained old mug that had served him since his retirement as a Navy Chief. His faded Chevrolet Caprice was still in the parking lot, silently waiting for Godot. After weeks of futile investigation, it was determined that his was a cold case. That, however was the official story…there was yet another chapter in his disappearance.

I turned on a talk radio station. I needed the companionship of another human voice. It was approaching 11PM and I really had no business being there that late. Besides, I was beginning to imagine all sort of sordid thing. Every creak of the cheap portable classrooms walls gave me start and good bumps. I’ll never forget how one weekend, little busy, the 7th grade cheerleader passed by this wing late one afternoon as dusk began to settle its long cold late autumn shadow over the Valley floor. with the sun about to set. She was going to take the short cut home across the field before the sun set. Just as she passed the last building before reaching the side gate, an old man in a sleeveless cardigan sweater, a pack of Philip Morrises bulging under the breast pocket, stepped out floor behind a blind corner.

“What are you doing here without a pass?” he demanded in an impatient, gravely voice.
She stammered, “It’s Saturday, sir. I’m just going home after cheer practice.”
“Well then, get moving. And here’s yer detention for being outside the boundaries without a pass.” He handed her the the white detention slip.

On Monday morning she showed up to school with her mother who was upset that her daughter had been treated so unfairly after school hours. When the school secretary looked at the crumpled form, she turned white as the paper it was printed on. She asked Susy and her Mother to wait a moment as she briskly made her way to the principal’s office. In a few minutes Susy and her mother were in the school administrator’s office thumbing through an old year book. She principal had asked her to identify the teacher who had accosted her.

“There, that’s him!” Busy cried, tapping with her finger the black and white picture of an elderly man wearing a cardigan and a crooked tie. “That’s him, Mr. Spin…Spinardo, “ she continued, reading the name under the photo.
“Thank you, Susy. We’ll take care of it.” The Principal grinned oddly as she ushered the two form her office. How could be? Spinardo’s name was right there on the detention slip, but he had been gone for tow years.

I knew this story to be true because the school secretary played piano in my church worship group and she had recounted this event to us at rehearsal the day after the meeting with Susy and her mother.

Just a few more essays to correct and report cards to fill out and I could get out of there and go home. My imagination was already getting the best of me. I could swear I could smell Philip Morris cigarettes wafting in through the hairline gaps in the windowsill. (I knew the pungent fragrance well since that had been my grandfather’s brand when I was a kids). I I could almost see the glow of an orange cigarette tip in the blackness of the window that was just to the right of my left elbow. Wait, was the little orange orb moving out there in the darkness? Did it just grow larger, as if it moved closer to the window and then back again? Naw…it had to be some crazy reflection. I settled back to work, but then in a moment again heard a gentle tug on my classroom door handle. Surely, I surmised, that perhaps a breeze had just picked up causing the door to rattle as the air gushed under the bottom edge . A breeze would mean that the fog would soon lift and so would my spirits.

One report card to go. I started punching number into a calculator, when over my left shoulder, just outside the window which was only a mere 18 inches from me, I swear I had a movement out of the corner of my eye…yes…it was the small orange glow again, first rising in the air by about a foot and then falling the ground and disappearing. At least that’s what I thought I saw as I again peered into the black void that was my own reflection as my classroom light reflected against the window pane.

This time I had to go outside and see what was going on. I didn’t like the idea of some skater punk standing outside my classroom window staring at me. I nonchalantly made my way to the day, dissembling my intent to deftly steal outside and catch the culprit. Indeed, while pretending to check inside my student desks, I slowly made my way to the door, and then surreptitiously glided out. The corner of the building was only about ten steps from the door. With long strides all on the balls of my feet, I made my way to the corner of the building and quietly eased my head around to take a peek. There, just outside the window, illuminated by the dim, yellow lights from within, stood an old fellow, his form made ephemeral by the deep sticky fog. Extending just above the top pocket of his sleeveless cardigan, I could make out a pack of cigarettes…Philip Morris. The old guy hardly seems to notice that I was standing there twenty feet form him, as he slowly took a drag of the cancer stick.

I quickly pulled back, my beating like the fist of person unwittingly trapped in a small, beating on the trying to escape. Holding my breath tight so stranger might not hear me, I peeked again. The man was gone. I dared not turn around , lest he be standing behind me, but the flight or flight urge overwhelmed my conscious choice to be still and unheard. I spun around and streaked for the gate on the other side of the wing where my car waited. It was a about a 45 yard dash with one turn and my feet scarcely touched the ground along the way. I opened the door mid-stride with the remote from ten yards out and spun the tires in my hasty exit, bits of wet twigs, mud and gravel spewing behind me.

The following day, I had to return to the school. I had left the door unlocked, the lights on, and the entire wing unalarmed. If anything had happened to the classroom as a result of my careless and hasty retreat, I could be fired. I stuck my old Saturday night special in my pocket and made my way back to the school. I knew bullets would be completely ineffective against a spirit or creature born of the fog, but it provided me some comfort.

Before entering my classroom, I made my way to the side of the building where to the exact spot where I had seen the figure. There, scattered in a small group next to the window, lay four filterless cigarette butts. All flattened on one end where they had been flattened between lips pressed tight. As my eyes slowly scanned upward along the window searching for more clues, I saw muddy hand print near to the latch and wedged between the sliding panes was a detention slip signed, Mr. Spinardo.

Today's column from Marty Varner
Saturday, November 1, 2014

(EDITOR’S NOTE—It’s always just a little dicey when we “hire” a new Welcome columnist. Sure, we’ve got at least some reason to believe that they’re able to write a complete, grammatical sentence, and more important, something the columnist has written or done or said strongly suggests that they have something to say that folks will want to hear. But still, until we get that first piece, it truly is a crapshoot. All that said, few times in the history of the near forty year life of the Welcome column has the web team known so immediately that we’d struck gold as when the high school kid sent in his first offering and it began with a rhetorical question…a rhetorical question, which, given why we’d offered the kid a slot in the first place, could not have been more appropriate. We re-post that first piece, (maybe it wasn’t quite the very first piece, but certainly one of the first), here today. Oh, and even better, the author will grace this space Monday with an original column, presumably written within the confines of his college dorm room way back where people still experience wetness falling from the sky. Expect greatness.)

Even though it was shorter than my previous times at the Fathers Day Festival in Grass Valley California, not arriving till Thursday, it was one of the best: whether it was a great jam or one of the most complete lineups I have seen at any festival, on the west or the east coast. This festival has always had a special place in my heart, and as I have grown up I have been spoiled by the opportunities of either being able to play with my heroes like the Infamous Stringdusters or seeing Rhonda Vincent sing a tear jerking George Jones song or Michael Cleveland possibly play the instrumental performance of the century on Jerusalem Ridge, bringing the whole crowd to its feet. All in all I am not sure I can say it was as good as last year, but it was pretty close and I will tell you why.

Even though there are people I like more than Rhonda Vincent, I can’t deny that she has many fans and she knows how to put on a show. But her biggest strength is not herself; it is her band that really shines. It consists of Rhonda’s son in law and incredibly talented fiddle player Hunter Berry, solid bass player and great 3 part singer Mickey Harris, and one of the top 5 guitar players and singers today, Josh Williams who is always a pleasure to stare at in awe and jealousy. Rhonda was her usual self with relentless energy and killer pipes and because of all these factors they are one of the top touring bands in bluegrass today by many people’s standards.

Even though they are one of the most professional bands and longest living bands out there, the most pleasant surprise was Special Consensus. Of course I expected them to be good, but they had always had the reputation of being more vocally oriented, which now I don’t see. The bands new look hasn’t decreased their singing talent, but now they have one of the best guitar players and mandolin players I have ever seen, Dustin Benson and Rick Faris respectively, who on each solo had my attention because I wasn’t sure what they were going to do next. This increase in instrumental ability from past bands make this band a Saturday Night Headliner at any festival in my opinion.

When I learned about the bands that were coming, the one that stuck out the most for me was Michael Cleveland & Flamekeeper. This top-notch band did not falter as they delivered top notch traditional bluegrass that of course is turned 180 degrees with the immense talents of Michael Cleveland. I believe, and these are strong words, he has honed and controlled is instrument more than any musician today. There are things that he does consistently that no fiddle player I know can even dream of doing, which he showed on Jerusalem Ridge. He took it as a competition against his mandolin player Nathan Livers, and because of that almost took his last solo from the approach of a rock guitar player because his abilities are limitless. After the performance the crowed jumped into the air as one to pay Michael Cleveland his respects as the best fiddle player today and possibly ever.

I also had the pleasure of jamming with the wonderful and talented Molly Tuttle and John Mailander along with TJ Doerful, Sullivan Tuttle, Alex Sharps and the Schwartz brothers. Together, we had an incredible jam on Saturday night that consisted of all different kinds of songs because we had so many contrasting styles, which I believe can either be a disaster or really fun music. I think accomplished the latter.

This weekend I will be at the High Sierra Music Festival for the first time in my life, there I will see such bands as the David Mayfield Parade and the Infamous Stringdusters who will represent the borderline between bluegrass and a type of music that can’t exactly be named. My viewing experiences will extend to such bands as Primus and even Robert Plant who’s new project consists of classic Led Zeppelin songs. I don’t expect it to be the same as the Father’s Day Festival, where I am able to see good solid bluegrass and hang out with my friends. But I am willing to try new things and am willing to embrace the situation and have as much fun as I can.

THE DAILY GRIST...“It's not that easy being green; Having to spend each day the color of the leaves. When I think it could be nicer being red, or yellow or gold or something much more colorful like that.” --Joe Raposo

It’s Not Easy Being Green
Today’s column from Yvonne Tatar
Monday, October 28, 2014

Attending the WOB this year in Raleigh was another enjoyable experience. Last year had all the excitement of being in a new location, and this year that excitement continued as we saw many folks new to the Raleigh location have that twinkle and smile of wonder that we had last year. And there were some new things this year that kept the fun times rolling. One of those was the Green Challenge put out by IBMA. I was drawn to this title. With the extreme drought in California, anything mentioning “green” is appealing. Being mindful of our wise use of natural resources, I decided to take this challenge. And, on a more professional note, I have noticed many music festivals beginning to offer a larger recycling presence at their events. Besides, the WOB Green Challenge prize was 2 tickets to the WOB 2015. That’s some good motivation right there!

This challenge encouraged attendees to make “greener” choices during the trade show week and to download the Joule Bug app to your smartphone where you could document your “green” deeds with a photo and a short caption. I was excited and made a list of things I was going to do to be “green” at WOB. Like a good student with her homework assignment, I took photos of my daily green deeds and jotted down quick captions to load on Joule Bug later. My enthusiasm was the good news. The bad news was that the Joule Bug app was giving me a problem. It was difficult to load, and when I did load it in some form, understanding how to use it was never mastered. By Wednesday (the last day of the challenge) I anxiously sought assistance at the media center in the lobby of the convention center. They would surely be able to help this “new to apps” user.

(Note - They already knew me at the Media Center. I had previously visited them for help with downloading the two WOB apps – one for the business conference and one for the WOB Festival. The Media Center was a busy place as many others had some difficulty with the two WOB apps. These apps appeared almost identical at first glance. They were two different apps that looked almost the same. Who knew? The Media Center assistant got me the correct app loaded on my phone in no time. That was Monday… I didn’t know that Joule Bug lay in wait for those app-challenged attendees like myself.)

After many attempts to load Joule Bug, even the Media Center folks weren’t able to fully understand how to navigate it. It was frustrating as I had my green deeds list ready. I just needed to load them onto the app and get my points! But alas, it wasn’t to be…. I tried loading a couple of photos, but the app kept telling me how many points I was getting for recycling the plastic bottles. I know I’m a senior citizen, but I can still understand reasonable instruction. This Joule Bug was NOT user friendly. Period. I did see that three other attendees managed to get something on the app but what they posted is a mystery even to the Media Center folk. After about an hour of unsuccessful loading attempts, we gave up. So, please indulge me as I list my attempts here for all of the CBA membership & others to see. Hey, it was fun to do these things, but being able to post my efforts here will afford me the opportunity to close the green WOB “door.”

These actions weren’t particularly difficult but the Green Challenge kept me thinking of what I could recycle and reuse during the 3-day conference schedule. Here’s are my green deeds - 1) I returned a plastic cover for my Leadership Bluegrass badge used at the LBG reception so they could use it next year; 2) I used the my iPad to receive and read numerous digitally submitted Foundation for Bluegrass Music grant applications. This was instead of paper copies of the multi-page applications and also eliminated the cost of mailing those applications to all 9 board members ; 3) I used the free Raleigh shuttle bus from my campsite at the NC Fairgrounds on three different days. This was instead of using my car each time and taking a valued parking space downtown; 4) I reused my WOB Conference pass plastic badge holder from 2013 and returned the one in my attendee packet; 5) I used the paper trash recycle bin at the Convention Center for white paper trash. No brainer!; 6) I used the recycle plastic bottle bin at the Convention for numerous empty water bottles; 7) I returned the e-Tix lanyard in my attendee packet and used my WOB badge for 2013 (it was exactly the same as this year’s) and I used the Martin Guitar lanyard from this year’s Summergrass festival; 8) I successfully downloaded the WOB apps for the business conference and the festival. I used the WOB app throughout the week for info. They were really handy!; 9) I reused my Fun Meter from Dana Thorin at Music Caravan. I got mine in 2011; 10) I got some great local coffee at the Raleigh favorite spot Cup A Joe and enjoyed it in their ceramic mugs; 11) I reused my Bluegrass Unlimited shoulder bag from 2011 and reused the bag ID tag from 2013; 12) the assistant at the Convention Center Media Center wasn’t able to help me correctly load the Joule Bug app to get the green credits for all these, but I did try, so I’m giving myself credit for the attempt here.

Overall, the Green Challenge experience was well worth it but the app needs a second look. And, as a festival promoter, this green experience helped me to consider doing a similar challenge at our Summergrass festival in 2015. Maybe IBMA needs to have a short WOB seminar on teaching seniors how to use their recommended apps for 2015. As you can see, it’s not easy being a senior and being green…..

Everything was laborious, and stiffly mechanical, like I had decided to switch from
playing right-handed to left-handed.

“It’s gone.”, I despaired. “I had a good run, and some good fun, but it’s gone now.”

It’s a terrible feeling when you think you’ve been pretty good at something, and then
something (a comment, a jeer, a heckle or your own fevered mind) gets into your head
and tells you that you’ve been wrong all along.

Being shown up by a better musician doesn’t do this. I’ve always known there are
players better than I, and I have treasured every chance to play with them. When I held
my own, it’s a great confidence booster, but being unable to keep up is no source of
shame – just an impetus to improve.

No, the confidence thief strikes by denying you territory you thought you had already
staked out. You thought you were THIS good, and suddenly, you’re proved wrong (or
so it seems.) The knees buckle, your cheeks flush and your eyes get red.

This may be the very reason some folks stop playing. They grow weary of the
emotional roller coaster. But you can’t dread the downtimes so much that you deny
yourself the good times. And know this – in the bluegrass community, at least, there
are many, many more people that will offer you kind encouragement than a sneer, ever.
You just gotta climb back on your horse. I better stop now – I’m getting this close to
breaking into a Journey song.

Vern and Stuart
Guest column from Randy Pits
Tuesday, October 28, 2014

(EDITORS NOTE—We received word from Randy yesterday that he’d made this Facebook post and that we might want to use it somewhere on the web site. He was sure right about that.)

Our old friend Jack Tuttle visited Chris and me in Nashville recently (how old? Chris and Jack were playing together in the Fog City Ramblers when we--Chris and I, that is--met) along with his sister Jill, his daughter, the famous Molly, and Molly's partner John Mailander. During the course of the visit, Jack mentioned that he had learned a lot about playing bluegrass mandolin from a tape he had made of Stuart Duncan accompanying Vern Williams on mandolin in one of those famous late night jams at Grass Valley during the Father's Day Festival. I think Jack said this happened in 1983, but I might be mistaken...well, I was an observer at that jam as well, and had remembered it all these years...and I've come to the conclusion that it must have taken place in 1982, because according to the archives, both The Vern Williams Band and Lost Highway, the southern California band for whom young Stuart was playing fiddle back then, were at the spring 1982 festival.

Vern did not typically attend the festival if his band wasn't playing, and the odds of Stuart being at the festival absent his being in a band back then are pretty long. I'm just sayin', as they say around these parts...I don't remember who was playing fiddle in that jam, or why Vern wasn't playing mandolin, except maybe to concentrate on his singing. But I do remember that voice floating above the pines and the young hotshot fiddler from Lost Highway wearing out the mandolin. Anyway, here it is 2014, and this Saturday, Stuart, who has long since been acknowledged as a first call fiddle player in Nashville, longtime member of the great Nashville Bluegrass Band, and a multi-instrumentalist of great renown, is appearing at the Country Music Hall Of Fame in their great Nashville Cats series, which features the very best musicians in Music City. I found myself wondering if there is anyone else out there who was there that night, remembers the jam as vividly as Jack and I do, and who might have been playing fiddle...Thank you very much...

(EDITOR’S NOTE CONTINUED—Randy, I was there that year and remember seeing both Vern’s band and Lost Highway. (Wasn’t yet Ken’s band.) It was on a Thursday night, the day before the festival began, quite late, that I stood jamming in a small knot of pickers over at the base of Pilgrim’s Hill when a young kid, no more than 15 I’m certain, came walking out of the shadows and joined us. I’d never seen Stuart before…hadn’t heard Lost Highway in person till that weekend…and we were all thunder-struck by his fiddling. That was a close as I got to the epic jam you describe, which, granted, wasn’t very close at all. RC)

THE DAILY GRIST…“I will twine mid the ringlets of my raven black hair, the lilies so pale and the roses so fair, the mirth so bright with an emerald hue, and the pale armanita with eyes of bright blue.” Wildwood Flower lyrics recorded by the Carter family

Letter to Mom
Today’s column from Yvonne Higby Tatar
Monday, September 22, 2014

Dear Mom,

Congratulations on turning 90 years old on September 4th this month! Gee, you’re “looking good for that many years under your belt,” as you would say. I just wanted to let you know a few things that I’ve probably said in the past, but they are worth repeating. Over the years in our family when my siblings and I were growing up, you were always there with 110% of your support for the many activities going on. Reflecting back, there was so much fun, laughter, and there was always music, lots of music. You yourself did not play an instrument, but you were definitely the lead “grinner” among any crowd of listeners once the music started. Dad played the fiddle and was a 3rd generation player who was taught by his father and grandfather. This sounds amazing to some folks today, but, really, that’s families did back when that’s all they could afford or knew what to do. Because of Dad’s family music background with his siblings, they formed a band and played for dances across the plains area in rural Kansas. So when you married and had children, it was only natural at our family gatherings always included music. And when those pickers gathered, the grinners were also there in force - you leading the pack with food, applause and all that went with providing the hospitality.

Moving the California saw our music tradition continue. You and Dad loved to go to the Garden of Allah and the Dream Bowl to dance and see many new “hot” acts appearing in the Bay Area area like Johnny Cash and the Maddox Brothers & Rose. I was really too young to remember any of these outings, but certainly heard the stories about them when the family got together.

As we kids got into school, you & Dad made sure we had music instruction early on such as piano lessons, and then orchestra in school. The school orchestra is where I was drafted from the violin section to play the bass. I did not realize that this instrument would be an integral part of my life from then on, as I continue to enjoy playing it today. Family gatherings still happened with summer visits back to our roots in Kansas, and they were filled with music and your continued support.

When I had my own family, our children were blessed with music education on many levels, and you were there to support that, too. I remember you and Dad becoming very active members of District #9 Old Time Fiddler’s Association in the Bay Area. Both of our children played the fiddle as youngsters with this association supporting them. It’s there that our family met Carl and Ed Pagter, Neal & Edith Thompson, Charlie & Viola Blacklock, Clark & Hazel Delozier, and so many more old time music fans. Our family was surrounded by their support and friendship. And, Mom, you were right there grinning and supporting.

It was through District #9 that Carl told you and Dad about a “new” bluegrass festival happening at Grass Valley. As a family, we attended as a family for the first time in 1979. It was such a good time with all the music, we have continued to attend since then. This lit a fire under you and Dad to attend other bluegrass festivals in California and other states. Those many years of camping with pickers and grinners gathering on all fronts were memorable times for the family and you still recall them today. Thank you for getting us involved in this music and initiating our annual pilgrimage to Grass Valley. It’s become a true family tradition.

Over the many years, you’ve continued your love of music by still enjoying so many great artists. Probably your favorite singers would have to be June Carter Cash singing Wildwood Flower and anything Rose Maddox sang. On one trip to Grass Valley back in 1990s, you made a special memory. You were able to meet and get to know Rose Maddox. That year you were seated in the club booth at one point to rest as you were recovering from a back surgery. Rose Maddox also came back there to relax before and after her show. Seated next to each other, you two struck up a conversation, and found you both had many memories to share about the early days of Rose’s band, and your mutual connection with Medford, Oregon. The next couple of days saw you two visiting at the club booth and becoming friends. Rose gave you a signed copy of her biography and the two of you had your picture taken together. (Later on, this photo was put on a sweatshirt you still wear today.)

Your home was always ready to play that phonograph record with the likes of the Carter Family, Chubby Wise, Doc Watson, Johnny Cash & June Carter Cash, Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, Stringbean, Grandpa Jones, Mark O’Connor, and, of course, any music from the Virtual Strangers, Mike Tatar Jr., and Merle Higby. About a year ago, playing that phonograph got a little more difficult for you. Your arthritic hands made some movements harder. I was so happy to be able to load many of your treasured vinyls onto an iPod Shuffle. Seeing you back in the “grinner mode” when you’re enjoying your iPod tunes has been wonderful. Your clapping and singing and remembering many good times from the past is really a blessing. It’s great to see you so happy and eager to retell us those memories. And today whenever we get together and there’s music, you’re still right in front as always in full grinner support mode.

Thank you for your endless support, Mom. I applaud you. It’s your turn to take a bow! And here’s wishing you many more happy tunes in the future!


THE DAILY GRIST…”Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: “What! You too? I thought I was the only one.”

Friends, Old and New
Today’s Column from Jeanie Ramos
Sunday, October 26, 2014

It’s been several years now since I attended my first CBA Camp-Out. It has turned out to be a life changing experience. It was there that I met some folks who have become some of my dearest friends. Some of the first people that greeted me back then were the first to greet me at Lodi last week.

We “circled the wagons” with Frank and Shirley Brewer, Jesse House, Jim and Carol Johnston, Vic and Barb Yeakle, Lucy and Bob Mann, Lou McClenahan and his wife, Sunshine. We set up a group of EZ-Ups creating a large tented area that rivaled the Ringling Brothers Circus. For those who favor country music, this was “Jam Central.” There may have been a little “clowning” around… Oh, by the way, Cliff Compton came by a few times after work. He’s looking good and feeling good. Everyone’s spirits are lifted when Cliff walks into camp.

As usual, I met several new people and got to jam with some folks that I don’t normally pick with. Harry Robinson, a fine banjo picker, sat in on several of our jams. I had a good time playing some bluegrass and country with Burt Kay and his son, Mitch. Every year, Bert Daniel and I say we are going to get together and jam and it seems we never quite connect. Well, we finally got to do that, I sat in his camp and picked and sang with him and his camp neighbor, Lorraine.

There were several people who were missing in action. I want you all to know you were missed. I particularly missed seeing the young people, I could have counted the ones who attended on my two hands and had fingers left over. Speaking of young people, The Anderson Family came in on Saturday. We had a graduation party for Aimee and also recognized Ethan’s 16th birthday. They put on a fine little “concert” in their camp much to everyone’s delight.

Camp Outs always mean extra calories. There are lots of good cooks in CBA. “Shut Up John” made breakfast a few mornings. He has the magic touch for putting “stuff” together. Kristen Willis brought some of her husband Bruce’s yummy homemade cookies. (You read that right; she’s married to Bruce Willis). The Mexican dinner on Saturday night was delicious and any night I don’t have to cook is a good night.

I think it was fitting that CBA Chairman, Tim Edes, led a moment of silence in remembrance of Regina Bartlett at the Saturday Night dinner. Many will miss her. I saw so many tributes given to her on Facebook and the CBA website and other websites and I was wishing that she was here to receive the accolades. She loved rubbing elbows with professional entertainers and having her picture taken with them. She enjoyed working with the kids on bluegrass and truly appreciated it when her good deeds were acknowledged. She had many friends who loved and appreciated her. Her sudden departure from this world makes me think of the old Carter Family song, “Give Me Roses While I Live.”

Wonderful things of folks are said

When they have passed away

Roses adorn the narrow bed

Over the sleeping clay

Give me roses while I live

Trying to cheer me on

Useless are flowers that you give

After the soul has gone

Kind words are useless when folks lie cold

In a narrow bed

Don’t wait ‘til death to speak kind words

Now should the words be said

Let us not wait to do good deeds

‘Til they have passed away

Now is the time to sow good seeds

While here on earth we stay

As I went around and said my ”Hellos” and “Good-byes” at the Camp-out, it crossed my mind that none of us have a guarantee that we’ll be here tomorrow. We need to heed the words of the song, show love and appreciation today. I don’t want to regret the words I never said. I want to be a rose giver, how about you? “The fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose.” George William Curtis

The Games We Play
Today's column from Prescription Bluegrass Radio Host Brian McNeal
Saturday, October 25, 2014)

The team I've belonged to for the last ten years or so told me they were a football team. I was sort of new at the game and wasn't sure I'd really benefit that much from joining the team. I debated it for awhile and vacillated back and forth. After all, the practices and the team meetings were pretty far from home.

After a few years, I was convinced to join. I jumped in with all the energy and dedication to the team I could muster. I gave it my all and then some. 110 percent? Maybe more like 200 percent. I have to admit that in the beginning, I did feel that the immediate benefits did show promise of more and better things to come if I'd only get more involved and really go all out to win and help my teammates win too.

After awhile though, I started discovering that some of the supposed benefits of team membership were not available to me – even though that was not disclosed upfront. I started feeling like a second class team member – benched because the coach might like someone else better.

Then I started noticing some dissension among the other team members. Many were also not happy with some aspects of the entire organization – from the top on down. Many were quick to dish out their personal opinions in private, but always held back when and where it might have counted.

Over my tenure of membership with the team, things sort of went up and down a lot – as far as fixing the problems and making us all happy. But along the way newer and bigger problems were festering under the surface and eventually they, too, were seeing the light. So here we go again. Up then Down, Up then Down … on this team rollercoaster.

For several years now, I've threatened to quit the team but just kept procrastinating that sort of finality for fear that it would be an irreversible mistake.

This year, however, I came to the realization that my team membership really didn't count for much. Whenever I suggested something that I thought would smooth out the roughness or actually improve the team, I was told, “IT CAN'T BE DONE!” Then, of course, when everyone forgot who actually made the suggestion, changes were made where the team coaches and management could take the credit if it all went well. And if it didn't go well, well, then they found ways to manipulate the outcome so that it either looked like all was well or it just plain confused us so much, no one wanted to challenge them.

This year I discovered that the team I joined … remember the one that said they were a football team? … well, I discovered that they were really playing a game with a round ball and getting very excited each time they scored game points racked up two at a time whenever the ball swished through a hoop.

It's very hard to take someone serious when they say they're playing football but refuse to use the proper regulation ball and score points according to the established standard.

This year, for the first time in my ten years of membership, I neglected to pay my dues. It's been several months now and no one has come forward to ask why. Guess my team membership didn't count for much, eh?


Thank You!
Brian McNeal
Prescription Bluegrass Media

Doin’ it up right, playing all night long
Guest column from Peter Thompson
Friday, October 24, 2014

Doin’ it up right, playing all night long
Tryin’ to think of something else to make a bluegrass song
You can hear it on the radio and also on TV
As far as music is concerned, there’s nothin’ else for me.

- “Blue Grass Style” - Vern & Ray -> Laurie & Kathy

About a year ago, Travers Chandler brought his brand of "bark left on" traditional bluegrass to the Bay Area. He played one show in a SF bar with lousy sound, splitting the bill with a local band, then was featured at the Redwood Bluegrass Associates concert in Mountain View.

He was accompanied by two members of his band -- banjo picker Hunter Webber and bassist/vocalist Steve Block -- along with Bay Area musicians Annie Staninec (fiddle) and David Thom (guitar, vocals). Travers played his sizzling old-school style of mandolin, and his powerhouse vocals led the group through a terrific collection of songs from the likes of Red Allen, Buzz Busby, Charlie Moore, and other less familiar bluegrass pioneers.

It was a great show, full of fire and drive and passion and humor, and refreshing to experience Travers' philosophy that interpreting the classics, especially ones that are not part of a typical jam, is an important and worthwhile aspect of contemporary bluegrass. There were very few "originals," but he has an original approach to the music.

Travers gave lots of room to Annie and Hunter, had Steve do a couple songs, sang some killer duets with David, and welcomed guests like Paul Shelasky (twin fiddle) and Kathy Kallick (soulful duet on "Could You Love Me One More Time") to the band. But Travers' playing and singing dominated the proceedings, and it had been a while since we've seen such a force of nature on a Bay Area stage.

The fact that he showed up at all was astounding.

His other west coast gigs fell through, so the trip to the Bay Area was destined to lose money. This replicated a scenario that seems to happen annually: a band based in the east is booked for a RBA concert, but they cancel (sometimes without much notice) because there are not enough additional gigs to make the trip worthwhile. RBA has to scramble for a replacement group, the audience is deprived of seeing a fine band from the heartland, and the group misses out of making inroads in California.

But Travers didn't want to cancel. He contacted Annie and David to play with him, found out Steve had a business trip out here anyway, and waited for Hunter to drive from Maine, about 900 miles from Travers' home in Taylorsville, NC. Then Travers, his wife, and Hunter loaded instruments and a full cooler into their small car and … drove(!) … 2700 miles(!) from Taylorsville to the Bay Area. They made it just in time to play the San Francisco gig, slept in beds for the first time in several nights, and then played the fabulous show for RBA. They had to hit the road immediately (without another night in a bed) following the Saturday night concert, as Travers was due back in North Carolina on Tuesday so he could go to his day job … as a trucker! They did a second non-stop cross-country drive, and got to North Carolina in time for the work that supports their musical pursuits.

When you look up "dedicated" in the bluegrass dictionary, there's gotta be a photo of Travers Chandler & Avery County.

Of course, it's always been hard for west coast bands to tour on the east coast and vice versa, but the situation has gotten significantly worse in the last few years -- and is rapidly becoming a festivals-or-nothing situation. Much as I love a good bluegrass festival, I think musicians become bands and bands become forces of nature by playing a series of club dates rather than the occasional festival. And, of course, it's quite difficult to become a festival-level act without paying significant dues at the club level. But how do bands become festival-level acts without these club level opportunities? Mostly by relying on gimmicks or schtick or association with Big Biscuits or a bunch of lucky breaks. Just check out the line-up of most festivals happening on dates other than Father's Day weekend.

Travers Chandler's music is gimmick-free and he hasn't gotten any of those breaks. He's paid his dues in several bands, including three years (including a Grass Valley show) with Danny Paisley, is writing a biography of the late Charlie Moore, and fans the traditional bluegrass flames whenever he performs. The fact that he DROVE across the country to play two gigs, one of which paid a pittance, is remarkable -- as was the quality of his performances.

It will come as no surprise that the RBA show was not sold out; such is the reality when relatively unknown bands are featured. I'm guessing that most of the 150 folks who paid their hard-earned $20 were delighted with the concert, and will now make a point of going to see the band if/when they're back this way. And I'm sorry for those who passed up the opportunity to attend what turned out to be a memorable event.

RBA is committed to presenting as many quality bands who are not yet well-known as possible, and has been doing do for more than 20 years. But these shows -- and these musicians -- need community support. I go along with Tom Paxton, who, after thanking the audience for attending his concert, often admonishes them to make their next show one with an unfamiliar performer. That's what helps to keep the music growing, and what can yield unexpected delights for the slightly-adventurous concert-goer.

I humbly suggest that concert and club dates are well worth your attendance, and that the music you experience at them can be far more powerful than at festivals.

But I also suggest to east coast festival presenters that they occasionally book a west coast band, and to west coast festival presenters that they consider including Travers Chandler & Avery County -- for a fee that makes alternate transportation possible. They're a top-notch traditional-based bluegrass band with some individual twists and a unique approach who put on an entertaining show. And they are dedicated to the music.

Jimmie Rodgers
Today's column from JD Rhynes
Thursday, October 23, 2014

(We're running a 2011 column today because we received a note from the old mountain man this morning saying that he 'plum fergot' to write his column because he's been so busy 'cookin' up a mess a' lunch fer you.' The "you" would me me, one of the oldest of the web team, though surely not the wisest, and the reason JD's cooking me lunch is that today's the day I drive to his old log cabin out in the boonies to set up a FACEBOOK account for the old man. It's taken me three years to talk him into giving FB a try so, hold your breath and hang on...JD Rhynes is about to FRIEND YOU, and may God protect us all.)

One of my very favoritest 2 record album set of all time, was recorded by my friend Merle Haggard, back in 1969, and it featured songs that were written by "The Singing Brakeman", Jimmie Rodgers. [This set is on Vinyl, the way real records used to be] I first heard a song from this album on my way home from work one evening. I was half way between Modesto, Ca. and Campo Seco, Ca. where I lived, and I was listening to Glen Stepp, an of mine's radio show when he said, here's a song by Merle Haggard off of his latest album, and commenced playing one of Jimmie’s “train songs". [ Lookie yonder comin', comin' down the railroad track, lookie yonder coming, coming down the railroad track- - -] By this time I had jes turned onto Hiway 26 fer a couple of miles. And halfway through that song, I slammed to a stop, turned my car around and headed to Freitas Music in downtown Stockton, Ca., one of the few places you could find REAL country music back then. I got there 10 minutes before closing time, and bought one of the greatest tributes ever recorded to the music of Jimmie Rodgers. Mr. Nes Freitas told me that, that record was selling like the proverbial hotcakes! I sat up until WAY after midnight playing it that night, and it's still one of my favoritest of Merle’s recordings. [As soon as it was available on CD I got that one too.]

Well, as my pal Ron Thomason is wont to say, I told you that, now I’ll tell you this. My father was raised in the Masonic Orphanage in Batesville, Arkansas until he was 18 years old. They taught all of the boys and girls a trade while they were raised there so they would be able to support themselves. The girls were trained as nurses and the boys as carpenters. SO, fast-forward to the summer of1931. My father was 23 years old, and had gone over to Oklahoma to visit his brother William Oscar Rhynes who had moved to Henryetta, Oklahoma a few years prior. Dad said that carpenter work was slow at the time so he stayed in Oklahoma to work in the wheat harvest fer anew weeks. While he was there he was witness to one of he greatest events ever in his life. He got to see, live in person THE Jimmie Rodgers, "The Singing Brakeman"! Dad said that Jimmie was in town to put on a live concert on a Saturday evening at the local theatre, and to promote it he did a live "promo" show in the town square that day. Dad said there were so many folks in the square that day it was gonna be hard fer everybody to hear Jimmie sing. You gotta remember this was way before electrical sound systems were available. Now there in that town square is a statue that is a memorial to those who have served in our armed services. It is large statue, so Dad said ol Jimmie got up onto the base of that statue with his Martin guitar and sang about a dozen or so songs for the throng of folks gathered there. It goes without saying that was sold out that night, and Dad said every farmer within a100 mile radius was in Henryetta to hear Jimmie Rodgers sing that day.

Years later, it was my pleasure to introduce my father to Alan O'Bryant and listen to dad tell Alan of the time he saw Jimmie Rodgers sing to the folks there in Henryeta, Ok. Alan would always sing the song The Train Carrying Jimmie Rodgers Home, for my father, and dedicate it to him. [ As far as I'm concerned, there aint NOBODY can sing that song like Alan O'Bryant can! ]

The SInging Brakeman has been gone now fer 78 years, and Dad "crossed over Jordan" 13 years ago, but the memories of those stories as well as the music will be with us as long as there is folks that love this music we call Country and Bluegrass. May GOD bless the memory of Jimmie Rodgers, a TRUE American original.

Oh yes. The title of that 2 record set is; Same Train, Different Time Koch 3-4051-2.

THE DAILY GRIST…”Baseball [Bluegrass] is ninety percent mental and the other half is physical."…Yogi Berra

Baseball and Bluegrass (Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this)
Today's column by Bruce Campbell
Wednesday October 22, 2014

Bluegrass and baseball are inextricably linked. It’s a fact. Bill Monroe’s band used to challenge the local baseball teams in the towns they came through, and by all accounts, they were fierce competitors who beat the locals more often than not.

Here are some other, less obvious links:

In baseball, the pitcher is like the guitar player in a bluegrass band: involved in every play and helping to determine the pace of the action.

The catcher is like the bass player - oversees the rhythm just as the catcher has an eye on the pitcher’s pitches and the defensive alignment.

The shortstop and the 2nd baseman are like the mandolin and banjo players in bluegrass - both doing amazing things with quick moves and extremely good hands.

Jimmy Martin (the King of Bluegrass) had a song called “Home Run Man”.

Both baseball and bluegrass have sometimes subtle charms that somehow elude those who can’t or won’t take the time to fully appreciate the two activities.

Both baseball and bluegrass cherish their past and their traditions.

Both baseball and bluegrass are great fun to argue about over adult beverages.

However, if Fox Sports ever televised a bluegrass concert, they would be interviewing the opening band’s harmonica player while the headliner’s banjo player is taking a killer solo.

Play ball! Play bluegrass!
Lucy Smith’s IBMA REPORT
Posted by Geoff Sargent for Lucy Smith
Tuesday October 21, 2014

The saying goes something like “better late than never”, and so I hope it works here as well. Please find below Lucy Smith’s report of the CBA suite in Raleigh, NC at the International Bluegrass Music Association convention. I got back from the CBA fall campout Sunday afternoon and meant to post it then, but made the mistake of sitting down and falling asleep…..jamming, camping, and driving back home from Lodi will do that to you. I asked our webmaster to let this run Tuesday and hopefully it will go as planned because this is a must read report.

The Epicenter of World-Class Bluegrass!

It's been a full 10 days since I returned from a life-changing musical, social, and very personal experience at the International Bluegrass Music Association's Convention and Wide-Open Bluegrass Festival in Raleigh, North Carolina, and as the new-at-the-helm leader of the California Bluegrass Association's host team for this event, I wanted to share some of the highlights of this magical week.

First of all, this is the 25th (or so) year of CBA's involvement at the annual IBMA event. Many thanks to Carl Pagter for recognizing the importance of this international organization, whose main goal is to promote bluegrass music, so many years ago. Carl headed up the California Bluegrass Association's presence at IBMA for 12 years, followed by Larry Kuhn's 12 year tenure, while the Convention site moved from Louisville KY, to Owensboro KY, to Nashville TN, and in 2013, to Raleigh NC.

As one of the largest state bluegrass organizations in the country, CBA makes itself known at IBMA by sponsoring Wednesday's showcase luncheon at the convention this year, at which CBA President Darby Brandli and CBA Chairman of the Board Tim Edes were award presenters; by showcasing California, national, and international bluegrass bands in the CBA suite every evening; by hosting jams in the suite from 2pm to 3am; and by having young musicians from the CA Kids on Bluegrass program perform with the IBMA Kids on Bluegrass led by Kim Fox.

In fact, there is a wonderful article in the International Bluegrass publication (page 18) on the IBMA Kids on Bluegrass which rightly credits Frank Solivan Sr. of CBA for initiating the concept of Kids on Bluegrass programs, now at IBMA and various bluegrass festivals across the country, on line at http://issuu.com/ibma/docs/ib-october_a4/12
In the same issue, you can find the IBMA Award winners for 2014 (Frank Solivan II's band Dirty Kitchen being one of them!), see wonderful photos of the Raleigh event, AND read the IBMA tribute to our member, Regina Bartlett in an In Remembrance section on page 29. (More on this below.)

For me, this was a watershed year as the manager of the CBA host team for IBMA. My job started 4 months earlier, with communications to IBMA leaders, selecting host team members (8 total), lining up tickets for the event for attending CBA members, procuring a suite and bedrooms at the Marriott Hotel (AKA Bluegrass Central!) for CBA team members, selecting and scheduling what eventually grew to 31 spectacular bluegrass bands to showcase in the CBA Suite, arranging donations from California companies: beer from Sierra Nevada Brewery, wine from Guglielmo Winery, and cheese from Rumiano Cheese Company......well, you get the idea!

So arriving in Raleigh on Sunday, September 28, I felt prepared to hit the ground running. Geoff Sargent and Montie Elston of the CBA Board of Directors were two of the host team members also arriving on Sunday, as were first-timers Tom and Sharon Bailey from Clayton (East Bay), and all were invaluable from beginning to end! Frank Solivan, Kay Wilkes, and Regina Bartlett—all experienced CBA host team members-- arrived the next day, Monday. Together, we put together the suite: removing furniture, adding chairs for jamming and audience arrangements, retrieving CBA goods, picking up food items, etc. etc.! By nightfall, we were ready to go out for a great meal together to celebrate Geoff's birthday at the Oxford Pub on Fayetteville Street in Raleigh, where the Tony Williamson Band was playing. It was a great beginning for a very busy, memorable, and spectacular week!

The Convention started on Tuesday, September 30, and we were so ready! We had a large contingency of CBA members, including 9 our of our 11 Board of Director members, attending IBMA this year, taking advantage of the many seminars on the “business” of bluegrass: Running a festival, seeking out sponsors, hiring bands, leading bluegrass jams, insurance issues, sound issues, marketing, and many more. In addition to the daytime seminar sessions, the city of Raleigh hosted what is called the “Bluegrass Ramble”. Every night, various restaurants and pubs, as well as stages in the convention center, showcased bluegrass bands from all over the world. It's just unfortunate one cannot be in 2 or 3 places at once!!

If I had to be in one place, however, it was where I DID spend most of my time, every evening: In the CBA Suite on the 3rd floor of the Marriott Hotel! Picture this: A lively bluegrass jam is in progress, taking over the entire suite. At 7:53pm, the jam abruptly stops. Musicians put away instruments, listeners and CBA members rearrange chairs to “audience” mode, folks pour in through the “bar-side” door of the suite. Geoff Sargent clinks a wine glass to get everyone's attention, and announces the first band of the night, who enter through the OTHER door of the suite, and play a 26-minute set. Just like that: in 7 minutes, we morphed from one of the best jams in town to what I consider THE BEST bluegrass band showcase. The CBA Suite presented 6 to 8 bands each night, and while audience members drifted in and out between bands, there was always a wildly enthusiastic audience response for each band. NO kidding!

I hope you are wondering just who DID play in our suite, because I'm just SO wanting to brag!! So here it goes, in chronological order.....TUESDAY: Larry Stephenson Band, Nu-Blu, Darin & Brooke Aldridge, Frank Solivan and Dirty Kichen, Laurie Lewis & Kathy Kallick singing songs of Vern & Ray, and Michael Cleveland & Flamekeeper. WEDNESDAY: Molly Tuttle & John Mailander, Special Consensus, Town Mountain, Donna Ulisse Band, Earl Brothers (IBMA showcase band from CA), Sister Sadie, Danny Paisley & Southern Grass, and Adkins & Loudermilk. THURSDAY: 7:30-10:30 IBMA AWARDS in the Duke Energy Center....but at 11pm in the CBA suite......Sideline, Driven, and Front Country.

OK, stop and take a breath, because there's more......FRIDAY: Breaking Grass, Rob Ickes & Trey Hensley, Dale Ann Bradley Band with Phil Ledbetter (IBMA Dobro Player of the Year, 2014), Mustered Courage (from Australia), Wayne Taylor & Appaloosa, Helen Highwater, Foghorn String Band, and Flatt Lonesome (IBMA Emerging Artist 2014). And finally, SATURDAY: Brothers Barton (from Bakersfield, CA), Davidson Brothers (from Australia), Lonely Heartstring Band, Rebecca Frazier and Hit & Run, Lorraine Jordan & Carolina Road, and Chris Henry and The Hardcore Grass.

The reason I'm telling you all of this is because these musicians all graced the non-amplified CBA suite stage as unpaid volunteer bands. None of the performers at IBMA are paid for showcasing at most of the IBMA venues. As Nancy Cardwell, IBMA Executive Director explained it, the bulk of the profits from all IBMA events go into a Bluegrass Trust Fund, a charity fund that helps individuals in the bluegrass music community in times of emergency need. So, to all the bands listed here, our heartiest thanks for your generosity and your superb performances!

You should also know that not only does CBA showcase great bluegrass bands, and host “celebrity-studded” jams, we offer drinks and hors d'oeurves to our guests every night until 3:00am, making the CBA HOSPITALITY suite live up to its name! While some of the food items are provided by CBA, a great proportion were donated, as mentioned earlier, by Sierra Nevada Beer (Chico & Mills River, NC), Guglielmo Winery (Morgan Hill), and Rumiano Cheese (Willows). Not only did the Rumianos donate cheese, fiddler Pat Rumiano was on-hand to help prepare food trays and tend bar.

Which brings me to that part about the CBA volunteers that made the CBA suite one of the most talked-about venues at IBMA. The host team of 7 volunteers mentioned above—Geoff Sargent, Montie Elston, Tom & Sharon Bailey, Kay Wilkes, Regina Bartlett, and Frank Solivan-- worked incredibly hard, doing whatever was necessary to make the suite's jams and showcases run smoothly. They were friendly, welcoming, and served as excellent hosts and representatives of CBA. To them, I am extremely grateful!

As many of you have heard, Regina Bartlett from Watsonville, CA passed away in her sleep at IBMA in the early hours of Wednesday morning, October 1. Regina was delighted to be at IBMA! As an experienced host team member, she was in charge of setting up the food trays on that Tuesday night, passing on her experience to the rest of us. And like all of us, she stayed until the suite closed at 3:00am. She and Barbara Rosner, then went out jamming until 4:30-ish am. She had a GREAT night! The doctors blame her death on systemic heart disease related to diabetes. What I'd like to remember about Regina is that she really lived life. She LOVED playing music with friends, loved her friends, loved working with the Kids on Bluegrass program at the Good Old-Fashioned Festival. She was always generous, always friendly, welcoming, and sharing. She set an example for me of how to live. And if I'm very, very lucky, I will go out of this world the way she did—doing what I love with the people I love, right after a wild night of bluegrass jamming!

While Reggie's persona could not be replaced, many people stepped in to help on all the things Regina would have done, and to them, I am extremely grateful! The list of “spontaneous” CBA helpers who assisted members of the host team include Amy Sullivan, Kali Nowakowski, Rita & John Erwin, Pat Rumiano, Maria Nadauld & friend Sandi, David Brace, Rick Cornish, Laura Quinn, Barbara Rosner, and a host of CBA board members and general members who would just drop by and fill in where needed! Thank you all!

Many of us attended the 2014 IBMA Awards Ceremony at the Duke Energy Center, just a block from the Marriott. It was a perfect ending to the 3-day conference. (Chris Stuart, from SoCal, was one of the two producers of the Awards Show.) On Friday & Saturday, the Wide Open Bluegrass festival began. The entire main street in downtown Raleigh closed down to traffic, and opened up to bluegrass bands on 5 outdoor stages, including the Plaza Stage just in front of the Marriott. Other BIG venues included the Red Hat Amphitheater, an outside venue, and the Convention Center Ballroom Stage inside. The outside venues were open to the public, and the streets were just packed. Raleigh really knows how to throw a party!

So I hope I was able to give you a picture of what the annual IBMA World of Bluegrass in Raleigh, North Carolina, is like. For a great video, please go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ef_FdAUFubs . This was put on youTube by Derek Halsey, a visitor to the CBA suite, an admirer of Regina, a journalist for Bluegrass publications, and twice nominated for Bluegrass Journalist. If you watch to the end, you will see his dedication of the video to Regina Bartlett. You might also want to know that Adkins & Loudermilk dedicated a song to her during their Plaza Stage set on Friday. It was lovely to know Regina had so many good friends in the California, the national and international bluegrass “families”, many of whom stopped by the CBA Suite during the week to express their condolences. It just proved to me, once again, that this community of bluegrass players and listeners IS like family. Please be sure to make it to one of those bluegrass “family reunions” before too long, be it a local event, a state-wide CBA event, or the big one in Raleigh next fall.

Good Mistakes
Today's column from Bert Daniel
Monday, October 20, 2014

(Editor’s Note—In the in-box when we logged on this morning at 3:35…

Web Team,
I just got back from Lodi to learn that our trusty Mac does not work anymore. It will not boot. We have to take it in to the Apple store in Santa Rosa. I had my column all ready to post tomorrow but I have no access now to what I have already written. It was stored on the Mac. I hope it's still there. Sorry.

Luckily, we’ve got a giant store of Bert Daniel’s gold locked away in our Royal Treasury. Here’s a piece he wrote June before last called Good Mistakes)

We all know what bad mistakes are. They happen all the time. We wanted to do something good and instead something bad happened and the result was regrettable. In retrospect it was a bad idea in the first place but we didn't have enough experience to realize that before we made the error.

In the medical field mistakes are, generally speaking, a bad idea. People expect perfection when their life is on the line, as well they should. The stakes are pretty high. If you leave a towel in someone's abdomen while you're taking out their infected gallbladder you may get a call a few months later from their lawyer. And if you amputate the wrong limb you'll make headlines and be in big trouble. Nobody's perfect but if you want to hang around very long doing anything as a profession, you'd better do your very best to try to be absolutely perfect.

But every now and then a mistake happens that turns out good. Our species would not be where it is today without the random errors that occurred in the DNA of our ancestors. Those mistakes gave them a competitive advantage over the average Joe and Jolene. Some of those other humanoids died off while our ancestors lived on to pass along their genetic inheritance to us.

Even in medicine there are good mistakes. They don't get the publicity that bad mistakes get, but I can assure you they do happen. I'll never forget one particular day when I was a second year medical student and couldn't find the patient I was supposed to do a routine physical exam on. He had volunteered to let a student get some experience interviewing him about his illness, flashing a light in his eyes, looking down his throat, tapping out his liver, etc. As an inpatient at the VA, I'm sure he had nothing better to do that day but I was still glad someone had volunteered to be my guinea pig and I was miffed that I couldn't find him.

I checked with my instructor and he found me another patient for my physical exam. Later on I checked on my original patient to make sure he was OK. It turned out he had wound up in x ray for a procedure called a barium enema. It's a procedure rarely done these days in which the radiologist instills a chalky substance into the colon and takes a picture. Then after you expel the barium they pump your colon full of air and take another picture. It's not fun.

The funny thing is my patient wasn't even supposed to be there in the first place. The procedure had been ordered for another patient! He must have just figured whatever. These doctors know what they're doing and i'll do whatever they say. He underwent an uncomfortable procedure on trust and it was a total mistake.

Except it wasn't a mistake. An early stage colon cancer was discovered and my patient was operated on and cured. This was in the days before routine colonoscopy screening and my patient was extremely fortunate to have had an unnecessary procedure that saved his life. Sometimes a mistake can be good.

By the time this column runs I will be heading back from Grass Valley after a joyful week of playing music with many of you who are reading this column now. You will not have given me any grief about any of the jamming mistakes I made along the way, even though I might have deserved it.

On the other hand those occasional inspired riffs I happened to unexpectedly spill out that just blew you away? Maybe I can take credit for it and maybe not. It might just be something I tried to play but I messed up and it turned out better than I thought. I'll never tell.

Last month I saw Dan Levenson play some really great music with Bob Carlin at Cloverdale. I'll stand by Dan's quote:

"There are no mistakes in playing music, only notes you didn't intend to play. If you find a note you don't like, well, don't play that one next time."

Monday, June 17, 2013

We all know what bad mistakes are. They happen all the time. We wanted to do something good and instead something bad happened and the result was regrettable. In retrospect it was a bad idea in the first place but we didn't have enough experience to realize that before we made the error.

In the medical field mistakes are, generally speaking, a bad idea. People expect perfection when their life is on the line, as well they should. The stakes are pretty high. If you leave a towel in someone's abdomen while you're taking out their infected gallbladder you may get a call a few months later from their lawyer. And if you amputate the wrong limb you'll make headlines and be in big trouble. Nobody's perfect but if you want to hang around very long doing anything as a profession, you'd better do your very best to try to be absolutely perfect.

But every now and then a mistake happens that turns out good. Our species would not be where it is today without the random errors that occurred in the DNA of our ancestors. Those mistakes gave them a competitive advantage over the average Joe and Jolene. Some of those other humanoids died off while our ancestors lived on to pass along their genetic inheritance to us.

Even in medicine there are good mistakes. They don't get the publicity that bad mistakes get, but I can assure you they do happen. I'll never forget one particular day when I was a second year medical student and couldn't find the patient I was supposed to do a routine physical exam on. He had volunteered to let a student get some experience interviewing him about his illness, flashing a light in his eyes, looking down his throat, tapping out his liver, etc. As an inpatient at the VA, I'm sure he had nothing better to do that day but I was still glad someone had volunteered to be my guinea pig and I was miffed that I couldn't find him.

I checked with my instructor and he found me another patient for my physical exam. Later on I checked on my original patient to make sure he was OK. It turned out he had wound up in x ray for a procedure called a barium enema. It's a procedure rarely done these days in which the radiologist instills a chalky substance into the colon and takes a picture. Then after you expel the barium they pump your colon full of air and take another picture. It's not fun.

The funny thing is my patient wasn't even supposed to be there in the first place. The procedure had been ordered for another patient! He must have just figured whatever. These doctors know what they're doing and i'll do whatever they say. He underwent an uncomfortable procedure on trust and it was a total mistake.

Except it wasn't a mistake. An early stage colon cancer was discovered and my patient was operated on and cured. This was in the days before routine colonoscopy screening and my patient was extremely fortunate to have had an unnecessary procedure that saved his life. Sometimes a mistake can be good.

By the time this column runs I will be heading back from Grass Valley after a joyful week of playing music with many of you who are reading this column now. You will not have given me any grief about any of the jamming mistakes I made along the way, even though I might have deserved it.

On the other hand those occasional inspired riffs I happened to unexpectedly spill out that just blew you away? Maybe I can take credit for it and maybe not. It might just be something I tried to play but I messed up and it turned out better than I thought. I'll never tell.

Last month I saw Dan Levenson play some really great music with Bob Carlin at Cloverdale. I'll stand by Dan's quote:

"There are no mistakes in playing music, only notes you didn't intend to play. If you find a note you don't like, well, don't play that one next time."

Another CBA Calendar Year
Today's column from Rick Cornish
Sunday, October 19, 2014

Good morning. Barely.

Third Sunday’s belong to Geoff Sargent, but Geoff gave his slot this month to Lucy Smith in order that she might use the space to report on the CBA’s IBMA involvement this year, Lucy being the Czarina of that activity, but the dear woman wasn’t quite ready with her report (which will be posted on Tuesday instead) and so Lucy passed the ball to me, who’s been sicker than a damned dog since Monday with a throat so infected that it’s swollen to the size of a telephone pole, diameter, not length, which in turn meant that I could not attend the Fall Campout, my absence breaking a fifteen year perfect attendance record, which in turn meant that I was not ABLE TO VOTE, which broke a decades long perfect voting record (woe is me) and which also meant that I was not at the organizational meeting last night where results of the election was officially reported, (Maria Nadauld…with whom I was next door neighbors, she being the sister of Brooks Judd, from age six months until I was old enough to drive away…and the ten incumbents won the election) nor was I able to attend the board’s first meeting of the Association’s new calendar year (we run from October to October, more or less), which (pardon me while I dab the tear from my cheek) is finally proof positive and beyond the slightest doubt that the California Bluegrass Organization can do JUST FINE WITHOUT RICK CORNISH, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

In other news, I’m told that the camp out was one of the best ever, huge turnout, great dinner last night, jams up the wahzoo and…I’m sorry, I just can’t go on. I must lie down and grieve for a while.

Bert’s up tomorrow, folks, have a great new week.

Bluegrassian Questionnaire with the Central Valley Boys
Today's column from Cameron Little
Saturday, October 18, 2014

Who G-runs faster than a speeding bullet, is more traditional than Orange Blossom Special, and out-glows the “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign at night? That would be the Central Valley Boys, featuring Yoseff Tucker (guitar), Victor Skidanenko (banjo), John Cogdill (mandolin), Dave Gooding (bass), and Pete Hicks (fiddle). I once called this fine bluegrass band a “crazy lazy susan of talent,” and it’s still true. Each spin of the Central Valley Boys dial gets you exactly what you’re looking for: old-school and innovative, reverential gospel and traditional tunage, soul-searing harmonies and old-time on-stage classiness, irreverent humor, and just plain awesome neon-ness all around.

So what really gives the Central Valley Boys that hearty glow? Let’s hear from the sharp-dressed gentlemen themselves:

1. Who are you listening to right now?
The latest thing has probably been The Earls of Leicester (Johnny Warren, fiddle; Charlie Cushman, banjo; Barry Bales, bass; Tim O’Brien, mandolin; Shawn Camp, guitar; and Jerry Douglas, dobro). They're a Flatt and Scruggs tribute band.

2. What's your greatest fear?
Our greatest fear as a band is that we were not entertaining to an audience. When that happens, it's time to pack in in.

3. Who are your heroes/heroines in life?

4. If you had to combine your personalities into a band name, what would you callyourselves?
Bluegrass Casserole.

5. What is your greatest extravagance?
Duh, suits.

6. What's one of your deep, dark bluegrass secrets?
Next question.

7. What has been the trippiest perk of success?
We’ll tell you when we get there.

8. Who is sitting there in your dream jam?
Nobody is sitting in our jam. Stand up!

9. If any of you could hear any non-bluegrass tune done bluegrass, what would it be?
“Gangsta's Paradise.”

10. What song hits your heart every time?
“Angel Band.”

11. What bluegrass memory makes you smile?
Grass Valley. 4 am. Any year.

12. Do you have a bluegrass player tip or secret you’d like to share?
Play it straight.

13. What’s the weirdest food you’ve experienced backstage? The best?
A weird pizza experience. Best: Grass Valley with Jennifer Kitchen.

14. What was the best advice you’ve been given so far?
Don't quit your day job.

15. Do you have a memorable on-stage gaff?
Once a certain Guitar Player wore the the wrong color suit.

16. Where’s the strangest place you’ve performed live?

17. What’s one thing you’d like people to know about you?
We have matching undergarments.

18. CDs, downloads, or vinyl?
8 track.

19. Who really gets the most groupies?
Not the bass player.

20. What is your motto?
WWVD. What Would Vern Do?

(Cameron Little is a young bluegrass musician who hopes he’ll have a video camera ready when someone, somewhere asks the Central Valley Boys about those matching undergarments.)

Dear Friends
Today's column from Don Denison
Friday, October 17, 2014

This weekend we have our Fall Camp-Out and our election of officers, I hope to see some of you all there.

I think it appropriate to write a little about how this happy event began. Our first Camp-Out began in Grass Valley on a weekend in May, marked by almost insignificant showers. Suzanne had been lobbying for months to produce this event. It was not universally supported, some thought we needed bands, others thought it was too close to the festival, some wanted to hire a band to make sure enough showed up. Suzanne held out for a simple jammers camp-out with a pot-luck supper for those who wanted to participate. We had about 50 people show up, maybe 15-20 campsites. (this is all from memory, so don't hold me to accuracy). We dodged the light showers, chased the sunshine, jammed, visited, and had a pot-luck supper. We all had a great time. Next year we held the Camp-Out in the same place, but the word had gotten out, we had about 150 campsites, and many who just drove up to visit. I remember the number of camp sites, as that is how the fairgrounds accounted for their charges.

Sometime shortly after the Spring Camp-Out began, we were finding it difficult to form a quorum for the election of officers. This combined with the desire for another Camp-Out began the practice of having one Camp-Out in the Spring, one in the Fall. By the end of the 80's the traditions had been established and other venues had been used. On occasion we did hire a band that was touring in the area. I know there are more, but I remember Jim&Jesse, Lynn Morris, and James King as some of the bands we hired for the Camp-Outs.

These events have proved to be among our most popular. Suzanne, and I saw a need to provide venues built around jamming, fellowship, and food in order to strengthen the organization, her idea to have a Camp-Out proved to be a successful one. It would be wonderful if she and I could attend this Camp-Out together, sadly, this coming Saturday marks the 2nd anniversary of the death of the founder of this event. I am planning on being there to see my friends and enjoy listening to the jamming, visiting, and watching those participating.

While you all are enjoying this wonderful event, please give pause and give a few seconds thanking the wonderful lady who started the tradition.

An Impressionists View of the 2014 World of Bluegrass Conference; Color My World Bluegrass
Today's column from James Reams
Thursday, October 16, 2014

I was so excited when I learned that World of Bluegrass would be held in early October this year. It seems like forever since I’ve gotten to go as the conference dates conflicted with the Park Slope Jamboree that I’ve promoted for 15 years now. But underlying the excitement, was the memory that the last time I went was back when Tina was still alive. She would have absolutely LOVED all the hype in Raleigh. It seemed like the very air was charged with anticipation when I arrived on Monday.

Raleigh had gone all out to embrace this international event. City blocks were closed and banners were hung pretty much everywhere. Even the Governor made an appearance and gave some good-natured ribbing when he mentioned that bluegrass really got started after a young North Carolinian by the name of Earl Scruggs joined a struggling band led by some guy from Kentucky called Bill somebody or other. Yes, I’d have to say that the decision to move the World of Bluegrass to Raleigh was, in a word, brilliant! While it was always a thrill to be in Nashville, the conference was just one of many such events held there. In Raleigh, I got the sense that this is THE signature event of the year and I just couldn’t have been prouder.

With all that talent piled into one town, it’s no wonder that bluegrass music was coming at me from every direction. If I’d had time to go in a grocery store, I wouldn’t have been surprised a bit to hear a familiar fiddle tune playing over their sound system! It was definitely an immersion experience. I can only imagine how overwhelming all this might have felt to a new bluegrasser. There’s just so much to see and do that it’s hard to even decide. Someday, I’d like to attend this event and just roll along with the river of music and let it deposit me on whatever shore it wants!

As a former school teacher, it always interests me to check in with the youngest generation of bluegrassers. Many of these youngsters were getting their first taste of the “big” time by performing at showcase events that went on long into the night. Snaking my way around lobby couches and chairs that served as makeshift beds for these worn out kids became a morning ritual. There wasn’t a parent in sight hovering over these pre-teens, there was no need for babysitters…the bluegrass “village” looked after them and made sure their instruments were neatly stacked in a corner somewhere nearby.

And speaking of instruments, funny story…seems that the elevator doors opened up on the lobby floor and these two guitar cases walked out and one said to the other, “Did you forget to bring your picker again?” Hey, it really happened! Well, except for the bit about the guitar case walking and talking. I’m sure there was a frazzled musician somewhere on the 10th floor frantically looking for his instrument case and wondering where on earth he had put it! BTW, no guitars were harmed…the cases were turned in to the lost and found and claimed by a much relieved owner later. Just one more example of the bluegrass village at work.

As I moved through the crowds, it seemed like homecoming to me. Spotting familiar faces and getting a chance to talk with some of them reminded me how much I missed the “hometown” feel of this event. Grabbing a cup of coffee with a DJ friend, walking corridors talking with festival promoters, and hanging out with many long-time musician buddies really made me realize how much I had missed these past few years. I always wish I had more time to visit with folks but I’m telling you, there’s a lot going on over these 5 days and it keeps you hopping just to attend a few each day.

Let me give you a rundown of what were major highlights for me. On Tuesday, I attended the Grey Fox special reception for Bill Keith as Bill’s guest. Bill received the IBMA Distinguished Achievement Award at the award presentation on Thursday. (Which I’m sure in no way outshined the Brown Jug Award that he had just taken home from the Park Slope Jamboree a few days earlier!) It was great to talk with some of the banjo greats like Bela Fleck and Alan Munde as well as Bill Keith’s long time collaborator, Jim Rooney. Alan shared a copy of his newest project “Bright Munde” with me and I encourage all you banjo fans to get your hands on your own copy right away! Seeing Bill Keith celebrated after all these years of dedication to the bluegrass community was one of those “tears in my eyes” moments that seemed to keep cropping up all week long. As Bela gave the keynote speech, it was heartwarming to hear this incomparable musician (winner of more Grammys than any other musical artist in any genre) give the credit for his success to Bill. But even more special was the opportunity to see Bill take the stage later on Thursday and say a few words to those of us gathered there in his honor. Too often it seems that these awards occur after the honoree is gone, that’s when we notice the hole they left behind. I’m glad that Bill got a chance to know just how much his contribution to our bluegrass village means to all of us.

The DJ Taping Session was a whirlwind of activity on Wednesday as I sat down with some of my colleagues and hobnobbed about recent projects and “what’s new with you” topics. Catching up with Lee Michael Dempsey of WAMU, Jim Fisher from GLOBE in Indiana, Larry Nixon (WQDR – Raleigh), and Wayne Rice (KSON – San Diego) was just like old times. So much has happened since I saw them last, I about talked myself hoarse!

Later that day I attended the showcase “Ramble” organized by my friend, Si Kahn, in support of protecting the pristine wilderness of Bristol Bay, Alaska from mining interests. Musicians sported “Protect Bristol Bay” t-shirts and folks like Jeff Scroggins and Claire Lynch lent their voices in support of this cause. Si even performed a few songs from his album inspired by his time in Alaska and his deep conviction that we need to protect the few remaining “wild places” in our country. I’m always encouraged by the support that these causes receive from fellow musicians; often their involvement truly helps raise awareness about these issues.

Thursday was the big day with receptions all day and the awards show that evening. I attended the Special Awards Luncheon and had the pleasure of sitting at the table with Marshall Wilborn and his wife, Lynn Morris. “Cousin” Lynn Joiner, host of the Hillbilly at Harvard radio program (and another winner of the Distinguished Achievement Award) was seated near me and it was great to reminisce with him about my appearance on his show a few years back. Lynn is such an amazing character but even more amazing is that this show has been going on nonstop since 1948. Talk about staying power!

Nancy Cardwell had invited me to attend the Nominees Press Reception before the awards show. Hanging around with the likes of Fred Bartenstein and talking about pioneers of bluegrass was a highlight for me. I also got to have a nice visit with Doyle Lawson and had a chance to chat with Ronnie McCoury. It was a real pleasure to run into Gary B. Reid (former head of Copper Creek Records) and talk with him about his one-man show “A Life of Sorrow: The Life and Times of Carter Stanley” which was first performed in early September this year. Gary and I go way back and I was especially intrigued by this tribute to his long time hero. It’s just Gary and his guitar bringing to life the many aspects that made Carter Stanley such an icon in bluegrass history. Now that’s what I call a gutsy performance!

The Award Show was rife with special moments. Seeing Flatt Lonesome take home the award for Emerging Artist of the Year brought back memories of my nomination for that award 12 years ago. It’s no wonder they won this year, their harmonies are pristine and perfect and their performance is excitement personified. Particularly moving was Phil Leadbetter walking away with the award for Dobro Performer of the Year. And seeing Bobby Hicks nominated for Fiddle Performer of the Year at 81 kind of choked me up a bit as I realized how some of those performers I have admired for years have aged. I do hope they will all be with us for a long time to come. It was wonderful to listen to those who were honored by awards at this conference but I have to confess that Bill Keith’s speech was my favorite. To hear him talking about setting up a teepee at the Grey Fox festival each year just brought all kinds of hilarious pictures to mind! I hope he gets to set it up again next year!

I had to head on back home before my buddy Rick Bowman’s film (Herschel Sizemore: Mandolin in B) was shown on Friday. But I was certainly excited to learn that the film screenings were well attended. This film festival is a welcome addition to the conference activities. What was amazing to me was that there were 22 films submitted for the event. Wow! Only 8 made the cut and, from the trailers, it looked like it was a great selection. I sure hope this will be a recurring event. What really energizes me about the IBMA supporting these films is that it will encourage other filmmakers to consider bluegrass as a topic and, hopefully, more bluegrass-themed film festivals will start popping up across the country to complement Mark Hogan’s Bluegrass on Broadway Festival that started it all! Already we’ve added an AZ Bluegrass Film Festival and November will kick off the Point Music and Film Festival in San Diego. It’s a great way to get your bluegrass fix during the off-season!

Overwhelming, heart-warming, family reunion style hugging with a side of face-splitting smiles to go around, that about sums up my experience at the 2014 World of Bluegrass. It sure was hard leaving Raleigh.

Send me an email james@jamesreams.com and let me know what you thought about the 2014 World of Bluegrass. I’d like to hear your story!

Hello? Is This Mic Open?
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, October 15, 2014

The past few years, I have noticed Open Mic events proliferating around Contra Costa County. This is not a new concept - I’ve attended these types of things numerous times over the years, but they seem to be growing in number and sophistication.

In the simplest form, Open Mic events are when some proprietor (coffee shops spring to mind) offers some corner of their establishment and lets musicians take turns playing there some afternoon, mostly for each other. No harm there - it’s a modest win-win. The proprietor sells more coffee, and musicians get to compare their skills with their peers, and many a good band has emerged from chance meetings like this.

This type of event allows small establishments who don’t really have an entertainment budget to feature live music, especially at times when business might otherwise be slow. The only real risk is on the part of the regular (or casual) patron who wanders in for a cup of coffee and may not find the whole circus very appealing.

Lately, however, I have seen venues step up their game when it comes to Open Mic events. With a little investment, it can go from cacophonous chaos to real entertainment - even when there’s no filtering of the performers. Add a stage, a sound system, and get someone to host the event, and it becomes a lot like karaoke with live musicians.

Yes, the talent level at these events is uneven - the “danger” is part of the fun. But it’s not fun to listen to someone caterwaul endlessly. So, the host’s job is to make sure each performer only does about 15 minutes, and keep the line of performers moving smoothly along. A tightly run event is more fun for the audience, and it’s easy to spend a couple of hours watching a parade of 15-minute performances - perfect for the modern short attention span!

There are some Open Mic events in Pleasant Hill, Martinez, and Benicia that have become very popular, and not just among musicians. Typically about half the audiences are just there to listen. A host (sometimes a host band) handles the signups and keeps the line moving. Some of the events even charge a cover charge, and they do really well!

The events may have a “theme”. I host a (mostly) bluegrass jam once a month and the same venue has a jazz Open Mic and a blues Open Mic. All of these have a house band that can provide good backup for the performers and helps to provide some polish for some of the less-confident performers. The Open Mic events in Pleasant Hill and Benicia are open to all forms of music (generally preferring acoustic-based music), and all of these events attract a rich mix of newcomers and some very experienced, talented players trying out new lineups, instruments or songs.

All in all, it’s a very nurturing atmosphere and no two events are alike - expect a grab bag of experiences. Often there are some cringe-inducing moments, but these are balanced by beginners sounding better than they ever thought they could, and veteran musicians displaying their talents. And all of this comes in easy-to-digest quarter hour increments. It’s a great night out, whether you’re going to take your 15-minutes of fame or not...

Mutual Responsibilities in This New Media World
Today's column from Ted Lehmann
Tuesday, October 14, 2014

We've been resting, a luxury those of us who are supposedly retired can enjoy, in Shelby, NC after the five hectic, inspiring, demanding, and action-filled days of IBMA's World of Bluegrass and Wide Open Bluegrass in Raleigh. We find attending IBMA gives us a chance to touch bases with people we often see out along the bluegrass trail, and also allows us to make a personal connection to those we only know through their recordings or on line. It's like a big, fast-paced family reunion. IBMA also gives us a chance to acknowledge the many kindnesses and thoughtful remarks people have made about us and our work. For both of us, often in very different ways, this annual feast of music and friendship remains a special gift. But it also reminds me of a debt I owe to so many people who have opened doors for us, created opportunities, and allowed us behind the scenes and into their lives to understand and appreciate the rigors of the road and the demands of performing. One of the things I hear from others, who like me are involved in sharing this world with an ever-growing public, is that too many performers and others take too little time to acknowledge the effort, time, and care that goes into greasing some of the skids of this demanding life making and sharing music.

I remember being a guest on The Mark, that luxurious bus carrying Dailey & Vincent along their demanding way. After a performance one day, we were ushered back to the owners' cabin at the rear of the forty-five foot long Prevost they ride in. The door closed and somehow some of the size and energy leaked out of Jamie Dailey as he sat in his seat and opened his laptop computer. As we chatted, he responded to dozens of remarks and observations coming from fans, let his publicist and others working to help keep their enterprise running know about the day, and checked in with others. He wrote some of what my mother used to call “bread and butter” notes, thank you notes to those whose kindnesses or mentions had helped pave the way for the phenomenal success across genre lines that has become Dailey & Vincent.

In the dozen years that we've been involved with this bluegrass world, we've seen the opportunities for growth and spreading awareness become ever greater. Bob Cherry, who runs Cybergrass, the oldest online resource for bluegrass, recognized the potential for growth represented by the Internet almost at its birth, but bluegrass grows from the roots of rural America and is often reluctant to take on new ways of communicating and publicizing itself. When we came into bluegrass, there were few band sites, no Social Media, and restricted opportunities for publicizing a band and getting recognized. Cybergrass, the world's seventh oldest web site, was founded in September of 1992, and has persisted as a great aggregator of bluegrass information from other sources and originator of new material. John Lawless and Brance Gillihan began The Bluegrass Blog in 2006. It has since morphed into the bluegrass world's first media giant, a true online newspaper that functions as a Social Media site, too. As Bluegrass Today has grown, it's influence is ever more widely felt. With a full-time staff and numerous bluegrass stringers, Bluegrass Today is literally everywhere in the bluegrass world.
It's the rare band that no longer has a web presence with a web site (often professionally developed and managed), personal and business Facebook pages, and other outlets on the Net. A new world of media awareness has emerged, and it affects bluegrass in mighty ways. World Wide Bluegrass is now streaming bluegrass twenty-four hours a day around the world using numerous broadcasters in several countries. FM radio is a powerful force supporting bluegrass music, particularly in the realm of public radio and college low power stations. With all these opportunities to spread the word, what responsibilities do individual performers have?

I hear rumblings out there in the communications world that many artists neglect recognizing that publicity is a reciprocal phenomenon. How many artists put a note on their Facebook Page or Twitter feed saying “I'm going to be on the air today with this DJ. Why don't ya'll listen in at......”? Those radio DJ's, many of them volunteers, are working hard to publicize your efforts. Don't you have a responsibility to let your world know about them? I once heard Rush Limbaugh (back in the days when I listened to him) say that his only function on the air was to keep you (the listener) tuned in between the commercials. Likewise with you, the performer. Your taking time to publicize your upcoming appearances on the air, and to thank the person who put you there afterwords is part of this game of effectively using the vast media world available to you. Recently I wrote a couple of useful paragraphs that bands put on the front page of their web sites, at least for a day or two. I was pleased about this, and complimented. I like it a lot when people who use my photographs on their web sites or Facebook pages at least acknowledge that they are my photos. Many people do just that. Similarly, I try to acknowledge song writers in the description section of my You Tube channel. It's your responsibility to acknowledge and recognize the efforts made on your behalf by the media world working to put your name before the public. It's not at all unlike the (often reflexive) thanks performers give from the stage to the promoter and the sound man. Even when the sound is bad, smart bands acknowledge the sound man, knowing the damage that can be caused a performance on the sound board. How often does the emcee, who brings a band on stage with enthusiasm and encourages the audience to call for often undeserved encores, get thanks from a band?

It's worthwhile for band members to remember that we live in a world that rewards reciprocity. That's one of the reasons why links are so important and effective on the World Wide Web. Remember that you, as a performer, live in a literal interconnected web of reciprocity benefiting all the participants. I remember calling a bluegrass performer a few years ago to urge him to build a Facebook presence. He exploded at me, saying “I already have too much to do!” A day or so later I noticed a FB page and this performer has since become a master of letting people into his life (in the places he chooses), telling where his band will be performing, and sending pointed thanks to those who help him along. The newly developed skill has been important to the progress of this particular band. Too often I hear performers say, “It's all about the music,” pointing to the few hours of performing pleasure a week that make it all worthwhile. But it's clear that it isn't “all about the music.” Much of a performers life must be devoted to burnishing the business of music to make it work. Spend some time looking at your web of support, and make sure you thank those people next time they take time to recognize your efforts.

Music Camp
Today's column from Randy January
Monday, October 13, 2014

This Monday welcome column comes to you from Marin County where I am looking out the windows of our newly acquired VW Vanagon Westfalia camper van at the beautiful hills surrounding Walker Creek Ranch, site of the music camp my daughter Megan is currently attending. What a spectacular place to hold a music camp!

Music and camping always seems to fit together so well in my mind. Throw in the opportunity to learn from some of the most talented musicians in the business, and it really becomes a special thing. Not to say that it is always easy, or even always fun. Sometimes we attend such things to push ourselves to achieve more musically. I think we can all relate to challenges in our musical journey.

To my Megan, up to this point it has just been fun, as she picks things up on the fiddle quite fast and has always loved being on the stage. This time around though, something was different. Maybe it was starting the camp a day late, because we had to come after school on Friday. Maybe it was performing a song on stage the same day she learned it, but prior to going on she was an absolute wreck. I’m talking tears in the eyes, I can’t remember my part wreck. I tried to reassure her that it’s just a student concert and she’ll do great. If you mess up, you mess up and you move on. No big deal. Of course, deep inside I was freaking out a little bit too. What if she traumatizes herself on this, and never wants to perform again. All over a fairly simple song break that is not nearly as difficult as a lot of things she has performed quite well.

We spent the better part of the day practicing her part, which she would have down perfect at one moment, only to forget altogether 10 minutes later when we’d come back to it. I could see the tension rising in her the later it got, and I did my best to keep things light and fun. We headed over to the show after dinner and other than a quick walk through the acts were asked to be part of the audience until a song or two before their part, at which point they can warm up for their song. I left her with sheer terror in her eyes.

Well, she did her part, and it wasn’t exactly what she had planned on playing (mostly she faked it), but it worked out just fine, she handed it off smoothly, and the song went on without a hitch. If I hadn’t practiced with her all day I would have never known that she didn’t play it the way she wanted to. Afterward, I could tell she was relieved, but at the same time a bit disappointed. I reassured her that she did great, but it occurred to me that she’s finally getting old enough that she is becoming self-critical. A year ago she would have been happy to just be on stage and hit a few of the right notes, but now she seemed to be grading herself. I cringe at the thought, because I’m the type that is always way too hard on myself, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing I suppose. Really the only way to achieve a high level of skill in anything is to be at least a little bit critical of yourself.
I guess I had thought that getting nervous and being hard on yourself were more adult ways of seeing the world, and if one started early enough in life at music that maybe it wouldn’t develop at all. I’m learning that as kids start to grow up they become more self-aware, and these are things she will just have to learn to deal with in life. Really the only way these things get better are building up confidence by performing more in front of people. What safer place to develop these skills than in music camp?

In reality her camp experience was 99% positive, and the only reason I’m dwelling on the nervousness issue is because it’s a mirror to my own way of thinking, and something I had thought she was immune to. She is getting older though, and things like this are not always going to be just fun. Granted, she’s still young enough that her memories of this camp will likely mainly consist of playing music with new friends in class, eating ice cream during break, playing volleyball in the nice weather, spending some time jamming with dear old dad (at least I hope I make the list), and that loud applause at the end of the song. As she gets older though, and in more skillful classes, there will be more times she’ll have to push herself beyond her comfort zone. A big part of me wants to insulate her from any kind of discomfort, but I would be doing her a big disservice if I did. To reach her fullest potential musically there are going to be obstacles in the way that she will have to overcome. There is just no truly easy way to achieve such things. I can smile knowing that at the very least I will have a fiddle partner to jam with for the rest of my days. Whatever else comes of her playing will come in due time. I will be a happy and proud dad whatever path her journey leads her down.

THE DAILY GRIST…”I know the key to success. But the key to failure is trying to please everybody”…Bill Cosby

The Wrong Key
Today’s Column from Bert Daniel
Sunday, October 12, 2014

I was very amused recently by a cartoon from an up and coming cartoonist some of you may know. It shows a guy kneeling for his evening prayers and the guy asks the Lord, (if it’s not too much trouble), please don’t let there be too many tunes in Bb or F in tomorrow night’s jam. I can really sympathize with that poor fellow because Bb has always been the bane of my existence as a jammer. In my opinion it shouldn’t be a key at all, they should just skip over it altogether.

Bb is perfectly fine if you play a band instrument like the clarinet or the trumpet. Your tuning centers there anyway and you can just play in “C”, You’re there already. But if you happen to be a pianist in a jazz band with trumpets and trombones, God help you. Well, at least there aren’t as many black keys as there would be in Eb.

In a Bluegrass jam situation, you banjoists, guitarists and Dobroists don’t have any idea what the rest of us are going through when the dreaded Bb is called. You simply position your capos at the appropriate fret and you never have to actually play in that Devil’s key! I’m telling you, you folks have no idea what torture it can be for the rest of us (bassists, fiddlers and mandolinists).

If, like me, you happen to play that big fiddle, that little fiddle, or that fretted guitar that wants to be a fiddle, you have a natural predilection to the sharp keys. Ever notice how many fiddle tunes are written in G or D or A? Those sharp keys give the GDAE tuned instruments lots of opportunities for open strings. Just to refresh your memories, G has one sharp, D has two sharps, A has three sharps and E has four sharps. Sharps are good! Flats are bad!

I do know of a few fiddle tunes that are often played in Bb (College Hornpipe and Daley’s Reel for example). Just between you and me, that’s just a bunch of hot shot fiddlers showing off. Who needs that? When I first heard Daley’s Reel, I absolutely loved the tune. I struggled to play it in Bb and eventually just gave up. So I transposed it to D and now it’s absolute butter! That tune should have been there all along.

I try to keep an open mind, so I do try Bb from time to time. For the mandolin, Bb is just a fret over from F. I sing in F a lot because of my voice’s natural range. So if I can play in F, I should be able to handle Bb right? Wrong. My buddy Marcos Alvira gave me a crash course a couple of years ago to get me over that mental block. It helped a lot but, but I have to confess. Two weeks later I was using a banjo capo at the first fret so I could play in C.

Let’s all face it. Bb is not a real key. If your singing voice just has to be in that forbidden key, well give me a few minutes and I’ll tune a half step up, like so many of the Bluegrass masters no doubt did. Then I’ll be playing in C. No problem.

Just don’t make me play in Bb.

Bluegrass Autopsy
Today’s column from John A. Karsemeyer
Saturday, October 11, 2014,

“Okay, let’s see what we have here. I suspect there is a mandolin, five string banjo, guitar, fiddle, and acoustic bass that made the whole thing work as it was supposed to. If the parts are all intact I may be able to figure out the cause of death. Just for the record, born December 1945 and died September 1996.

I’m now making an incision into the body which has the most brilliant color blue, and I’m taking out the Monroe F5 mandolin that is protected by its case. This really is the heart and soul of the whole thing. Okay, the mandolin is intact, with no sign of disease, although it looks like it may have had some reconstructive surgery at one point. Now let’s see about the other vital parts. Hmmm, the Scruggs five-string banjo, the Flatt guitar, Wise fiddle, and Rainwater acoustic bass seem to be okay too. The cause of death must have been some kind of strange, never before identified virus that killed the body and soul without affecting these vital parts.

Yes, I can see now that it was definitely some kind of viral infection, that’s the culprit. Too bad Dr. Bert Daniel, M.D., of the California Bluegrass Association, wasn’t the family physician, as he may well have prevented the death. There are some bodily indications that there were attempts to revive it, but in the long run those attempts couldn’t keep it alive in its original form.

Examining the body as a whole, there is ample evidence that it was innovative, pure, clean, vibrant, and the first of its kind to experience a life of its own. It is almost alien, in that there wasn’t anything like it before it was born. My, my, it must have been something to witness its birth, and then behold it grow and grow into something amazing and never before heard or seen.

The paperwork here indicates that there now are living relatives, and the attending physician at their births is a Dr. Frankenstein. I wonder if its relatives have any resemblance to this magnificent blue body that I’ve been examining. No, no, I think not. This was a one-of-a-kind creature that only comes along once, and we’ll never hear or see anything exactly like it again. ”

THE DAILY GRIST...”Oh it always seems to go. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”--Joni Mitchell

Tribute to Regina
Today's column from Cliff Compton
Friday, October 10, 2014

I was walking through the tent camping on the party side of grass valley, and I saw her coming toward me singing. Just singing out there in front of God and everybody with no guitar or nothing, just looking at me with a big smile and singing. She walked up to me, grabbed both of my arms and continued her song, singing it right into my face, and didn’t stop till it was done. Then she smiled and hugged me like mother earth. Wasn’t nothing subtle about that girl, she was all out there wide open for the world to see.

I remember the first time I met her, it was at Woodland, a small CBA festival that was going at the time. She was sitting on the edge of the tailgate of her truck and she pulled me up next to her, offered me a toke of something I don’t smoke, and proceeded to sing a rollicking version of “the padre from the old sierra madre” and I played and sang along and was having a good old time till her boyfriend at the time sort of gave me the stink eye and let me know, without saying, that he didn’t much like me sitting there.

As someone who has spent a lot of time at festivals and camp outs, I ran into her every where and built a lot of great memories. Her campsites were always full of interesting people and unfettered music.

Not everybody liked he. She was unpolished, a bit rough around the edges, had a few problems with jam etiquette, and a willingness to speak her mind that occasionally rubbed someone or the other the wrong way, but I ain’t one of those people. She was precious to me. I like rough people, common folks who say what they’re thinking, who wear their heart on there sleeve and aren’t afraid to show it to you. I like people who haven’t had it easy. People who suffered and come through it. Maybe people who have had to struggle to stay upright, but have been willing to do just that. It’s the normal people I have trouble understanding. The longer I knew her, the better I liked her, because, really, she was one of my people. The fellowship of the music fanatics… One of us whose love of music and musicians goes way beyond what constitutes good sense. One whose love passes beyond the real to the surreal.

I’ve been in some glorious jams in her camp, made wonderful friendships. I got to know Glen Horn, and Sally Vedder, and Ruth Truesdell, and her lovely friend Kay, who wrote the most wonderful song about loving some man because he had a mouth full of gold teeth. Without her, I’d have never heard that song, and that would have be dirty shame. And this year at grass valley at her campsite we had the legendary 10 banjo jam that electrified whole sections of the campground, bringing on at least 3 signs of the apocalypse, and breaking every rule ever instituted in the history of jamming, and leaving us all with the warm fuzzies for weeks afterwards. I remember hugging her that night and thinking, this could only have happened here.

The last time I saw her was at the Good old fashioned festival in tres pinos. She had sent me a message on face book asking me if I’d play with her on first stage to open the festival, and of course, I was delighted to help, and when I saw her, she seemed so glad I was there, and she was surrounded by her friends, all these people who were part of her life, and I don’t know, it was almost as if she was appreciating people in a deeper way than ever before. And when we played, it was a great time. My dear friend, in the center of her many friends, cheering her on, giving her love.

When I got the news, it was like somebody hit me in the gut. I thought, this can’t be, she just posted pictures on face book yesterday. She was glowing like a fourteen year old angel, at the Mecca of Bluegrass. The IBMA. Looking soft, and alive, and now she’s gone. Ashes to ashes. Dust to Dust. Lord have mercy.

All I know is she was my friend. All I hope is that she is with the angels.
Regina, I’m gonna miss you girl.

THE DAILY GRIST... “These strings must have been on here for three or four months. I broke two a couple of days ago and one right now. I’ve got five to go. It’s cheaper to buy strings in a set. Boy, you know, I sure do believe in saving that money.” -- Bill Monroe, from an article by Ronni Lundy reprinted in The Bill Monroe Reader, edited by Tom Ewing

You can’t call it an “idiot box” if it has bluegrass, right?
Today’s column from George Martin
Thursday, October 9, 2014

My wife and I watch too much television. I slowly work my way through several books I want to read, but each one takes weeks to finish because I get engrossed in the darn TV.

We are both news junkies and watch the BBC and CBS news shows early in the evening. Then we get into The Colbert Report and the Daily Show, and just when I should click the thing off and pick up my book, I peek at the channel guide and scroll through the stations and (usually) find something that looks so interesting we end up watching urban raccoons or penguins in Antarctica or something political.

But lately our scrolls through the channels are turning up more bluegrass and Appalachian music.

It came to a head the other night when we watched J.D. Crowe and the New South and the Del McCoury Band, taped at the IBMA Fan Fest two years ago when it was still in Nashville. I said, “OK, this is amazing. I have to write about this.”

I don’t pay a lot of attention to which PBS station we are watching. Our Comcast system gets us KQED, KCSM, KRCB and KVIE, and it took me a little time on the internet to track down just what/where I am talking about. It turns out that the recent digital revolution has made it possible for one channel, KQED for instance, to send out four separate signals: KQED, KQED Plus, KQED Life and KQED Kids. And I may have missed one.

But the mountain music isn’t coming from KQED, it’s coming from something called KCSMDT. In the San Francisco Bay Area where I live it is channel 717 on Comcast cable. I assume the “DT” means “digital transmission” or something, but whatever it means there are some cool shows on it. Two in particular.

J.D. and Del, and some other great acts we’ve seen in past weeks, are on a show called Jubilee, put out by Kentucky Educational Television (KET). This is a great service, and we’ve seen a few one-off documentaries from them in recent months, all of which concern the music of rural areas. Jubilee is telecast on Thursday nights at 8, and shown again at 1 a.m.

Tonight’s Jubilee features Doyle Lawson & Quicksilver and the Rambling Rooks, a new group with former Lonesome River Band members Ronnie Bowman, Don Rigsby and Kenny Smith. Next Thursday the show will have the Boxcars (with Adam Steffey on mandolin and Ron Stewart on banjo), the Skip Cherryholmes Quartet (with Gena Britt, banjo; Beth Lowrence, bass; Ashby Frank, mandolin; and, Matt Ledbetter, Dobro) and The Chapmans, from Springfield MO.

The other traditional music program I have been enjoying lately is Song of the Mountains, out of the little town of Marion VA. There’s a nicely refurbished theater there, called the Lincoln, and they feature more regional acts from around the area. It’s also on KCSMDT, on Fridays at 8 p.m.

Tomorrow night the show will feature the Kruger Brothers and Kontras Quintet (OK, probably not traditional, but they have a banjo) and a group from Virginia’s Blue Ridge, Paula Dellenback & Fox River. Next Friday they’ll show an unusual group, The Easter Brothers, three veterans who have been performing bluegrass and country gospel music for over 60 years.

These are geezers, to be sure, (I can tell as I am one, too) but they must still be able to bring it, as they were in the running for a Gospel Music Association Dove Award for their latest album. In the event, the prize was taken by Nathan Stanley, Ralph’s grandson, but as they say in Hollywood, “It’s an honor just to be nominated.” Also on that night will be The Gentlemen of Bluegrass, a North Carolina group that plays in the vein of the Seldom Scene and the Country Gentlemen.

These are two great shows to watch for, but also some public TV station or stations (again, I wasn’t paying attention) have shown Steve Martin’s documentary “Give Me the Banjo” recently, plus a nice documentary on the music of Appalachia, and I remember a few weeks ago watching Bela Fleck and Abigail Washburn in concert.

So far I have limited my public media donations to KPFA in Berkeley, KQED and KALW in San Francisco, but I may have to add KCSM, just to keep my bluegrass fix.?

THE DAILY GRIST...”I know it is wet and the sun is not sunny, but we can have lots of good fun that is funny."— The Cat in the Hat

Things That Make Me Smile
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Lately, harsh realities have forced their way into our lives. Some people we love dearly have departed this blue marble, and that's always a cause for some sadness and reflection. The column I wrote for this morning was going to be about that - but then I saw Cliff's column for Tuesday - here's a change of pace, in another column from a while back.

If you’re lucky like me, several times a day, certain thoughts or mental images flicker
across your mind and make you smile. Here are some of the things that do this for me.

Vocal phrasing from Red Allen, Jimmy Martin and Lester Flatt
It’s hard enough to sing in tune, but to have great timbre and vocal style, combined with
great phrasing is sublime. Imaginative vocal phrasing and dynamics are inherent in
bluegrass and a big part of its appeal for me, but when I listen to these three cats sing, I
get goosebumps. Listen to Jimmy’s band’s vocals – solidly rhythmic: “Two strikes
against me, before I even start” – the beat is punctuated on the 1st three syllables (the
first syllable of ‘against” is in between the beats), and the vocals nearly fade away on
the word “start”. Then, the next line echoes that basic rhythm, except it accentuates the
final word (heart). That stuff doesn’t happen by accident, my friends!

Duane Campbell’s Smile
OK, Duane gets a certain amount of credit in my opinion, simply for having the same
name as my late dad. My heart skipped a beat the first time I got an email from him; Ithought it was dad, communicating from the Great Beyond. Have you ever played with
this guy and his friends? They have the best darn time, and my cheeks always hurt
afterwards from smiling so much myself. He’s got some pals he plays with – Jody
Whitney, Keith Davis, Melissa Blas and others – and THEY all have great smiles and
pick like crazy. They had another friend who moved away a while back – Dawn Antelo
– and SHE had a great smile. If you’re ever feeling a little blue at a festival (like THAT
could ever happen!), look these folks up.

The Tinfoil Helmet Guy on the CBA Website
There’s one silly ad on the CBA Website occasionally that shows a chubby guy with a
helmet made of tinfoil, with two absurd horns (or antenna) sticking up. He looks very
serious, he has bizarre goggles and he has his fingers stuck in his ears. I can’t get
enough of it, because I’m dying to know the context behind the photo. I assume it was
intended to be silly, but the guy looks so serious, I have to wonder. I get a chuckle
every single time I see it. Keep your eyes peeled for it!

CBA Board Meetings
Yeah, it’s a drive, and because of that, you kind of have to set aside a whole day for it.
But it’s always stimulating. Anyone that thinks the CBA Board is a bunch of cronies
rubber stamping harebrained ideas so they can sit around and gossip hasn’t attended a
meeting. The Board (and I’ve seen several versions of it throughout the years I have
served that august body) consists of people with diverse opinions, and quite often, those opinions clash. Voices may be raised, cheeks may flush and tempers may flare,
but the passion is about the opinions, not the people, so there is no real rancor. I am a
person who hates confrontation, but even I have “got up on my hind legs” a time or two
(as Mark Varner characterized it). Why would this stuff make me smile? Because it’s
how things get done. It’s how decision can be made, even as widely disparate points of
view are vigorously defended. I love how we’ll all go nose-to-nose on some issue, and
then - lunch time! - and everybody’s pals for 20 minutes, and we get right back at it.
It’s kind of like that old cartoon with Ralph and Sam, the sheepdog and wolf who would
punch their timeclock every morning (“Morning, Ralph!” Morning, Sam!”), fight all day,
then punch out each night.

These are just some of the things I smiled about today. Take note of the things that make YOU smile – they’ll make a long day at work seem shorter, and ease a long

THE DAILY GRIST...”Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry."—Mark Twain

Leaving a mark
Today's column from Cliff Compton

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

(EDITOR’S NOTE--One of Cliff’s earliest contributions [2008], on a topic that will, no doubt, linger a while.)

I saw the notice of John Rapp’s death in my inbox today. John Hettinger had shared the sad news that he’d seen in the Placerville paper. I didn’t know John Rapp well, but he had left his mark. I remember him slipping swing chords into the bluegrass and playing songs that challenged some of the pickers. And I remember his impish laugh, as he said “I hope you guys can play this”, and launched into something a little on the edge of where we were going. And now John is gone, and he left his mark.

We don’t always know how we affect people. We are always brushing past somebody, leaving a little dust. A touch or two. Maybe a thought. An action. A kindness. Whatever. And this column is about that mark that we leave.

I remember pumping on the heart of a picker at Plymouth who had a heart attack and died. And I remember looking down at his face and thinking that I didn’t know him, and what a shame that was. Here I am trying to save his life, and I didn’t know him. And his mark on me only came through his death. My guess is that he was good man. He left a lovely wife and a lot of memories. But I didn’t know him.

Every one of us knows that Bill Monroe left a mark. A big moon shaped pattern etched into the psyche of every mandolin and banjo picker amongst us. All of us are a little different because of it. We play the songs we do, the way we do, to some degree, because of him.

I saw Allen Light on a youtube video last night. He was playing up a storm and I missed him, remembering him on stage and picking in the parking lot, but mostly I remember Him and Chris and Hal Johnson picking under a roof at the Gold country fairgrounds in Plymouth. And I remember knowing that he was dying, and that I’d never picked with him and I sought him out because I wanted a chance to play music with him before he passed, and I felt the drive and the passion he had for this music, and he left his mark on me. It still affects me.

I knew a man named Rod Millard who devoted his life to the service of God and others. He was unpolished and loud, but he had a heart as big as the outdoors, and when he died, I sat at his crowded funeral and listened to a disparate crowd from every walk of life give honor to his great compassion and his charitable nature, each one of them bearing the outline of the mark he left.

Jack freeman was one of us. He sat in the circle around the circle. A listener, and a lover of this music. He was quiet and genteel, and he had a smile as big as Texas. And every time I saw him, I felt better. That smile was his mark. It’s still part of my heart.

And I think of us like clay formed of God, in his likeness, and to some great degree altered by the marks left on us by those float or trample through our lives in the course of our three score and ten years. And with some, that mark is a bruise or a dent. With some that mark is cut with a serrated edge. With some that mark is a lipstick kiss or a soft voice in a loud storm.

If I leave a mark, I hope it’s not a tire track running across someone’s back.

Leave a little music. Leave a little joy.

THE DAILY GRIST..."Krishna was once asked what was the most miraculous thing in all creation, and he replied, "That a man should wake each morning and believe deep in his heart that he will live forever, even though he knows that he is doomed.”

Today's column from Rick Cornish
Monday, October 6, 2014

Last fall, just about a year ago, I fired Regina from her Welcome columnist job. I had what I considered a good reason; she’d neglected to send me her essay for the month and she’d neglected to let me know it wouldn’t be sent. Now, the first offense isn’t really an offense at all. All of our writers have to miss from time to time, but they do agree to a hard and fast rule that when they miss, they let me know, even if it’s just a day or two before. Regina didn’t miss any more than the other writers, but she had the habit of forgetting to let me know, and that was a real problem because I was caught flat-footed when I arose at four a.m. each morning to get the site updated. (I’m in no mood for surprises after dragging myself out of bed each morning and spending three or four hours updating the site.)

So then, we have what I call the three strikes agreement. Miss as many columns as you have to, but miss three times without telling the web master ahead of time and you’re out. Regina was well over the three when I lowered the boom. She was shocked…then angry…then very sad…and then, I guess, more or less just hurt. I told her she could keep writing columns and send them to me and I’d use them to fill in, but she wanted none of that. She wanted her fourth Friday and I wouldn’t give it back to her.

Regina and I, of course, saw one another at the Great 48, nodded hello but didn’t talk. There was a definite chill, no denying that, and I found myself wondering how long it would take to ease back into our twenty-five year friendship. As it turned out, it didn’t take very long. Both creatures of habit, Regina and I found ourselves camping just across the dusty road from one another at Parkfield as we did every year. I couldn’t have been at the fest more than half an hour or so before one of us approached the other. (I will tell you truly, I do not remember which of us did the approaching. Doesn't really matter.) Naturally enough, the result was a flare of anger, followed by a quick but brief torrent of tears, followed by many bear hugs, followed by a re-set of Fourth Friday Harmony Roads, along with a quite specific game plan for preventing future “surprises”…a game plan, I hasten to add, that worked perfectly for the remainder of Regina Bartlett’s Welcome columnist career.

I didn’t see Regina at Grass Valley, which wasn’t especially surprising given the size of both the venue and the crowd, but by Wednesday afternoon at Plymouth we two settled in to camp chairs underneath the big sycamore tree that we both camped next to for the past ten or so years. As old folks are want to do…and yes, since our meeting in the rickety old garage behind the wood-frame house in Watsonville where we’d met twenty-five years earlier at a Pete and Lora Hicks picking party, Regina and I had become just that—old folks. We talked some about the health issues each of us were wrestling with. I told of my recent shoulder surgery and how it was taking its damned time to heal. She acknowledged her continuing battle with diabetes, which she felt she had under pretty good control. And we talked about the years and years of music we’d shared, the countless festivals and campouts and jams we’d attended and the many close friends we’d had in common. We even talked a bit about things we might have done differently given a second chance. The two hours under the sycamore tree wasn’t so much a philosophical discussion as it was a rambling, matter-of-fact recalling of the different but more or less parallel paths we’d followed through a quarter century of this thing we call bluegrass music.

By the time we finished talking we’d polished off a half a bottle of good Merlot and found ourselves quite able, and even happy, to agree that each of us really couldn’t complain too awfully much if we were to drop dead right there on the spot. That’s how good each of us felt our lives in the music we loved had been. And I’ll tell you this with absolute certainty—Regina was feeling just that way when she slipped under the covers last Wednesday morning.

Letter from college

Today's column from Marty Varner
Saturday, October 4, 2014

I am now into my second month here at Clark University and I am proud to say I have thrived in this environment very well. As well as success in all of my classes, I have made a niche in the freshman class as well as the entire student body. I impressed a crowd of parents and students during the annual Clark's Got Talent show where I thought I would play one of my go to songs: "Blue Night". I dropped my pick half way through, but I think that just added to the charm of the entire performance. Along with showing my instrumental talents to Clark, I am now presenting the genre I love so much. Every Saturday at 1pm eastern time (10am California time) I have an hour long radio show on Clark Radio. It is called the "Ol' Dusty Trail" in respect to my father and his previous radio show that gave me a lot of the music I listen to today.

Now to counter that point, something very interesting happened Thursday night that I wanted to write about. My buddy David was commenting on how peculiar it is that I would consider my two favorite genres to be Bluegrass and Rap. I never thought about this concept and first had no response, but I think I finally figured out a justification. What this fact shows about my musical taste is that I am a sucker for drive and frustration/anger in my music. The undisputable characteristic that both rap and bluegrass have is morbid subject matter, whether it be a drinking spree caused by a lost love or the death of a friend

that is forced to adapt to an unfair social and economic structure. Musically, even though they seem different they both are going for the same goal. Both want to get that model drive that causes head nodding and toe tapping. Bluegrass uses banjo rolls for this as rap uses 808 kits and repeating vocal frills. I hope that little tangent helps all the readers understand my preference to a music that is often considered "lesser"; hey, maybe you will give it a try. If you do I suggest the musician Wax who is a guitar player as much as he is a rapper and uses the guitar to help produce his music.

Some of you might be familiar with the fact that I am using this opportunity in the north east to visit cities I never had the chance to when I was living in California. Early in the school year I went to Boston, and two weekends ago I visited Pittsburgh. It was not what I expected it to be, but that was only because of my ignorance toward American Geography. If I looked at a map before I went there, I would have realized that the city is bordering the state of West Virginia. My experience there made me accept the pain of not going to IBMA this year. Most of my buddy’s friends had southern or Pittsburgh accents (which I didn't know existed) and I felt at home there much more than I did in Boston. It was a great change of pace.

I am starting to miss my California weather. It's Fall and I am at my limit for cold tolerance. I bought a jacket for the winter, but I haven't gotten around to the boots. Sadly, I am still wearing flip flops every day to lie to myself that it’s still summer. The other thing I miss more than anything (even my family) back home is DECENT MEXICAN FOOD THAT DOESN'T USE STUPID CHEDDAR CHEESE IN IT. Sorry I needed to get that out.

I was in shock and filled with sadness when I heard the news of Regina Bartlett. I don't think I need to tell you all what she meant to me especially, but I might as well. Since I was able to hold a mandolin Regina was grooming me as a musician and as a person in general. I always enjoyed playing for her and she made me and the other kids excited to practice and learn more about the music. And if that wasn't enough, she was generous enough to have me help her at the last GOF, which was a great experience for me. I owe so much to her and I can't believe that I won't be taking the stroll during every festival to see her beautiful face and enchanting spirit.


Ten Items or Fewer
Today’s column from Brooks Judd
Friday October 3, 2014

What a drag it is getting old.....

“Kids are different today,” I hear every mother say
Mother needs something today to calm her down
Add though she’s not really ill, there’s a little yellow pill
She goes running for the shelter of a mother’s little helper,
And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day.

Item 1: Fortunately the CBA has its members, music, jams, and get togethers to eliminate the need for any of Mick and Keith’s little yellow pill. Friends, music, picking and grinning, and you have the pure unadulterated joy of making music and the joy it brings. An Alka Seltzer or Bloody Mary might be all the “help” a jammer needs after a long night of strumming and a few sips of the grape.

Item 2: I used to enjoy watching football especially my SF 49ers. With all the negative things that have been happening around the NFL, I feel a little dirty and ashamed after I watch a game.
Our own locally grown quarterback has been fined for “offensive language.” That offensive language has turned out to be a racial slur. A number of other players have rap sheets that do not reflect positively on themselves or the 49er organization. If Bill Walsh or George Seifert were still the head coach there would be about six to seven players who would either be gone or on the bench.

This whole fiasco has been a black mark on the NFL and I doubt if there is anything, anyone, or any solution that can wipe away this stain. The fact that my SF 49ers are part of this criminal element makes me sad, disgusted and almost ready to turn off the game. The spirit is willing but the body is oh so weak.

Some say the outrageous salaries are to blame. Some say it is the way we treat the college players with comfortable scholarships and the apparent lack of necessary school work that needs to be done. Some say it is just too “Me oriented” and a sense of misplaced entitlement. Whatever the reason wouldn’t it be great if a person got a scholarship to UC Berkeley based on intelligence and actual need and not on how far you can hurl a football.

Item 3: Here is a bit of information for the younger folks out there. Back in the 50’s and early 60’s, professional baseball players and football players had to take a second job in the off season to make ends meet. Many of them took jobs selling cars, doing promotional advertising, etc. Things have certainly changed.

Item 4: The Roosevelt’s on PBS. Ken Burns has put together another remarkable program showing us the magnificence that was Teddy, FDR, and Eleanor. Teddy is giving a speech and is shot in the chest by an assassin. The bullet is impeded a bit by his glass case and some papers containing his next speech. Teddy stops, he unbuttons his coat sees that his shirt is plastered in blood.He then looks at the audience and back at his bloodied shirt and calmly says in a monotone voice, “I’ve been shot but it will take more than one bullet to shut me up.” Teddy buttons his coat back up and continues to orate for another solid hour before he is led away to the nearest hospital.

Eleanor Roosevelt set the bar high for civil rights and the rights of women. She doesn’t get the credit she so valiantly deserved. She was a magnificent first lady, woman, and human being. If someone is looking for a role model Ms.Roosevelt would be a great start.

FDR: If you are comfortable with English as the national language, not German or Japanese, and have worked in a union or enjoyed its benefits, and have received a social security or disability check then a doff of the hat to FDR might be prudent. President Roosevelt got more done in his first 100 days in office than our past four presidents achieved in their entire terms.Whether you are a Democrat, Republican, Independent, etc. Congress and the Senate should be refusing any pay or health insurance coverage until they begin to earn it. Hell the Oakland Raiders have got more done than our elected officials.

Item 5: Speaking of a series the baseball kind. If the Giants beat Pittsburgh in the one game wild card playoff, then if they outlast the talented Washington Nationals, and then trounce the dreaded Blue Meanies (who will beat St. Louis in the first round) the SF Giants will bring home the coveted World Series Crown once again. Of course a lot has to happen but the Orange and Black will rise to the occasion and get it done!
When it is all over it will be a long cold winter from November to April and I am going to miss Kruk and Kuip.

Item 6: Turlock is making a lot folks nervous with a mountain lion that has been stalking the local city streets. A video of it has been placed on the screen for local residents to see just what they have to fear. As of this writing the mountain was seen just two nights ago by a local police officer.

Item 7: Red Dog Ash performing again in Newman and all over. Check it out!

Until November 7: Read a book, hug a child, pet a dog, stroke a cat, eat a bar of chocolate and give thanks.

THE DAILY GRIST… “The Cadillac of Bass Bags” David Messina, Messina Covers

Culling the Herd
Today's column from Dave Williams
Thursday, October 2, 2014

It took over 18 months but I finally figured out that now that I am retired, I need to self fund my bass and music endeavors as opposed to just paying. You know that whole fixed income thing. Used to be, I’d be at a festival or a jam and see some cool piece of gear and I would go into got to have it mode. I’d find it on line or in a music store and just reach for the plastic and bring it home. Heck, sometimes I was so impatient I’d pay for next day or 2-day shipping. What did it matter? I was a big business executive with all the perks that went with it. I could afford it and was too much in a hurry to wait. I’m talking about strings, electronics, peripherals, etc. For the record, I have three upright basses, an acoustic resonator bass, a dobro and a ukulele, quite the herd.

As I moved into my retirement, it was somewhat difficult to change old habits. I still got the gear urges but at least now I would wait the 10-14 days for shipping. Next it was comparative shopping. I would look around for the best price and then think on the spending for a while but usually went ahead. I don’t think there are groupons for this kind of stuff.

As I matured some after close to 65 years, I surmised that I needed to come up with a different strategy if I wanted to continue to upgrade my kit.

My friend John, a very talented multi instrumentalist musician and also recently retired like me, had a very similar problem with continually buying new instruments and gear. He, however, came up with a new strategy which was to self-fund your obsession. In another words, you need to sell something before you buy something.

Sometimes being a little slow on the uptake, it took me a while to catch on myself but just as this summer was ending I found myself needing some new gear and some work on my Kay bass so I had to do a little culling on my herd. I sold one of my basses.

Being more of a city boy than some, I needed to understand what culling the herd really meant so I did some research on it and it seems that it usually refers to removing the weaker or the undesirable stock from the herd. I was having trouble with that concept fitting what I was doing with my herd. So I had to rationalize what I was doing and I came up with a broader definition of culling that worked for me (in this case.)

The bass I gave up was a beauty. A fully carved Romanian bass, who was named Nadia by her previous owner. She had a great sound, great action and feel. Heavier than heck but that was part of the big sound. It was just that I played my Kay mostly and Nadia was just sitting around.

My point is that this wasn’t a culling or thinning of the herd in a literal sense but rather just a passing on of a valued herd member so that remaining herd could prosper.

I needed a new endpin and I had some bumpers put on my Kay to protect the sides. Also I bought a bass buggie to cart my bass around, as I am not getting any younger. The bass buggie is the new bass conveyance device of choice and as you may have guessed I first saw it at Grass Valley and thought I needed to have one but the new me was determined to shop some before making a decision. I went to the manufacturer’s web site and found their top endorsement was from Lisa Burns. That sealed the deal for me.

Also on the agenda is a new high quality bass bag to replace my torn and ragged one. The new frugal me did a lot of shopping before this purchase as well, and got some real value with the Messina Bass cover, the “Cadillac of Bass Bags”.

All this and plenty left over in the bank. I’ll probably buy a good bottle of tequila too and make a toast to Nadia. I’ll miss her but hopefully her new owner will play her more than I did.

So that’s my story this month. It seems I’m still learning about this retirement gig and in the process of telling you about it, I learned about culling and rationalization. I hope I don’t have to cull too much in the future but I am sure I’ll have to keep rationalizing.

A couple of reminders, there is a lot going on this weekend.

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass is this weekend and there will be a CBA tent manned by volunteers to let folks know about our organization. Look for the tent by the Tower of Gold and the Star Stage.

Also on tap this Sunday is a very special event sponsored by the Santa Clara Valley Fiddlers at their monthly jam at the Hoover Middle School in San Jose at the corner of Park and Naglee. There will be featured performances by two bands led by Jack Sadler a co-founder of the CBA and a charter member of the SCVFA. The bands are Overlook Mountain Boys and Lone Prairie. Besides Jack these bands feature a virtual who’s who of bay area bluegrass and acoustic talent.

Hope to see you out at one of these events.

Wednesday, October 2, 2014

Dear members of our California Bluegrass community,

It is with the heaviest of hearts that we must write to let you know that our dear friend Regina Bartlett passed away back here in Raleigh, NC, early this morning. Long-time CBA member, steadfast volunteer and a truly dedicated picker and singer, Regina will be deeply missed by everyone whose life she touched with her music and the unbridled joy she found in it. Please join us in our thoughts and prayers for Regina's family.

Naturally as plans for commemorating our friend's life develop we will share them with you here.

Tim Edes, Board Chair
Darby Brandli, Association President
California Bluegrass Association

Time on Your Hands
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, October 1, 2014

OK, I’ve reached an age where my friends are starting to retire. Not just my OLD friends, regular friends. Most of my retiring friends are a few years older than me, but not by much.

Retiring - wow what a concept! I ain’t been there yet, but the mind wobbles at the implications. Like most people I know, I have been working since my teens. And I’ve been lucky - I’ve rarely hated my job. But like a rental horse smelling the barn, the notion of not having to work anymore is tantalizing, to say the least.

Make no mistake - I have no sweet pension waiting for me. I’ve been much more of a grasshopper than an ant. When I can retire, I will probably have to generate some sort of semi-regular income. Did I just describe the music business? I think I did!

I’ve never had the talent, the luck, or the drive to be a lifelong professional musician. And with the relative wisdom of my current age, I know I made the right decision. By sublimating (burying? forsaking?) my dream of being a professional musician, I have had a decent career - raised 3 kids in upper-middle class comfort, and enjoyed some very good times (grasshopper, remember?)

But what will happen when my home is paid off and the pressure of the mortgage is no longer the driving burn rate of my life? What if I had the freedom to take every gig I could get? How would I fare?

How much more fulfilling would my life be if the focus was just family and music?

Frankly, the answers aren’t at my fingertips, for a number of reasons. What if my health declines or I sustain an injury that makes playing music no longer an option? What if the nest egg I have accumulated runs out and I’m stuck eating Alpo?

I think for almost everyone, the notion of retirement is a lot of not-quite-knowable questions. There's the question of money, and even if that seems to lined up, health concerns can throw a wrench in all those dreams.

Some professions have a startling post-retirement mortality rate. I feel lucky that I have a “hobby” that excites my passions. I have never identified myself by my “day job”. I don’t think I’ll wonder what to do with myself when I retire. I’m looking forward to the challenges that await me, when I feel I can step away from my long “working” life.

I have the utmost respect, admiration, and envy for my friends who have retired from their “day jobs”. I see the fun stuff they’re doing in the first days of their retirement - the travel, the project around home, time spent with family, and so forth. I hope their contentment grows with each passing day, and year. And I look forward to time when I can join them.

I know this though: I won’t be bored.

The Elephant in the Bluegrass Living Room
Today's column from David Lange
Tuesday, September 30, 2014

(Editor’s Note: On this fifth Tuesday of the month we reach back into our Welcome archive for a little piece produced by long-time welcomer David Lange. Beneath his good humor and wit, it’s clear that even as early as August, 2008, David had a fair to midland appreciation for the pile of economic dog doo the United States of America had just stepped into.)

If you want to know the latest news on the economic problems, and how Americans are struggling to keep their head above water, don’t look to the CBA website or the Bluegrass Breakdown for answers. As prices for everything from fuel to milk have continued to skyrocket, the news and views in our bluegrass world continue to be business as usual; bluegrass. So am I complaining? Do we need to add a financial column to the CBA web Site? Oh heck no. I have enough resources to let me know how bad things are getting, and plenty of ideas about how to manage my life and my money as a result. Just give me my bluegrass escape please!

Ah, but then, on August 5th, Rick Cornish, all in jest, teased that economic elephant in the bluegrass living room with his column “Weathering the financial malaise.” It is a must read if you have not read it. While his suggestions for bringing in more revenue at our Fathers Day Festival were only intended as fun and entertainment, I could not help but wonder if subconsciously, he knew that down the road, there may be a need for some real creative thinking, and some sacrifice in order to sustain “bluegrass as usual.” So, I decided to take the subject a little further…….

Actually, I think that a number of steps have already been taken that have the appearance of some really darn good forward thinking by our leaders. For example, the cost of travel has people looking more and more for entertainment and picking opportunities closer to home. Not to mention there are lots of pickers out there that have yet to come out of the woodwork. The solution….. Creation of CBA Vice Presidents spread out geographically throughout the State……..

Then, the cost to attend festivals, particularly when you must travel many miles to get there, continue to rise. Solution…. Expand on the “things to do” at the Fathers Day Festival, including Vern’s, more workshops, and an increasing focus on activities for our youth. With enhancements such as these, hopefully people will keep Fathers Day, and other bluegrass festivals as a high priority when the family is deciding where to spend that ever shrinking fun money fund.

In reality, I doubt the creation of area VP’s and enhancements to the Fathers Day Festival were conceived with a future financial tsunami in mind. But nonetheless, the timing could not have been better for doing these things. But we shouldn’t stop there…

While passing the hat at jams with the requirement to pay up or move along may not be realistic (an idea from Rick’s very entertaining list), I have a similar idea that perhaps might just work. We have all witnessed, or worse yet, been part of one of those jams from he&%. Well, create one of those jams, and don’t allow observers to LEAVE unless they put a dollar in the hat!! Yes, the tricky part will be keeping them there. Getting them hand cuffed to a tree before they realize what is happening to them could be very challenging, require some creative thinking, and perhaps some alcohol.

Ok, so seriously …….. What can we as individuals do to help keep the CBA and the activities we cherish so much going strong? Well, I certainly don’t claim to have all of the answers. I would however like to suggest something we can all do that won’t cost a penny…..

Late last year I met a musician not far from where I live. Extraordinary picker. He had never played bluegrass, heard very little of it, and knew little to nothing about the mountain of bluegrass activities in the region. We played folk and blues, which were his style. I have always enjoyed those styles of music as well as bluegrass, and it was a lot of fun learning songs I had listened to, but never played before. As time went on, we ventured into some bluegrass tunes, and then he expressed an interest in learning to play bluegrass. I told him about all the great opportunities to jam, and how welcoming and supportive people in the bluegrass community are to beginning pickers. In no time, he had his tickets for Fathers Day. When I saw him at Fathers Day, he informed me he had just become a CBA Member, and was already planning to attend Plymouth…….

Now I don’t mean to paint myself as some great recruiter. You can’t really persuade people to like a particular kind of music; you can only expose them to it. The messenger doesn’t have the magic; the music does. And there is room for spreading a little more magic….The last time I looked at total CBA membership it was …. 3,122. Population of California is over 36 million. I would say the CBA membership might have the potential for a little growth… Of course, short of joining the CBA, just new listeners and pickers can help attendance at festivals and the many local venues around the State.

So my suggestion for you today…… Promote bluegrass and try to pass on that infectious bluegrass bug whenever and where ever you can. It won’t cost you anything, but could reap many benefits. Not to mention the wonderful life changing event for that person who just got “Hooked on bluegrass!!”

So in the end, do I think we will be able to maintain bluegrass as usual? Absolutely. Historically, when times get tough, music is always in the picture. Whether it’s uplifting music for listening or dancing, or melodies and lyrics used as an outlet for expressing the hardships, music lifts our spirits. During the Great Depression, swing music and jazz were “The Great Escape.” Though the population was struggling just to keep food on the table, the dance halls were full every night, and people did what ever they could to keep it that way.

For the bluegrass fan, there is no better uplifting and refreshing music, or means of escape, than bluegrass. Plenty of fantastic festivals, jams, and local entertainment …and I know we’ll do what ever is needed….. to keep it that way.

Now back to your regularly scheduled bluegrass state of mind, which is in progress…..

THE DAILY GRIST..."Take care thou be not made a fool by flatterers, for even the wisest men are abused by these. Know, therefore, that flatterers are the worst kind of traitors; for they will strengthen thy imperfections, encourage thee in all evils, correct thee in nothing, but so shadow and paint all thy vices and follies, as thou shalt never, by their will, discern evil from good, or vice from virtue: and because all men are apt to flatter themselves, to entertain the addition of other men’s praises is most perilous.”—Sir Walter Relegh (Please, no emails…that IS how he spelled his name.)

Today's column from Rick Cornish
Monday, September 29, 2014

After four years of missing this crazy, whacked-out, more or less unbelievable event, I’m headed back to Raleigh this evening. Prior to that I hadn’t missed in ten years.

The past several evenings my wife, Lynn, and I have been watching the new Ken Burns documentary series called The Roosevelt’s, (which is quite excellent, by the way.) Throughout several of the seven episodes, FDR’s Warm Springs, Arkansas, polio treatment center is described in great detail with words, stills and vintage film. The narrator makes the point again and again that perhaps the greatest therapy offered at the sprawling resort-turned-sanitarium was simply bringing together suffers of infantile paralysis from around the U.S. There’s great power, Burns suggests, in creating an environment in which people can see first hand that they’re not alone, that others are equally challenged by this dreaded disease.

The same, I believe, can be said of the International Bluegrass Music Association’s World of Bluegrass. Throughout the several days, the business conference, which morphs into more of a fan-oriented event later in the week, brings together people from all over the world who, until experiencing WOB for the first time, wrongly believe that they and their small local group of bluegrass fanatics are the only victims of the bluegrass bug. Once they walk into the home-base hotel, this year the Marriot in downtown Raleigh, they are, of course, disabused of that notion. Thousands upon thousands of certifiably crazy bluegrass and old-time nuts are concentrated on this tiny spec of land on an otherwise sane planet and, friends, it is a sigh to behold.

From what I’ve been told by Lucy Smith, who’s replaced Larry Kuhn as Grand Master and High Priestess of the CBA’s IBMA operation, we’ll have one of the largest contingencies of Association folks back there in years. Seven of our eleven board members are flying back, as are a bunch of CA youngsters who’ll take part in the WOB Kids Program, a quite long list of California bands who’ve wrangled showcase spots and, of course, all us “civilians” who are going just to enjoy. Oh, and for better or worse, we’re also told the Mold Man will be in Raleigh. (Lucy assures our Chairman Tim Edes that the Strange One will be on an extremely short leash.)

So there you have it. I’ll say no more now because both our President, Darby Brandli, and I are planning to report from WOB-central throughout the week. Oh, and thanks to Louise Keniston, who’ll be in charge of keeping cbaontheweb.org up and running in my absence.

THE DAILY GRIST…”And through the years, save your smiles and tears, they are souvenirs; they make music in your heart.”—From the song, “My Best to You.”

Musical Legacies
Today’s Column from Jeanie Ramos
Sunday, September 28, 2014

I recently purchased the “Three Bells” album by the world’s top three Dobro players, Mike Auldridge, Jerry Douglas, and Rob Ickes. This was recorded a short time before the passing of Mr. Auldridge. Knowing that this was going to be the final project for Mike, the songs and instruments were selected after careful consideration. There were no other instrumentalists involved, just the three Dobroists. I feel confident in predicting that the final product is destined to receive many honors and become a musical legacy for their respective families.

Another album I downloaded this past Monday is Mac Wiseman’s, “Songs from My Mother’s Hand.” At age 89, I would venture to say that this would also be his final project. Though not as vibrant as it was in his prime, his voice is still strong and beautiful. As the title indicates, the songs were selected from his mother’s handwritten notebooks, songs that had special meaning to her. Some of the titles are: Little Rosewood Casket, I Heard My Mother Call My Name in Prayer, Put My Little Shoes Away and my personal favorite, Will There Be Any Stars In My Crown. I think this is a wonderful gift that Mr. Wiseman has given us and will be a legacy for his family.

Like many of you and Mac Wiseman’s mom, I also have many notebooks filled with song lyrics. Several of them are handwritten but most of them are now in three ring binders, typed and printed in large font. Some of my friends have scanned their songs onto iPads using the OnSong App. It puts their songs in digital format, provides the chord progressions and gives them “hands free” scrolling while they are performing. They don’t have to worry about the wind blowing the pages or having to carry bulky notebooks. I personally prefer to commit my favorite songs to memory but occasionally need to refer to my books. I doubt that my kids will be as appreciative as Mac Wiseman of the songbooks I leave behind.

As I was listening to these two new releases, (the Dobroists and Mac Wiseman) I began thinking about my father, a logger whose life was cut short at age 29. Since he died when I was three, I have no recordings or memories of his singing and playing the guitar but I know from family stories that he was a good picker and singer. There have been many times I wished that there were easily accessible recording devices around when he was alive. I wonder what songs he would have chosen to record? I know that he loved Jimmie Rodgers, and I guess that’s the main reason I have many of Jimmie’s songs in my own repertoire. All of this makes me ponder my own musical legacy.

If I were to record some of my favorite songs for my family and friends, I would have to put some careful thought into the song list. I would want them to be songs that have a good message or bring cheer or provoke some thought. My list would have to include the song, “My Best to You,” which is the only song I remember my mother singing.

My best to you, may your dreams come true
May old Father Time never be unkind
And through the years, save your smiles and tears
They are souvenirs; they make music in your heart
Remember this, each new day’s a kiss
Sent from up above with an angels love
So here’s to you, may your skies be blue
And your love blessed, that’s my best to you

I like that line about our smiles and tears being souvenirs that make music in our hearts. We sing about things that make us both happy and sad, if we’ve lived through them, we can sing them from our heart.

My recording would also have to include a Jimmie Rodgers song or two, for obvious reasons. Like the Mac Wiseman album and The Three Bells album, I would also want to include my favorite Gospel songs. I have two all time favorites, one is called “I’d Be a Fool to Turn Back” (I heard Lulu Roman sing it years ago) and “This World Will Never Hurt Me Again,” which I learned from an album by Betty Jean Robinson.

A couple years ago, I had a young nephew who was in the last stages of a battle with cancer. I had no words that could adequately convey my love and sorrow for what he was going through so I did the only thing I know to do when words fail me. I began recording some videos of songs that I thought would minister to him and those closest to him; his wife, mother, brother, aunties and uncles. One particular song that he liked was, “Jesus Hold My Hand.” This is a song that reminded him that that we are never alone.

How about you? Have you made any recordings for your family and friends? Do you think it’s a good idea? What songs would you choose for your recording? I’m thinking that this is a project that I should get to work on soon while my voice is still strong and my memory is good.

See you at the Fall Camp-Out in Lodi, Lord willing.

"It seems like bluegrass people have more great stories to tell than other musicians." -- Dan Fogelberg

To Award or Not To Award?
Today's column from Prescription Bluegrass Radio Host, Brian McNeal
Saturday, September 27, 2014

This is the week of awards for the bluegrass community and whether or not you've been nominated for an award, it is arguably the biggest week in your bluegrass life. It is this week that sets the tone for the coming year. This week is what the industry lives for.

For the preceding 12 months, artists, labels, managers, promotions staff and everyone connected with the industry has been working hard to strategize and position their product for the annual measurement.

For all of the years I've been in the music business, I've waffled on whether or not I've agreed with the awards concept. In principle they seem to be fundamentally wrong – pitting one completely different artist against another and hoping for a positive outcome is like trying to breed a sheep and a lion and wondering why the herd is then turning upon itself and devouring one another.

In practicality though, awards are necessary, for without them what other measurement tool would we have to qualify the successes?

Sales, some would argue, are the best measurement. But the public is a fickle mistress and what is success today can quickly become failure tomorrow. It's an impossible task to judge the public's likes and dislikes with enough lead time to plan and execute a musician’s career.

So this week, regardless of who takes home the awards and who doesn't, celebrate the joy of the success with the winners and keep looking for the better way.
Thank You!
Brian McNeal
Prescription Bluegrass Media

Today's column from Regina Bartlett
Friday, September 26, 2014

Howdy to all you friends out on Harmony Road.
So who went to Strawberry Music Festival at the Nevada County Fairgrounds in Grass Valley? I was there and have to give a great shout out to Dana and her Music Caravan shop. What a great place she offered to all us musicians who needed strings, picks, tuners and books, dvd's, and so much more. My friend Matt Bohn had a luthier shop next door to her (He is the Bass set up maestro and the man to see!) Well he told me to bring my instruments and he had Rick Turner work on the action on my dulcimer and guitar. I had heard of Rick Turner from Frets magazine. Rick was so reasonable and also so very likeable and I discovered that he lives in Santa Cruz. Rick says he probably was one of the builders for CapriTaurus Dulcimer and may have actually worked on mine many years ago. I was in time for hors d'oeuvres and a martini while he worked on my instruments, listening and watching from the very back of the meadow.

I was so impressed with Strange on the Range, and Keith Little’s Band and my good friend Luke Abbott on mandolin. There was also the Bluegrass Music Hot Rize Reunion, Kathy Kallick Band and the John Jorgenson Bluegrass Band and Kathy Barwick. It’s another Strawberry Music Festival for the records.

I have to say that for me, it did not have much Bluegrass jamming. Thank God for Strange on the Range. They had great jams loaded with fine musicians. There were no shuttles, or handicapped shuttles and it was so strange to be at Grass Valley with no Bluegrass Music ringing in the Campgrounds and there certainly was not enough banjo. It was not Camp Mather.

I drove home, did laundry, gassed up the van and headed up to Plymouth. On Tuesday, I was welcomed by Montie and Larry and Sondra Baker and my good friend Carl escorted me to my favorite camp spot at the end of the Flowered Blvd. on the side of the last building by ‘our tree’. There was Elida Ikes and then Sharon Elliott arrived in her new RV! Then the usual suspects: Dan and Wendy, Mike and Jennifer Kitchen, Steve and Ramona, Beverly & Steve, Rick Cornish, Diana Donnely and Dave Nielson, and my dj friend Glen Horn from San Luis Obispo arrived. Ernie Hunt came by and I played a few tunes with him at his camp. I went down to where Kenny Reynolds usually camps and was treated to a great jam with Larry Kuhn, Robert Crowder and Charlie Edsall. We played together for a couple hours before I asked Robert, "Is that Charlie Edsall?" Yep he said! He's my favorite West Coast guitar picker. The night was warm and it was late so I went to sleep happily listening to the Bluegrass music all around me. Life is good as Larry Baker says! I awoke the next morning smiling and counting my blessings, "I played with Charlie Edsall last night!"

Friday: Larry opens the festival and Jokey Michael sang the National Anthem. The first band up to open the festival was New Direction from Southern California: Orion Johanning - Banjo, Zack Caplinger - Guitar, Sebastian Green - Mandolin, Steve Green - Bass. These young pickers played great Bluegrass and have been part of the Summer Grass Bluegrass Academy and have had a lot of musical direction from Mike and Yvonne Tater. They have a big future in Bluegrass. https://www.facebook.com/NextGenerationBluegrass.

Next up was The GrassKickers (2013 Plymouth Emerging Artist Winner) Well, these guys are great pickers and friends and I love them! I played with them a lot in Bakersfield at the Great 48 and had lots of fun. The band is :Tom Naiman - banjo/vocal, Bob Garcia - mandolin/vocal, Bearrrr Murray - bass/vocal,
Dan Stein-guitar/vocal & Jack Kinney - fiddle/vocal. They all sing and play Bluegrass really well.

Blue Moon Rising came onstage next. I was not familiar with this band but they sure can pick and sing. Blue Moon Rising is a national touring band based out of East Tennessee comprised of Chris West (lead vocals and guitar); Brandon Bostic (dobro & guitar); David Mowell (mandolin & tenor vocals); Rusty Ferrell (banjo) and Travis Anderson (bass.) Blue Moon Rising is lead by the multi-talented guitarist and acclaimed songwriter, Chris West, who writes many of the band’s songs. His original tunes have become the signature sound of the band, including fan favorites: The Hanging Tree, Crime I’m Guilty Of, The Old Time Preacher Man, Good Time for Going Home

After lunch The Bladerunners came on stage. I hadn't seen them in a few years and was surprised to see my old friend Patrick Sauber playing banjo along with John Corzine - Guitar, Peggy Corzine - Bass, David Dickey III - Mandolin. This band has always been good but now they have stepped things up! They played several times on stage and it was really exciting. Patrick's banjo and singing and John Corzine's flatpicking and David Dickey's mandolin and Peggy's vocals were really good. https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-BladeRunners-Bluegrass-Band/140524919324331?sk=timeline

Next up was Ron Spears & Within Tradition (REUNION)! Formed in 1994 this energetic and original bluegrass band has wowed crowds throughout the United States and Canada. The Bluegrass Unlimited called Ron Spears "one of the most promising new talents to emerge on the bluegrass scene". Bluegrass Now said "Warm vibrant harmonies and five stellar string wizards make this fledgling band one to keep an eye on". Ron Spear's mandolin and vocals were so good. Charlie Edsall, Guitar and vocals, Jerry Logan on bass and vocals, Hal Horn, banjo and vocals, and the fiddler was our friend, Bruce Johnson. Our favorite son, Ron Spears and his Within Tradition band was stellar. Great music and wonderful musicians and lots of fun.

Larry Efaw & The Bluegrass Mountaineers came on next. I had heard about this band from Meghan and Curtis Leslie about a year ago. When I men Stanley Efaw when he did a house concert with Danny Davis and Alex Leach. These guys are the real deal. Real Bluegrassers if ever! Larry Efaw is a very sweet person and he continues the Bluegrass heritage with his music. They have a Bluegrass Cruise that looks very cool. Check out their webpage.

Reno & Harrell - Dale Reno, Mitch Harrell, Don Wayne Reno with Ron Spears on bass. For most bluegrass fans, the name “Reno and Harrell” is familiar. These sons of bluegrass know their fathers’ music, and do a fine job interpreting it. Great singing and picking and good songwriting. I particularly enjoyed Ron Spears on bass.

Blue Moon Rising - more great bluegrass

Adkins & Loudermilk -Ted Lehmann says: “Two attractive personalities with distinctly different personal and musical styles have merged their talents into this newly formed bluegrass band. Dave Adkins is big in almost every way – his voice, his stage personality, his puppy-dog personality, and outgoing ebullience. Edgar Loudermilk, a veteran of many fine bands and recently having left seven years as bassist and harmony singer at IIIrd Tyme Out, is more restrained, a thoughtful, quiet singer/songwriter whose warmth is genuine and restrained. Bottom line, YOU WERE ENTERTAINED.

Indoor Instrument Swap meet - What a great idea Larry and Sondra Baker have here. Lots of folks were walking around with new instruments that they bought.

New Direction - These young men gave another great set of Bluegrass Music. Good tunes, clean picking and comfortable stage presence.

The GrassKickers - more fun and games and Bluegrass done with a twist of humor and style and class.

The BladeRunners - they played another great set.

We broke for lunch and workshops

Adkins and Loudermilk - So good to see my buddy Edgar Loudermilk. The audience went wild with the great Bluegrass Music. Dave Adkins and Edgar Loudermilk both can SING like nobody I know. Wow. You had to be there. Get their CD. I'm looking forward to seeing them at IBMA.

Larry Efaw & The Bluegrass Mountaineers - more traditional Bluegrass Music but kicked up a notch.

Larry Gillis & His West Coast Friends Featuring Ella Warde
Henry Warde, Meghan and Curtis Leslie just delighted the audience with Swampgrass music. Curtis and Larry sang some fine tunes. Of course Ella and Henry and Meghan were lots of fun and the music was so good. When they sang a gospel song, a rainbow suddenly appeared in the sky. How about that! Lots of fun.

Then it was dinner and workshops
the evening concerts were:
Blue Moon Rising -

Adkins & Loudermilk

Reno & Harrell -

KIDS ON STAGE ~ Directed by Frank Solivan Sr.
Once again Frank Solivan and Sharon Elliott directed the Kids on Stage performance. And oh what a job they did! Helen Lude, Tessa Schwartz, John Gooding and Jesse Personini played their hearts out. Jesse sat in on Bass. Song after song, and lick after lick these kids can sing harmony and pick some fine Bluegrass Music.
Tessa Schwartz, Helen Lude, John and Jacob Gooding have a band now: 35 Years of Trouble. They were polished, superb and professional musicians. Roger Siminoff was the emcee and he was brought to emotional tears after the performance of the kids, as many of us were in the audience. It was quite a well done performance. John and Jesse will be part of the Kids on Bluegrass directed by Kim Fox at IBMA in Raleigh, NC.

Emerging Artist's Performance:
Red, White & Bluegrass
The Littlest Birds
Doc Holiday
The Vivants
It was only by a couple of points that The Vivants won against Red, White & Bluegrass.

Since it was Sunday, most folks attending Plymouth got to packing and drove home.
I've got to thank my good Morgan Hillbillies: Greg H. and Mando Mike for helping me take down my shade awnings and break camp. You guys really came through for me. I am very grateful for your help and so glad to have you for friends.

Many thanks to Larry and Sondra Baker for producing such a fine Bluegrass Festival! You really out did yourselves this year with such FINE music and fun activities. You thought of everything to make sure we all had FUN. Life is Good. Thank you for Plymouth. Thanks to all the volunteers too. See you next year!

I have finally unpacked my van and done my laundry and now I am packing and getting ready to go to Raleigh, NC to IBMA. After IBMA, my friend Barb Rosner and I plan to go to Asheville, NC and drive the Crooked Road and look for some Bluegrass and Old Tyme music. Until next time, I'll see you out there, on Harmony Road.

THE DAILY GRIST...”Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.”--Abraham Lincoln, 16th American President

Steve Waller's 1980 picking party
Today's column from JD Rhynes
Thursday, September 25, 2014

My good friend Steve Waller used to live near a little wide spot in the road by the name of Peedee Creek, Oregon. The little town was about 20 miles west of Corvallis Oregon, and Steve had about 75 acres, and Peedee Creek ran right through the middle of his property. It was a year-round Creek and had trout and beaver in it. The Creek ran right through the middle of his sheep pasture of about 40 acres or so. Every Labor Day weekend for many years Steve would have a picking party and all of his musician friends would show up from all over the Western states to pick and sing that good old bluegrass for four days and nights. it was not unusual to see 150 to 200 people there in their motorhomes, campers, and tents.

Steve had been asking me to come to his picking party ever since we met in 1978, so the last week of August in 1980 Keith Little and I decided we would surprise Steve and just show up at his picking party unannounced on late Wednesday night, before Labor Day weekend. Soooo, we loaded my 1956 Ford pickup, that is powered by a 392 Chrysler hemi engine,with all of our camping gear, instruments, and my teepee poles on the rack for my 20 foot diameter teepee. Come Wednesday morning I fired that big Chrysler engine up, and we got into the wind and headed north about 10 o'clock in the morning. We had a nice leisurely drive heading north up Interstate 5 that day, and we surprised Steve by driving up his driveway at 10 o'clock that night. Needless to say he was ecstatic to see us there for his party. We set up talking and visiting till way past midnight that night, and sampled a glass or two of Kentucky's finest. After breakfast next morning Keith and I went to the South end of the meadow and set up my big teepee, where we would live for the next four glorious music filled daysand nights. About one o'clock that afternoon, we went back to Corvallis to get some groceries. During our absence Steve's wife, Charm and one of her girlfriends snuck into my Teepeand filled our sleeping bags with dried sheep dung. Little did they know then what revenge awaited them down life's road for that little trick. I told Keith not to let on that anything had happened and just smile and go on about our business, because I had already dreamed up an act of revenge that even the Marquis de Sade would be proud of. That was Thursday afternoon, and by late Thursday people had starting arriving at the party and there was cars and campers parked all around the Teepee were I could not move my truck. The plot thickens!

Keith kept bugging me and asking me; what are you going to do to get even? I told him you will know later this morning, which was Saturday. About 10 o'clock that Saturday morning I told Keith, come on kid, it's time for"The Shadow"to set the trap.[ The Shadow was my nickname during my working days. Nobody and I mean nobody messed with The Shadow and got off Scott free] When I told Keith "The Shadow"was going to set the trap, he knew I meant business. I told Keith to follow me and keep his mouth shut, so we went looking for Steve. When I found him, I said Steve, Keith and I need to go to town to get some ice, and some more beer, and little more grub for the weekend. Can I borrow your truck to go to town because I can't move my truck due to the campers all around it. Sure he said, the keys are in it help yourself. So we jumped into his truck 'ol Blue and headed to town. We were driving along and I was happy as a lark, whistling and singing. Just before we got to town I turned to Keith and said; my boy do you realize what we have here? We have Steve Waller's truck at our mercy! Keith realize that I had outfoxed Steve, and he said oh goody what are we going to do to his truck? I said, nothing. Not one solitary thing. But I will guarantee you he will wish that I had done something to it by the time I get through messing with his mind. It was then that I told Keith what we were going to do when the circumstances were just right. So, we got our groceries, ice, and beer, and headed back to the party by Saturday around one o'clock.

We had a marvelous time playing music with all of our friends that weekend. We had a wonderful time and it ended all too soon it seemed. Late Sunday evening the weather clouded up and started sprinkling rain real light.Sonny Hammond and Keith and I were the last ones there and everybody else had left by then.We were all gathered together in my teepee enjoying a potluck supper of leftovers when it started raining real light and the sound of the rain hitting the teepee cover had a mesmerizing effect on us, and things get real quiet and we were just enjoying the warmth of the fire, and a full belly of good leftovers, and we were all about half-asleep. It was then that Steve's wife said; Steve, have you noticed how it smells like sheep dung in here? Keith looked at me, and I nodded my head, and he said well that may be, but I would not leave your truck "old blue" sitting in the sun with the windows rolled up.Charm jumped up like a shot, and said why you dirty#$*&**#@##! Old Blue is my truck, and if it quits running on me when I go to town I'm going to have your#%$*&&$ !!

It was then that I told her, oh it is not quite so simple as something like that.Charm cussed us some more, and stormed out of the teepee, heading for the house. Steve,Sonny, Keith and I spent the rest of that evening around the fire in my teepee discussing the merits of Kentucky bourbon versus Georgia peach moonshine, that Sonny just happened to have with him. One of the most enjoyable evenings in my life. You haven't really lived until you have spent an evening with friends around a nice warm fire in a genuine Sioux teepee.especially if you have some good Georgia peach moonshine to share.

Well the next morning we got up, broke camp, and had the truck all loaded up are ready to go by 10 o'clock. I told Keith the night before, that Steve and his wife would tear the truck apart looking for whatever I put in there, which was nothing, and then they would start looking inside their house. When we said our goodbyes that morning, Steve's wife was still mad, but I gave her a big hug and kiss anyway. That only made her that much more mad at me. Ha ha.

Keith laughed all the way to California and Valley Springs, but wait there's more, that's not the end of the story. Two weeks later Vern's band was playing a show in Arcata California and Steve's band was playing this show too. He said when he got out of the car when he first got there, he said Steve came running up and said, damn you give me a hint. Keith said I looked him straight in the eye and said one word. Fermentation, and walked away. Needless to say Steve gave him another good lip cussing.

It took about six months for them to realize what I had done to them. Later I told Steve, the most fertile thing on the face of the earth is the human imagination. And I let yours eat you up. Steve agreed with me, and said you are so right JD. That it did, and I will never mess with you again.

About a year later, Steve called me up one night and asked this question; when did"The Shadow"put this little note in my underwear drawer?[ I can't say what the note said] I said Steve, you'll have to ask"The Shadow"the next and you see him, but I think it was the weekend of the party.

The Shadow knows.

Today’s column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, September 24, 2014

From time to time, bluegrass encounters some sounds that don’t fit the general definition of bluegrass. Let me clear - I’m talking about odd tonalities - not bad players. Aside from the “standard” bluegrass instrumentation of guitar, fiddle, mandolin, banjo and dobro, there are other tonal invaders we may encounter.

Some are historically well documented, and pepper the music from some of the masters of the genre. Collectors of old bluegrass albums will remember experiments with drums, especially during the 1960’s when bluegrass musicians struggled to stay relevant in a rock-driven musical landscape. Harmonica is also a common addition to bluegrass.

Most of these experimentations have not caught on. The most popular bluegrass music seems to feature almost exclusively the instruments listed in the first paragraph. Bluegrass music has an inherent resistance - almost a snobbery - when it comes to new sounds.

Part of this is due, I think, to bluegrass fans wanting to capture the sounds of their favorite bands. But that memory IS selective - how often does someone say at a bluegrassjam “Man, that guy really nailed the snare drum sound on that Osborne Brothers record from 1967!”

I have been to several jams where someone offered to join in with unusual instruments. Often, they were eager musicians who were not familiar to the bluegrass idiom, so they really had little chance of contributing to the jam effectively. Other times, however, musicians on non-standard bluegrass instruments (harmonica, flute, cello, pedal steel, even trumpet), had a sense of bluegrass melodies and rhythms to be pretty darn interesting. If the other folks in the jam are adventurous, this can be a lot of fun.

It’s a tougher row to hoe, however, if a band with non-standard instrumentation wants to be a part of the bluegrass “scene”. For promoters, they know a bluegrass audience will have a limited appetite for experimentation with a beloved, well defined musical form. But variety is the spice of life, yes?

Recently a band has emerged on the bluegrass/folk music scene, with a decidedly non-standard sound - The Littlest Birds. It’s a duo (sometimes they have a bass player) with just clawhammer banjo (sometimes old school fretless!) and cello. Huh? “That ain’t bluegrass!”, you might exclaim. And you’d be right - their sound falls more into the “old time” niche than straight bluegrass. But cello isn’t a standard instrument for old time music either. The Littlest Birds defy easy categorization.

But these cats know bluegrass, too! I had a chance to jam with them, and even with harder driving bluegrass, they had no problem embracing bluegrass-style guitar and bass accompaniment, or the vocal harmonies. And throughout - there’s that killer cello, playing basically fiddle licks at a lower register. Bill Monroe himself would have found this very interesting, I think.

Are clawhammer banjo/cello duos the future of bluegrass? No, of course not. It’s a niche sound, but the excellent musicianship, and respect for the music speaks for itself. The Littlest Birds played on Vern’s stage and at Bluegrassin’ in the Foothills, and I hope to see them more often, and I hope they inspire other musicians to follow their muse, and help probe the outer reaches of old time, and bluegrass music!

Letter to Mom
Today’s column from Yvonne Higby Tatar
Monday, September 22, 2014

(Editor's Note--Forgive the web team, please, for mistakenly posting Yvonne's column today instead of yesterday, which was the fourth Monday of the month and thus Mrs. Tatar's official Welcomer slot.)

Dear Mom,

Congratulations on turning 90 years old on September 4th this month! Gee, you’re “looking good for that many years under your belt,” as you would say. I just wanted to let you know a few things that I’ve probably said in the past, but they are worth repeating. Over the years in our family when my siblings and I were growing up, you were always there with 110% of your support for the many activities going on. Reflecting back, there was so much fun, laughter, and there was always music, lots of music. You yourself did not play an instrument, but you were definitely the lead “grinner” among any crowd of listeners once the music started. Dad played the fiddle and was a 3rd generation player who was taught by his father and grandfather. This sounds amazing to some folks today, but, really, that’s families did back when that’s all they could afford or knew what to do. Because of Dad’s family music background with his siblings, they formed a band and played for dances across the plains area in rural Kansas. So when you married and had children, it was only natural at our family gatherings always included music. And when those pickers gathered, the grinners were also there in force - you leading the pack with food, applause and all that went with providing the hospitality.

Moving the California saw our music tradition continue. You and Dad loved to go to the Garden of Allah and the Dream Bowl to dance and see many new “hot” acts appearing in the Bay Area area like Johnny Cash and the Maddox Brothers & Rose. I was really too young to remember any of these outings, but certainly heard the stories about them when the family got together.

As we kids got into school, you & Dad made sure we had music instruction early on such as piano lessons, and then orchestra in school. The school orchestra is where I was drafted from the violin section to play the bass. I did not realize that this instrument would be an integral part of my life from then on, as I continue to enjoy playing it today. Family gatherings still happened with summer visits back to our roots in Kansas, and they were filled with music and your continued support.

When I had my own family, our children were blessed with music education on many levels, and you were there to support that, too. I remember you and Dad becoming very active members of District #9 Old Time Fiddler’s Association in the Bay Area. Both of our children played the fiddle as youngsters with this association supporting them. It’s there that our family met Carl and Ed Pagter, Neal & Edith Thompson, Charlie & Viola Blacklock, Clark & Hazel Delozier, and so many more old time music fans. Our family was surrounded by their support and friendship. And, Mom, you were right there grinning and supporting.

It was through District #9 that Carl told you and Dad about a “new” bluegrass festival happening at Grass Valley. As a family, we attended as a family for the first time in 1979. It was such a good time with all the music, we have continued to attend since then. This lit a fire under you and Dad to attend other bluegrass festivals in California and other states. Those many years of camping with pickers and grinners gathering on all fronts were memorable times for the family and you still recall them today. Thank you for getting us involved in this music and initiating our annual pilgrimage to Grass Valley. It’s become a true family tradition.

Over the many years, you’ve continued your love of music by still enjoying so many great artists. Probably your favorite singers would have to be June Carter Cash singing Wildwood Flower and anything Rose Maddox sang. On one trip to Grass Valley back in 1990s, you made a special memory. You were able to meet and get to know Rose Maddox. That year you were seated in the club booth at one point to rest as you were recovering from a back surgery. Rose Maddox also came back there to relax before and after her show. Seated next to each other, you two struck up a conversation, and found you both had many memories to share about the early days of Rose’s band, and your mutual connection with Medford, Oregon. The next couple of days saw you two visiting at the club booth and becoming friends. Rose gave you a signed copy of her biography and the two of you had your picture taken together. (Later on, this photo was put on a sweatshirt you still wear today.)

Your home was always ready to play that phonograph record with the likes of the Carter Family, Chubby Wise, Doc Watson, Johnny Cash & June Carter Cash, Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, Stringbean, Grandpa Jones, Mark O’Connor, and, of course, any music from the Virtual Strangers, Mike Tatar Jr., and Merle Higby. About a year ago, playing that phonograph got a little more difficult for you. Your arthritic hands made some movements harder. I was so happy to be able to load many of your treasured vinyls onto an iPod Shuffle. Seeing you back in the “grinner mode” when you’re enjoying your iPod tunes has been wonderful. Your clapping and singing and remembering many good times from the past is really a blessing. It’s great to see you so happy and eager to retell us those memories. And today whenever we get together and there’s music, you’re still right in front as always in full grinner support mode.

Thank you for your endless support, Mom. I applaud you. It’s your turn to take a bow! And here’s wishing you many more happy tunes in the future!


State Fiddle Championship Contest at Madera CA, 1973
As we kids got into school, you & Dad made sure we had music instruction early on such as piano lessons, and then orchestra in school. The school orchestra is where I was drafted from the violin section to play the bass. I did not realize that this instrument would be an integral part of my life from then on, as I continue to enjoy playing it today. Family gatherings still happened with summer visits back to our roots in Kansas, and they were filled with music and your continued support.

When I had my own family, our children were blessed with music education on many levels, and you were there to support that, too. I remember you and Dad becoming very active members of District #9 Old Time Fiddler’s Association in the Bay Area. Both of our children played the fiddle as youngsters with this association supporting them. It’s there that our family met Carl and Ed Pagter, Neal & Edith Thompson, Charlie & Viola Blacklock, Clark & Hazel Delozier, and so many more old time music fans. Our family was surrounded by their support and friendship. And, Mom, you were right there grinning and supporting.

It was through District #9 that Carl told you and Dad about a “new” bluegrass festival happening at Grass Valley. As a family, we attended as a family for the first time in 1979. It was such a good time with all the music, we have continued to attend since then. This lit a fire under you and Dad to attend other bluegrass festivals in California and other states. Those many years of camping with pickers and grinners gathering on all fronts were memorable times for the family and you still recall them today. Thank you for getting us involved in this music and initiating our annual pilgrimage to Grass Valley. It’s become a true family tradition.

Over the many years, you’ve continued your love of music by still enjoying so many great artists. Probably your favorite singers would have to be June Carter Cash singing Wildwood Flower and anything Rose Maddox sang. On one trip to Grass Valley back in 1990s, you made a special memory. You were able to meet and get to know Rose Maddox. That year you were seated in the club booth at one point to rest as you were recovering from a back surgery. Rose Maddox also came back there to relax before and after her show. Seated next to each other, you two struck up a conversation, and found you both had many memories to share about the early days of Rose’s band, and your mutual connection with Medford, Oregon. The next couple of days saw you two visiting at the club booth and becoming friends. Rose gave you a signed copy of her biography and the two of you had your picture taken together. (Later on, this photo was put on a sweatshirt you still wear today.)

Your home was always ready to play that phonograph record with the likes of the Carter Family, Chubby Wise, Doc Watson, Johnny Cash & June Carter Cash, Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, Stringbean, Grandpa Jones, Mark O’Connor, and, of course, any music from the Virtual Strangers, Mike Tatar Jr., and Merle Higby. About a year ago, playing that phonograph got a little more difficult for you. Your arthritic hands made some movements harder. I was so happy to be able to load many of your treasured vinyls onto an iPod Shuffle. Seeing you back in the “grinner mode” when you’re enjoying your iPod tunes has been wonderful. Your clapping and singing and remembering many good times from the past is really a blessing. It’s great to see you so happy and eager to retell us those memories. And today whenever we get together and there’s music, you’re still right in front as always in full grinner support mode.

Thank you for your endless support, Mom. I applaud you. It’s your turn to take a bow! And here’s wishing you many more happy tunes in the future!


State Fiddle Championship Contest at Madera CA, 1973
Today's Welcome from JD Rhynes
Monday, September 22, 2014

Last night I remembered that I had to write today's welcome message, seein' as to how it was gettin' to be the fourth Thursday of the month. What to write about? There's a number of things that have happened to me in my long Bluegrass journey over the years. Most of 'em I can write about, and then there's some that I'll NEVER share with anyone. Thankfully, there's not very many of those. I usually just let my mind rely on my "store house" of memories to come up with something that I think will be of interest to all of you, that read these daily messages. I was setting in my chair, with the Dish Bluegrass channel , turned down real low, reading a very absorbing book on mind control,when they started playing Sally Goodin' by Bill Monroe, and the Bluegrass Boy's. I layed my book down and turned the volume up and set there and enjoyed the fiddling of Byron Berline, on what I consider to be one or two of the greatest versions of that tune. It triggered memories of the first time that I met Byron, and got to pick with him onstage too. Today's Welcome from JD Rhynes
Monday, September 22, 2014

Last night I remembered that I had to write today's welcome message, seein' as to how it was gettin' to be the fourth Thursday of the month. What to write about? There's a number of things that have happened to me in my long Bluegrass journey over the years. Most of 'em I can write about, and then there's some that I'll NEVER share with anyone. Thankfully, there's not very many of those. I usually just let my mind rely on my "store house" of memories to come up with something that I think will be of interest to all of you, that read these daily messages. I was setting in my chair, with the Dish Bluegrass channel , turned down real low, reading a very absorbing book on mind control,when they started playing Sally Goodin' by Bill Monroe, and the Bluegrass Boy's. I layed my book down and turned the volume up and set there and enjoyed the fiddling of Byron Berline, on what I consider to be one or two of the greatest versions of that tune. It triggered memories of the first time that I met Byron, and got to pick with him onstage too. The year was 1973, and we were at the Old Time Fiddlers State Championship's, in Madera, California. We being Vern and Del Williams, Keith little and myself. We had left Valley Springs well before daylight and headed down Hiway 99 to the town of Madera, arriving there just in time to have breakfast . As we were getting out of my car at a nice Cafe, who should walk out the door but Alan Munde, who was a member of Byrons band at the time. Vern and Alan were friends from his day's in Nashville, and he introduced Alan to all of us. After eating, we headed over to the Fair grounds where the festivities were taking place. Now you have to remember that this was long before there were ANY Bluegrass Festivals to go to here in California, and we took advantage of any and every chance we could, to go where we thought there would be some Bluegrass pickers that we could play some music with. And there were plenty of pickers at this shin dig in Madera! EVERYONE that we knew was there! The Caffery Family was there as well as a very young 13 year old Mark O'Connor too. Our mutual friend Ray Park was entered into the contest, and he had talked his good friend Byron Berline to come up from So. calif., and being one of the judges at the contest. As a result, Byron had his band, Country Gazzette, come along with him to entertain the audience during the breaks in the contest. It was during one of these breaks that Byron told Ray: Why dont you and Vern and some of yer friends get up on stage with me and let's pick a few fer the audience. Boy! What a thrill to be on the same stage with this bunch of world class pickers! There was Vern and Ray, Byron, Keith Little, one of Byrons band members that I cant remember his name, another person who I cant remember on Bass, and myself on rhythm guitar. Vern and Ray sang a couple of tunes, and then Ray asked Byron to fiddle "Sally Goodin". FIDDLE IT HE DID! I had goose bumps on me that you could hang yer hat on! Here I was, on stage with Byron Berline playing rhythm guitar, on my favorite fiddle tune of all time, with THE fiddle player that Bill Monroe chose to record this tune with for the first time in his career! Needless to say, it brought down the house! WOW! I still get goose bumps, jes thinking about it! This was the first time that I got to meet Jack Sadler, who would go on to found the Calif. Bluegrass Assoc. with Carl Pagter, and Jake Quessenberry, in just a few short years. We picked all day and well into the evening, and the highlight of the whole trip was to see our good friend Ray Park announced as the winner of the contest and declared State Champion Fiddler fer the whole state of California! Ray was in such a state of shock at winning that contest, he had a hard time telling you what his name was! What a time! We stayed until it was around midnight, and we were all in the parking lot saying our good bye's, and Ray opened the trunk of his car to put his fiddle and guitar into it. About that time we all went to shake his hand and congratulate him, and he forgot all about putting the instruments into the trunk and closed it. If Jack Sadler hadn't seen the instruments setting right behind the tires, and let out a yell just as Ray started the engine, he would have backed right over about $50,000.00 worth of guitar and fiddle! We kidded Ray about that one fer many years to come! He told us later, that he was in such a state of shock over winning "The Big One", that he didn't even remember driving home to Placerville, that night! All he remembered was getting out of the car when they got home about daylight, and wondering, how did I get here? Well, we piled into my car and headed to valley Springs, and got there as the sun was coming up over Bear Mountain to the East. We were a happy, tired, bunch of pickers that morning. We were hoarse from singing all day, and most of the night on the trip home. I was so "charged" from the experience, I really didn't get a bit of sleep until that Sunday evening when I went to bed. Then all I could hear was Byron hitting the high notes, way up in third position , as he fiddled the Hell out of Sally Goodin! Sleep finally came, but for days to come, that tune ran through my mind like a freight rain! I had the good fortune to play onstage with Byron in later years with the Vern Williams Band, along with Ray Park, too, but I will NEVER forget the time that I got to play rhythm guitar on the tune Sally Goodin', that day in Madera, Ca., with my good friend Byron Berline, one of the greatest fiddlers of all time! As Vern would always say about Byron fiddlin' Sally Goodin; I'd quit eatin' a plate full of Biscuits and Gravy to listen to Byron fiddle that tune! And hope that he played the dern thing all night! Nuff said!

Today's column from Don Denison
Saturday, September 20, 2014

Dear Friends:

These once month columns come around pretty fast. I do though, have something on my mind that comes from reading the message board daily.

The main thing is the often repeated concern about the direction of the music, and I suppose the direction of the selection of talent that performs on our stages. I've tried to respond on the message board to some of these concerns, but I think it best to lead with a column on the subject. I am sure that there are some who will take me to task for what I say here, so it always has been.

First of all, I've heard this concern from the time I became a member in 1985. The song is the same as is the dance. The music on stage at this festival, was too...................... insert here any appropriate statement, it will be too progressive, too traditional, too much like Old Time, too country, not what Lester and Earl would have done, Bill wouldn't have liked that, you name it I've heard it many times. Often I was one of those complaining, at least early on in my membership. Myself and other board members were targets for those who were unhappy with the selections for the stage, and for the most part, I think the different selection committees have done a good job in balancing our line-ups over the years. Always what we offered followed our charter statement that we were to promote Bluegrass, Old Time, and Gospel music. Sometimes the boundaries were stretched a bit, but we tried to stay faithful, and promote the music we were charged to present.

Recently there has been talk of Large Tent vs. Small Tent coverage of the music we are offered. I think that is an oversimplified attempt to describe what is actually happening. Think for a minute about painting as an art form. How close do you think we are to the paintings done on the rock walls of cave dwellings. Art is going to change. Bill was experimenting with what he wanted when he hit on the sound that was trademarked as Bluegrass. There are several contenders for the rights to the coining of that name, but all agree that Bill's seminal band including himself, Lester Flatt, Earl Scruggs, Chubby Wise, and Cedric Rainwater was the sound he had been looking for. There were immediately formed, several bands that fit into the general boundaries established by that first "Bluegrass Band". We all know who they are/were, most all have passed from the scene. No one now playing actively is following the founders in lock-step. Those bands who consciously attempted to do so have been in my estimation failures. Music is an art form, it is alive. If we constrict it too tightly we kill it, it becomes a lifeless museum piece without relevance, maybe interesting to hear once, then interest fades. We once had a band on our stage that was a replica of the late 40's-early 50's Flat and Scruggs band, right down to the clothing, shoes, haircuts, and an attempt to do it just like Lester and Earl. The band was skillful, though not nearly as skillful as Lester and Earl were, they had all the advantages of modern sound reinforcement, but after the initial novelty wore off, they seemed lifeless to me. This and other incidents taught me that we can't control the music, we can't pin it down. There are general lines within which bands play or must be referred to as being in another genre. Those lines though can't be so rigid that they can't be stretched somewhat. Bands play music the way that they think it should be played and as limited by their ability. They are not mechanical replicas of the early bands, we wouldn't want them to be.

Before going further, I need to tell you I prefer a Traditional style of Bluegrass as played by Larry Sparks, Dave Evans, James King and others. I become anxious if bands stray too far from the early concepts of what the music is. That doesn't mean that I think other approaches have no validity. Bottom line, unless we are new to the music, all of us have in our heads some kind of boundaries. Some of us will favor an approach that could be termed "Jazz played on Bluegrass instruments", or "Just Bad Rock and Roll", or "nothing but country". There are more names that can be called of course but I hope you are able to follow me. This music is going to change, you can take that to the bank, it has already changed, and will do so some more. We can't stop it! We can however by "voting" with our feet our ears, and our minds have a voice in what audiences will pay for or not. If the music strays to far from its roots, it will lose audience, record sales, money, and fan reinforcement of their efforts. We cannot pin it down any more than we could tell a painter how to paint a picture. We can however "vote" our opinions, and our willingness to pay.

I think that the CBA is doing a good job of talent selection, I want more Traditional Bands than we have been getting lately. Part of the reason for that is because there are not as many really good Traditional Bands our there as there once were. If enough of the listeners refuse to pay to listen to bands they don't care for, other bands, or perhaps the same bands will offer what the listeners want. No one wants to see their audience vanish after the first 2-3 numbers of a set; I guarantee that it will produce a reaction. If any one is sufficiently upset about the band selections, remember the board meetings are open to members, phones and e-mail, even snail mail can carry complaints. Whining and general grouching won't accomplish anything. Remember, express your discontent in ways that will get attention, make formal complaints to the board, and refuse to support those bands you don't like. The music however will change as it has already, it is alive and not something that can be tied down, musicians will innovate, that's their job. I hope this little essay helps clarify the situation for most of you all, at least to the extent that you all will undertake meaningful action if you are unhappy. The board works for the whole membership, but remember that you are part of that, show an interest, you will get a response.

Before I close, I want to remind all of you that there is a fine festival this weekend in Plymouth, I hope to see most of you all there.

Your Friend


Bluegrass, An Admiring Mantis, and Lots of Dough
Today's column from Cameron Little
September 19, 2014

The last time I attended Strawberry Music Festival, the only things I recall are running around the meadow naked, and being covered in face paint. Now, admittedly those of you who know me might wonder if this was a recent event, but no, I was a little dude at the time, probably a bit less than knee-high.

The gently-counterculture-rebel cousin to the CBA Father's Day Festival, Strawberry is brought to fruition and nurtured by a dedicated posse of big-hearted philosophers and tricksters. With their roots as a bluegrass festival apparent with acts on the lineup like Hot Rize, Strawberry has expanded their offerings over the years to include a global menu of music including Americana, jazz, swing, pop, gypsy jazz, folk rock, Celtic, R&B, and every flavor of blues.

Having Strawberry at the home of the Father’s Day Bluegrass Festival was akin to the traveling circus come to town. Organic and vibrant and made-in-the-USA, there’s a deep artful vibe here that I found to be warmly welcoming and inclusive. Among the cowboy hats and John Deere caps were elf ears, ballet tutus, clown noses, chicken hats, hula-hoopers, and more tie-dye per capita than a Railroad Earth concert.

The Strawberry Music Festival is in a nomadic phase at the moment, relocating to Grass Valley because their long time Camp Mather venue was unavailable after the tragic 2013 Rim Fire. I've volunteered and worked a number of events at the Nevada County Fairgrounds over the years (Father's Day Festival, Celtic Festival, etc.), and it was apparent to me that Strawberry inhabited this new location as smoothly as anyone could. One of the more galvanizing elements which provided continuity to Strawberry was the legendary Hog Ranch Radio 88.1 FM who provided a direct conduit to the Strawberry experience. Excellent and earthy, they partnered with community radio KVMR to make broadcast history. Real pirate radio up close and personal.

I agreed to work the festival before I knew the lineup, and once I set up camp, I flipped through the program and had several joyful, heart-palpating revelations: Hot Rize! Kathy Kallick! Jerry Douglas! Keith Little! Steep Ravine! I grasped my hands together with glee. This was gonna be a really good festival.

And it was. My part-time gig was at the pizza booth, where owner Tom serves the BEST. PIZZA. EVER. The booth provided a sweet window to the Strawberry Way: there were veteran Strawberrians, who sagely noted that "Home is Where Strawberry Is". There were the effusive Strawberry newbies who attended because the location was more accessible for them. There were FDF regulars who only came for the bluegrass but embraced the entire lineup before all was said and sung. And then there were Newbie-newbies: folks who had never attended a festival like this before and "only came to see Tower of Power but OMGosh all these other bands are just so AWESOME!"

Hot Rize brought it all home with their soulful and stellar classic bluegrass on Friday night. In fact, their set was so good apparently, that a praying mantis joined them on stage, perching on band member to band member, and even jumping from the mic onto Nick Forster’s face. I think the mantis liked their summer suit color. Hot Rize didn’t miss a single beat during this homage though, and handled the mantis with a witty and professional humor that set the whole crowd to giggling. For those of you who weren't there, here’s a link to a clip of Hot Rize vs. the Mantis:

Hot Rize vs Praying Mantis

On Saturday night, Tower of Power caused everyone to abandon their chairs to dance in a frenzy of righteous R&B. I watched people I know personally, who never, ever leave their chairs, literally toss their chairs aside to do the Electric Slide. And to the challenge from the band rocketing across the fairgrounds, "Are you hip?!" Why, yes. For that moment in time, Grass Valley could claim an emphatic yes.

And then there was Sunday. That was the day I fell in love. With the T Sisters at the Revival. I was transported, fellers. With any luck, we'll see them along with the Hillbenders and Steep Ravine on the Father's Day Festival 40th lineup. And I'm telling you, I still have stars in my ears.

So. Strawberry. Maybe I bypassed the face painted nakedness this time but not by much. Traditional, organic, inspirational and avant garde. A festival that mixes the new with the beloved: friends,music, family, and experiences. The best pizza in the land. And a praying mantis who stole the show.

(Cameron Little celebrated his second week of being 19 at Strawberry this year, with good bluegrass, amazing people, and lots and lots of pizza dough. He was seen in camp with face paint but kept his clothes on. This time.)

Today's column from James Reams
Thursday, September 18, 2014

As a singer/songwriter, it seems odd to be writing about music as a listening tool. Radio stations recognized this phenomenon long ago — that’s why they refer to their customer base as “listeners.” When people listen to your music – you have their attention as they take your music with them wherever they go on whatever mobile device du jour they are using. They actually LISTEN to what you are saying in a way that can’t be accomplished by mere conversation or professorial lecture. Not only do they listen, but if the song can get them to relate to the topic, they will actually listen again and again eventually learning the words and singing along.

As more and more listeners are turned on by your song, airplay increases and sales of MP3 versions escalate. – which makes most musicians do the “happy dance.” There’s always the possibility that the song will be selected as a theme song for a TV show (like Black Road Gold’s use of Audie Blaylock’s tune “The Road That Winds”) or a grassroots movement as happened to me with my song “Hills of My County.”

For myself, I believe that songwriting is a way for me to support others’ commitments for the world while pursuing my own. And so I set out to identify an issue that I connected with on a number of levels. Come to find out, it was closer to home than I thought. Recently, Arizona and Texas have received a lot of press regarding the immigration of over 50,000 unaccompanied minors fleeing from oppression, gang violence, and certain death in their own countries in South America. These children (most ranging in ages from 6 to 16) took incredible risks to cross thousands of miles with just the clothes on their backs. That any of them actually made it to the US border is amazing – an heroic feat that under other circumstances would be heralded by our government and lauded in our newspapers. But they are regarded as illegal aliens instead of escapees seeking asylum and so they are met with detention centers, eventual deportation and possible death upon their return.

As I read numerous articles and watched news program after news program on TV, my heart went out to these kids. That’s when I realized that I had something in common with these truly homeless children because I spent time as a homeless young man early in my career as I followed my dream of becoming a musician. I’m not particularly proud of that period of my life, but these life experiences provide a “realness” that musicians consider essential in order to reach the listener.

It was this common denominator that inspired me to dedicate my next album to songs that would raise awareness about the plight of these children as well as the homeless in general. My own personal experience will allow me to write and deliver these songs with a depth of emotion that wouldn’t be possible otherwise. And I wanted to make a difference in the lives of others so I decided to donate a portion of the proceeds from sales of the album to a charitable organization, “Save the Family Foundation.”

And that’s what I set out to do. The process of songwriting involves finding the right inspiration, capturing a moment in life using very few words in a lyrical fashion, and relating the emotion of the story through the melody. I now had my inspiration. Next step was to immerse myself in the situation. Though I was unable to actually visit the detention centers, I was able to speak with those who did. Listening is a key factor in songwriting. Without the voices of those who had been there and done that, I would not have been able to imagine myself making that journey.

As ideas for songs poured out onto my computer screen, melodies began playing around in my head. My fingers started itching to pick up my guitar and start picking out the tunes that would eventually match up with the emotions that I wanted to convey. Bridges and rests, notes and chords vied for attention and sorting them out can be a nightmare at times but when they all come together it’s like a dream.

Throughout the entire process from idea to songwriting to performance, listening plays an ongoing role ? you just can’t make music without it. It starts with listening first to the voice of the world and my inner voice. Then moves on to listening to others more familiar with the topic and first hand stories by those directly involved if possible. Next the words and the melody are married requiring intense listening skills to make sure the notes accurately convey the emotion of the words. And finally, the song is ready to be listened to by the general public. Hopefully it will touch them as it touched me.

I hope you’ll tune in when the new album is released! Better yet, take a listen to “Hills of My County” from my album Troubled Times and send me an email james@jamesreams.com. I’d like to know what you think!

Playing with Your Kids
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, September 17, 2014

If the title of this message conjured up images of laying on the living room floor helping your little child with Legos, or playing Chutes and Ladders, that’s not what I am referring to, although those are vital and rewarding activities. (Nobody, but nobody beats me at Candyland or Chutes and Ladders - ask anyone!).

No, I’m referring to playing music with your family, something I enjoy whenever I can. I also get a kick out of watching other families play.

I grew up in a very loving family, but it wasn’t a family of musicians. All three of us kids (my two sisters and I) took up playing some instrument or another in grade school, and one of my sisters stuck to piano for quite a while and was a good player. But we never “jammed” as kids (what are we - the Partridge Family?). We were just kids, beginning to learn to play - laboring over dense sheet music, starting and stopping endlessly.

I was the only one in the family that grew obsessive over playing music.

When I grew older and started a family, I dreamed of a time when the whole family would play together. Just as in my own childhood, all three of my kids also took up an instrument in grade school, and our home echoed with the cacophony of beginners on flute, saxophone and violin. Not simultaneously, thank God!

But one by one, each child of mine drifted away from playing music. I was secretly shattered. Unlike the home I grew up in, my children were raised in an environment where live music was played often - almost every get-together with friends included singing and playing. How could my kids reject that?

Somehow, I forgot that most 13 year olds don’t want to be hanging out with Mom or Dad, even if it involves playing and singing. My youngest son used to require me to serenade him with Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” on the acoustic guitar before he could go to sleep, but that was when he was very young...

A few years later, a miracle happened. My two sons, independent of each other, drifted back into music, of their own accord. Possibly as a reaction to my own wild-eyed enthusiasm, they didn’t make any announcements. I would just catch them playing my guitars now and again, and by golly, they were good at it - each had his own style, too. My oldest son actually minored in music in college, and while he has zero stage ambitions (is he really my son??!), he has become a very gifted guitarist and jazz pianist. His younger brother evolved into a very emotive guitarist and singer, and would often steal away with friends to busk downtown for pizza money.

So, when do I get to play with these guys?

The first time came on a Christmas get-together at home. Max (the oldest) sat down at the piano, playing Vince Guaraldi tunes from “Peanuts”, and then he drifted into a spirited boogie-woogie blues riff. I jumped up and grabbed the upright bass and did a walking bass line to complement Max’s left hand notes. Liam (the youngest) grabbed a guitar and by golly, we had a VERY cool blues/jazz groove going. It was a seminal moment in my life. I got my wish!

There ain’t gonna be no Campbell Family Band, so far as I can see. We three gentlemen are all adults with our own lives. But we live close enough that when the family gets all together, a jam session can and does break out. I’m almost afraid to tell them how much this means to me, for fear of scaring them off.

Here’s the other cool thing - both of my granddaughters seem like they want to play music, too! [Happy birthday, Trinity!]

How To Make IBMA Attendance Pay Off For You - An Essay
Today's column from Ted Lehmann
Tuesday, September 16, 2014

(Editor’s Note: The weekend after next a large contingent of California’s bluegrass community will wing its way back to the American south…land of cattle lowin’ in the lane, little log cabins on the hill and lots and lots and lots of a particular kind of home (as in the United States) grown music. It’s IBMA time in Raleigh, NC, and from what I’m gathering we have an exceptionally robust group headed back this year. Thought it might not be a bad idea to review exactly why it is so many people save up for so long to travel so far. Here’s Ted Lehmann from 2010.)

A couple of weeks ago, a piece was posted on the Banjo Hangout (a major online forum for banjo players) under the provocative heading “Would your band pay $925 to play at IBMA?” I posted on the topic on BHO, but thought I'd like to expand on what I said there in this blog entry. I'm retitling it “How Can the Value of IBMA Attendance Be Quantified?” I've corresponded with Dan Hays, Executive Director of IBMA, consulted the IBMA web site for details about the costs, and sought to assess the effect, both short term and long term, of showcasing as well as making the World of Bluegrass Convention work for you to help build a career. Here's the result of my current thinking, which I hope to evolve still further as responses to it accumulate. With application packets for Official Showcases due on January 14th, now seems to be a good time to write about this topic.

The International Bluegrass Music Association is a professional trade association focused on supporting all elements of what might be called (or derided by some, depending on their perspective) the bluegrass industry. Although Knecht's post focused primarily on the $925 cost that would be incurred by each band chosen to participate in “Official Showcases,” I'll try to revise and extend my remarks to include broader participation in the entire week of the IBMA, including both the trade conference and the annual Fan Fest.

Perhaps the highest profile events for bands at the World of Bluegrass are the OfficialShowcases. In 2010 these were held in the large space made more intimate by the use of round tables placed in what would later in the week be expanded for the Fan Fest audience into a festival setting. The large stage, excellent sound, and (to me) annoying lighting, provided the nineteen bands selected from 100 – 150 applications for showcasing with a fine opportunity to present twenty-five minutes of their very best for the people who buy, report on, and promote bluegrass talent. During the time periods set aside for Official Showcases, no other official convention activity competed. IBMA claims, with justification, that the actual benefits of being selected for an official showcase are significant, not including whatever future business might accrue to selected bands. Here's a link to the application process, which details the costs and the benefits provided to bands which showcase. Used properly, the opportunity to showcase at IBMA can be a springboard to increased bookings and expanded sales of recordings. A more important question than whether the costs are worthwhile is to examine how to use the showcase to expand a bluegrass career.

The question of whether IBMA is "worth" the cost depends very much on what you wish to obtain from attending this event. If you, as a performer, expect that appearing in an official showcase or an after hours event will automatically turn into improved bookings, then you have another think coming. Appearing at IBMA does not provide a magic carpet to bluegrass success. On the other hand, if you do your homework, you can both learn to become more professional, increase your visibility in the bluegrass world, and increase the amount of work you get as a performer. There's one problem. It takes hard work. As long as performers compare a week at IBMA with the fun of jamming at SPGBMA, they just don't get it. Performers who show up for their showcase or Fan Fest performance without spending quality time "working" the event and availing themselves of every opportunity to learn are wasting their money. What does this mean?

1. Attend workshops and meetings during WOB. You might learn something and you certainly will be in contact with industry people who can help spread the word about you as a performer. The workshops and meetings are intended to allow people who have had successful experiences in a variety of areas to share their skills and knowledge. A six member band can, effectively, attend six different events at one time, take notes and ask questions in order to be able to meet later with band mates to try to extract usable ideas from what they've heard and seen.

2. Go to the meals you've paid for anyway and sit with people you don't know. Many of the people we meet at IBMA are either media people (radio, print, electronic, film, and more) or talent buyers (festivals, arts centers, concert venues, and more). They need performers and want to meet new people. Establishing yourself as a face, a voice, and a personality may not yield a booking during IBMA week, but, with perseverance on your part, can lead to future bookings and sales. Keep notes of who you've met and follow up by e-mail, FB friendings, and mailings with each one.

3. Work the hallways for the same reasons stated above. Chat with people you meet in the Exhibition Hall, the hotel and convention center hallways, at jams (yes, there are plenty of jams), in private suites, and elsewhere. Be available to talk about your work and to take an interest in theirs.

4. Visit the private suites of talent buyers (Grey Fox, CBA, MACC, Bluegrass Country.org and others) and get to know the people who promote these high visibility events. Not only are they in a position to hire you, other people will see you in their suites and be impressed. If you're asked to perform (audition) in one of these suites, jump at the chance.

5. Schedule taping sessions at the DJ Tapings event and make sure you meet as many dj's as possible. These tapings make it possible for you to tape a number of appearances on radio shows around the country and to establish a face-to-face relationship with many radio personalities.

6. The Gig Fair, although it may seem like something of a meat market, gives performers an opportunity to create a first impression with dozens of festival bookers from across the country. While it may feel a little “speed dating,” you have a chance then, to follow up on each meeting. It's very bad form to interrupt other people having interviews by coming by the tables and merely dropping a CD and some information.

7. Keep notes and follow up on every conversation and contact you make. I can't emphasize how important this is. As you work through the week, write down the name and function of every person you meet, collect their cards, and spend a few minutes chatting with them. What follows shouldn't be necessary, but shake hands, smile, make eye contact, repeat the other person's name to help cement it in your mind, and don't spend time looking over the person's shoulder for the next person you wish to talk to. Keep a written schedule of your obligations and the events you need to get to. As an aside: If you want to watch a real master of these skills, spend a little time at a festival observing Rhonda Vincent work her merchandise table. She treats every fan as if he or she were the only person in the world, get really excited at what they have to say, seems to remember them from the last time she saw them, and never rushes them off to get to the next person. She stays until the last fan leaves. All of us have a lot to learn from Rhonda's people skills.

8. Stop whining about limited jamming opportunities. You're not at IBMA to jam; you're there to work. Maybe you can get some picking in, but attending seminars in the morning and afternoon, working the exhibits, staffing your own exhibit if you have an Official Showcase, and attending showcases in the afternoons and on into the night is hard work. One of your most important tasks is to network. That's time consuming and requires real concentration. Jam at festivals and around home. You're at IBMA to work to improve your bluegrass career, if that's what you're interested in. If you're attending IBMA because it's a good party, all well and good, but it's a pretty expensive one.

People who say “It's all about the music” are mistaken. While the music may be the reason you've attended IBMA, the conference is about building your musical career. If you imagine yourself expanding beyond your present place in the business to a larger venue, you can accomplish this by doing the work for it at IBMA. The people we've watched over the past three years who've really made the World of Bluegrass work for them have seen the results in increased bookings and improved performance of their CD's. You can't ask more of an industry trade show which will turn into a successful investment in your career rather than a net cost.

Finally, despite the fact that we have developed our love for bluegrass music and its people into a second, and very much unexpected, career, we find this week to be one of the most enjoyable of our bluegrass year. I look forward to engaging in the discussion and seeing your responses to this piece.

THE DAILY GRIST…”Bluegrass Music”…Carlton Haney

My Favorite Festival
Today’s Column from Bert Daniel
Monday, September 15, 2014

Not many people know it, but the person who coined the term Bluegrass Music, in reference to the genre that included Bill Monroe and all of his ilk, was not Bill himself, but a guy named Carlton Haney. Haney promoted the first multi-day Bluegrass festival in Fincastle, Virginia in 1965. A musical narrative was part of that festival and it was called “The Story of Bluegrass”

What a great concept the multi-day Bluegrass festival is! I love it, and I am so grateful to all of the people that make it happen. Volunteers, organizers, promoters, musicians and fans. This weekend I will load up our vehicle and head out to what is perhaps my favorite of all the festivals I have ever been to over the years.

I’m talking about the Plymouth Bluegrass Festival. This year will mark a dozen years of the Plymouth festival. Every year I go, I hear the scuttlebutt that this Plymouth might be the last one ever. And I share that worry every time. Carlton Haney had one other Fincastle festival and then moved to Berryville, Virginia for ten years or so. A reunion was held in 2005 but I don’t know if the original Bluegrass festival will survive.

Somehow, don’t ask me how, Larry and Sondra Baker pull together a first rate festival year after year at Plymouth. And they produce other festivals as well during the year. I have to take my hat off to anybody who can create a venue where I can have so much fun year after year.

Unfortunately, it hasn’t been year after year in my case. I got a retinal tear last year and couldn’t make it as planned. Life happens. But I’ll never forget my first Plymouth. I went because I wanted to have my very young fiddle playing son get involved with the Kids on Stage program. The program at Plymouth was said to be more low key than the intense Grass Valley Version, Kids on Bluegrass. I marched Ethan over to meet Frank Sollivan, Sr at his camper. Frank cajoled my youngster into working up some tunes and getting out on a real stage to play music. I sat in on one of their rehearsals and I was completely blown away by what Frank was pulling off.

The next night I enjoyed a beautiful sunset and watched with my son as Michael Cleveland played the best live fiddle I have ever heard. If you heard Orange Blossom Special and Jerusalem Ridge as Ethan and I did in the gloaming that night, you would never want to be any place else.

I go back to Plymouth every year I can because it’s such a great festival. The weather can be hot there but you can sit in dense shade at the periphery and still hear the music very well. After the sun goes down you can get right up at the front and enjoy some amazing talent. That’s the thing that always impresses me about Plymouth. The talent seems out of proportion to the size of the venue and the fact that it’s in the middle of nowhere.

You should know by now where to find me this weekend. I hope I’ll see you there.

THE DAILY GRIST…"The effect is as though one were seeking confirmation, though at the same time the speaker may be the only one who has the requisite information.”…Robin Lakoff

Today’s Column from Bert Daniel
Sunday, September 14, 2014

Read the following out loud:

“The fortieth annual Father’s Day Festival will take place in Grass Valley next summer. A lot of people will be going. It will be extremely fun and I think you should consider going.”

Now try reading it like this:

“The fortieth annual Father’s Day Festival will take place in Grass Valley next summer? A lot of people will be going? It will be extremely fun and I think you should consider going?”

The second version is an example of uptalk. If you listen carefully to how people speak these days, you will hear this kind of speech very frequently. I heard a formal presentation recently by a company that was trying to sell us some software and virtually the entire presentation was uptalk.

When a declarative statement is read aloud, the tone is supposed to go down at the end, right? And I’ll bet your mind just imagined an upward voice inflection as you read that last question mark that I typed.
How did this phenomenon of uptalk happen to our beautiful English language? Nobody really knows. It may have started in Southern California with the valley girls. It may have started in Australia. The BBC ran an article about uptalk about a month ago, so it seems the trend has spread even to the very well of the language that we call English.

After the software presentation, I mentioned the uptalk to my colleague and told him how inappropriate I thought it was for such a formal presentation. He sympathized with me but in the process, as I pointed out to him, some of his sympathy was delivered in uptalk!

I guess there’s no escape now. Uptalk is here to stay and the rest of us just have to get used to it. I sure hope it doesn’t spread its cancer into those wonderful Bluegrass lyrics I’m so used to. Edge bands are fine (in moderation, of course). But I don’t want to think about Bluegrass sung as uptalk (although if it’s good, I’d probably like it).

The Bluegrass Band Wagon
Today’s column from John A. Karsemeyer
Saturday, September 13, 2014,

Wikipedia’s definition of “Band Wagon” = “In layman’s terms the bandwagon effect refers to people doing certain things because other people are doing them, regardless of their own beliefs, which they may ignore or override. The perceived popularity of an object or person may have an effect on how it is viewed on a whole. For instance, once a product becomes popular, more people tend to ‘get on the bandwagon’ and buy it too.”

In recent years we’ve seen luminaries who have great musical careers, outside of Planet Bluegrass, leave their own planet and land on Planet Blue.

Alan Jackson, the famous traditional country music star, was recently on the “Letterman TV Show” with eight famous bluegrass pickers, including two who sang backup harmony. Jackson had a notable career as a Country Music Star, but lately Nashville’s version of country music has put Jackson in the margins of the song sheets. What to do? Try to reinvent yourself. Go bluegrass.
Then we have Ricky Skaggs. Ricky went from bluegrass to country, and when Country abandoned him he went back to bluegrass. Course he “countrified” bluegrass to a certain extent when he crossed over from bluegrass, so he didn’t leave his bluegrass roots completely, even though those roots were disguised with the addition of electric guitars, drums, and Nashville producers. After Ricky’s songs weren’t hitting the music charts he went back to bluegrass. Ricky proved “You Can Go Home Again.”

And along came Elvis. Elvis Costello that is. Bluegrass with an English twist. If you sing songs not written for bluegrass and your band is Stewart Duncan on fiddle, Mike Compton on mandolin, and Jerry Douglas on dobro, is it bluegrass or are you just trying to get on the blue wagon?

Steve Martin. Now here’s a guy who started out playing bluegrass songs on the banjo before he got famous. Then he played the banjo while he got famous doing stand-up comedy. Then he got famous as a movie star who wasn’t playing banjo in the movies. Lately he got out his banjo(s) and is touring with a bluegrass band (Steep Canyon Rangers) playing his own songs (except for an occasional “Foggy Mountain Breakdown”). I’ve yet to hear Steve play Monroe’s “Footprints in the Snow.” I think Steve built his own “Bluegrass” Band Wagon, and is having a good ride.

And there are others who have left their own vehicles and have hitched a ride on the blue painted wagon. Merle Haggard’s CD comes to mind.

But what about the guys and gals who have struggled all their lives trying to make a living playing bluegrass music, and don’t make enough money to put large sums of cash into the too-big-to-fail-banks?

Money talks? Yes it does, and we need the green stuff to survive. So it is understandable why some musicians outside of the bluegrass realm enter into it “feet-first” to jump-start a sagging career, or just try to reinvent themselves for a while. This is American, where anybody can be what they want, or do what they want (within reason), but is it fair to have a “biggie” in country or pop music cruise into the sea of bluegrass and have a hit CD/record, while there are real, organic bluegrass folks who have struggled years and years and never able to make the “big bucks?”

One school of thought is, “Where do these people get off?” They can’t make it big anymore in their music careers, so they cling to bluegrass music. Bluegrass has historically been viewed by the “Nashvillans” as the illegitimate cousin of country music. But now and then they want to become true brothers instead of cousins. Money talks again.

Another school of thought, “Country and pop icons who make bluegrass albums promote bluegrass nationally and internationally.” No doubt that as a result of that bluegrass music gains in popularity, but is the end result that authentic bluegrass gets watered-down? Who is next? Bruce Springsteen? Josh Groban? The Three Tenors? Miley Cyrus? And what is the overall effect on “pure” bluegrass? Big tent, little tent, pup tent, no tent?

Bottom line is, people like you and I cannot stop the evolutionary bluegrass wheel. So we have a choice to go with whatever we want; traditional, Newgrass, progressive, Dawg music, or any band with a banjo or fiddle playing any kind of music that is eventually produced here on planet earth.

Have you stuck with traditional bluegrass? Have you gone over to the other side, embracing the country singers and pop singers who sound just like they used to, but have a bluegrass behind them staring at the backside of a bluegrass wannabe? How about you? Are you on the Bluegrass Band Wagon? If so, where is it taking you?

Thinking about it more, the concept of things changing and not becoming what they once were is a naturally occurring phenomenon. You know, there is “bluegrass,” and then there is “bluegrass,” and the two are related, if only in a distant way, like non kissing second or third cousins, but still recognizing each other (even if they don’t admit it to others).

Maybe it’s the same reason the brain produces a consciousness that allows itself to think about itself. Because it can.

THE DAILY GRIST…”Change is good. That’s why I check under the seat cushions of the sofa.”--The Bard
Polka on the Banjo
Today’s column from Cliff Compton
Friday, September 12, 2014

This last Saturday my band played a sweet little festival in Lodi called “Bluegrass at the lake”. The Music was sort of an eclectic mix, sort of bluegrassy, gospely, old timey. Americanaish, blend that would make the purist blanch and the common music lover cheer and it got me to thinking once again about the great debate in our circles about traditionalists and big tent heretics of which I guess I’m one.

Don’t get me wrong, I think Ralph Stanley walks on water, especially if he knows where the stones are. And the Carter family sang most of the songs I sang in church as a child, and they are tattooed on the soft lining of my heart. Earl Scruggs and Doc Watson affect me like catnip affects a cat, and the Louvin brothers singing Satans jeweled Crown touches me in deepest recesses of my soul. But that being said…

There ain’t nothing in this world I’d rather not do than to sit in a festival where band after band plays three chords at break neck speeds in renditions of songs I’ve played a thousand times in the parking lot. Or to watch set after set of same after same as the band that was before and that band that is after.

I love to watch a Great traditional bluegrass band playing a great traditional bluegrass set. But I’m more likely to stay in my seat if the next takes a left turn into Fringe grass or swing land or a right turn into C & W, or gospel, or old time or, heaven forbid, something with an accordian or a harmonica, or a steel guitar.

I ain’t talking about 5 guys on stage playing a fourty five minute jam of old dead songs. I’m talking about not chopping off the roots and the branches just to make sure there’s no damage to the tree trunk.

Well, this here is a dead horse I’m beating. Because those in the one camp rarely listen to those in the other, and I guess I’m probably going to listen to what I want to listen to and the other camp is gonna listen to what it wants to listen to.

And the bluegrass police? They can write me a ticket. Somewhere in the distance I can hear Bela Fleck playing Polka on the banjo.

On the spoons.

Getting In Touch with Your Inner Ponytail (from 2012)
Today's column from Chuck Poling
Thursday, September 11, 2014

I have spent my entire working life employed in some aspect of advertising, marketing, or publishing. I’ve been an account executive, a project manager, a print production manager, a studio manager, a copywriter (my current focus), and a creative director, among other things.

In a world that is starkly divided between the “Suits” (account execs, product and brand managers) and the “Ponytails” (copywriters, graphics designers, art directors) I have managed to work both sides and have developed an appreciation for the challenges each side faces.

The Suits are driven to distraction by the seeming disconnect from reality from which many Ponytails suffer. Knowing full well that the project budget is $100,000 and the delivery date is six weeks away, creative will come back with a design that costs three times as much and takes twice as long to execute. It’s really cool and may even win some awards, but it’s not what the client needs, wants, or can afford to pay for.

Creatives are notoriously bad about keeping track of billable hours and resent the Suits’ preoccupation with budgets and timetables. They feel that the Suits don’t appreciate what goes into design. All too often an account exec requests a “quick little change” that actually requires an extensive redesign. As one artist explained to me, it’s like you’ve built a house of cards and somebody wants to change just one itty-bitty little card – right in the middle of the house.

I was recently musing about the quirks of creative people and the creative process when I made the connection back to bluegrass. A good song doesn’t happen by accident. There’s a craft to songwriting that requires all the parts of the song – the verses, the chorus, the instrumental breaks, etc. – to work together. Likewise, the type and graphics of a good poster are arranged in a particular way to attract the audience and convey information.

In both cases, a creative person is making subjective decisions about both the form and the function of the “product” (a song or a poster). These decisions are based on past experience and knowledge of their craft, and both the graphic designer and the songwriter should be able to explain why they used a certain font or added a minor chord in the chorus. Sometimes, there’s no explanation other than “it looked good” or “it sounded right,” but the point I’m trying to make is that it’s not a random process and that little things matter.

To casual listeners, the subtle nuances of songwriting or performing may just go completely over their heads. They won’t recognize that the song is crooked (has an odd number of beats in measure) or that the banjo is in a modal tuning. But they may get the vibe of the song. Crooked tunes create a certain tension by moving the chord changes to unexpected places, and modal tunings have an eerie, haunting quality that sets a dark mood, especially appropriate for songs about murder, mining, and moonshine.

Little things matter. Here’s a test: try playing Clinch Mountain Backstep without the extra beat. It totally steals the song’s thunder. Play “Coo-coo Bird” with a banjo tuned to standard G instead of G-modal (sawmill) tuning. It’s just not very interesting.

To the layman, all of this is just gobbledy-gook, but a musician recognizes how changing one note can change an entire song. Bluegrass is unique in that so many of its fans are also practitioners of the music and appreciate the finer points of style and content. At any decent-sized festival, you’re likely to find dozens of amateur songwriters and hundreds of amateur performers. And each of them has a little Ponytail inside of them, whether they know it or not.

The bluegrass community has the luxury of not worrying about budgets and timetables, since the vast majority of us play just for fun or, at the most, use gig money to offset the cost of our fabulous instruments and festival tickets. So getting out to play bluegrass is a way of unleashing that inner Ponytail. Luckily for festival-goers, the only Suits they’ll see are the emcees and Del McCoury.

What's Your Sound?
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, September 10, 2014

I happened to re-listen to the classic “Flatt & Scruggs at Carnegie Hall” recently. It had been a few years, I’m ashamed to say, but it did mean I got to rediscover it. What struck me immediately is how sparse the sound is. My ears have grown accustomed to a denser “wall of sound” from bluegrass bands, even those who are considered traditional.

Other albums that achieve that sparse sound include Grisman’s “Bluegrass Reunion” and Joe Val’s stuff. Both of these are modern enough that we can’t chalk up Flatt & Scruggs sound to being due to older recording methods.

It seems to me, very few of the bluegrass bands I see playing are able to recreate that feel. High Country does it, and I have no doubt they work very hard at it. I’m not sure every bluegrass bands wants to feature that classic sound.

Bluegrass is a particular type of music, and we’re all banging away at it. As we get more proficient, we want to try and achieve the tones we’re hearing from the masters of thismusic, on our wooden instruments. Some of the tone comes from the talent and technique of the players, of course, but we can purchase fine instruments to give us a leg up on that pursuit.

Then, beyond the tone, there’s the feel to the ensemble sound, and there is a lot of flexibility to that approach. It seems to me that modern music has taken advantage of better recording and sound support technologies to bring the rhythm guitar up in the mix quite a bit. Lester Flatt’s guitar on the Carnegie Hall recording is VERY understated. The polar opposite of that is Ricky Skaggs’ Kentucky Thunder, with big booming twin guitars.

I guess bands have to decide on more than songs, harmonies and arrangements. They have decide on their overall sound, as an ensemble. I’m a personality type that prefers to let those things sort themselves out. The personnel of a band, their talent level, and song selection will impart a certain sound, all by itself, and if no one is overplaying egregiously, I’m OK with letting the chips fall where they may, so long as it sounds good.

Other bands will have a specific goal in mind, when it comes the sound of the band, and whoever’s in charge of that band will need to select the players, songs and arrangements that will help make that happen, AND guide every step of the construction of that sound.

I think Flatt & Scruggs’ sound grew right out of bluegrass music’s roots, as a front porch pickin’ music. The times I hear that sound (if not the virtuosity) most often is hearing folks pickin’ in small groups around campsites at festivals and campouts, and yes, on front porches. Which leads me to an inevitable epiphany: Give yourselves a hand, folks. It’s YOU, more than the experts and stars, that keep bluegrass music alive – Lester and Earl would be proud of you!

Today's column from John Karsmeyer
Tuesday, September 9, 2014

(Editor’s Note: John K tells good stories. Here’s one from a few years ago.)

In the past I’ve written a couple of columns on Claude, The “Singing” Dog. I wrote about how Claude was homeless in Oregon, and how he made his way up the driveway of friends of mine, a house on a five acre, tree studded paradise that became Claude’s home for the last eight years.

And how Claude obtained his last name, the same last name as my friend, which is Hopper. That’s how this dog became know as Claude Hopper.

At his new home Claude began to “sing.” My friends, Dale and Sharon Hopper, are singers and performers. Bluegrass, old time country, and “whatever” is the music that they perform, and they are alive and pickin’ every chance they get.

As soon as Claude adjusted to his new environment he let it be known that he was not your ordinary Jack Russell Terrier. During a live song being performed by Dale in the back yard, Claude put his head back and began to “sing” (okay, howl) along to the song, “Cattle Call,” key of D, and you know what? Claude’s “singing” was also in the key of D.

Anyway, during the last eight years Claude made his way from singing in the backyard to performing in front of live audiences, complete with his own stool, own microphone, and red handkerchief/necktie. He even got his picture and story in some of the local newspapers.

My friend Dale has a really good singing voice. He never made the “big time,” but my opinion is that this is because he didn’t go-for-it in the music bizz. He was too busy raising a family, keeping music as a hobby; a hobby that earned $400 a gig back in the 70’s and 80’s. But eventually Dale got “upstaged,” by a dog.

Right, you guessed it, by Claude. After Claude began his performing career he got more applause and audience reaction than his master, Dale. Of course Dale didn’t mind, in fact he often said, “That’s a good thing.”

So Claude’s career brought him to many a new place to perform, got him some press, and like so many other performers he is now on You Tube (“Claude the Singing Dog”).

Sadly, last Sunday afternoon I got a call from Dale, letting me know that Claude is no longer with us. Claude had diabetes for the last few years, but things were going along okay until around the first of July when his health began to deteriorate. July 26th was Claude’s last public performance, “Concert In The Park,” in Cave Junction, Oregon.

As always he loved the attention of the audience, and as he often did he kept singing for about ten seconds after the rest of the band concluded his two favorite songs, “Cattle Call,” and “I Taught My Dog To Yodel.” Dale told me on the phone, “Claude was weak, but he perked up on those two songs, and did what he loved to do best.” But this was not Claude’s last song.

As Claude lay on the blanket bed at the veteranian’s on Friday night, August 3rd, Dale picked up his guitar and began to sing. With a good deal of effort, Claude lifted up his head and sang his last song, just before the animal doctor did what he knew was best to ease Claude’s pain and suffering.

Dale told me that even though Claude was suffering for the past couple of years he never complained, whined, or whimpered. He always rose to the occasion, performed, and came through when he was called upon. I had the good fortune of seeing Claude perform at least a dozen times over the years. Like good people we’ve know, we’ll miss Claude, and know that somewhere Claude is singing his heart out, pain free.

On the phone Dale read me, “A Dog’s Prayer.” I’d never heard of it before, but I’ll pass it along:


“Treat me kindly, my beloved master, for no heart in the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.

Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I should lick your hand between blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me do.

Speak to me often, for your voice is the world’s sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footstep falls upon my waiting ear.

When it is cold and wet, please take me inside, for I am now a domesticated animal, no longer used to bitter elements. And I ask no greater glory than the privilege of setting at your feet beside the heart. Though had you no home, I would rather follow you through ice and snow than rest upon the softest pillow in the warmest home in all the land, for you are my god and I am your devoted worshiper.

Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for although I should not reproach you were it dry, I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst. Feed me clean food, that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side, and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life should your life be in danger.

And beloved master, should the great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight, do no turn me away from you. Rather hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands grant me the merciful boon of eternal rest, and I will leave you knowing with the last breath I drew, my fate was ever safest in your hands.”

THE DAILY GRIST..."At the very bottom of the container was the last thing to come out. It was something that wasn't evil. We call the good that Pandora unleashed by the name of hope”--From The Pithos of Pandora

Intelligent Streaming
Today's column from Randy January
Monday, September 8, 2014

The days of vinyl are long gone to all but the nostalgic collector. The 8-tracks faired even worse, as it never even became cool and retro to admit you have a stash of those. The cassette had it’s time, and if I dug deep enough in the packed up boxed of my youth in the attic, I’m sure I can still pull out a mixed tape or two. The CD promised higher fidelity and more longevity, but that wasn’t always true if you didn’t handle them correctly. Of course nowadays you can store your CDs on your computer and just burn a new copy should you badly scratch your favorite. Most honest folks would resist the urge to burn a copy for their friend, and artists just starting out could have boxes of them made up for fairly cheap to have on hand at shows.

It seems the next generation is already upon us though, and indeed to a large population of the youth the CD is a thing of the past. They look at those big round shiny disks the same way I’d look at an old rotary phone. Big, clunky, and obsolete.

Music comes fast to them. It’s bought and stored on the cloud, so they can play it from any device of theirs that streams music in just about any location. Other times, it’s not bought at all, as streaming radio apps, like Pandora, make it possible to have essentially your own radio station playing songs that you’ll probably like based on complex computer algorithms. I’m not as familiar with Spotify, but I’m told you can even pick the exact artist and song to listen to for a monthly fee (assuming the artist or the artist’s label allows their music to be part of their database).

So, I sort of sit in an interesting position. I’m old enough to have at least played some vinyl, an 8-track or two, and the cassette was the preferred means of music when I was a kid. I was in college studying Computer Science when the MP3 revolutionized digital music and made it so easy to share that for a time I had literally hundreds of thousands of songs at my fingertips through software such as Napster. Security has gotten better, and I have grown older and wiser to know better than to take artists music without paying for it (I still believe 99% of illegally shared music is teenagers and young college students who don’t really have the means to buy your music anyways, so it’s best to just let them grow out of it). I have an iPhone now, and I must admit I do prefer a few taps of the phone to purchase the songs I want than to deal with CDs. At the same time, I still have CDs, and still use them in the car and at work. I’m passionate about supporting Bluegrass Music, so I buy CDs directly from the artist whenever I can (I think I have purchased 10-12 in the last year directly from festivals and house concerts). Here is the big kicker though that is sure to make some people cringe. I do use Pandora, and frankly, I love it.

Now I understand why Pandora has such a bad reputation. The fear is that once the box, pithos, or jar is open, then nobody will want to buy music anymore. I mean, why would they when it’s free, right? To hear some people speak of it, the opening of the Pandora’s box of music has set all the evil in the world free. Just remember though, even in the mythical tale, tucked into the bottom of all that strife and fear was one gift from the gods. Hope.

The beauty of intelligent streaming radio such as Pandora is the potential to introduce people to new music. I’m still rather new to the world of Bluegrass, and I’m constantly finding new music both old and new based on it playing music that I might like. Now admittedly, I don’t buy all the music I hear. I don’t even buy all the music I like. It does give me awareness of the artists though, and when I’m ready to buy another album, or even just a song or two, I have many to choose from. I probably purchase music I’ve found on Pandora once every couple of months. Multiply that by the millions of people in the world that use it, and you have the potential for lots of exposure. Global exposure.

Rather than fighting the wave of the future, rather than telling people that hardly even know how to insert a CD anymore that they should be purchasing them, perhaps the emerging artists should embrace the new ways (which doesn’t mean they have to discard the old). However, it’s still essential to educate people that even though it’s fast and easy to download music, even though they can just pay a buck and get the song they want, it is still a difficult and skilled process to make music, and should be valued as such. It takes a younger generation grown to appreciate, practice, and perform music. It takes hours upon hours of work to put together great music, as it is a lifetime of dedication. Music is a form of art that must have patrons and supporters. Good music will never be as simple as the pressing of a few buttons.

THE DAILY GRIST: “I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.” Henry David Thoreau

Autumn Rituals: Football, Shotguns, and THE FALL CAMPOUT! (all you ever wanted to know and really wanted to ask—right here!)
Today's column from Marcos Alvira
Sunday, September 7, 2014

Autumn Rituals: Football, Shotguns, and THE FALL CAMPOUT! (all you ever wanted to know and really wanted to ask—right here!)

Sure fire signs that Fall is here: The opening of dove season. The first full Sunday of NFL games. Fishing solely with dry flies. Scrounging for the turkey call in the garage. Leaves loosing the fullness of their verdancy. The almond harvest. THE CBA FALL CAMPOUT!

For most of us living in California’s great Central Valley, autumn is a welcome relief to our furnace-like summer temperatures. Oddly enough, temperatures begin to rise again from October 13 though the 19 as CBA members and friends gather in Lodi for the annual Fall Campout and some really hot picking.

The October week long picking & gathering will return to the Lodi Grape Festival & Harvest Fair grounds at 413 East Lockford St. in Lodi, California. As usual day visitors are free, RV’s are welcome for $25 per night and tent camping will lighten your wallet a mere $10 nightly. As usual, there will be a wonderful dinner served Saturday night (Oct. 18) which includes a wonderful dinner performance by the popular and venerable Foothillbillies Old Thyme String Band. These guys and gals have performed at the Father’s Day Festival, Bear Valley Music Festival, The State Fair, and at the famous “A Winter’s Night Yeow” shows, just to mention a few of their venues.

The Valley is truly one of the few locations in California, aside form our far northern reaches, where one can feel a real change of season. The days are warm and the nights are crisp. Of course that nocturnal cool triggers a massive change in color in our plethora of deciduous tress. The respite from summer heat and the end of the harvest leave the air clear and golden. The conditions are right for 24/7 picking and visiting. Besides the week long picking binge, Saturday dinner and show, there also is the annual meeting, instrument raffle drawing, last chance to vote for CBA Board members, announcement of the election winners, and the perennially popular Sunday general membership meeting.

As always, we are seeking volunteers to help with the gate, dinner and other sundries. If you would like to lend your able hand or merely have a question about the Campout, calll David Brace at: 209-534-9284 or email him at DHB1221@me.com or email Marc Alvira at: valleybluegrass@gmail.com

What: CBA Fall Campout
When: October 13-19
Where: Lodi Grape Festival & Harvest Fair grounds at 413 East Lockford St. in Lodi, CA
RV’s $25 per night (Full hook-ups available. First come, first serve.)
Tent camping $10 per night.
Day visitors gratis.

Hello California
Today's column from Marty Varner
Saturday, September 6, 2014

Well, here I am. The other side of the country does have its fair share of culture shocks, like the fact that Mexican food is made with American cheddar cheese, but in general I am loving my time seeing and absorbing a different part of the world. I guess I have an accent. Who knew? At Clark University I have met a variety of people who are definitely going to have a vital role in my next four years. My friend David is a fellow guitar player who is really getting his music off the ground. If any readers can stomach anything except pure Appalachian genius, then I highly recommend giving his band, the Melephants, a try.

I was going into college assuming that I wouldn't be able to have a lot of familiar items and ideas from back home, but I was mistaken. In my first week here I already met somebody from Santa Cruz (we complain about the numerous culture shocks together) and I met a celtic/bluegrass player. (I could not express my excitement when she called it a fiddle instead of a violin)

By far the biggest surprise of being here at Clark University is the numerous claims and pseudo claims to fame I can take part in. My roommate’s name is Bill Murray (no relation), and on a much cooler note I am friends with the roommate of Alex Gould. Alex is most well known for being the voice of Nemo in Finding Nemo and as the borderline psychotic Shane Botwin in Weeds. (Which just happens to be a show I have watched all the way through at least four times.) Now to top it all off, Matthew McConaughey is filming his new movie ‘Sea of Trees’ in the science building of my campus. And guess who got to see them?

What I love about Clark is how dedicated they are to getting their students to participate in numerous clubs. What I have decided to do is try to get my own radio show. I am not sure of the time yet, but I am sure that I will title it "The Old Dusty Trail" to follow in the footsteps of my pops. Just like my music taste, it won't solely be traditional bluegrass, but I plan on keeping it in the big tent so that the listeners will learn to appreciate my genre as something more than Mumford and Sons.

The biggest issue for me (and my guitar) so far has been the bipolar and uninhabitable weather. I recall one day last week when it was 90 degrees and humid throughout the afternoon until cloud appeared along with lightning and rain. Like a Californian I decided to run back and get a jacket only to discover that it is sunny again and I am about to die from heat stroke.

So I guess I should get to my classes at this point. This semester I made my classes very specific to my interests outside of the classroom. Except for biology (which I thought I would get out of the way early), each of my classes is incredibly interesting. I am taking a baseball history class which will give me an opportunity to play against a team that plays by the old school rules of baseball. I also get to go to Fenway Park later this year! I am also taking a music & modernism class which has begun with studying Messian's "Quartet for the End of Time" which sounds suspiciously like Punch Brothers at moments. My other interesting class is trial advocacy. There we will be giving our opening statements on a faux case that is going to be used by the mock trial national tournament in 2015.

The highlight of my time in the north east definitely has to be the night I spent in Boston. It was my first time there and I was amazed by all of the history and unique architecture that one can't find in cities like San Francisco and Los Angeles. They also have some delicious sea food which I can't live without.

There are many other things that I will recall to tell you Californians with each article, but I thought it was necessary to give you all a gist, and telling you that I am having an incredibly rewarding experience here at Clark University in Massachusetts. Thanks to those who supported my YouCaring campaign!

(Editor’s Note: John K tells good stories. Here’s one from a few years ago.)

In the past I’ve written a couple of columns on Claude, The “Singing” Dog. I wrote about how Claude was homeless in Oregon, and how he made his way up the driveway of friends of mine, a house on a five acre, tree studded paradise that became Claude’s home for the last eight years.

And how Claude obtained his last name, the same last name as my friend, which is Hopper. That’s how this dog became know as Claude Hopper.

At his new home Claude began to “sing.” My friends, Dale and Sharon Hopper, are singers and performers. Bluegrass, old time country, and “whatever” is the music that they perform, and they are alive and pickin’ every chance they get.

As soon as Claude adjusted to his new environment he let it be known that he was not your ordinary Jack Russell Terrier. During a live song being performed by Dale in the back yard, Claude put his head back and began to “sing” (okay, howl) along to the song, “Cattle Call,” key of D, and you know what? Claude’s “singing” was also in the key of D.

Anyway, during the last eight years Claude made his way from singing in the backyard to performing in front of live audiences, complete with his own stool, own microphone, and red handkerchief/necktie. He even got his picture and story in some of the local newspapers.

My friend Dale has a really good singing voice. He never made the “big time,” but my opinion is that this is because he didn’t go-for-it in the music bizz. He was too busy raising a family, keeping music as a hobby; a hobby that earned $400 a gig back in the 70’s and 80’s. But eventually Dale got “upstaged,” by a dog.

Right, you guessed it, by Claude. After Claude began his performing career he got more applause and audience reaction than his master, Dale. Of course Dale didn’t mind, in fact he often said, “That’s a good thing.”

So Claude’s career brought him to many a new place to perform, got him some press, and like so many other performers he is now on You Tube (“Claude the Singing Dog”).

Sadly, last Sunday afternoon I got a call from Dale, letting me know that Claude is no longer with us. Claude had diabetes for the last few years, but things were going along okay until around the first of July when his health began to deteriorate. July 26th was Claude’s last public performance, “Concert In The Park,” in Cave Junction, Oregon.

As always he loved the attention of the audience, and as he often did he kept singing for about ten seconds after the rest of the band concluded his two favorite songs, “Cattle Call,” and “I Taught My Dog To Yodel.” Dale told me on the phone, “Claude was weak, but he perked up on those two songs, and did what he loved to do best.” But this was not Claude’s last song.

As Claude lay on the blanket bed at the veteranian’s on Friday night, August 3rd, Dale picked up his guitar and began to sing. With a good deal of effort, Claude lifted up his head and sang his last song, just before the animal doctor did what he knew was best to ease Claude’s pain and suffering.

Dale told me that even though Claude was suffering for the past couple of years he never complained, whined, or whimpered. He always rose to the occasion, performed, and came through when he was called upon. I had the good fortune of seeing Claude perform at least a dozen times over the years. Like good people we’ve know, we’ll miss Claude, and know that somewhere Claude is singing his heart out, pain free.

On the phone Dale read me, “A Dog’s Prayer.” I’d never heard of it before, but I’ll pass it along:


“Treat me kindly, my beloved master, for no heart in the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.

Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I should lick your hand between blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me do.

Speak to me often, for your voice is the world’s sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footstep falls upon my waiting ear.

When it is cold and wet, please take me inside, for I am now a domesticated animal, no longer used to bitter elements. And I ask no greater glory than the privilege of setting at your feet beside the heart. Though had you no home, I would rather follow you through ice and snow than rest upon the softest pillow in the warmest home in all the land, for you are my god and I am your devoted worshiper.

Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for although I should not reproach you were it dry, I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst. Feed me clean food, that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side, and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life should your life be in danger.

And beloved master, should the great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight, do no turn me away from you. Rather hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands grant me the merciful boon of eternal rest, and I will leave you knowing with the last breath I drew, my fate was ever safest in your hands.”

THE DAILY GRIST: If you done it, it ain't bragging. – Walt Whitman
Hello, California!
Today’s column from Marty Varner
Saturday September 6, 2014

Well, here I am. The other side of the country does have its fair share of culture shocks, like the fact that Mexican food is made with American cheddar cheese, but in general I am loving my time seeing and absorbing a different part of the world. I guess I have an accent. Who knew? At Clark University I have met a variety of people who are definitely going to have a vital role in my next four years. My friend David is a fellow guitar player who is really getting his music off the ground. If any readers can stomach anything except pure Appalachian genius, then I highly recommend giving his band, the Melephants, a try.
I was going into college assuming that I wouldn't be able to have a lot of familiar items and ideas from back home, but I was mistaken. In my first week here I already met somebody from Santa Cruz (we complain about the numerous culture shocks together) and I met a celtic/bluegrass player. (I could not express my excitement when she called it a fiddle instead of a violin)

By far the biggest surprise of being here at Clark University is the numerous claims and pseudo claims to fame I can take part in. My roommate’s name isBill Murray (no relation), and on a much cooler note I am friends with the roommate of Alex Gould. Alex is most well known for being the voice of Nemo in Finding Nemo and as the borderline psychotic Shane Botwin in Weeds. (Which just happens to be a show I have watched all the way through at least four times.) Now to top it all off, Matthew McConaughey is filming his new movie ‘Sea of Trees’ in the science building of my campus. And guess who got to see them?

What I love about Clark is how dedicated they are to getting their students to participate in numerous clubs. What I have decided to do is try to get my own radio show. I am not sure of the time yet, but I am sure that I will title it "The Old Dusty Trail" to follow in the footsteps of my pops. Just like my music taste, it won't solely be traditional bluegrass, but I plan on keeping it in the big tent so that the listeners will learn to appreciate my genre as something more than Mumford and Sons.

The biggest issue for me (and my guitar) so far has been the bipolar and uninhabitable weather. I recall one day last week when it was 90 degrees and humid throughout the afternoon until cloud appeared along with lightning and rain. Like a Californian I decided to run back and get a jacket only to discover that it is sunny again and I am about to die from heat stroke.

So I guess I should get to my classes at this point. This semester I made my classes very specific to my interests outside of the classroom. Except for biology (which I thought I would get out of the way early), each of my classes is incredibly interesting. I am taking a baseball history class which will give me an opportunity to play against a team that plays by the old school rules of baseball. I also get to go to Fenway Park later this year! I am also taking a music & modernism class which has begun with studying Messian's "Quartet for the End of Time" which sounds suspiciously like Punch Brothers at moments. My other interesting class is trial advocacy. There we will be giving our opening statements on a faux case that is going to be used by the mock trial national tournament in 2015.

The highlight of my time in the north east definitely has to be the night I spent in Boston. It was my first time there and I was amazed by all of the history and unique architecture that one can't find in cities like San Francisco and Los Angeles. They also have some delicious sea food which I can't live without.

There are many other things that I will recall to tell you Californians with each article, but I thought it was necessary to give you all a gist, and telling you that I am having an incredibly rewarding experience here at Clark University in Massachusetts. Thanks to those who supported my YouCaring campaign!

Ten Items or Fewer
Today’s column from Brooks Judd
Friday September 5, 2014

Item 1: Leaving on a jet plane. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeahhhhhhh!!!!! My big sister, Maria Nadauld, and her talented daughter, Megan, will be boarding the big trans-Atlantic bird today to fly over the pond so they can trace the haunts of Liverpool’s famous foursome, the fabulous Beatles. I doubt if any CBA member has traveled as much as Maria. Hell, Southwest Airlines has Maria on THEIR speed dial! Have a safe and comfortable trip, enjoy, and have a pint on me. If you see Paul tell him he put on a great show at Candlestick.

Item 2: And speaking of my big sister. Maria is in the running for a position on the CBA Board. It seems like only yesterday Rick approached me to run his CBA campaign many years ago. Unfortunately I was busy trying to rid the world of pestilence and cancer and had to turn Rick down. Although Rick was crushed by my answer he set in forces a CBA election campaign that has yet to be duplicated or matched since.The rest is history. Rick not only got elected but served as Chairman of the Board so many times the CBA had to buy him a new Corinthian leather recliner to sit in. Rick was able to infuse the CBA with new invigorating blood, ideas, and computer technology that brought the CBA into the twenty-first century and set a new standard for Bluegrass Boards everywhere.

I am convinced Maria will be able to produce equally ground shaking results. The fact that Maria is my sister has a little bit to do with my full support (well a little) but to those who know her will nod their heads in agreement. She will do wonders for the CBA.

Item 3: November is quietly sneaking up on us and that means the mid-term elections are rapidly closing in on the unsuspecting citizens of this great country of ours. Soon all of us will be assaulted verbally, visually, and audibly, via the airways, using TV, social media and yes, signage.

I was on my walk the other day and came upon a vacant lot, and there, side by side stood two campaign signs not more than two feet apart. The first one read, "Elect Denham, a local farmer." The other sign read, "Elect Eggman, a REAL local farmer." I am thinking that there might be yet another candidate running who might have on their sign, "Elect John Doe, a SURREAL local farmer."

Item 4: More medical stories but bear with me. I made the long trip to Oakland Kaiser to check with a specialist about some surgery I might need. We discussed the surgery and I asked her how complicated the surgery was. She paused and replied, “It is an extremely complicated surgery and will take about five hours.” I gulped and said, ”That is a long time. How many days will I be staying in the hospital?” She looked at her notes and responded, "Well, you do live in Turlock, and that is about a two hour drive, so we will possibly want to keep you overnight."

I am thinking to myself, “I’ve just had a five-hour complicated surgery and she is THINKING of keeping me overnight.” Isn’t that rushing things just a bit? Bullets on hand.

Item 5: Wednesday my oldest grandson walked into his third grade classroom for the first time.The day before my second oldest grandson bravely strolled into his kindergarden class in Woodland. I don’t know who was more proud or elated, my two grandsons, parents or grandparents. I can’t believe it has been eight years since our oldest grandson was born and almost two since our granddaughter has been brought into this world. Time doesn’t fly, it moves at Mach speed.

I was sharing with my grandsons how the first day of school would always be a sense of excitement and fascination for me. It wasn’t so much the fact of going to school but the preparation especially the routine of laying out all my new store-bought clothing items, notebooks, pens, pencils, and erasers.

I can remember laying out my new “husky” jeans my mother picked out for me at Penny’s. The pant legs would have to be rolled up a bit more than other boys because of my ample girth. My plaid shirt (maybe Pendleton if my father had received a raise that year) would be spread out neatly on my bunk bed. My high-top Ked sneakers stood tall with their bright and shiny sparkling new laces, and right next to them were my recently purchased three-to-a-package white sports socks with the three multi-colored rings at the top.I would spend Sunday evening arranging and rearranging my array of new clothes with a big excited goofy grin on my young face. Of course, after the first day of school all bets were off and, “It really didn’t matter what clothes I wear, or how I fare or if my hair is brown, when it’s only a Northern Song.”* (* G. Harrison - "It’s Only a Northern Song")

Until October 3: Read a book, hug a child, pet a dog, stroke a cat, eat a bar of chocolate and say something nice behind someone’s back.

THE DAILY GRIST…”I’ll take Odd and Ends for $100, Art” Jeopardy Pre 1975 (I’m real old school)

GOF Main Stage 9:00 AM Sunday and Various Other Odds and Ends.
Today’s Column From Dave Williams
Thursday, September 4, 2014

What’s it like playing the main stage at GOF at 9:00 Sunday morning? Well I’m here to tell you.

First of all let me give you some important background. Our set was not a gospel set as this was negotiated with the festival producers when we accepted the time slot. If our band was to do the gospel set, it was highly possible that there could have been some smiting happening like thunder, lightening, locusts, plague, floods etc.

This leads me to tell you about our band. While, we had most of the requisite acoustic instruments, guitar, fiddle, mandolin, bass (the instrument not the fish) we also had the big bluegrass festival no no…..drums. The drums were allowed per the Houston Jones exception of the Northern California Bluegrass Society. Also we brought along a jug and a washboard for good measure but did forget the banjo. Not your mother’s traditional bluegrass band and very ill suited to play some Stanley Brothers gospel classics. But then again we weren’t the gospel set, just the opening act for the gospel set.

So let’s talk audience for a few minutes. Who is in the audience at 9:00 AM Sunday morning at a bluegrass festival for a set that is not gospel and not bluegrass, on the morning after Saturday night, the last night of jamming? It wasn’t our families as they quit coming to our shows years ago, Golfers with later tee times from the golf course across the street, what do you think? Ah, vendors, volunteers and sound folks, now there is a hearty group of folks and yes they were there.

Actually, we had a nice sized audience of musically interested folks. We’re unique enough to draw some diverse (and excellent) musicians to see what this cacophony was about and they did a good job of pretending to be enjoying it. Our emcee was Cliff Compton and he seemed to enjoy the show as well.

I also had two of my bass teachers in the audience (which I thought was pretty cool); one was there by choice and the other was working, Lisa Burns and Paul Knight. Besides them I noticed a couple of other “prominent” bass players in the audience. The conclusion I draw from that is that bass players have good taste in music.

Enough of that, I promised some more “odds and ends” and will move on to that.

Last year I was all gung-ho about getting some opportunities to play at any of the number of Octoberfests (or if you prefer Oktoberfests) in the Bay area. I pushed the idea that bluegrass or Americana could be included as beer drinking music and would fit very nicely at these events.

Turns out I landed one of these gigs last year at the Mountain View Oktoberfest. We played two sets that I thought were well received. I contacted the producer for our return engagement this year and was told how great we were last year but that he was going all German bands this year. In other words no accordion no gig…..no lederhosen no gig….. no schmaltz no gig. So it goes.

When I think about that I’m reminded of a joke that I’m quite sure most of you have heard and know the punch line to it. So I’ll turn it around Jeopardy style to see if that helps.

The category is Odds and Ends for $1000

Answer: Perfect Pitch

(Remember your answer must be in the form of a question.)

Question: What do have when you toss an accordion into a dumpster and it lands on a banjo?

The final “end” today is the Monthly SCVFA reminder. This Sunday the Fiddlers are holding their monthly jam at the Hoover Middle School in San Jose at the corner of Park and Naglee from 1:00 to 5:00. Hope you can come out and jam.

Wounds Healed, Hearts Lifted Here
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Some of the musical things I do are so regular, they could be called routine. I have weekly rehearsals, and there’s a twice-a-month gig that’s been part of my life for about 10 years now.

Like any routine, there are days when I don’t actually want to go. I’ll have a long hard day at work, and what I really want to do when I get home is plop on the couch in front of the TV. The prospect of loading gear into a vehicle and driving somewhere to play just doesn’t seem appealing.

So I drive home from work, grumbling at what lies in front of me and threatens my ever-so-valuable boob tube time. I’m not terribly annoyed, but it just seems like one more hassle after a day full of them.

But, people are counting on me - people I care about, so I scarf some dinner, and load up to go to whatever is on my schedule for the evening. And something magical happens.

When I arrive at the rehearsal studio, or the pub I’m playing at, I’m NOT so tired, I’m NOTso depressed. I do not long for my couch and TV. I cease to be worn out and discouraged, and I’m filled with an eager anticipation.

If it’s a rehearsal, what new stuff are we going to work on? What mistakes will we correct? Very little makes me feel better than going over something I flubbed at a recent gig and getting it smoothed out. The whole exercise becomes a welcome respite from the pressures of the day. I really enjoy working with the other bandmates and sharing ideas to get things tightened up musically, with plenty of laughs along the way.

The same goes the “routine” semi-monthly gig. I may have a weak moment where I did not look forward to piling my stuff in the car, driving 20 miles and setting up a PA system, knowing I will not get home until after midnight when I have to get up early in the morning. But the pub’s counting on us, and band’s counting on me.

Invariably, once I get there, though, there’s great comfort in the routine. And it’s not really routine - every gig is different. Will the band be “on”, or not? Will the audience be attentive or apathetic? Sometimes the evening starts out one way and ends another. It’s a lot of fun not knowing, and seeing how things unfold. We try to make sure we do a great show, but there are no guarantees in that noisy pub. What requests will we get and how will we pull them off?

Whether I’ve been to rehearsal or a gig, I never regret having done it, even on those rare occasions (and they are rare) when I didn’t necessarily look forward to it from the time I woke up in the morning! For it’s true - music hath magic to heal wounds (and least the ones in my head) and lift a troubled (or maybe just irritated) heart.

Today's column from Brian McNeal, prescriptionbluegrass.com
Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Where would we be without festivals? Hopefully, this is something we will never be faced with. But sadly, some festivals, after years and years of struggling, are calling it quits.

There are new festivals being born each year, but I'm afraid the number of festivals that are closing is the more rapidly growing percentage. It's going to take a little from all of us to ensure the festival experience continues for years to come if you want to be able to take your kids or grand kids to one of these events, instead of just one day telling them how much fun a festival was.

We must all work together to keep these festivals going. Whether you are the festival promoter, band member, volunteer or audience member, your help is needed! One way you can help is by voicing your opinion on what ways we can improve the festival experience.
Prescription Bluegrass heard from a few concerned bluegrassers regarding this issue, so we surveyed several more to try to get the ins and outs, the ups and downs, and the things that are really treasured, as well as those that don't really get the job done to the satisfaction of all concerned.

What we found was not necessarily shocking. Just look around at any festival you attend and you'll probably quickly spot items of interest on both the PROS as well as the CONS side of the list. However, the PROS and CONS can easily get mingled or completely trade places with each other depending upon just whose list upon which they happen to be.

In our very informal survey, we discovered that there can easily be two or more sides to an issue or problem: Promoters want to pay less for everything. Bands want to earn more for their time and talent and vendors never have enough traffic (sales) to justify their space rent.

We asked two simple questions: We wanted to know what works and what doesn't, limiting answers to just one example in each category. And we promised to keep everyone's identity strictly secret to avoid any possible retaliatory action if someone didn't agree.

From the promoters we got an over abundance of a feeling of sameness … in that they seemed to think they know what their crowds want to see and hear and they felt confident that they were booking the best bands they could get for the money they had with which to work. From many of the musicians we got an entirely opposite opinion with one saying that at too many of the festivals where they played, they ended up sounding just like the bands before them and after them. “Not enough variety” was a comment that was stressed by several. “An audience member can only take so much of the same thing before losing interest. Why not add a strictly gospel group in the mix? And, then maybe one that is a bit more progressive? Entertaining your attendees is the whole point of hosting a festival, right? Give them a show!”

Variety shouldn't just be a staple for entertainment either. Why not add variety to all aspects of the event? What type of food is served? “Not everyone will spend money on a plate of all fried food.” Healthy food choices, if available, can help people stay on the grounds instead of taking their appetites back to the tent or motorhome.

Like the music, too much sameness in the vendor area can also be a negative … more variety pleases more folks. Any local promoter might know his crowd better than musicians or even fans coming from great distances away. For instance, supplying vegetarian crab-flavored tofu cakes at a festival on the Navajo Indian Reservation might not go over too well, while the Indian fry bread vendor sells out on the first day. However, the other side of the coin is that not all festival attendees are local and a lot do travel great distances in huge RV's and variety in food is a simple way to help keep them on the grounds.

On the positive side of the line one stand-out comment put bluegrass festivals right up along side state and national holidays, “Highly anticipated. No need to ask what the dates are because most know that such and such festival is always on the third weekend of such and such month. Time off from work and vacations are often planned around the bluegrass festival calendar.”

You can usually tell who has put planning and thought into a festival as soon as you arrive, maybe even before. There should be signs along the road for several miles leading folks to the festival. People WILL turn around and leave if they have to hunt for it. Things should be as simple as possible for festival guests – especially access and entrance. One response, most likely from a performer who was late for the show said, “Not only did they have zero appropriate signage, but their directions were all backwards. They gave us left turns when they should have been right.”

With Mapquest and onboard navigation and apps in data phones these days that may be less of a problem than it was years ago, but online maps and navigational apps don't advertise your festival the way a highway sign does. More than one attendee has paid the admission because the sign was more enticing than their original plans.

Another musician obviously felt slighted at a few gigs, commenting, “... remember your performers. Artists need a place to adjust their set ... to warm up ... to change clothes!” There is nothing particularly wrong with pulling a flatbed trailer out into the middle of a field and using it as a stage. But, there seems to be a loss of magic when you watch the performers walk from their van to the trailer. Your performers need to be able to "take" the stage. Not having a hidden backstage area robs the audience of that. If you can't afford to build a grand music hall, or rent a coliseum, at least make sure you (the festival promoter) have some form of backdrop that your artists can get behind before coming out on stage.

While rock and roll performance contracts are legendary for the absurd, and can include everything from imported lobster to pink M&Ms back stage as a requirement, bluegrass contracts are much more simplified and usually state nothing in the way of back stage accommodations or luxuries. So providing something to drink for your artists at the most minimal level shows performers that some thought went into their being there. “Many places, where we have performed, offer meat/veggie trays along with water/cokes for their artists back stage. This means more than folks know.” was a comment we heard more than once in the responses. Most times, performers do not have time to grab a meal. They are busy building rapport with fans, networking with other performers, warming up, changing strings, etc. Sometimes, a quick snack backstage is the only food they'll have the opportunity to get all day. It will be appreciated, trust me.

Festival goers, let's hear your thoughts. After all, without you, there wouldn't be a festival. Your opinion, above all, is the most important. Be sure and let the promoter know your likes and dislikes as well. Ask your promoter where you can pick up comment cards. If he says, "they are not available," just ask for a business card and send a letter or email after you get home. Let your promoter know which bands you like. Let them know which bands you wouldn't care to see back at the festival. Tell them who you would like to see perform. Advise them on what would make their festival more enjoyable to you and your family. Most importantly, tell the festival promoter what will influence you to return next year and what will stop you from coming again.

What thoughts do you have about the many volunteers who work at both the commercial festivals as well as those put on by non-profit groups? What do the volunteers encounter that could be valuable input? What does it mean to be at the front gate all day in the hot sun checking for gate passes or parking permits? What do they (those volunteers) learn from the spectators that may not get passed on? They are some of the most important goodwill ambassadors any festival has, and yet they often get no training in the duties they're expected to perform and very little thanks when it's all said and done. A free afternoon pass for a morning's work is hardly compensation for someone who has the power to admit or not admit each individual walking up to the gate.

Daily Grist: Nothing is built on stone; all is built on sand, but we must build as if the sand were stone. - Jorge Luis Borges

GOF 2014
Today's column from Mark Varner
Monday, September 1, 2014

Before I give you my impressions of the NCBS's Good Old Fashioned Festival, allow me to encourage everyone to attend the upcoming Bluegrassin' in the Foothills Festival. The location is Plymouth and the dates are September 19-21. Bluegrass festivals in California are an endangered species, with many popular festivals ending, unfortunately. Let's bring back the glory days of this festival and show the kind of support it takes to make running the event financially worthwhile and the kind of fun that has brought devotees back for many years.

I had the pleasure to attend the NCBS event down in San Benito County recently. The Northern California Bluegrass Society put on their big August party at Bolado Park in Hollister, and as always, it was joyful, laid back and a picker’s delight. The intimate festival, which has been going on longer than many of the attendees have been alive, has supported the central California bluegrass and old time music community with the result of our area being a hot bed of talent. For many acts this is their first festival appearance. For others, like Sidesaddle, it’s a long tradition.

Folks start showing up on Thursday to find a nice camping spot in the somewhat limited shade. Many are volunteers, showing up to get the early work done, but most are there to start picking early and to enjoy the pleasant atmosphere of the festival site. It’s lovely country up there near Tres Pinos. The weather was just right. So Thursday was simply a nice party for us early birds.

Friday the main stage music got started at 3PM, so my son Marty and I spent the earlier part of the day at the Pinnacles National Monument. GOF attendees that have not made the short drive south on Highway 25 should really consider a visit to this amazing park. Go early in the day and plan on a nice long hike up to the caves. It’s hard to believe one is still in California.

But we got back in time for the country stylings of Rhythm Roundup. The lineup for Friday pretty much said it all about this festival: quality and variety. The hot new band Steep Ravine was big crowd favorites. Red Dog Ash rocked as usual and Sidesaddle closed out the evening.

I mean this in the best sense, but GOF is like a time machine, bluegrass style. I see old and dear friends I have not seen in years and folks I only find at this festival. So great to see long running bands like the Courthouse Ramblers and Highway One up there on stage. It wouldn’t be GOF without the Brookdale Bluegrass Band and Stoney Mountain Ramblers. Houston Jones, Bean Creek, Faux Renwah… many more.

I cannot list all the bands here, but no living human could write this article without a huge appreciation of the Sunday afternoon Kids On Stage performance. The program is run by Regina Bartlett. She was kind enough to include Marty Varner, eighteen year old KOB alumnus as her assistant. So naturally I was extra curious about how the program is run. Allow me to congratulate Regina on an excellent job in every respect. She made it fun; she got them to work out some great material and made the parents proud. The product spoke for the quality of the program, because it was extremely enjoyable. I know it has become cliché to laud the young people on stage as the “future of the music” but I’m going to say it anyway!

Congratulations to the hard working organizers, Eric Burman: head-honcho-for-life, and volunteers at the NCBS’s Good Old Fashioned Festival and thanks for the great party!

The NCBS’s Michael Hall said it well, “It is great to see all the great bluegrass talent that has developed in California. Thanks to everyone for coming and making it one of the most successful Good Old Fashioned festivals ever! The hard-working NCBS volunteers did it again!”

Today's column from Burt Daniel
Sunday, August 31, 2014

(Editors Note: Two summers ago, smack in the middle of a churning mad-making major league baseball season, Bert introduced us to Eddie, whom he met while working as an orderly in a hospital. If Bert had his druthers, and he does, he’d like to bring Eddie back for a re-introduction.)

After my junior year in college, I got a summer job as a hospital orderly. That's how I met Eddie. I'm really glad I met the guy because Eddie was a real character. If you're going to spend your last free summer as a kid working at a menial job, the guy you want to work with is a guy like Eddie. Eddie will keep you in stitches the whole time and time will fly on wings. Before you know it, it's five o'clock and you've made another fifty bucks.

Before you read on, let me make the obligatory no actual bluegrass content disclaimer here. Some of you hard core bluegrass fans are still soaring from your great experience at Grass Valley a few weeks ago. You want to soak up anything and everything related to bluegrass and you can pass up a good story with NBC (no bluegrass content). That's fine. Eddie probably had no interest in bluegrass at all. Baseball, yes. Bluegrass, I don't think so.

I landed my summer job because I had connections. My dad was a surgeon on the staff at our local hospital and he thought the experience as an orderly might increase my chances of getting into medical school. The job was pretty straightforward. You waited around until one of seven operating rooms got finished with a procedure. Then you rushed in there with a mop and cleaned up all the blood and guts and you restocked the shelves with sterile saline.

Eddie showed me the ropes on my first day at work. I was a little nervous about entering a sterile operating room, but Eddie showed me how to don my mask and get in and out of there efficiently with my mop so that the next operation on the schedule could begin on time. I shadowed Eddie for the first week or two. He was my role model and I liked him right from the get go.

Just so you get the full picture, allow me to inform you that this summer job I landed was in the south in the mid seventies. Eddie and all of my other orderly coworkers were black. I'd be a college graduate in another year and most of these guys had never made it through high school. I stood out like a sore thumb. As a hospital orderly for this particular summer, I was part of an interracial dynamic that was in the process of changing and I was aware of that.

I mopped extra hard every time I went into a surgical suite with another orderly. I wanted to show them that I wasn't just a privileged white guy who'd gotten his job through connections (even though I had). For all I knew, I was taking the place of one of their buddies who really needed the work.

But I never felt like I was a fifth wheel. Eddie and his friends treated me like one of the family. Maybe it was because of my dad. Some of the surgeons at the hospital were extremely temperamental. But everybody seemed to like my dad.

In between operations there was a lot of down time. As a pre-med student, I was expected to cruise the operating suites in search of good learning opportunities. Maybe I could peer through a window and figure out how to cure a disease. Every now and then a doctor, usually a good friend of my dad, would invite me to come watch part of an interesting operation.

But mostly the down time was spent with my fellow orderlies, Eddie and Roger, waiting for the next call to clean a room. We spent the time talking about whatever came to our minds. Roger and I talked about jazz. He introduced me to Grover Washington and Weather Report and I introduced him to John Coltrane and Clifford Jordan. With Eddie, I told a lot of jokes. Dozens. But Eddie told scores and they were funnier than mine too. Eddie had a real knack for humor. He was a practical joker, con man and jester. He made everybody laugh.

It didn't take much talking for me to discover that Eddie was a huge fan of major league baseball. He especially liked the African American players from Jackie Robinson on. His favorite team was the Dodgers, because they had broken the color barrier. But his favorite player ever was Monte Irvin, who played for the rival Giants. Eddie and I swapped baseball trivia questions all summer. And I think that both of us came away impressed with the other's knowledge. Two guys, different races, different ages and with very different backgrounds. But we had this common bond. Through jokes and baseball, we became fast friends that summer.

Jokes didn't by any means take a back seat to baseball that summer and Eddie was a consummate jokester. One of the jokes he tried to make a go of was the contention that he had at one time played shortstop for the New York Yankees. Everybody kidded Eddie about his claim and when they did he'd dance a step to the right, crouch down and act like he was scooping up a ground ball with a smooth throw to first. Graceful, to be sure, but this ruse from a 5 foot 5, 260 pound man was a lot more hilarious than it was convincing.

I tried to trap Eddie with questions about the real Yankees team that he had supposedly played for. But his knowledge base was pretty sound. The Yankees had spent a lot of time training in the south and he knew the team's history pretty well. I never found the smoking gun that would expose Eddie's lie for all to see. Not that I wanted to. As I said, Eddie kept the whole surgical staff in stitches (pardon the pun). Everybody enjoyed Eddie's antics.

September came around and I had to return for my last year of college. I said goodbye to Eddie and Roger and I promised to stay in touch. I sent them a post card from Boston after I got back and in October, when my Red Sox reached the World Series, I thought of Eddie.

It was a great World Series. People remember that series today because of Carlton Fisk's home run in game 6. But I remember it because of an incident in game 3. The Red Sox lost the game to the Reds 6-5 because an umpire failed to call interference on Ed Armbrister, who crashed into Fisk on a play and caused a wild throw.

I was outraged after that World Series loss and I took the time to write a formal letter of complaint to the office of baseball commissioner Bowie Kuhn. "With all those cameras watching the game, can't you just let the umpires use the instant replay to get the call right?" I knew nothing would come of my complaint but I still felt better after writing the letter.

A short time later, I found an interesting letter in my mail box. It was from the Office of the Commissioner of Major League Baseball. They had actually read my letter and gotten back to me! I remember the letter well. Official color stationery with the now familiar, but then new logo of a batter zeroing in on a pitch. I read the letter. It was a very eloquent apology to me as a Red Sox fan and a very sincere promise to look into my suggestions and by the way thanks for your support of baseball, etc. etc.

I felt so much better that major league baseball took my beef seriously. Then I looked at the name of the guy who wrote this nice letter. It was Monte Irvin, Eddie's favorite player! The Giant's first black player and part of the first all black outfield in the major leagues. A Hall of Famer! I had to write this guy back.

I wrote back to Monte and thanked him for his very understanding response to my complaint. I really admired Monte Irvin. Here's a guy who had been booed in Atlanta because he happened to show up in place of Bowie Kuhn to be a witness to Hank Aaron's record breaking home run. (Kuhn had tried to meddle with the Braves lineup so that Hank would have an equal chance of making history at an away game). Monte Irvin was one of the greatest Negro League players ever, and he hit close to .300 in the bigs as well.

In my letter, I told Monte about his biggest fan, my friend Eddie. And I suggested to him that he could make Eddie really happy by writing to him and going along with the "I played shortstop once for the New York Yankees" thing. I never thought he would, but wouldn't it be great if he did?

When Christmas vacation came that year, I went home. And I stopped by Self Memorial Hospital for a visit. I found Eddie and I told him a few new jokes. But before I could start the first joke, he thanked me profusely for that letter he had gotten from Monte Irvin. The letter was hanging in a special frame on his living room wall for all of his guests to see. He grinned with pride from ear to ear.

Monte Irvin is still alive and in his nineties now. And he will definitely always be one of my favorite players.

Flights of Fantasy in a Dark Winter World
Today's column from Dave Williams
Saturday, August 30, 2014

(Editor’s Note: Lordy Lord where does the time go. Seems like the day before yesterday that Dave Williams, Bay Area bassist, agreed to give Welcoming a shot. “You can always just toss it if you need to,” he allowed, but we never have. Dave got his Welcomers voice pretty quick and has been a stalwart columnists for the CBA site ever since. On this second to the last fifth Saturday of the month we go back a couple years to what Dave told us is one of his favorites…a little something to get is through the seasonal transition coming up. Enjoy.)

I found this passage on a wall hanging in the Redhook Brewery in Woodinville, WA (Seattle) describing the qualities of a writer and somehow relating it to brewing beer. Actually, this passage was hung in multiple spots in the brewery and the connected pub.

A Writer' Gift —"a certain kind of intelligence, not the mathematician’s or the philosopher’s but the storyteller’s—an intelligence no less subtle than the mathematician’s or the philosopher’s but not so easily recognized. Like other kinds of intelligence, the storyteller’s is partly natural, partly trained. It is composed of several qualities, most of which, in normal people, are signs of either immaturity or incivility: wit (a tendency to make irreverent connections); obstinacy and a tendency toward churlishness (a refusal to believe what all sensible people know is true); childishness (an apparent lack of mental focus and serious life purpose, a fondness for daydreaming and telling pointless lies, a lack of proper respect, mischievousness, an unseemly propensity for crying over nothing); a marked tendency toward oral or anal fixation or both (the oral manifested by excessive eating, drinking, smoking, and chattering; the anal by nervous cleanliness and neatness coupled with a weird fascination with dirty jokes); remarkable powers of eidetic recall, or visual memory (a usual feature of early adolescence and mental retardation); a strange admixture of shameless playfulness and embarrassing earnestness, the latter often heightened by irrationally intense feelings for or against religion; patience like a cat’s; a criminal streak of cunning; psychological instability; recklessness, impulsiveness, and improvidence; and finally, an inexplicable and incurable addiction to stories, written or oral, bad or good. Not all writers have exactly these same virtues, of course. Occasionally one finds one who is not abnormally improvident.”

Excerpt From: Gardner, John. “On Becoming a Novelist.” Open Road Integrated Media, 2010-08-06.

I am not saying I’m a writer, but a guy can have aspirations can’t he. By my own accounting I have most of these traits, so it seems I have met the prerequisites. I’ll need to continue working on my skills though.

I happened on this wall hanging on a “tour” of the brewery. The tour consists of going into a second story room with windows on three sides overlooking the brewery. The fourth side is a bar with eight or nine beer taps. The tour guide (bartender) pours a beer for everyone and then, in an engaging and entertaining way, discusses the operations of the brewery, sharing all kinds of numbers and statistics on volumes and cases, etc. and gives a cursory spiel on how beer is made. As you might expect, there are strategic breaks in his banter that are filled with more beer pours and the “tour” continues until we have tasted them all.

How does this relate to bluegrass, I know your asking? Well at the end of the tour, I broke out my “Kay Backpackers Upright Bass” (I never leave home without it anymore. I really like how well it travels in the cheap seats of airplanes, fitting very nicely in the “shared storage space” of the overhead bins). Then Linda opened up her mandolin case and we began picking for the after tour drinking crowd. A few fiddle tunes and some high singing from Linda and the crowd was eating it up. Our tour guide finally stopped us as they needed to clear the “tour room” for the next group.

I guess we did okay as they offered us a gig playing for the tours on a regular basis. Told us we could fill in the band as we needed (except for banjos, apparently they had some bad experiences in the past). The money was only fair but the offer included all the beer we could drink (and carry).

Obviously, I turned them down. It was Seattle after all. We were there for five dismal, dreary, dark, wet, windy and cold days. I didn’t know if it was Seattle or Alaska. Why isn’t there any daytime in this place? I can’t work in those conditions. If I was there another day who knows what could have happened…. but it wouldn’t have been pretty.

Anyway, the gig is still open for anyone foolhardy enough to want live there. Tell Dave, the tour guy from Ukiah that Dave, the backpacker bass guy from Mountain View sent you. That and a buck should get you your own brewery experience.

Disclaimer: The accounts of the Redhook Brewery experience above may or may not have happened. I am a little too crazy to tell. I need some sunshine badly.

Alright, I got the bluegrass content requirement covered so I can get back to the point.

I don’t know if the writers on these pages have all of the above mentioned qualities but I do know that, in my opinion, there are some very good writers in the bunch and I feel lucky and honored to get some of my work published alongside theirs. This is my twelfth 1st Thursday column and completes my first year in this fun gig and I thank Rick and the CBA for giving me the chance to have some fun with this.

I can hardly wait until next year to get going again. In a couple, two or three months it will be spring and the lunacy will lift. I just realized that I went a whole column without mentioning tequila. So it goes.

THE DAILY GRIST..." I’m not alone in thinking that raccoons are the carnies of the animal world.”—Unknown

Homeland Security
Today's column from Jean Ramos
Friday, August 29, 2014

(Editor’s Note: Seeing as how today is a fifth Friday and none of our Welcome columnists are scheduled to turn in a piece, and seeing as how yesterday Jean Ramos made a derned interesting suggestion, (when we run previously posted columns, why not ask our team of writers which are their favorite past Welcomes), Jean’s favorite is up today. Written in 2009, the essay recounts the recalcitrant raccoon. What’s more, tomorrow being yet another fifth day, we’ll be treated, we use the term loosely, to another raccoon tail…er, ah, tale.)

If you have ever had your property vandalized, I think you will sympathize with me. Three months ago we had our front yard re-landscaped with beautiful lush green sod. We went to the added expense of having a sprinkling system installed and decided to hire a gardener to maintain the yard so that we could be away for Bluegrass Festivals and Camp-outs and not worry about the grass dying or having an un-mowed lawn signaling to passersby that we are away from home.

Our plan worked out well for the month of May but in June we woke one morning to find holes dug all over in our new lawn. Little clumps of sod were scattered all around under the apricot tree that shades our front yard. I was irate to say the least! I went about trying to press the divots back into the holes in hopes that the bare spots would fill back in. A few days later I found more holes and the culprits even rolled back the edge of the sod like a carpet in some places. That night I slept on the couch near the front window to see if I could catch the perpetrators red handed. No show! No sleep either for that matter.

My husband thought it would be a good idea to buy a surveillance camera and set it up to catch the vandals in the act, we won’t even talk about the cost! We got it home and found out that the memory chips are not included with the camera, more expense is incurred. He set the camera up and sure enough, there were three bandits caught in the act, they knew they were doing wrong because they were wearing masks! Why else would you hide your face? We decided not to call the police but to take the law into our own hands after all it was just malicious mischief. We nicknamed our nocturnal visitors, Bubba, Chub and Stub. Stub has an identifying mark, we could pick him out in a line-up if it comes down to that.

The next night, we lay in wait for them, and sure enough, they showed up again, We surprised them with 500 Watts of bright lights, they took off on the run and the last thing we saw was the south end of Stub going over the neighbor’s fence. The light was one of those motion detector types that comes on when there is movement in the yard. After a few nights it didn’t scare them anymore, it just made it easier for them to see to do their dirty little deeds.

I?ve always thought raccoons were cute, but they have quickly lost their appeal. They can do a lot of damage in a short time. We decided it was time to declare war on Bubba, Chub and Stub, the ringleader with the cropped off tail. (Somebody probably needed a decoration for the antenna on their 1955 Chevrolet).

I headed to the garden center and bought some spray that is supposed to smell like the urine of a natural predator to raccoons, two cans @ $15 per can. It didn?t slow them down for a moment. Next we decided to buy a trap to catch them, one trap @ $30, two cans of Fancy Feast Cat Food for bait, another couple bucks. The next morning, the surveillance camera showed them walking right past the trap without a sniff or a glance. Are you keeping score? So far it?s Raccoons 8, Ramos? 0. I went online to research raccoon repellents and decided to buy some pepper powder that is supposed to be an irritant should they get it on their feet or mouth. Two cans @ $16 per can. The enemy seemed to think it was Essence of Emeril, they liked the extra seasoning on their food, BAM! The raccoons are still racking up the points, Ramos? are going deeper in the hole, figuratively speaking.

It?s back to the garden center, and I bought a thing called a Scarecrow, about $60, you hook a hose up to it, and when a sensor picks up any movement in the yard it shoots out a jet of water which fans out over half the yard. My husband got sprayed three times in the set up phase of the Scarecrow. I’ve lost track of the score now but I think it’s about 12-0. The raccoons didn’t like the water jet but they set it off several times each night until they found a spot where the water couldn’t reach them and they would dig there. I headed back out to buy another Scarecrow for the other side of the yard.

Now little toadstools are coming up around the tree from too much watering. We had to get up early in the morning to shut everything off so kids on their way to school or other folks walking by wouldn’t get doused. We forewarned the gardener. So now the husband decided to put the Scarecrows on a timer to come on at 10:00 PM and go off at 6:00 AM. He bought one timer for each Scarecrow. Everything in our arsenal is working pretty well now unless we get a good wind that stirs the bushes and tree branches, then we have water spraying and lights flashing and a camera taking pictures of an empty animal trap with ants crawling in the cat food bait and a stubbed tail raccoon thumbing his little nose at us.

I don’t know any bluegrass songs having to do with raccoons, but there have been songs written about other wily animals, songs like Old Slew Foot Rabbit in a Log, Mysterious Fox of Fox Hollow, or Groundhog Rootin’ in my Backyard. Well there isnt too much bluegrass content here, I’ve been pretty busy in the war zone. If nothing else, I’ve given someone some fodder for a potential Bluegrass song.

If anyone out there in CBA land has some ideas on how to deal with the varmints, please let me know, our defense budget is now surpassing that of the landscaping costs. Homeland Security comes with a price.

THE DAILY GRIST...”So, she walked out of our lives forever.”-- Val Kilmer, who played the character Doc Holliday in the Western movie Tombstone.

Parting with physical memories of Rose Maddox
Today's column from JD Rhynes
Thursday, August 28, 2014

There was a scene in the movie Tombstone, where Josie, who would later become Wyatt Earp's wife, walked across the street in front of Wyatt and Doc Holliday as they were leaving town, which prompted Doc to utter the line; So, she walked out of our lives forever.I was reminded of that line last week When I mailed a big box to the international Bluegrass Music Museum In Owensboro, Kentucky. In that box were letters written to me by Rose Maddox bridging a 16 year span, from 1980 to late 1996. Along with that, there were several newspaper clippings,Show flyers, magazines, and other items relating to Rose Maddox.

Early last week I was looking through my filing cabinet when I ran across a folder and large manila envelope stuffed with all the letters, clippings, etc. etc. that I had acquired since 1979. It was One of those sad/happy moments we all have in our life, when we look back on things that have happened to us going down life's road. Most of the letters that Rose wrote me were happy and reminders of all the good times we had playing music together. The one that broke my heart was the one that she wrote me from a laundromat in Sacramento telling me that her son Donnie Maddox had suffered a severe stroke and was in the hospital there in Sacramento. She said; He can die on me any Minute and I know how you can talk to God, so please say a prayer for me and Donnie. [Donnie passed away Sunday after she wrote that letter] The second saddest letter that she wrote me, was the last one I received from her in late 1996. By this time ,age had taken its toll on my friend Rose, and tremors made it hard for her to write legibly, but that never stopped her one bit. Her spirit was strong right up to the very end, and that trait served her well all of her life.

Sitting here at my desk reading all of her letters, and the Flyers for shows that we did, and the newspaper clippings and magazines, made me realize that there were a lot of her fans that would love to see this material and read it. It had been in my possession for a lot of years, and it would have been selfish of me to keep it from her fans, and future fans that will discover her music in years to come. So, I called the international bluegrass music Museum and asked them if they wanted all of it? The curator said are you kidding? You better believe we want it! So on Wednesday, August 13, 2014, I boxed it all up and mailed it to the museum in Kentucky.

Today I received a nice thank you message from them which read;

Dear Mr. Rhynes;

On behalf of the trustees and staff of the international bluegrass music Museum, I would like to thank you for the generous gift to the museum. It is because of donations from people like you, who love bluegrass music, that we are able to have such a wonderful museum. With your help and support. We will continue to educate people and promote bluegrass music and its history.

Yours sincerely,
L. RaShae Jennings
Curator of collections

So, her physical memories walked out of my life forever. Thank you Val Kilmer for such an unforgettable line.

Yer Friend JD Rhynes

THE DAILY GRIST..."One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”--Jack Kerouac

Ink Stained Wretch and Proud of It!
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Happy 31st Anniversary Cassy! I love you!

It has been an honor and a privilege to be a contributing and regular Welcome Columnist for the CBA website for - um, quite a few years now.

As much as I’ve enjoyed writing the weekly Wednesday column, I have also enjoyed the other Welcome columns as well. I don’t know if any other website that has such an upfront feature that changes daily, and I think it’s a great idea.

Think of the variety of content visitors to www.cbaontheweb.org get. Some columns are very light and whimsical, and some are much deeper treatises on matters that concern us all. The common thread is “bluegrass content”, but it’s not usual for the connection to be very tenuous indeed!

If you like writing (and I do!), the column provides a wonderful place for the author to share the things that flicker across all of our minds from time to time. Believe me, it’s a cathartic exercise. Sometimes, the weekly deadline for 500 words looms like a Sisyphean task, and other times, I might dash of 2 or 3 columns in advance.

My 500 word goal is self-imposed. I find it an interesting challenge to state a theme, expound upon it (hopefully providing chuckles, deep thought or enlightenment to the readers) and tie it up neatly in a piece that can be read in just 5 minutes. The idea is to provide thought-provoking content, not tie up the reader for a great length of time.

Isn’t that how our minds work? Something we hear, see, smell or think spawns a train of thought and we ride it until something else takes its place, and sometimes, an insight or - dare I say - an Important Truth pops up in our heads?

This process can be triggered whether the column is deep,thoughtful and well-researched, or an amusing collection of random thoughts, or homespun vignettes of life on the farm, the stage or in the past.

I don’t try to bring the reader around to my point of view. I try to explain how some of these things rattle around my own brain, and maybe that will set things vibrating in their own brains and they will draw their own conclusions. Maybe then those conclusions will be the result of some frenzied thoughts, colored, perhaps by some empathy for how others view similar situations and feelings.

I know I ramble sometimes, and it’s not unusual to end up with a column that’s completely different that what I had in mind, originally. What I really want is to have an EFFECT on people. Can I make you think of something you hadn’t thought of before? Can I present some information in a way you haven’t often encountered? I certainly hope so, and I figure if I can’t accomplish that in 500 to 600 words, I may be on a fool’s errand. When I DO accomplish this, please take a few minutes to let me know by email or the Message Board!

A Second Dip of Brooksonian Reality
Today's column from Brooks Judd
Tuesday, August 26, 2014

(Editors Note: This morning we do the time travel thing and look bravely into the abyss that is the mind of B. Judd. Why risk such a thing? Why, after surviving the frightful glimpse of it so many years before, why, after tempting the notoriously cruel hand of fate do we sidle up the dim lit bar for another round? We’ll tell you why…B. Judd’s welcomes are riddled with the great truths of life, but the truthiest are not seen at once, and for a good reason: one must sip slowly and return again and again. So this morning that’s just what we’ll do.

And while we’re on the subject of Welcome columns, we could sure use a good, dependable Last Tuesday Welcomist. Maybe you’ve thought over the years it would be interesting or fun or challenging or cathartic or who knows what to do an essay a month and share it with our little bluegrass world. If so shoot a note to rickcornish7777@hiotmail.com and let’s discuss.)

Ten Items or Less: Rub a Dub Dub, Academy Awards, Pasco, Pet Peeves, Confession, Suits and Ties (April, 2010)

Item 1: Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub: Rick Cornish, fellow Hayward High School baseball team Gold Glove third baseman (1966), Lupe Ybarra, and I spent a week-end boating the San Joaquin Delta a few weeks ago. We were three lost souls who had never seen, let alone read a Delta water ways map or had spent any time aboard a houseboat. Friday was cold, windy, rainy, and downright miserable. The 4” thick T-bone steaks, baked potato, French salad prepared by Rick, and a red Bordeaux (1937) made the inclement Bering Sea type weather a bit easier to accept.

Saturday was spent trying to navigate our houseboat to Isleton only to realize we could not reach it by the waterway we were on. A grateful thank you to the man that helped us dock our houseboat at a windy marina and then was kind enough to drive us five miles to the town of Isleton for supplies. Good Karma all around.Sunday was a lesson in Tai Chi as we tried to remain calm as not one but both of our motors conked out due to lack of oil. We made a phone call to the marina for assistance. We drifted around the treacherous waters subjected to 18” swells and wind gusts up to 3 MPH as we waited for the young mechanic the marina dispatched to fix our problem. The young man filled the thirsty engines with oil and we bid him farewell. We made like Captain Bligh with our combined ability to navigate the treacherous waters that flowed through the unfamiliar sights of the dangerous Delta. We could YAAARRRRR with the best of them and we eventually did find our way out of the maze back to the marina in Stockton, shaken but not stirred. The old salts had done it.

Item 2: Academy Awards: The Hurt Locker won for best movie and best director. Modesto native Jeremy Renner did not win but was nominated for best actor making the Valley very proud. Good job Jeremy!

Item 3: I visited my daughter, son-in-law and grandson in Pasco Washington a few weeks ago. They are in the process of buying their first home. It is currently being built and my daughter and I made daily trips to the home site. Houses are sure built fast these days. Monday the foundation was poured, Tuesday the walls were being put up, Wednesday the windows were being framed and on Thursday the trusses for the roof were about to be hoisted up. Hell it takes me this long to wake up in the morning.

Item 4: English language (cont.): Pet peeve: I don’t know about you but it drives me batty when I hear someone say, “I could care less.” You know the whole point of this misused saying is to let the person you are talking to know that you COULDN”T care less. A shiver runs up my spine when I hear this. By the same token I am more than aware that I say or write things that to the purist may be incorrect. So if your spine is being shivered by me by some usage that is incorrect I’ll buy you a grape Nehi or glass of wine at this years FDF.

Item 5: Father’s Day Festival: I cannot believe it has been 23 years since I sat down in front of the stage at Grass Valley and watched and listened for more than 20 hours in awe at masters Del McCoury, Bobby and Sonny Osborn, Sarah Elizabeth Campbell of Fiddlestix, Rick Abrams and the Piney Creek Weasels, etc. The high lonesome sound of Del McCoury threw me off at first but the more I listened the more I fell in love with it. The sharp suits and ties and professionalism certainly didn’t hurt. What a joy to watch audible harmonized poetry in motion.

Item 6: In a similar vein. The Beatles were great but you have to admit that when they came out in those expensive tailored British suits it gave them added class to the believers and credibility to the non believers. Brian Epstein hit this one right on the head. I don’t know what would have happened if they hadn’t listened to Brian and continued to wear their leather coats, dirty Levis, and kept their greasy pompadours.

Item7: Last Father’s Day Festival I was in camp and I watched jammers ply their trade from 6 p.m. until 2 A.M. How do you people do it? I know 8 hours is nothing to your typical jam freak but it still boggles my mind. I can coax about two hours out of this old body of mine for a jam before my body shuts down and pillow and mattress are calling my name. My faded hat is off to you crazies out there who are not content to lay your ax down until the sun rises and the cows come home.

Item 8: Wish list: I would like to see some sort of remembrance plaque, quilt, etc. with the names of musicians and fellow CBA members who have gone on to that big jam in the sky. It would be nice to have this posted somewhere around the stage area at Grass Valley. (Maybe Verns?) A person could have a glass of wine and make a toast to those who have left us. Just a random thought.

Until next time: Hug a loved one, pet a dog, stroke a cat, smell a rose, and smile at the cashier at your local grocery store.

THE DAILY GRIST…“The outlaws threw everything up in the air. Personally, of all the musical phases I’ve seen in Nashville, that was probably the freshest and most exciting. They absolutely rethought and restaged country music without surrendering the authenticity. It set the industry on a completely different course.” – Marty Stuart

Outlaws & Hillbillies
Today’s column from Yvonne Tatar
Monday, August 25, 2014

What a great trip we had going back to Nashville in June to our son’s wedding. Right after attending Grass Valley festival, we headed the motorhome eastward. The weather cooperated and we took Highway 40 for a more scenic route, which was beautiful. We caravanned with San Diego friends Kit & Mary Birkett which upped the fun factor. This is such a magnificent country we live in and seeing it through that big motorhome window is like watching an IMAX movie unfold each day. Once in Nashville, which was oh so green, we did get to see many friends and family, but we were also treated to a tour that was particularly enjoyable.

Last May, we were happy to host a banjo workshop taught by Alison Brown at our home in San Diego area. Alison and her husband Garry invited us to stop by when we got to Tennessee for a tour of their business Compass Records. And that’s exactly what we did.

The tour was informative, educational on many levels and such fun! Alison & Garry and the Compass Records “team” were so hospitable, and Alison really gave us an in-depth behind the scenes tour.

The Compass Records building was formerly Glaser Sound Studios which was owned by Tompall Glaser (not to be confused with Tom Glazer). Tompall converted this former apartment building into a sound studio and with some offices. The building today remains much the same as it was back when he owned it. As you walk in at the first floor you notice many LP covers and memorabilia hanging on the walls. You can also see a large safe left by Tompall in the back, and their state of the art recording studio is on the second floor.

One treasured momento to see is the Wanted! The Outlaws platinum album hanging at the foot of the stairway. This is piece of country music history is on loan to Alison & Garry from country music maven Hazel Smith who worked at the studio years ago. Find out more about Hazel by visiting http://www.cmt.com/news/hot_dish/hazel_smith.jhtmlcmt. She’s a treasure and a fountain of music history.

In 1994, Alison & Garry founded Compass Records which has become a new breed independent music label in their own right. They describe themselves as “eclectic, sophisticated, and artist-friendly.” Billboard Magazine has called Compass “one of the greatest independent labels of the last decade.” With the Compass acquisition of Green Linnet and Mulligan Records, it has also become the go to label for Celtic and roots music. They support a total of 42 artists, and just a few of them are Michael Cleveland & Flamekeeper, Larry Stephenson, Todd Phillips, Frank Solivan & Dirty Kitchen, John Cowan, and Noam Pikelny.

Up on the second floor, it was a real thrill to tour their sound studio where just the day before a major bluegrass band recorded some tracks. And for you sound engineer types out there, the studio has all the latest state-of-the-art Pro Tools HD system, Custom Formula Cue 8 headphone system, Yamaha C7 grand piano, SPL analog summing mixer, along with miscellaneous gear from names such as API, Neumann, Millennia Media, Shure, Sennheiser, AKG, Tube Tech, Korby, and Microtech Gefell.

We also stood out on “The Smoking Deck," aka Willie’s Smoking Porch, also on the second floor. Standing on that porch, you couldn’t help but think of all those artists of renown that have used it since the Glaser Sound Studio days. Up to the early 1960s, Nashville was a much smaller music community where artists knew each other and spent lots of time together. The big corporate music offices were not part of the Nashville scene at all.

But that all changed by the mid-1960s, and the big business of music came to Nashville. These larger focused entities left little room for the fringe artists to record their music. "Outlaws and hillbillies" like Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Tompall Glaser, Jessi Colter, Kris Kristofferson, Shel Silverstein, Jimmy Buffet, John Hartford, Dr. Hook & the Medicine Show, and others found a home at Glaser Sound Studios. “Hillbilly Central” was found at 916 19th Avenue South. Tompall encouraged creative expression and experimentation at his studio. He also housed the well-known Baron Publishing there.

This bent toward creative expression and experimentation continues today with Compass Records. Compass still encourages today’s outlaws to record there. Here are some current titles/artists that have been recorded in their studio: Stolen Moments - Alison Brown; Cold Spell - Frank Solivan & Dirty Kitchen; Country Boy: A Bluegrass Tribute to John Denver - Special Consensus; They Called It Music - The Gibson Brothers; On Down the Line - Michael Cleveland & Flamekeeper.

Compass Records is plowing new ground and giving new energy to the independent artists out there. Thanks again to Alison & Garry for the informative tour. It’s gratifying to know that history continues to be made at Compass Records. They are truly continuing a creative legacy in the acoustic music world. If you get to Nashville, stop by the see them. It’s worth the time! Visit their website atwww.compassrecords.com and see what’s new. And while you’re there, download their weekly free mps offered. Sweet.

THE DAILY GRIST…”It is unclear how much longer people will write on dried flattened wood. Trees do so much for humans and for our planet that it hardly seems fair to ask them to carry our thoughts as well.”—Michael Yarus

Today’s Column from Jeanie Ramos
Sunday, August 24, 2014

The drought continues to be a frequent topic of conversation this summer. It is wreaking so much havoc in our beautiful state of California. The forests and grasslands are so very parched but the electrical storms that bring summer rains are sparking forest fires from one end of the state to the other.

I recently made a trip up Highway 101 to Eureka. This scenic highway takes you through some breathtakingly beautiful forests, including several redwood groves. Some of these magnificent trees can reach heights of nearly 400 feet and can date back to the time of Christ. It is mind boggling to think of the billions of matchsticks you could make from one tree and then realize that just one carelessly tossed match can take the massive tree down, along with many more.

As we passed through the Mendocino County town of Laytonville, the smoke from a large forest fire was quite dense and irritated the nose and eyes. I’m not complaining; all I could think of was what the dedicated firefighters had to endure. I actually met some of them at a deli in Willets and was able to thank them personally. I was also pleased to see many makeshift signs along the highway expressing thanks to the firefighters. Some of you may have attended a Kate Wolf Festival at Black Oak Ranch in Laytonville. When I passed by there last week, the field was being used as a landing pad for helicopters that were on fire duty. I’m grateful for their valiant efforts to save the beautiful forests. Here’s a quote I found while looking for a suitable quote for the Daily Grist: “When trees burn, they leave the smell of heartbreak in the air.” Jodi Thomas, Welcome to Harmony.

We look to the trees for so many different things; fruits, nuts, coffee, home building materials, furniture, coffins, paper, fencing, shade, landscaping, etc. Of course, every picker among us will think of the many beautiful musical instruments we own that come from one type of tree or another. Rosewoods, spruce, mahogany, walnut, koa and maple are commonly used woods for stringed instruments.

There are many songs in our genre that have to do with trees; Tall Pines, Bury Me Beneath the Willow, Maple on the Hill, Love of the Mountains, Hickory Wind, to name a few. The tree in some way stands as a memorial to an event or relationship in the past and upon one’s return, nothing has remained the same but the tree is still there and the memories come flooding back. Perhaps it brings thoughts of a mom and dad who had long ago bade their children farewell as they left home to seek fame or fortune in a distant land. In the song, Maple on the Hill, the story is of a young lad who courted his Geneva beneath the maple on the hill, and now he’s about to die and leave her alone to mourn under that same tree. In the case of the Gram Parson song, Hickory Wind, I believe it is the smell of hickory wood smoke that conjures up reveries of younger days and the need to return home. If you want to hear a beautiful rendition of this song, watch the You Tube video of AJ Lee and the Tuttles.

There are some Gospel songs that also refer to trees. One that stands out in my mind is “He Grew the Tree.” The main line of the song…He grew the tree that He knew would be used to make the old rugged cross. There are several songs that refer to the cross of crucifixion as “The Tree.” As a Christian, of course these songs are close to my heart. I guess in this respect, you could call me a tree hugger…I will cling to the Old Rugged Cross and exchange it someday for a crown. Until next time, read a book, write a song, pet a dogwood, and hug a tree. God bless.

Mud and Ice Cream!
Today's column from Brian McNeal, prescriptiongrass.com
Saturday, August 23, 2014

As a child, my playmate and I once put ice cream and mud together and then tried to serve it as pie. We both thought we were creative geniuses but when she gave it to her mother, that combination didn't go over too well.

I once worked for an employer who liked to blur the lines between a full paycheck and a partial paycheck. I didn't like it a bit. I asked him if it would be OK for me to blur the lines on my 40 hour week. He didn't like that at all.

Most states have a bit of fudge room on the speed limit, but that is a grace and not an absolute. If you're doing 75 mph in a 70 mph zone … most of the time you're going to be safe when it comes to avoiding a citation. But if that's not the only line you've blurred, the officer making the stop can still write a speeding ticket along with any other violations he finds. So just because quite a lot of people do occasionally blur the lines on highway speed it doesn't make it right.

When I decided to put up a fence, I wanted to follow the contour of the land and make the fence look aesthetically natural. My neighbor however, thought that was just a bit too much blurring of the lines and insisted on a surveyor to mark the actual property line where he wanted the fence located. Guess who won the battle of the line-blurring there?

There are times when blurring the lines a little bit doesn't hurt much and then there are times when anything but the exact is unacceptable.

It seems in music everyone wants to blur the lines under the name of artistic freedom. This is nothing new. In the art world painters and sculptors don't really care whether they're branded as “Impressionists” or “Art Nouveau” or “Fine Art” or “Decorative” and many have blurred the lines between styles in the attempt to create something different and something salable. What they care about is creating something that is appreciated.

It seems in music we've lost some of that focus in the name of making money with the art. It's not always about creating something that is appreciated as much as it is about making a statement that “this can be done, like it or not.” Sometimes it's about trying to manipulate styles and combine things that should never be put together.

Blurring the lines in music happens all the time, and when it happens naturally in the creative process, it can be a new and exciting delight. But when it's a forced mix of two drastically different styles, I'm afraid that what we often get is mud and ice cream.

Today's column from Regina Bartlett
Friday, August 22, 2014

Howdy to you all out there on Harmony Road.

Are you feeling the end of Summer? Are you preparing for the next round of festivals and campouts coming? Have you gone back to school or started a new job?
I am writing today about my blessings big and small but especially those little everyday miracles of life that just sort of happen but really are gifts from the Almighty.

I would not be writing this column or be the musician I have become were it not for Elena Corey. She went out of her way to include as a member of the California Bluegrass Association and kept at me to share my gifts of teaching and writing. I also have to thank Suzanne Dennison who also became a great encouraging friend that told me to say what I have to say and to not be afraid to do it.

Next up for me will be the Strawberry Music Festival at the Nevada County Fairgrounds at Grass Valley, Bluegrassin in the Foothills, at Plymouth and IBMA in Raleigh, NC.

Perhaps I’ll see you at one of these great events.
Through the Strawberry Music Festival, I became friends with Cyrus Clark, one of the early members of the Cache Valley Drifters. Today, out of the blue he sent me 4 of his cds and now I’m listening to them and feeling like I have an old friend visiting and sitting in the kitchen picking tunes with me. Wow…

What about the Kids on Stage:

Everyone of the kids gave a great performance. With each rehearsal we would end it saying: All for one and one for all! And that’s how it was! We had 15 songs and 3 jokes an original song by Maybelle and her friend Emily, the Bluegrass Dancer. John Gooding and Amaya Rose Dempsey performed a very hot duet of Blue Moon of Kentucky. They are headed off to Raleigh, NC to the IBMA’s Kids on Bluegrass directed by Kim Fox. Both John and Amaya have grown musically for many years through the CBA’s Kids on Bluegrass directed by Frank Solivan. They’ll make us proud.

Kids on Stage at the Good Old Fashioned Festival:

Tessa Schwartz,
Maxwell Evans
Griffin Evans,
Ethan Daniel,
John Gooding,
Amaya Rose Dempsey,
Carter & Teddy Mather,
Helen Lude,
Maybelle Wildflower Irish,
Emily the Dancer
Teresa, Isabel and Michael Pilatti.

My tie to Marcos Alvira:

Hey Regina Bartlett...making its debut today.

I knew that I was to give it my friend Marcos as soon as I found it. I gave it to him at Grass Valley. Sure makes me happy to see you wearing it so well!

Give him a hand:

I met Dominic Leslie at a gas station off Carmel Valley when he was doing hand exercises while I was pumping gas. We later met again in Big Sur when he played mandolin for the Bee Eaters and became friends. He then became a Deadly Gentleman and I have seen him play with Missy Raines and in Nashville. We always stretch out our hands and arms when we see each other!

Hands of Time:

If you’re a musician and a picker or luthier - then you need to wear gloves when you work with your hands. We must care for our hands that serve us. I came down with a hang nail at the GOF…kept on picking and playing and even though I cleaned it and used band aids, it still got infected! As a diabetic I have to really care for my hands and feet. I love to garde and always think I do a better job without gloves. There’s lots of bacteria and germs to deal with and especially with camping and gardening. My garden loves me and my hard work, but I must love my hands more if I want to continue using them to create music. Notes and plants get my attention these days. It’s my therapy. I pray when I garden or I‘ll think about things, and sing and make up songs, and I’ll play my favorite cds and then there’s KPIG radio. “Just a tip” as my old friend Steven, the SurfDawg would say.

I’m working on a song called, “Noche Negro.” Great name huh? In English it’s the Black Knight! It's a Hollyhock flower that is a very dark red that is almost black. It glows in the sunlight.

Last year, I remember Pete Hicks, Michael Cleveland and Patrick Sauber playing Bluegrass Music outside my door night at the Marriott Hotel, all night long at IBMA Raleigh, NC ...Greatest Music ever! I’m looking forward to representing the CBA at IBMA and working for Lucy Smith with my good friend, Kay Wilkes.

Life is good in Santa Cruz. One of our favorite sons is going off to college...

Good luck to you “Marty the Magnificent” Varner. I look forward to your next installment/column! Thanks for teaching me some Tony Rice songs too!

Until next time, I’ll see you out there on Harmony Road.

THE DAILY GRIST..." A bluegrass film is like finding a fine wine at some small family winery.”

”Big Screen Bluegrass”
Today's column from James Reams
Thursday, August 21, 2014

Bluegrass doesn’t have to die after festival season. As an unofficial Ambassador of Bluegrass, I’ve been searching for ways to introduce bluegrass music to people that may have dismissed it as music for “old fogeys and moonshiners.” Many of these folks may never even have heard a bluegrass tune. It seems to me to be a shame to ignore an entire musical genre simply because of preconceived notions. It’s like not uncorking a fine bottle of wine because you don’t like its’ label!

So how do we get these folks to “drink in” the wonderful complexities of bluegrass music? How do we expose them to all the benefits associated with this life-affirming music of ours? Well, it may be a bit sneaky, but I think I’ve found a way: films. A bluegrass film is sort of like finding a fine wine at some small family winery. It has some quirky elements to it that I think appeals to people when they actually take the time to savor it.

Earlier this month, we had the 1st Annual Arizona Bluegrass Festival right here in Phoenix. I’d seen the success of the NCBS Bluegrass on Broadway film festival first hand and used that as an example and an inspiration. I wanted to offer another venue for filmmakers and documentarians to show their films to the general public as well as bluegrass lovers.

I have to say that I was thrilled by the response we received. The event was well attended and received nice coverage in the Arizona Republic newspaper. Several of those present were brand new to bluegrass…and that was music to my ears! It just doesn’t get any better than to share my passion for this music with someone who’s just had their first sip of vintage bluegrass. As they learned about how this music came into being; listened to clips from the likes of The Seldom Scene, David Grisman, Doyle Lawson, The Travelers and Del McCoury; and experienced the love and family atmosphere that surrounds this genre…they were changed, converted by their exposure to the genuine article.

Plans are already underway for a bigger and even better film festival in 2015. The wide appeal of a film festival helped us educate the palates of a whole new group of people that might not have been willing to attend a bluegrass music festival as their initial foray into this music. Plus films offer opportunities to do screenings: at local schools as living history events, at music/summer camps, library events, as well as association meetings during the “off” season.

And I was excited to learn that the IBMA World of Bluegrass conference will debut a Bluegrass Film Festival this year. Eight films will be offered and should provide a great opportunity for folks at the conference to see the potential impact that films have for promoting bluegrass. “The Porchlight Sessions” was one of the documentaries chosen as a feature film and I’m drooling with anticipation to see the re-edited producer’s cut!

Reprising existing documentary films like “High Lonesome – The Story of Bluegrass” or “The Legend Lives On: A Tribute to Bill Monroe” offer an inexpensive way to fill out a “flight of films” at a film festival. And there are a whole lot of films out there that have gone unnoticed for too long as well as many that are struggling to find funding to complete production.

Remember the buzz about “Blue Moon of Kentucky” back in 2012? This film is based on Richard Smith’s best-selling biography of Bill Monroe, “Can’t You Hear Me Calling.” An Academy Award winning screenplay writer and all-star cast were involved. The soundtrack has even been completed and a teaser for the film was released. Then…it just dropped off the radar. I can’t find anything about it on the Internet or through any other sources. What happened?

Another film that I had hoped would be released soon is “Last of the Breed: the Dave Evans Story” a film by Matthew Pellowski about the life and music of Dave Evans (no, not the former lead singer of AC/DC). A Kickstarter fund raising effort was held to raise money for post production, but word didn’t get out about it and, sadly, it failed to raise the required funding. I didn’t even know about the Kickstarter campaign until just a few days before the deadline. Would this film have received the support it needed if we had gotten the word out in time to the bluegrass world? I’d like to think so. I sure hate to see these movies about bluegrass gathering dust rather than praise.

Thankfully, the International Bluegrass Music Museum (IBMM) finally released their gem, “Powerful: Bill Monroe Remembered” this past June. This film had been in the works since 2003 and was originally slated for release to coincide with the celebration of Bill Monroe’s 100th birthday in 2011. But these documentaries take time…lots of it and lots of love too. (I should know, it took 11 years for me to complete “Making Music with Pioneers of Bluegrass.”) And that equates to a long wait for a return on investment for producers and other film backers.

It’s almost a “catch-22” situation. As more bluegrass films are made there will be more festivals; if there were more film festivals, then more interest would be aroused and more films would be made. But if we stretch ourselves and embrace films from Americana and Roots music and maybe even a Country music film or two, we should be able to draw larger crowds to our Bluegrass Film Festivals and maybe reach a whole nother level of music lovers.

That’s what the event promoters for the Point Music Film Festival have done. This festival is scheduled for Saturday, November 8th in San Diego and will feature 7 films about music (two bluegrass and one country) and include live performances from 4 bands. This is the first music only film festival in San Diego. Supporting events like this as well as purchasing the films themselves can ensure a fully stocked cellar for years to come. It’s sort of the equivalent to the “Field of Dreams” catchphrase, “If you film it, they will come.”

So, what’s your favorite bluegrass documentary and/or film? I’d like to know. Maybe we’ll include your suggestion at an upcoming film festival. Send me an email james@jamesreams.com and support your favorite bluegrass movie!

THE DAILY GRIST..."Always make the audience suffer as much as possible.”—Alfred Hitchcock

Stupid Audience Tricks
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, August 20, 2014

I have written columns previously about all the things that go wrong at a gig. It was fun and cathartic to recall all the weird things that have happened in decades of playing live gigs in a bewildering variety of venues. Murphy’s Law (“Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong”) definitely applies to the live music biz.

Stuff breaks, things don’t work. Musicians have car trouble, or get lost or forget showtimes, venues, key changes, lyrics and everything else under the sun. It’s a merry mixture of madcap misadventures and I love it.

Now it’s time to shine our bright light on the audience.

Now, I am fully aware that the audience is the boss. They’re the reason we’re there. Musicians bear the responsibility of providing a good time for the audience. When a performance goes extremely well, the audience deserves a great deal of credit. Their energy brings out the best in the band. If an audience is “lackluster”, the band failed to ignite their attention. So, I don’t blame the audience if they chatter amongst themselves - at least at bar gigs.

So, the audience as an entity remains blameless. But that doesn’t mean certain members
of the audience can’t throw a gig into chaos. Maybe, by drawing attention to certain miscreants, I can warn fellow musicians of their presence and maybe even shame some of these monsters into retirement, or failing that, meaningful behavior modification. Here are three saboteurs to avoid:

The Belligerent Requester
For the most part, bands love requests. It means their audience is engaged, and gives the band a chance to show off, increase tips and make everyone in the room feel great. No problem there at all. Sometimes, the band doesn’t know the song requested, and they express regret, and offer to play a similar song, and the matter is settled. Sometimes, though, the requester won’t give up.

“C’mon!”, the Belligerent Requester bellows (often after the band has launched into another song!). “You MUST know ‘My Green Eyed Babycakes'! C’mon!”. This cretin’s persistent braying negatively affects both the band and the rest of the audience.

A variation of this boorish behavior is the repeated facetious request for some completely inappropriate song, usually “Whippin’ Post”, or “Free Bird”. This may have been funny the very first time in history it was uttered, but it’s not even remotely clever now. Trust me sir (and it’s almost always a guy), nobody thinks you’re witty.

The Insistent Participant
Lots and lots of people have played instruments or sang. Some became quite accomplished, but for one reason or another, have drifted away from performing. But seeing live music awakens old feelings and the former musician longs to tread the stage and again the feel the glare of the spotlight. Certainly, there is ample precedent for the “guest star” to join the band for a song or two.

However, there is usually a protocol for taking a guest spot during a performance. The band should be approached during the break, and establish a rapport and bring the conversation around to maybe sitting in for a song or two. Sometimes, that’s totally cool. Other times, the band may politely decline and there the matter ends.

Compare this civilized exchange with someone bugging performers while their onstage and trying to convince them to bring them on up for a quick guest spot. And the more the performers try and ignore the onslaught, the pushier they get.

This can be very awkward at wedding gigs, where champagne tends to rekindle the need to “get back into performing’. It seems like every groom or groom’s brother “used to be a drummer”, and insists on proving it in front of the friends and family. It ends up providing good laughs and memories for the wedding party though.

The Great Interrupter
This is the most egregious and bewildering of aberrant audience member behavior, in my opinion. I witnessed an extraordinary example recently. The band is absolutely cooking, in mid-performance, up on a raised stage, and some lady wants to get the attention of someone in the band to ask a question!

In what universe is this a sensible thing to do? It’s bad enough to interrupt someone engaged in a conversation with someone else, but interrupting an entire band in performance? I can only imagine the havoc this kind of person would wreak at a circus, trying to speak with the trapeze artists while they’re flying through the air.

At its best, live music is a glorious interaction between audience and performers. It’s a beautiful symbiotic relationship that benefits everyone involved. There’s a exquisite rhythm in the room and its resonance permeates all the people in the room. There’s a tacit understanding of politesse and responsibility for both performers and audience, and when everyone understands and plays their role, the magic works!

Beware of the wrecking crew outlined above! They lurk in most audiences waiting to spoil the magic, and break the sacred covenant to serve their selfish desires!

Farewell Ruff
Today's column from Rick Cornish
Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Good morning from Whiskey Creek, where all seven of us are pretending like nothing is wrong, while proving beyond a doubt that something is…is terribly wrong
…by studiously avoiding all eye contact. You’d think it would be easier for the five dogs to pull this off since any animal behaviorist will tell you that most animals, other than humans, of course, generally do not choose to make eye contact, at least with humans, because doing so has the potential to raise all kinds of unnecessary questions about placement within the pack. But this morning, the 19th of August, is the exception. We’re all looking for a little personal, one-on-one help in dealing with our loss, but we’re all too proud to ask for it, even with an errant gaze. Today, you see, is the day the Silvermans of San Francisco return from their incredible vacation to Europe…London, Paris, Barcelona…and thus the day that we begin waiting for the phone to ring; Ted Silverman’s call telling us when he’ll be making the trek up to the mountains to pick up the family dog, Ruffus.

Let me say before going any further that, from the beginning, there’s been some question about how to spell the name of the Silverman’s family pet. I say it’s “Ruffus”; Lynn says it’s “Roofus”; the dogs mostly go with “ruff-ruff-ruff. At this late date, I guess it doesn’t much matter anymore.

The American Kennel Club provides as a public service a listing of all dog breeds, (at least all that the AKC recognizes) rank order by intelligence. Here is the top ten…

1 Border Collie
2 Poodle
3 German Shepherd
4 Golden Retriever
5 Doberman Pinscher
6 Shetland Sheepdog
7 Labrador Retriever
8 Papillon
9 Rottweiler
10 Australian Cattle Dog

The Cornish Family of Jamestown, CA, also provides as a public service a listing of all dog breeds represented at Whiskey Creek at any given time rank ordered by intelligence. Here is that top ten…

1 Mutt adopted from shelter
2 Mutt adopted from shelter
3 Mutt adopted from shelter
4 Mutt adopted from shelter
5 Mutt adopted from shelter
6 Mutt adopted from shelter

7 Mutt adopted from shelter
8 Mutt adopted from shelter
9 Border Collie
10 Labrador Retriever

As can be seen in the second listing, Mutt adopted from shelter, (MAFS) is so much more intelligent than the other Whiskey Creek breeds that he holds eight of the top ten rankings. I’ve had over a month to mull this around in my brain and here’s what I’ve come up with. First and foremost, Ruffus far out distances Eddy and Rudy and Willie and Sid in smarts because, unlike the others he didn’t suffer from the pitfalls of human intervention in their breeding. (Limiting couples within a very constrained gene pool is how breeds become breeds; rigorous in-breeding is also, unfortunately, the cause of a huge number of very, very screwed-up canines.) Ruffus’ dad, as a matter of fact, and his dad’s lady friend, were sole arbiters of the genes that would be passed along to the pup. Second, as you can plainly see if you click here, enjoys more than a few genetic markers from the noble Rottweiler, which is ranked ninth by the American Kennel Club. So my theory is a simple one…mixed breeds suffer none of the potential in-breeding issues of “papered” dogs, and if they’ve got a little more of one breed going for them, and that breed happens to be high on the brainy list, so much the better.

Whatever the reason, Rufuss proved time and again that he, a mere pup of nine months, could think circles around the other four dogs…and that includes Sidney, the fabled Border Collie. But to his credit, Roofy (Lynn’s nick-name for the Silverman animal,) never once lorded it over the others. Which is not to say, of course, that he didn’t use his smarts to beat them at every turn, which he certainly did.

Anyways, enough about our friend who’ll be headed home sometime this week.

My message this morning is a simple one, and that’s please vote for the Association’s board of directors when you receive your next Bluegrass Breakdown. For those who don’t receive the hard-copy newspaper, we’ll post a ballot here on the web site. You can just print it, fill it out and then send it in. As always, we remind you that we must receive a quorum of our membership in order for the election to be valid.

Have a good week, stay out of trouble and listen to and/or play some bluegrass.

THE DAILY GRIST…““It is a beautiful and delightful sight to behold the body of the Moon.” …Galileo Galilei

Today’s column from Bert Daniel
Monday, August 18, 2014

I hope you all went outside last week and had a good look at the moon. It’s a beautiful sight on any clear night but 2014 is a special year because the moon’s orbit moves especially close to the earth earth for the full moons of July, August and September. The same thing happened twice in January for new moons.

When the moon is at its closest point in its elliptical orbit, it can appear especially bright. About thirty years ago, someone dubbed the phenomenon “super moon” and the name has stuck, at least in the media (astronomers still call it the perigee moon). The August super moon was reportedly 14% closer and 30% brighter than an average full moon.

When the curtains of night are pinned back with a star
And the beautiful moon climbs the sky
And the dew drops of heaven are kissing the rose
It is then that my memory flies

That song sung by the Carter Family was just one of many in which they mention the moon. I did a random sampling of more than 200 songs from their repertoire and found the moon was mentioned in more than 10% of them.

The moon is a very important celestial body. Earth is unique among the planets of our solar system in having a satellite that is so large in comparison to its orbital companion. Astronomers aren’t sure whether the earth captured its big satellite during the formation of the solar system or if two planet sized bodies collided and reached an equilibrium. The equilibrium is only temporary in the grand scheme of things because our moon is slipping away ever so slightly with each passing year, Some day the moon and the earth will part company. But the earth-moon partnership has been critical to life on our planet. Without the regular tides caused by the moon on the liquid water in our oceans, life might have had a much more difficult time evolving here.

Pardon my digression from music to astronomy and evolution. What I really wanted to emphasize is that our moon is really special. Bluegrass and Old Time music reflect that fact:

My Dixie darling, listen to the song I sing
Beneath the silvery moon, with my banjo right in tune

I started with the Carter Family, but you will find the moon in songs from just about anybody. I’ll bet you could go to any jam, listen to all the songs called, and hear the image of moon evoked more than a few times. Here’s a sampling of what you might hear:

Meet me by the moonlight, Oh meet me
Meet me by the moonlight alone
I have a sad story to tell you
All down by the moonlight alone

Blue Moon of Kentucky, keep on shining
Shine on the one that’s gone and left me blue

Have a feast here tonight while the moon’s shining bright

As I sit here alone in the moonlight
I can see your shining face
And I long once more for your embrace
In that beautiful Kentucky waltz

Now the moon is shining bright. It lights my pathway tonight
Back to the only one I ever loved

I’ve heard all about the tune that’s called the Alabama moon
But the Mississippi moon shines just as bright

That would cover plenty of tunes by the Stanleys, Bill Monroe, and Flatt and Scruggs. And that last Jimmie Rodgers tune mentions the moon no fewer than ten times.

I’ll close with a song from Fiddling Arthur Smith:

My mind is like the constant sun
From the east to west it ranges
Yours is like unto the moon
It’s every month it changes

That’s straight out of the classics. Remember when you had to read Shakespeare in high school? Here’s how Juliet rebukes Romeo with exactly the same idea:
O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon
That monthly changes in her circle orb
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable

Super moon or not, the moon is super. Inspiration for poets, musicians, scientists and all of the rest of us. Go out and take a good look at it some time.

Are There Too Many Festivals?
Geoff Sargent
Sunday August 17, 2014

I came across an interesting read this week entitled “Why the Summer Festival Bubble is About to Burst”. You can find this rather long discussion on the economics of festivals at http://www.wonderingsound.com/feature/too-many-summer-music-festivals. Now granted, the article is really about Indie music festivals, a 30-ish demographic, and weighted to those mega-festivals we all hear about…..Coachilla comes to mind. Did you know that Coachilla is believed to have had $78 million in revenue this year? But one of the astounding statistics they mention is that there are about 847 festivals scheduled for 2014 in North America and if you add in Europe that number is about 1200 festivals. I suspect that they did not include bluegrass festivals, and a few other festivals, in the count…..but nevertheless on any given weekend Bluegrass festivals are competing with all those other festivals for attendees. Can you imagine the thought process of someone trying to decide which festival they are going to attend…hmmmm do I go to Bonaroo, Coachilla, Huck Finn, or The Father’s Day Festival? We all know what this readership would probably choose….but can we speak for someone who has never attended?

But think about it this way…..I would bet that most of those festivals happen between June and August, over about 12 weekends. To make the numbers easy, if 600 of those North American festivals were scheduled for the three summer months then there would be one festival per state every weekend of the summer…and we know that even for Bluegrass festivals on the left coast we have enough festivals that some of us have to choose between Father’s Day and Huck Finn. Sometimes I wish I was one of those people.

The article is really a pretty good breakdown for how festivals make money and this is also hits pretty close to home for our festival; tickets and sponsorships. I would guess that our Father’s Day festival ticket sales are driven by two things under CBA control, the band lineup and the festival atmosphere, the same as for the Indie festivals. I think we do a good job with both. I can’t tell you how much time we spend in board meetings discussing both. We constantly talk about what kind of bands to book, how many edgy bands, how many Old Time bands, how many emerging bands, how many California bands, and sometimes I am ready to hit the eject button to get out of those discussions because there is no satisfying everyone with the perfect lineup. A board meeting discussion might go something like “let’s see we have 10% edgy bands, 60% hard core bluegrass bands 10.5% Old Time bands, and 11.5% California bands…but wait 2% of the 10% of the edgy bands are also California bands so what do we do about that?”…..my head hurts! Oh and don’t forget Jim Ingram has the unenviable job of scheduling all the bands for the Main stage and Pioneer stage and keeping all of them happy. Every year Jim comes to the board meetings, his hair a little more frazzled the closer we get to the festival, and relates the same story, band X doesn’t like their slot and band Y has to leave early to get to another gig and now we have to smoosh them both in on the Main stage Friday evening with bands U, V, and W but we don’t have the time. But given that we are always going to disappoint somebody with the balance of bands and the lineup, our attendance is steady and there are almost always a lot of smiling faces leaving after the final act.

I think we do a good job with the festival atmosphere and in fact I think we do a great job. Don’t get me wrong here, there’s always room for improvement, things change from year to year, and some of our festival atmosphere experiments require modification, unfortunately we don’t always get things 100% right on the first try. But we work hard to make it a family friendly festival where the kids can roam free, the adults have the freedom to roam knowing the kids are ok, and the jammers don’t have to worry about the Sherriff’s deputies arresting them for picking while drinking between the hours of….well the hours don’t matter.

I could dissect this on and on but need to wrap this Column and get it posted. What’s the take home here? We are going into our 40th Annual FDF in June of 2015. What a great testimony to getting something right and the work of past and present CBA Boards, Festival Directors, and volunteers. We have a great festival, a great community, for great music whether it is hard-core Bluegrass, Old Time, Gospel, edgy Bluegrass, or even what the rest of world sometimes mistakenly calls Bluegrass (those other bands that play the mega festivals and make you scratch your head when they are identified as Bluegrass in the SF Chronicle). The take home is that even with a winning event like the FDF festival it is a hard, cruel, and highly competitive festival world out there, and like the rest of the festivals we live perilously close to the edge. We have been in the black the past few years, but cannot and do not live on the success of our past festivals. To some degree we reinvent the FDF every year. What would I ask of our membership? We need you to recruit, recruit, recruit! Recruit your non-picking friends (hey what are you doing next June…I know of a really cool event that you and the kids would like), recruit your picking friends (man the jamming is everywhere, 24/7 and sometimes you get to pick with the Pros who play onstage), recruit the potential pickers (we have a great music camp for the 3 days before the festival and then you get to pick in the festival jams). Our festival successes really depend on one thing and only one thing……your involvement!

Deeply Fried and Tie-Dyed
Today's column from Cameron Little
Saturday, August 16, 2014

Our story begins with a journey, rolling north from Grass Valley on Highway 5 in a possibly, ever so slightly, overloaded Ford F-350, towing a cargo trailer laden with deep-friers, freezers, coolers, a commercial-grade cotton candy machine, tarps, canopies, vast quantities of pole fittings, and including, for those of you who may have already guessed, a kitchen sink. This is not a severe hankering for midnight cotton candy and deep-fried Oreos for when I’m camping at bluegrass festivals. This is the stuff of a festival food vendor. This is my summertime gig with a gang called the Merry Popsters, and we aim to provide sustenance to hungry revelers at the Northwest String Summit in North Plains, Oregon.

The festival goes by the shortened insider name of Strummit, and it takes place at a family-oriented venue called Horning’s Hideout. It’s an incredibly relaxing and ethereal place, that fosters visions of Narnia and Wonderland. You can wander for hours through the festival and campgrounds, explore the numerous walking paths that lead out into the surrounding forest, throw a few discs on the wildly off-road disc golf courses, take a spin in a paddle boat around the lake, and STILL feel like you’ve visited a mere fraction of the festival grounds. And since the venue is basically a colossal, forested natural amphitheater, you can enjoy all of these things without a single hint of the outside world, which effectively escalates the other-worldly vibe. And speaking of other-worldly, the denizens of this festival are a vibrant melting pot of fans which I’d describe as Hippie-Grass meets Metro-Country meets Portland-Weird (Portlanders are very proud of their weirdness, by the way). There’s truly something for everyone at this festival.

Oh, and did I mention there’s a resident peacock population? They might be a surprising sight for the newbie festivator, but their presence becomes a part of everyday life for Strummit veterans, and a peacock even graces the festival logo.

This venue provides an eclectic experience for the bluegrass fan brave enough to step through the gate. Bands you already know and love will stretch their musicianship here, playing with a freedom and exuberance like nowhere else. Although it’s definitely not a traditional bluegrass festival, there are many bluegrass favorites on the lineup each year. You can lounge in a hammock by the lake and experience the soul-lifting harmonies of the Steep Canyon Rangers, stand in drop-jawed wonder at the creative output of the Infamous Stringdusters, dance until you trance with Greensky Bluegrass, and get your groove on with the Yonder Mountain String Band (originators of the festival). There is a strong family-community vibe during the day that transitions into hard-partying craziness at night, kind of like the Father’s Day Festival late-night hot dog stand frenzy, but on (organic and naturally occurring) steroids. The Cascadia stage hosts late-night music that projects a free-wheeling fantasy fervor. Although it can be popular and crowded, it’s intimate, and witnessing bands like Greensky Bluegrass and Darol Anger within touching distance is something everyone should experience if given the chance...

After four days of music and deep-fry, festivating and spectacle, the contented fans have gone, and most of us vendors are packed up and ready to go. The venue reverts to it’s primal state. Almost, but not quite. There is still some enchantment that lingers, that I’m sure greet us at next year’s Strummit. And of course, the peacocks will be waiting...

(Cameron Little is an soon-to-be nineteen year-old bluegrass fan and musician who might consider wearing tie-dye to the Father’s Day Festival in 2015.)

Dear Friends:
Today's column from Don Denison
Friday, August 15, 2014

I know that many of you have had activities severely limited due to injuries, it is a fact that as we age, things wear out and break. My shoulder injuries have gotten to the point that I have difficulty holding the instrument without experiencing fairly high levels of pain. Surgery is an option that I will explore after dealing with the other more pressing health issues. I find it frustrating not being able to pick, listening to music, live, recorded, good or bad is no substitute for making it. I've been hoping that the shoulder would improve with use and stretching exercises, but have found that while it helps a little, the pain after an hour of picking is pretty rigorous.

Most of you all don't know that from the time I was 4 until I was 14, I had formal training on the piano. I rebelled in late 1954, and said goodbye to hours of practice daily, I made the excuse that I wanted to play football, but my world was closing in on me just as I was entering High School. I made the excuse, and stuck by it even though I loved the music, and had become an accomplished pianist. I envisioned being drug from contest to contest throughout the nation, and losing what little independence I had. This caused my parents no end of sorrow and frustration, they had hoped that I would perhaps become a Concert Pianist. I regret having caused my parents grief over this matter, but I thought at the time I was losing my freedom to the music, I did want to play ball, date girls, and do all the things that teenaged boys do, because of this I had not touched a piano at all in 60 years.

Late this Spring I began noodiling around with the piano at my church, and was given access to it when it was not being used for church activities. I was surprised that there was any thing left after 60 years of aggressive neglect, if I had even looked at a piano when I was a teenager, I feared the worst so refused even to touch a piano.

Last week some one gave me a nice piano in good shape seeing that it is 83 years old, that it only needs cleaning and a good tuning, is amazing. It took about a week getting it to my house, but I am playing music regularly again without having to drive into town to do it. The good thing is that it doesn't hurt my shoulders (very much), the bad thing is I can't take it with me to a Bluegrass Jam. I'm going to have to get that shoulder fixed! Until that time, the piano helps me deal with the loss of my ability to make music. There are a few techniques that age, neglect and arthritis won't allow me to use, but I can sight read and play most anything even now.

Music is in my blood, why else would I have been drawn to a Music Association? To be sure, Bach, Chopin, and Rachmaninof aren't Bluegrass, but it is better than not playing at all. After I get the most pressing medical problems dealt with, I will get that shoulder fixed, Rachmaninof Preludes , Bach fugues , or a Chopin waltz are all wonderful, but I still miss being able to play my guitar.

It really is frustrating not being able to play my instrument of choice, that's why I didn't bring it to the festival this year. Being unable to play at all was even more frustrating, God Bless that nice Lady that gave me her piano. Looking back, I can see that I probably could have kept up my music without being pushed into a career as a Concert Pianist, but I was in a sort of panic about then. My poor parents, they gave me something beautiful, and I thought I had to throw it away to become an independent adult. Why can't we be smart first then old?

Your Friend

Don Denison

Silver strings among the gold
Today's column from George Martin
Thursday, August 14, 2014

At Grass Valley this year someone had a deal on a CD purchase that included a set of the recently released Tony Rice Martin guitar strings. The box said “Monel” on it, which piqued my interest; reminded me of the “Gibson mona-steel” strings that used to be around. Sure enough, the Tony Rice wound strings are silver-colored. And I tripped off down memory lane.

When I was a lad in Crockett, California, and just starting to learn guitar there was a Rexall drug store down near the C&H Sugar Refinery. In those days, tiny Crockett had two (!) pharmacies. We patronized the one that was much closer to our house, unless we were looking for a custom-made fountain drink. The Rexall store had a soda fountain where you could get a cherry Coke for about a dime, maybe 15 cents.

It was much tastier than the chemical-tasting “cherry Coke” that comes in cans today. And even better, the girl who worked there was a Teen Angel, an Unapproachable Goddess of Stunning Beauty, a Princess in a white uniform with a little head thingy not unlike what nurses wore. I could rhapsodize about soft drinks and ice cream (and the fountain girl) for the rest of this column, but really, this piece is about guitar strings, which the Rexall man kept in a dusty drawer behind the counter.

I expect I was the first person to come in there looking for guitar strings in years. Guitar players weren’t exactly thick on the ground in Crockett in 1957. The prices had been marked probably a decade earlier and the kindly druggist sold them to me for the 1940s prices. They were Black Diamond strings, in red envelopes inside a black cardboard box. Over the next few years I believe I bought all he had, at which time he got out of the string business.

The point of all this is that the strings were silver colored. And strings remained that way through my college years, but then one day somebody came out with “phosphor bronze” and the world changed. Over a period of maybe a year everybody wanted the gold-colored (supposedly brighter sounding) bronze strings and eventually I didn’t even see the silver ones any more.

And now the big news: “Tony Rice plays on monel strings!” Whoa! What is going to happen now? Will there be a vast shift in the preferences of guitar players, or will monel be a niche market? I’m not playing a lot of guitar these days and the strings on my guitar are still in good shape. I’ll reserve judgment on Tony’s strings until I get to play on them for a while.

A few years ago a company in Knoxville, TN, came out with Blue Chip picks. They are made of an expensive, proprietary alkyloid material and cost a bunch. They’ll take returns so I sent off for a $50 thumb pick which I not only kept but eventually I bought another. Not only does the blade slip off the string with special ease, but the stainless steel band is firm on my thumb and the “tail”never gets caught in the fourth string as so many other picks do.

Noticing all the top pickers at our festival and on TV and in magazine photos -- most of them seem to have the distinctive shiny band that tells you they are playing a Blue Chip. Blue Chip certainly hasn’t wiped out the plastic thumb pick market, but they are selling enough that they could afford to send a fellow out west and set up a booth at Grass Valley this year. (They also make a variety of very expensive flat picks, which I haven’t tried.)

I await developments.

PS: While thinking about this topic, I dug through some instrument cases and file drawers to find some old string packages I have had for years that will bring back memories for readers of a certain age. I uploaded them to the California Bluegrass Association Facebook page.

At top left is the classic Black Diamond string as sung about by Larry Cordle in the song of the same name. Top right is from Lundberg’s guitar shop, where everybody in the 1960s and ’70s hung out in Berkeley. A couple named Jon and Diedre Lundberg owned it. I think they got divorced, Diedre went elsewhere and after some years Jon went into the vintage clothing business. I bought my pre-war (First World War) Gibson mandolin there.

Middle left is the Gibson strings box and below that the envelope proclaiming the “tone-power-durability-non-tarnishing” quality of their mona-steel strings. Middle right is from Gryphon Stringed Instruments in Palo Alto. I haven’t bought Gryphon strings in some years -- their envelope may still look just like this.

Bottom right are from McCabe’s Guitar Shop on Pico Boulevard in Santa Monica. This is a famous place in Southern California. Besides a huge collection of instruments and top repair people they do concerts in the place from time to time. I was only there once, about 20 years ago, and bought a set of strings that never made it onto my banjo.

The back of the McCabe’s packet is devoted to long letter of endorsement dated April 30, 1963:

“Dear Mr. McCabe,

“I think you will recall how, back in 1927, I wrote to you in regards to your banjo string, which had just appeared on the market. At the time I felt that your string was really something to get excited about, and now, over a quarter-century later, I would like to say that it has stood the test of time.

“I use it on all my stringed instruments, including the fiddle (!) and the treble portion of the auto-harp. And now, what with the introduction of your extended necked banjo, I find your string maintains its admirable sound-lustre even when stretched over three additional frets. Three cheers for the McCabe string.

“Bernard G. (Cheyanne) Schatz, one man band”

Banjo strings on a fiddle. Now there’s a concept.

Praise and Awe for Luthiers
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Growing up, I remember that there were always a few dads in the neighborhood who were really good with their hands. Of course, it seems that ALL the dads in the ‘hood could build a fence if needed, and probably a doghouse, or maybe a bird house. But there were some whose garages will filled with mysterious machines and tools.

Some were mechanical whizzes. They enjoyed working their own cars in their spare time, and would usually be glad to help a neighbor get his or her car running like new again. They could listen to a car, and know just what part needed to be replaced or repaired. The inner workings of a car were nothing mysterious to these people – they had an innate understanding of the systems.

From what I could see, working with metal was a brute force affair. The skills required were the understanding of the mechanisms, the ability to precisely measure what parts were needed and where, and if a part couldn’t be bought, then a lathe would laboriously force a piece of metal to be the right shape, and then precisely located bolt holes would ensure its proper and triumphant installation.

And there were woodworkers too. Like the other craftsmen (I’m not being sexist – allthe ones I saw were men – in the mid-60’s, women weren’t encouraged to explore their acumen with tools as such), they spent their time working in the medium of their choice – wood.

Wood, is a more organic and temperamental medium. The woods come from different kinds of trees, and each has its particular characteristics with regards to grain, strength, workability and durability. You could brute force a cut on a piece of wood, but how well it will serve its purpose might necessitate a cut along the grain, or against the grain. Wood requires feel, and finesse.

I took both metal and wood shop classes in Junior High (they were required, but I think I would have took them anyway). I did learn that some training, and good tools can go a long way. But I was never a “whisperer”, and the materials never whispered to me, either. They just sat there, and never gave me a hint as to how finesse them into objects of amazing utility or beauty. I did make a jewelry box for my mom, and she had it until she died, so there’s that.

Then, as I got into music, I began to meet people who made musical instruments. Not just facsimiles of musical instruments, but real, professional quality instruments. They took pieces of wood, coaxed them into the right shapes and bends, smoothed all the right spots, affixed pieces together, installed frets, and bridges and nuts, and made beautiful, functional instruments.
Here’s the remarkable thing – none of the people I know who can do this will acknowledge that it’s magical. They’re nonchalant about this sorcery!

“Oh yeah, I used bookmatched Martian Mahogany for the back and Venusian Spruce for the top. Made a 21” scale with 22 fat frets on a Jovian Ebony fretboard – it was…interesting.”

They’re just as nonplussed about taking an instrument apart – another process I find incredible. “Oh yeah, I steamed off the back, removed a squirrel’s nest and scalloped the braces, reset the neck, then threw ‘er back together – all before breakfast.”

They probably can’t remember a time when working with wood wasn’t in their blood…These are wizards – complete wizards. And I admire the heck out of them.

Country Isn't Country Any More?
Today's column from Ted Lehmann
Tuesday, August 12, 2014

I've noticed recently at bluegrass festivals hearing bands say something like, “Does anyone want to hear a REAL country song?” which is always greeted with applause, even cheers. The songs, often covers of George Jones or Hank Williams, but including many other so-called Classic Country singers and songwriters, are very well received. I've begun to think that a major portion of the bluegrass audience is composed to country music fans who go to hear bluegrass because its the next best thing available. Bands seem aware of this tendency and are including increasing numbers of country songs in their shows. This has got me thinking.....

I made a quick Google search “Country Music Isn't Country Any More” and got fifty-four million hits, so this doesn't appear to be an obscure topic in people's minds. Larry Cordle wrote a great hit when he claimed “Murder Was Committed Down on Music Row,” earning him the 2000 IBMA Song of the Year award. The song was later recorded by George Strait and Alan Jackson, reaching 38 on the country charts, although it was never separately released. David Peterson wrote about 1946 being part of “the best years of our lives,” although this nod to the 1946 William Wyler film which won seven Academy Awards including Best Picture and is still one of the highest grossing films (adjusted for inflation) of all times is a deeply ironic title, since the film deals with the difficulty three soldiers returning from World War II experienced in adjusting to peace. We live in a world where nostalgia for a past that never quite existed dominates our imagination, leading us to construct memories we don't really have.

Country music, music actually made on the front porches with guitars and fiddles, and parlor music have long existed. A.P. Carter collected many songs in the twenties and thirties, creating a family band which took advantage of the unique guitar style of his sister-in-law Maybelle to transition from truly folk music into the more commercial music that became known as country. Their music influenced all forms of country and gospel. Bluegrass emerged out of what became known as the great southern diaspora as rural Americans moved towards the industrial cities where the jobs were, taking their music with them. Bill Monroe fashioned a fast-paced string band music which captured the yearning for a simpler time of dignified poverty (an oxymoron?) on the farm and in the church. His band consisted of what he could afford to travel with in a car, and he created a brand that became known as bluegrass, becoming a member of the Grand Old Opry in 1939, although his music truly emerged when Earl Scruggs and Lester Flatt created a sound revolution after they joined the band in 1945.

Monroe's career reflects that of a professional musician seeking a sound unique enough to allow his music to stand out and earn him living. His “true” story songs captured his views of an era already in the pre-war past. Much of his genius lay in his image making and self-promotion as much as in his music. The images still appeal, even though none is part of the shared experience of most contemporary Americans. But who will write with nostalgia about banks of solar collectors and the beauty of wind farms? How can they compare to the warmth of a crackling fire? How can ranks of huge combines crossing gigantic fields of grain provide beauty comparing to a lone farmer guiding a plow behind a horse? But who in suburban and urban America has this image in their mind as direct experience?

Gaining a Perspective: I made a brief search for a precise definition of Classic Country. It appears to me to be a classification for a collection of singers played frequently on certain small, rural radio stations which self-label their playlist as “Classic Country.” It includes performers from Hank Williams through Johnny Cash to outlaws like Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings and extends to George Strait and Garth Brooks, whose comeback single concert in Chicago quickly expanded to ten dates in order to meet ticket demands. Tammy Wynette, Dolly Parton, Reba McIntyre and Emmylou Harris should also be included in the list. But...and here's the important realization, a majority of the recorded and performed material of each era is derivative, imitative, bland, and unworthy of being remembered, regardless of whether their work never reached the charts, or was, for a brief period, wildly popular. Most of the people who recorded in country and bluegrass music are truly better forgotten. But it often takes a generation for us to realize this.

One possible reason for the supposed reduction in the quality of music is the enormous demand for content made by the digital revolution. The Internet has made billions of people into massive consumers of content, including music. You Tube alone grows by 100 hours of video every minute, and is accessed six billion times a month. For the most part quality filters have been removed. Anyone can upload a music video or a book. There are no longer significant editors of written material or producers of music to make choices about what get published. By osmosis, a Gresham's Law of music and literature is in effect, that is bad music and writing drive out the good. Anyone can put out a CD and the remaining publishers are desperate to get out material that makes money. Of course, even in the heyday of the recording industry, there were many more failures than successes.

Similarly, in bluegrass, we all recognize, and most of us revere, the seminal pioneer bands. Bill Monroe, Flatt & Scruggs, the Stanley Brothers, J.D. Crowe & the New South pioneered musical styles, while the Bluegrass Album Band and the Johnson Mountain Boys came along at just the right time to revive these “classic” sounds just as they were fading from memory. Meanwhile, the New Grass Revival, The Country Gentlemen, and The Seldom Scene pioneered significant changes in the music, taking it in new creative directions. However, again, it must be remembered that more bands were unmemorable, better forgotten than played. They did, and should, fade from memory. In every era of music, there have been creative geniuses who forged the way, along with imitators and copiers.

Who knows which, in any particular era, will emerge and be remembered? Who knows whether The Del McCoury Band, The Gibson Brothers, Balsam Range, The Infamous Stringdusters, The Punch Brothers or some other band will still be played and revered in a generation? Who knows what band, now seen as on the fringe, far away from the mainstream, will emerge in history as a trend setter, a new and creative voice influencing the next generation of musicians, and derided as “not bluegrass” or “not Real country?” Predictions can only be speculative, and most likely they are far off base. Much of the story will be told, and retold, after most of us are gone. Only time will tell.....


THE DAILY GRIST..."Life is a preparation for the future; and the best preparation for the future is to live as if there were none.”--Albert Einstein

Now and Tomorrow
Today's column from Randy January
Sunday, August 10, 2014

Many times in my life I have found myself falling into the trap of focusing on the future to the deminishment of the now. When I was young I longed to be an adult so I could do whatever I wished. I came of age and I wanted to get a job so I could move out. When that didn’t work out as well as I had planned I longed to go to college to have a better life. While at the University I looked forward to a well paying career. Before I knew it I was married and employed as an engineer, so my thoughts drifted to starting a family. The kids came and I always seemed to look forward to the next stage when things will be easier. Now I have one child in second grade and the other in sixth and I find myself looking to the future where one day I might have a bit of free time to myself. In my mind’s eye I see them growing, going away to college, starting their own families. Gears churn in my head calculating the cost of this and that and the number of years I’ll be hard at work paying it all off. I catch myself daydreaming of the tiny light at the end of the tunnel when I will finally have time to do all those things that I think I can’t do now, and I give myself a figurative smack across the face.

Realizing how deeply I have sunken into that murky water that clouds the present, I swim with all my might. My head breaks the surface and I breathe in deeply the air of here and now. I pull myself out of the proverbial sea of longing and dry myself on the rocky shore. I’m instantly aware of the sun that is warming and drying my skin. A gentle breeze sends a slight shiver up my spine, reminding me that I am still alive. Clarity settles in on my soul. No longer do I hear the ticking of the seconds that have passed, nor anticipate the inevitable tocks yet to come. My heart beats in rhythm with the moment.

My apologies for leading you down that metaphorical detour, but it’s that feeling that I strive for in life. Not to say that long term goals are not valuable, nor that I have not enjoyed life to this point. I have. What I have been working on is tempering those long-term stares into the future and balancing them out with more time that my mind is focused on the here and now. I’ve always had those blissful times when I’m living in the moment. It’s just that I strive to have them more frequently.

These types of patterns can be applied to many things in life, and music is certainly one of them. There is prudence in having a long term goal and practicing to achieve those goals, but if the here and now experience of your music is somehow inferior to the ideal that you seek then that will likely lead you down the road to disappointment and dissatisfaction. It’s vital to temper those expectations and allow yourself to enjoy what music you create now to the fullest. I have had the tendency to be a harsh self critic at times, and I’ve let it keep me from jamming with or playing for others because I was somehow ashamed that my playing in the here and now is no match for some imaginary me that lies at some indeterminate time in the future. How silly is that.

I think one of the things that has helped me the most on this front musically is watching my daughter learn and grow as a musician. Somehow when it’s not about me it’s simpler to just sit back and enjoy the journey. Sure, it’s easy to fall into a similar trap of imagining what a talented musician she may one day become (especially since she has progressed so quickly in her first year and a half), but somehow it’s easier to come by wisdom with your parenting hat on, and I can just smile and know that no matter what happens she and I will always have all the memories of the time we played together when she was young. The longer that extends the better, but nothing can ever be taken away from how special those moments are that we are making in the here and now. I’ll always have that feeling of my heart beating in unison to the time of the present, and my mind wanting to be nowhere else.

THE DAILY GRIST…“Anybody going slower than you is an idiot and anybody going faster than you is a maniac”…George Carlin

Seven Items or Fewer
Today’s column from Bert Daniel
Sunday, August 10, 2014

I’ve always loved Brooks Judd’s Ten Items posts so I’ll steal his idea today and tell you about my summer vacation. My real summer vacation is happening right now at the Good Old Fashioned Festival near Hollister, but my “vacation” just past (notice the quotes) took place last week on the eastern seaboard of our great U.S. of A. I was the designated driver for a whirlwind tour of prospective colleges for my rising high school senior daughter, Juliet. We saw 7 colleges in eight days and drove close to 3000 miles in the process.

1) Drivers in the northeast are insane.

On a three lane urban thruway my tendency is to drive at about the speed limit and look for turns into either of the adjoining lanes while I am in the unfamiliar territory. If you do that in the northeast you will be passed on both sides very rapidly by drivers who are obviously upset that you are not driving ten to twenty miles above the speed limit like everybody else.

2) Tolls in the northeast are insane.

I think I’ll move to Delaware when I retire. Their taxes are low and every time an out of state driver goes through their tiny state on interstate 95, they collect four dollars. What a racket! When you drive I-95, “keep your money in your clothes” as the old song says, because you will have to cough up cash every few miles from Maryland to New Jersey. It’s always a new state or a new bridge or something.

3) Northeastern Highway patrol officers are all out on break eating doughnuts.

I think the reason northeastern drivers drive so aggressively is because they are so pissed off at the high tolls that they figure they are within their rights to drive just as fast as they want to. What the heck, they pay their fines every day. And when the money is rolling in like that to the state coffers, what pressure can there be for a patrol officer to add to the loot by chasing down one of the offenders? The way those maniacs drive they'll probably just waste gas trying to chase them anyway.

4) Many people in the South actually like Bluegrass music.

After our madcap college tour, I was able to spend a few days visiting with my family in the upstate of my native Carolinas. We did some shopping one rainy day at the Mast Store in Greenville, South Carolina. While I waited for my daughter to try on every item in the store, I sat on a box and played some games on my iPad. I noticed the store background music and enjoyed listening to a nice old time banjo tune. The next tune was a vocal by Laurie Lewis which I liked even better. I’ve never heard Bluegrass music piped into a store in California.

5) The Southeast is a really beautiful place.

Green growing on green. That’s what it seems like when a Californian visits the Southeast during a drought year (or any other year). We went for a nature walk one morning with a retired Clemson University professor. He has led a first of every month walk for many years through a preserve that will soon be designated the official botanical garden for the state. This guy knows the latin name for just about any plant you ask him about and if it has medicinal value, he’ll tell you all about the way it’s been used by the indians of the area for centuries. But the forest is so diverse there, Dave was unable to exactly identify one of the trees we saw, although he could place its genus and related species.

6) Colleges are very expensive these days.

Scholarships are a good thing. I sure hope we can get one. Maybe that way we can send Juliet’s brother to college too some day.

OK, quite a bit fewer than ten items it seems. But I’ll settle for 60% today because I have to pack for Bolado Park. I’m not looking forward to the drive through San Francisco traffic but at least I won’t have to worry about northeastern drivers and there’s only one toll. And hopefully I’ll see some of you folks when I get there.

Write Your Own Bluegrass Obituary
Today’s column from John A. Karsemeyer
Saturday, August 9, 2014,

Chances are when your obituary is written you won’t be the one who did it. And of course there is no chance that you will read it, unless you know something that I don’t. Ninety nine and 99/100% of us don’t write an autobiography, so most of the people that think they know all about us don’t, and they may not know some of the things that are important to us that we may want them to know.

William Jefferson Clinton, past president of the United States, said, “Everyone should write at least ten pages about themselves.” His autobiography, “My Life,” is 999 pages, and like him or not, I agree with Mr. Bill. I, like you, have had many relatives and friends pass from life on this earth, and the only things we know about them are gleaned from conversations that we’ve had with them over a short or long lifetime, which can be a great deal of information, or a little information, or hardly any at all.

There is so much information about every person we know or knew that it would be overwhelming to read a complete history of each of their lives, but wouldn’t it be nice to know some of the interesting and important things that happened to them that we may not know? And since we are a bluegrass community, wouldn’t it be nice to know about the “bluegrass-ness” of them, something beyond being “Hooked on Bluegrass,” and something that they would want us to know about them WHILE THEY ARE ALIVE that we don’t know.

Whoever penned the movie, “Get Low,” had it right. If you didn’t see the movie it’s about an old codger (played by Robert Duvall) who decides to have his funeral before he dies, and he makes it an event with “backwoods music” (because that’s where it took place). He hires a live band that has fiddle, banjo, guitar, and stand-up bass. The important message from the movie is that you get to go to your own funeral while you are aware of what’s going on. That’s right, while you are alive. You get to keep the “fun” in funeral.

Narrowing the concept down, why not write your own Bluegrass Obituary? To make it realistic for readers of this welcome column, the only rule is to limit it to one hundred words or less. Heck, you could post it on the CBA Message Board, or some ambitious person could make it into a series like “Hooked On Bluegrass.” The idea here is to go from your being “Hooked on Bluegrass,” to where you think you may end up or want to end up, with all the bluegrass stuff in between, whether your are a player or a just of lover of the bluegrass music. Okay, I’ll start “My Bluegrass Obituary,” here goes.

John Karsemeyer discovered bluegrass at age twenty three. Encountering his first bluegrass band, he thought they were a group of folk musicians using amphetamines. John later joined the California Bluegrass Association, and turned blue. He learned to play the bluegrass banjo by buying a book directly from Earl Scruggs through the mail. His life was enriched by being in bluegrass bands, and being in bluegrass jam sessions. Having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, John died excitedly, while jamming non-stop for ten days without eating or drinking at the 100th CBA FDF in Grass Valley, California.

Okay, now it’s your turn….

THE DAILY GRIST..."A man’s body is mostly made out of water, so what earthly purpose would be served by a person drinking more of that stuff. ”—The Bard.
Homer Meeds and the Gibson
Today's column from Cliff Compton
Friday, August 8, 2014

I was remembering the first time I saw Homer Meeds house. I thought to myself this here looks like a movie set about some mountain man in Alaska who plays with grizzly bears. I guess I wasn’t too far off, turns out he got bit by a bear once. It took a hunk out of this thigh, but he must not have tasted like bear food, because Homer lived to enjoy the rest of his life.

But the thing that helped me to bond with this fella (other than the fact that I married his daughter), was his collection of musical instruments. Lots of yard sale guitars and banjos and mandolins (including an electric one.) fiddles, harmonicas, even a lap steel, and a scarily out of tune parlor piano, with about twenty percent of the ivory missing. And there in the midst of all this was this wonderful old 1940’s era Gibson guitar.

Now when I see a Gibson I generally stick my nose up in the air and pretend that it’s a lesser form of life. Not because I really feel that way, but because I’m a Martin sort of guy. And it feels like I’m cheating if I play on one of them things. But this time I made an exception, because none of my friends were around that I might have to explain my infidelity to.
That thing sounded good! It played like an old tree trunk, but it was rich, man. It sounded like the music coming from a stage door canteen in the middle of world war two. Like something a sailor would play sitting on his bunk thinking about that girl he left behind.

I think that guitar must have absorbed the time of it’s creation. Homer was a sailor once. Not in WW2, but in Korea, and he knew all those songs from then, and all the ones from before, maybe all the ones since Noah got off of the ark, at least that’s how it seemed to me.

And we’ve played a lot together, Homer and me. Played at loaves and fishes, and the grange hall, and the mobile home park in Ashland, and down at the Yerts by Charleston. The old salt even took me out on the ocean in his little boat on a foggy, misting morning along the Oregon coast. Where I set peering over the side in a somnambulistic haze wondering if we’d make it back alive. I remember opening my eyes and seeing a round head pop up out of the water five feet in front of me, and nearly going into cardiac arrest before I figured out that it was just a sea lion laughing me.

Homer’s getting old now. He’s not playin’ as much as he used to, but when he does it’s usually on that old black Gibson. And I play with him, out of respect, because Homer sings like an Appalachian dirt farmer that ought to be recorded by somebody who understand good music and world war two era Gibson guitars. There ain’t enough of either of them left in this old world.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

THE DAILY GRIST… “I woked up a-this mo'nin? with canned heat on my mind?. Woke just this mo'nin canned heat was on my mind.” Canned Heat Blues, Tommy Johnson

It’s Hot Out There
Today's column from Dave Williams
Thursday, August 7, 2014

I’m a bass player in a jug band. Ain't that what the jug supposed to do? I'm not sure there is enough bottom to go around. Too much bottom can't be good for the universe.......or good for anything.

The jug and the bass might be occupying the same space but we make it work. That's why we call it the Breathing Machine. Both of us are grandfathered into the band at this point although I have been fired 3 or 4 times in the past, it's not going to happen again… I’m pretty sure.

I'm telling you all this so I can let you know our band The Amazing Dr. Zarcon's Breathing Machine is playing this Sunday at 9:00AM on the main stage at GOF. Just to be clear, we're not doing a gospel set but rather if you catch our set, you will get a full dose of the breathing machine...warts and all. I expect we got that slot because most folks will need some breath after jamming all night on Saturday.

I am guessing (and also very hopeful) that the Sunday morning set will be the only set I play this summer where the temperature is under 90°. My bluegrass band played a 4 hour farmers market in Campbell two weeks ago and the average temperature for the day was about 93°. Two weeks before we played a BBQ at a Senior Center in Los Altos in the very hot sun at high noon.

Last Friday the jug band played 2 sets at a brewery in San Jose in the late afternoon mid 90's and the week after GOF we play at a festival in Sutter Creek, CA with a forecast in the 100’s.

It used to be that I was only worried about how my bass would hold up. I still do worry about that, a lot, but I am more worried about me these days. I'm too old for this kind of stuff. My Kay bass is 10 years older than I am and seems to do better than I do at these furnace gigs. She needs a little more tuning than usual but that is about it.

As for me, I need a lot more tuning during the heat wave. Water and then some more water followed by more water helps a lot. That works for farmers markets or Senior Centers but if you are playing two sets at a brewery on a Friday afternoon that is advertised as National IPA day, you can get past the water quickly, particularly when beer is a large part of your compensation.

Here's the equation:
(95° + hot sun + 2 glasses of freshly brewed IPA at ~7.5% abv + a band of social security eligible musicians + 2 sets of music) x (a couple of tugs on a flask of tequila) = 3 full days of recovery in air conditioned surroundings and getting back to the water, more water routine. Absolutely no hair of the dog or coffee either until all the fluids are replenished.

I exaggerate some as usual. We had a good time playing at the event and had a pretty good audience who were equally as hot as we were.

Part of my training to be a gigging bass player was to make sure that all the necessary accessories were in my kit and available at the gig. There are the obvious ones like my amp and chords but also especially for the hot weather performances you need a good clean towel or two for your hands and for your bass.

As this month’s tip, I’d like to share my method for procuring towels that are perfect for musicians. Depending on whether you want the top of the line terry cloth or you can settle for some less expensive (more worn) terry cloth, you check into a hotel or motel, for the good towels it would be a Marriott or a Hilton and for the others you can use Motel 6 or any motel off of a freeway exit. The next step is (and this is the critical part) to check out of the hotel of your choice and pack one of the hand towels from the bathroom in your luggage. It is important to only take one as if you get called on it by the hotel management you can claim it was a mistake. It helps if you had a real reason for staying at a hotel instead of just “procuring” towels as this can get expensive if “acquiring” towels is your primary reason. Anyhow for me a couple of hotel visits a year and I’m set. Ask me on Sunday and I’ll show you a couple of my finest towels.

At this point most months, I would remind you of the Santa Clara Valley Fiddlers Jam but that was last weekend. So I guess I’ll have to hope to see you at GOF this weekend. I’ll be hanging around in my motorhome preparing for Sunday morning. The tequila will be there as well. Stop by and have a beer and a sip.

See you in September.

THE DAILY GRIST..."After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”--Aldous Huxley

Songs That Move....You
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Songs, like smells, can be very evocative, bringing back poignant memories or impressions, when you least expect it.

Yesterday, I heard the Country Gentlemen’s version of “Bringing Mary Home” by chance on the way home from work. As I was enjoying John Duffey’s amazing voice, suddenly, I knew what was going to happen. When he came to the part of the song where the owner of the house told the narrator that he was the 13th person to bring Mary home, I broke out in goosebumps. (I hope that wasn’t a spoiler – I assume you’ve all heard it?)

I got to thinking: what other songs do this to me? I thought of a few, and some are pretty surprising. I suppose everyone has different triggers and certainly different memories of songs.

Rocky Top
I know, the forbidden song. But I just love the imagery of the song, and the driving optimism of it. Especially in the verse where they (The Osbornes, right?) sing so cheerfully about the stranger who won’t be coming down from Rocky Top after looking for a “moonshine still”. Gee, was murder ever depicted in such cheerily offhand way?

Footprints in the Snow
Bill Monroe, ever the master of touching stories in 3 minute increments, paints a picture of being a fan of winter after a lucky event many years prior when a loved one who had become lost, was found because of her footprints. Achingly elegant, and probably touched a lot of hearts in folks who have had similar close calls or scares.

Body and Soul
Another Monroe masterpiece, this one rooted in deep, deep grief. I remember from my own family, that Midwesterners do grief better than almost anyone. This touching paean to a lost love one unfolds patiently – first we glimpse the train that will carry her body, then we learn of her beauty, and then, in the third and final verse, the narrator comes to the realization that this was her last day and breaks down.

Handsome Molly
Another example of a touching story, told in very brief terms. Boy meets girl, falls for girl, then loses girl, so in fine bluegrass tradition, decides to ramble. In this case, he takes to sea. What I find remarkable about this one, is, the whole love affair (which may have been only in the boy’s head) seems to spring from occasional meetings in church, and somehow sprouted to such a degree, that when she finally spurns him, he can’t face it. It could be an idle threat I guess, but I think every boy knows how it feels to admire someone, imagine being with them, and be heartsick if they choose another.

Drink Up and Go Home
Jimmy Martin is one of my favorite songwriters, and he’s so different than Bill Monroe. He doesn’t have the simple honesty of Monroe – but he does have a wonderful sarcastic streak, and I think it shows in a lot of his songs. But his message here is sensible: quit complaining, somebody always has it worse than you. But his lines about being “fresh out of prison”, and references to another in the bar who’s “so blind he cain’t see” put the perfect Jimmy Martin touches on what appears to be a simple waltz. I say “appears” because it’s so hard to do Jimmy Martin songs justice!

Keep on Goin’
Another great Martin song, this one chock full of venom and spite, delivered in his inimitable style. He brags about how good he’s been feeling since the woman left, and I don’t think he’s being ironic. Or maybe he is? Is he serious when he tells her to “Keep on goin’”? Or is he just trying to hurt her as he was hurt? The genius of Jimmy Martin is, either way works as the song’s point of view. And the hard driving tempo and fast-trading fills makes sure there’s no time to wonder about it.

What songs get your emotions roiled, and memories flowing?

Fathering Fathers Day Week
Today's column from Rick Cornish
Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Good morning from Whiskey Creek, where for one month and three days Lynn and I are dog-sitting a nine-month-old pup names Rufuss. Ted Silverman, well-known mando player who lives in the City, has gone off to Europe with his family and we’re up to five. In many ways, having five dogs to live with isn’t a lot different than having four; in other ways it’s a sea change of incalculable proportions. But that’s not what my column is about this morning. Instead, I want to tell you what I fell asleep last night thinking about.

As I sometimes do, last evening, just before heading off to bed, I checked Facebook one final time and happened to notice a post done by Brandon Rose. It was a little four-image collage of he and his wife’s two children and it carried this caption…” A day in the life of an almost one week old Lola — with Jessica Rose.” The Rose’s have just added another member to their family.

I went to bed thinking about Brandon, who, with his pop Ron camped along side of my family at Grass Valley through much of his childhood…and my own kid’s childhoods. I thought about all their crazy stunts, about the troubles rounding them all up, (we had a BUNCH of kids in our encampment,) at bedtime. About the stories I would tell the eight or ten of them before they went off to their separate tents for the night. And I also thought about Brandon and Phil and Pete (my two) and how each in his own way had grown into extraordinary parents…two girls, two girls and a boy and girl respectively.

As I lay in bed I pictured each of them huddled around the campfire with marshmallow roasting sticks in hand and great big saucer eyes waiting to see what bizarre thing would happen next in that night’s story. (I told one long story each Fathers Day week, with episodes each night and the grand culmination on Saturday night, the night it was all over until another June came around. What, I wondered, had we, (Ron and I, Bill Schneiderman and John Erwin and the other dads and their families who camped together done right. Was it something we even thought about? If so, I don’t recall doing it. Certainly don’t recall ever thinking, now what shall I do today to improve the likelihood that Phillip and Peter will be good daddies? No, they sure weren’t schooled by me on how to be loving parent. Rather, they just sort of sat back and watched and listened and took it all in. And happily, what each of them saw…and what all the kids in our camp situated each year at the foot of Pilgrim’s Hill at the Nevada County Fairgrounds saw year after year after year were dads crazy in love with their kids.

Now, I’ll only speak for myself. I was not a great parent parenting-skills wise. I certainly knew how I wanted my two boys to turn out but I don’t recall ever thinking about what in particular I could do to make them who I wanted them to be. Both of my parents came from very large families-- mom, ten brothers and sisters, and dad, ten brothers and one sister—and from what I could tell their fathers weren’t exactly textbook examples of experts on child rearing. (My dad’s dad, for example, was an itinerant Baptist minister with a serious drinking problem who would stay on the preaching circuit pretty much full time and return to the sod house on the Nebraska prairie only long enough to re-impregnate my grandmother. My mother’s dad, also a man who liked his hooch, was a saloon keeper, prize fighter and prison guard, sort of all at once, which meant that he didn’t have a whole lot of time to shower affection on his brood of eleven.

So what I’m saying is that my father, whose name was Bebe, wasn’t exactly a role model when it came to state-of-the-art child rearing, but fortunately for me, he too was crazy in love with his kids. And, in the end, that was really all that mattered. What really mattered was that my father showed me in his own unique way that I was what mattered most in his life. And that, I feel so fortunate to be able to say, is exactly what Ron and I showed our kids.

THE DAILY GRIST..." God gives every bird his worm, but He does not throw it into the nest.”--P. D. James

How I was NOT in a movie
Today's column from XXXX
Sunday, August 3, 2014

(Editor’s Note: I’d have to say that of all our Welcome columnists, one of the handful just seem never, ever to beg off a month is Mark Varner. Pretty amazing when you consider that the guy has a full time job producing copy and images on a deadline and a part-time job (for the CBA) producing copy and images (for the Breakdown), also on a deadline. But he did it this month and offered as a partial reason the fact that he’s about to lose his little boy, Marty, to Clark University back in New England. (Apparently the fact that Clark is one of the finest institutions of high learning on the planet isn’t helping a whole lot.) Anyways, ‘nuff said, pal.

Here’s a 2009 story about how we almost lost our BB Editor to Hollywood.

Dear friends,

This was going to a column about how I was going to be in a movie. Yes, a real feature length film. Instead it’s a column about how I am NOT going to be in a movie.

A few months ago a friend and I signed up on a website to be extras in a movie that was being filmed in San Francisco. It is going to be a horror film. I won’t mention the title, but it will be a low budget movie that will probably wind up going straight to video, but who knows.

In my life I have made a point of doing things that I never thought I’d do. No, I’m not a great adventurer, so that wouldn’t include climbing Denali, diving in a shark cage or parachuting into an active volcano. But I never did radio until I got my bluegrass show on KAZU, I never put on a concert until I started the Otter Opry, I never visited places like mainland China or Taiwan until work brought me there, I never did any public speaking until they propped me up in the bright lights of the IBMA stage to accept the award for the Bluegrass Breakdown. Stuff like that. Being an extra in a movie was supposed to be one of those experiences. Something out of the norm that pushes, even frightens you a bit.

So Saturday was my big day, or night as it turned out. They started their day at 6PM. It seems a film crew’s day is a long one, like 12 hours, so you can do the math to understand what the end of the “day” was.

I was to play a doctor examining a patient, a very brief scene with no dialogue. I was to dress nicely, in business attire. Fine. That would be fun.

But as soon as things got rolling I was told I would be given an additional extra part. I would be made to appear as if I had been severely burned and thrown out of a window into a parking lot. To this end I had to wear a rubber suit that covered my head and body. It took about an hour to get me into my costume and make up. I worked with the special effects guys and that was interesting and fun.

Unfortunately, after I was in costume they rearranged order of shooting and I was shuffled to the end, with more important scenes starring the main characters being done first. As I mentioned, their day was over 11 hours long and that meant I had to stay in the rubber suit from 7PM till 4:30 AM, before they told me they would move my scene to Sunday night’s shooting. At about 3:30 AM I was ready to rip the stuff off and grab my clothes and literally run away into the night. But I promised myself if I EVER got out of that costume I would NEVER come back. (As it turned out it required chemicals to melt the glue that held me in the thing, so I never would have escaped anyway!) I was, to be honest, rather traumatized by the event. Not only that but bored. Really, really bored. I forgot to bring a book, so I borrowed one from one of the special effects guys. “How to Survive in the Woods.” I can now tell you how to kill and eat a porcupine.

I was amazed at how glacially slowly everything on a movie set happens. I thought my work was tedious. Ha! I’ll never be able to watch a movie again without seeing each of the cuts it takes to make a scene and imagining all the work required by the crew to make every shot happen. Ugh!

I will say the folks that worked on the crew were absolutely wonderful, friendly and fun. I had a chance to talk about bluegrass with several fans of the genre.

As if to encourage me to follow my instincts to bail on the production, the transmission on my van went out on the drive home. I had to drive from Colma to Boulder Creek in 2nd gear at 45 miles per hour. So I would have no way of returning for Sunday night’s shoot anyway.

All I wanted was sleep when I got home at 6:30 AM. I called them when I woke up and told them making films, as it turned out, was not my cup of tea.

I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to sit down on Sunday afternoon and work on your Bluegrass Breakdown’s August issue. I love this job!

Your pal,
Mark Varner

Today's Quote: “I have found out that there ain't no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.” Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer Abroad

The European Punch List
Today’s column from Marcos Alvira
Sunday, August 3, 2014

Two months ago I wrote a column bemoaning the fact that my wife was forcing me to go on a 17 day European tour with her. As you might recall, I railed against airports, flying, crowded tourist sites, and almost any other possible peeve, whether imagined or real. You can probably infer that there wasn’t a whole lot of sympathy for my position, although my sentiments did seem to resonate with a few of you. Like the good pals that you are, however, most of you sided with my wonderful bride. She took great delight in reading over my shoulder the plethora of your admonishments via the Message Board, personal e-mails, Facebook postings, and yes even a couple of phone calls. Since our return, every time I run into any of you our there in the CBA community, the first words off your lips are, “How was Europe?” Following is a punch list of impressions and thought from our sojourn.

  • Italians are inherently elegant in style and form. Is there anything cooler than a beautiful Italian woman riding her bicycle to work in the early morning, her thin form outlined by a chic skirt and blouse, her colorful scarf fluttering in the cool breeze? Or an Italian man in his stylish slacks and black shoes with a perfectly cut coat and tie, puttering by on his Vespa on the way to early morning cafe?

  • Why must American tourists dress so poorly. Embarrassing… really.

  • Despite the seeming insanity of European drivers, cyclists appear far safer on roadways than their American counterparts. An awareness of of bicyclists and scooter operators seems to be ingrained in the psyche of most drivers (the French not withstanding). Maybe more of us Americans could fit into stylish Italian clothing as well if we walked and rode more bicycles.

  • While on the topic of bicycles, I was thoroughly impressed with how the Swiss go to great lengths to create safe, wide, brightly painted bike lanes that weave seamlessly in and out of major traffic lanes. I was equally impressed when I saw San Francisco doing something similar.

  • Even the Italian food I had at truck stops was superior to many of the best Italian restaurants I’ve been to in the States. Fresh fruit salads. Sauces, pasta, meat dishes and pastries made fresh…at the truck stops! Perfect cappuccinos…every time.

  • French pastries are the greatest. Their coffee is second to Italy.

  • Never order coffee or pastry in England…unless it’s a meat pie. Stick with tea.

  • Favorite city that I’ve ever been to: San Francisco, my birthplace and early home. City that takes my breath away: Paris. The French have an innate aesthetic sense. City I had never previously visited, yet feels like I’ve lived there before: Florence. At every turn there is priceless art in a piazza. Despite the massive tourist presence, I discovered seclusion when I wandered away from the crowds through small alleys that opened into secluded private courtyards, I had sense that I was in a different century. If I ever have only one more visit to Europe in me again, It would have to be Florence. (Don’t think anyone can ever get me on an 16 hour flight again)

  • Biggest surprise: Being in London for almost two hours before I heard an English accent. Still, It was awesome to visit the Mother Ship.

  • At some point in Oxford, I became weary of seeing very large stone buildings dedicated to something that were dedicated to somebody that did something important.

  • The Crown Jewels…those are some very big stones! And shiny too!

  • Gypsies…growing-up in Hayward, I had an antipathy toward them. They would steal the local grocery store blind. At school, nothing in your desk was safe. Seeing so many of them in Italy and France, nothing was done to change my feelings.

  • If you want to party, and loudly, hang out with guys from Liverpool.

  • I talked a lot of politics with folks. Seems like everyone is sick of their government. A real pandemic sentiment.

  • Rich folk have more in common with other rich folk across continents than they have in common with working class folk in their own country. Working class folk have more in common with other working class folk across continents than they have in common with rich folk in their own country.

  • The duration of ability to not touch a bluegrass instrument without going totally mad is exactly 17 days.

  • I learned that my ability to sit in an airplane is about 5.5 hours…about the amount of time it takes to fly across North America.

Today’s column from Marty Varner
Saturday, August 2, 2014

This is a difficult article for me to write. Some of you might already know, but for those of you that don’t, I am flying to Massachusetts on August 19th to begin my first semester at Clark University. I have already picked my classes, and I am certain that I will thrive in that environment and enjoy my time there. (If you would like to contribute to my cause follow this link https://www.youcaring.com/marty-varner)

Even though I am looking forward to my time on the East coast, it is difficult to leave all of my bluegrass friends over here that I have known since I was a tyke. I am certain that without all of your help I would never be able to have the opportunity that I am only weeks away from experiencing. Since this is my last article I will not be writing from a lap top in Massachusetts, I thought I would write about an array of different concepts.

First of all, In the middle of July Trampled by Turtles released a new album called Wild Animals. This album has great variety as well as improved instrumentation. What this album inspired me to do was finally research and listen to the lead singer, Dave Simonett, as a solo artist. What I discovered is that while some of his songs are used for his band, the other songs he writes are brilliant and deserve to be listened to.

Another album that I have to recommend came out a few months ago, but I hadn’t heard about it until recently, and I fell there are others like me. Bryan Sutton released a solo album called Into My Own. While non-guitar pickers might scoff and predict that the album is going to be 12 fiddle tunes with too many notes and bent strings, I was really excited to check it out. What I was surprised to see was that not all of these titles looked like instrument titles, and it turns out they weren’t. At this point I was skeptical, but I was pleasantly surprised that Sutton’s voice held its own on its own. I had heard him sing as a novelty with Tim O’Brien, but this is different. And while Tim O’Brien is not on the album, Bryan has a great supporting cast of players such as: Sam Bush, Stuart Duncan, The McCoury brothers, and Luke Bulla. Oh yeah, and Bryan’s guitar playing sounds pretty good too.

Last Thursday was the trade deadline in major league baseball, and the big winners were the Oakland Athletics of all time. They received the Boston Red Sox’s best pitcher, John Lester which makes them has the best rotation in baseball besides possibly the Detroit Tigers. I think it’s nice that all the Athletics fans get some fun after the Giants have recently won two World Series Championships.

I am also excited that I am going to be helping Regina Bartlett with the kids program at the Good Old Fashioned Festival this year. I have never done this before, but thought it would be beneficial to the kids if I helped them out with their performance. I think I am going to a good job since I have had so much experience going through all of the stages of a Kids on Bluegrass performance.

On a sadder note, two days ago was my grandmother’s funeral. I saw her in hospice care and I was proud to see how many people went in to see her. All the employees there were also amazed and said that one could tell how one lived their life by the people that visit them there. My grandmother was an incredible inspiration to me and one of those people that is loved by all and disliked by none.

Well if you do not go to Good Old Fashioned Festival you will probably not see me for a while and I just want you to know, thanks for all the advice whether it was wanted or not because now it has definitely been appreciated and I look forward to my next four years of growth.

Ten Items or Fewer
Today’s column from Brooks Judd
Friday, August 1, 2014

“I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic’s, and his hair was PERFECT!”*

Item 1: A few weeks ago Sheila and I were invited by some old friends for a friendly retirement dinner given in Sheila’s honor. As usual Sheila was a bit reluctant to go due to her being the focus of attention but we went and had an enjoyable dinner with our friends Kirk,Mary,Dan and Sandy. They were our first friends we met when we moved to Turlock in May 1980 and we still cherish their friendship.

At dinner I made a small non-noteworthy passing remark that I would like to be the proud owner of an electric bass guitar. For those who are readers of the welcome column you might remember I wrote about the famous White Fender bass I fell in love with back in 1966. (The bass belonged to my next door neighbor George Tingley. At his mother’s funeral, (My Auntie Frances) a few weeks back I learned that his beautiful white Fender bass had been stolen many years ago.

A couple of days ago the doorbell rang and I went to see who it was. There on our doorstep was a rather tall box delivered by the friendly UPS folks. I carried it in and Sheila deadpanned, “What could that be?” I smiled at her as I began unwrapping the box much like the father in Christmas Story who had won a special prize in the crossword contest he had entered.

I couldn’t believe my eyes as the cardboard pieces came flying off the outside of the box. In bold letters printed on the cardboard box was that iconic name brand,Fender. I tore open the remaining cardboard and found not only a black and white Fender bass but a small Fender amp. I looked at Sheila as I cradled the beauty. Sheila looked at me and smiled and said, “You said you always dreamed of having an electric bass. Sometimes dreams do come true.”

I plugged everything in and stood in front of the full length mirror and plucked a few notes. I looked at my reflection and realized that if I had plastic surgery, dyed my hair, lost a few pounds, became a south paw and learn how to play the bass,I could possibly pass for Paul McCartney.”

Item 2: Things that make me sad. A lone dove perched upon a telephone wire on a dark,damp,winter day. A local store that has recently gone out of business. Hard working citizens being laid off from their jobs. People who live by the adage, “Ignorance is bliss,” and then are more than willing to prove it to you by sharing their opinions.

Item 3: Things that make me smile: Two doves sitting and cooing beautifully on a tree branch outside my bedroom window on a warm spring morning. A business buying and selling locally. Four full pages of help wanted ads in the newspaper offering decent wages. People who believe that a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing so they are willing to take the time to learn all the facts and examine all sides.

Item 4: Smiling Continued. Grand children. Add that to my list of things that make my days worth while.I hope to live at least another 25 years so I can see my grandsons and granddaughter grow up.

Item 5: Two lucky people. Rick who has Lynn to watch over him and Sheila to watch over me.

Item 6: ** When Warren Zevon was suffering the effects of terminal cancer he was asked if he had any philosophical thoughts he would like to leave behind. He thought about it and remarked, “Enjoy every sandwich!”

Warren also vowed to finish his final album before death overtook him. He struggled daily with the extreme pain and fatigue. One day in the studio while working with his producer and having a really rough time at it,his producer said,“Warren go take a nap.When you’re feeling better we will continue.” Warren looked at him, gave a twisted smile and said,”You don’t understand, this is how I am when I am feeling better.”

Item 7: Hospital costs.Three weeks ago I had a minor medical procedure, a Botox injection in my esophagus to help treat my achalasia. This process took about thirty minutes. I was in the hospital from 6 A.M. to about 8:30 A.M. Yesterday Sheila went on line to check our insurance to see how much they were charged by the hospital.The bill was $14,000. Luckily we have medical insurance.It can give one the chills to think what an infected toe or ear ache might cost.

Item 9: Ringo talks about George: I was watching a video clip of Ringo describing the last conversation he had with George Harrison right before George’s sad and painful death. George couldn’t sit up in bed and he could only speak in a low raspy whisper. Ringo did most of the talking and finally told George that it was time for him to leave because he had to fly to Boston.His daughter who was having surgery for a brain tumor. Ringo got up to leave and George reached out to him and weakly grabbed his arm and whispered, “Ringo, do you want me to go with you?” When Ringo recounted this story my tears matched his. Friends do that.

Until September: Read a book, hug a child, pet a dog, stroke a cat, eat a bar of chocolate and watch the sun rise and set. Go ahead.It don’t cost nothing.

Bucket List
Today's column from Jean
Thursday, July 31, 2014

(Editor’s Note: So what was Jean bucket-lisiting five years ago? Let’s have a look at this 2009 Welcome.)

There’s an old saying, “be careful what you wish for.” A few weeks ago, I posted a question on the message board asking others about their bucket list. I then proceeded to tell everyone in CBA land that I wanted to learn to “take breaks” on my guitar while jamming with others. I didn’t get an overwhelming response to my post but I found out later that quite a few folks did read it.

I received an e mail from Jerry Pujol telling me he would be willing to help me learn to take breaks on the guitar and we could start when I got to Plymouth. I hadn’t really planned on going to Plymouth but this (along with several e mails from Pat Calhoun) was the nudge I needed to change my plans. I asked Jerry if I should be working on learning the scales in different keys. He told me it’s a beginning but he suggested just starting out learning to pick a simple song like “Wildwood Flower” and keep working on it until I get it down good, then go on to learning another song, such as “Red Wing.” He encouraged me to watch the movie they showed at Plymouth called, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” the Carter Family story. He told me to be sure to pay attention to Maybelle Carter’s picking style because he was going to show me how to pick the way she does. She used a thumb pick and a finger pick on her index finger and the style she developed was to pick a melody and strum a rhythm at the same time. Jerry spent some time with me as promised and even made a tape for me to work with. I’m sure I’ll be picking some Wildwood Flowers with him at Colusa.

The next person who offered me some guitar instruction was Cliff Compton. He used a different approach altogether. We worked on what he calls the “Hillbilly Dots.” It’s a way of filling in while you’re singing or accompanying someone else, rather than just strumming and keeping time with the boom-chucks. It was fun and it’s a short cut to make it sound like you really know what you’re doing when maybe you don’t actually even know the music theory behind why it works. I’m speaking for myself here.

On Saturday, I was walking down the street in front of the vendors and met Chef Mike who literally took me by the hand and told me “There’s someone I want you to meet.” He introduced me to Rick Sims from the Fifth String Music. He told Rick about my bucket list and how I wanted to learn to take breaks. Rick told me to grab a guitar and sit down and proceeded to give me a 30 minute lesson. He emphasized the use of the right hand and how it’s every bit as important as the left hand in guitar playing. I was given some exercises to do which involve moving up and down the strings while alternating upward strokes and downward strokes. I wish I had started all this 50 years ago. We’re too soon old, too late smart. Besides, when you’re 14 years old, you don’t think of bucket lists…the things you want to accomplish before you kick the bucket.

On Saturday afternoon I saw Audie Blaylock sitting alone in a patio area so I decided to introduce myself and tell him how much I enjoyed their set. He told me he was going to give a guitar workshop in a few minutes and encouraged me to join the group. There was no “hands on” type of instruction but he did emphasize learning scales and said that the guitar player’s job was to keep time and provide back-up for the singers and that when you “take a break” it’s just that, a short break, and then you go back to your real job.

I’m glad I made the decision to attend the Plymouth Festival, it just reaffirmed to me that bluegrass folks are the best folks in the world. There were some people that I had only met through the CBA Message Board or by e mail and finally got to meet in person, folks like J.D. Rhynes, Lynn Cornish, and Nell Robinson. I jammed with Ernie Hunt, a fellow country singer. I spent an enjoyable couple hours with a mandolin player named Renee who has a beagle named Nicholas. I was surprised to see a couple of people from my home town of Hoopa at Plymouth, they happened to be passing through and saw the sign for the festival and decided to spend the day. I was especially pleased to get to know the Anderson Family. Not only are they gifted musicians, they are really nice people. I had fun chatting with Daisy who showed me her horse collection. I was especially excited to watch the kids perform with Wayne Taylor and Appaloosa. They did a fantastic job of entertaining, displaying talent, poise and professionalism. It’s obvious that they love what they do. I admire their humility even though they have every reason to be proud of their accomplishments.

There was another young lady that I met briefly on Friday. She was photographing the flowers down the center of the street in front of the food court. She had her lens stuck down the throat of a morning glory when I approached her. I figured her for an artist and we had a nice chat and I showed her some of my artwork. I told her that I’m not as prolific as I’d like to be. I have so many other responsibilities and when I finish my chores for the day, I’m usually too tired to start a project. This is when she told me something that really had an impact. She reminded me that I will never remember a load of laundry that I washed or a meal that I cooked, or the weeds that I pulled, but I would remember each painting that I do. She admonished me to let the mundane things go now and then and make time for the things that really matter to me. She’ll probably never know how much I needed to hear that.

This brings me back to my desire to improve my guitar skills. I will need to make it a priority and be willing to let some of the less meaningful occupations slide at times. There will never be a perfect time to practice picking, paint a picture, or work-out at the gym. I have to set time aside for these pursuits and not give in to the tyranny of the urgent if I am to make any progress. Thanks to Jerry, Cliff, Chef Mike, and Rick Sims for helping me on this journey to better picking.

Did you know that September 22nd was the first day of autumn? The Fall Camp-Out is just around the corner. I’m looking forward to hearing James King. I challenge you all to learn a new song between now and then. How about “The Leaves Mustn’t Fall?” See you in Colusa.

THE DAILY GRIST..." It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”--Ralph Waldo Emerson

My friend JD
Today's column from Rick Cornish
Wednesday, July 30, 2014

This being the fifth Tuesday of the month I figured I’d grab another of our classic Welcomes, (yesterday’s was a doozy, George, I’m sorry for missing the end of it), but I’ve decided against that because I have something I want to say to you. It won’t be a long Welcome column…certainly not one of the “classics” that’s for sure…but hopefully some will read these words and, of those, perhaps a few will be moved to action.

I didn’t know JD Rhynes before I ran for the CBA board of directors, really, had never even spoken to the man despite the fact that we’d been attending the same Association events for nearly thirty years. I don’t have to tell anyone that the old geezer is a larger-than-life character, nor that I’ve been called the same on more than a few occasions. I believe that’s probably the reason he and I had never cozied up to one another…it’s just common knowledge that if you get more than one person at a time spouting all that hot air public safety is compromised.

Anyways, JD Rhynes and I met about fifteen years ago and nearly from that first conversation, the gist of which I have absolutely zero recollection, we became fast friends. In all those years I doubt that two weeks have gone by without one of us calling the other. For all his larger-than-life faults, and for all mine, over the years we’ve nonetheless found enough reasons to love one another.

So here’s what I have to say—please give some thought to helping make JD’s cookbook project happen. In other words, give some thought to pledging money to the Kickstarter campaign. My old friend would dearly love to see his twenty-five years of monthly cooking columns crystalized into a single volume. It would be, he told me, something he could leave behind, and that was good enough for Lynn and I to contribute.

THE DAILY GRIST..."Well, I’ve got to be honest, old friend, taking on a new, regular writing job is just about the last thing in the world I’m thinking about here in month two of my retirement from the Newspaper business.”—George Martin, retired newsman

Wait ‘em Out
Today's column Rick Cornish, (but mostly George Martin
Tuesday, July 29, 2014

I don’t know if this was the first Welcome column we posted by George Martin, but I know it’s an early one. My mother, whose name was Millie, was the stuff of legends when it came to fishing. Many a time when the entire extended family went to the Delta for a weekend of fishing, it was my mother, her wiry little 4’11” frame perched on a boulder on the embankment, who’d be the only one who “brought home the bacon”, (i.e., enough catfish and bass to feed the entire clan that night. Millie had a single fishing tip, and she shared it with anyone who’d ask…and more than a few who wouldn’t. “It’s really simple,” she’d say, you just gotta wait ‘em out. Don’t be in a hurry, for God’s sake, them fish gotta eat sometime, and when they’re ready, you just make sure you’re holdin’ a rod and reel.”

And so it was with George Martin; I knew he’d be one of the biggest catches in my Welcome columnist angling career, but, too, I knew that when George said something, you could depend on his meaning it. So I followed my mom’s advice and, sure enough, the fish eventually got hungry. Here’s a piece the SF Examiner lifer wrote early on…a nice one for a summer’s day, we thought.

Bluegrass, Banjos and Barbecue
Today's column from George Martin
Thursday, July 24, 2007

We’ve had a few posts lately about Rosine, KY. It brought back memories of a visit my wife Barbara and I made there shortly after Bill Monroe’s death. I poked around in the archives and found this story I had written for the August, 1998, Breakdown. The headline was: “Bluegrass, Banjos and Barbecue...A California Boy’s pilgrimage to Rosine, Kentucky, Bill Monroe’s home town.” -- GM]

It was a gray, overcast May day, warm and humid, when we reached the cemetery in Rosine, Ky., Bill Monroe’s home town. A tornado had ripped part of the roof off a school about 40 miles away a few days before, and the TV news was full of warnings and maps with bright green splotches showing where the weather radar was picking up some serious storms.

This California boy was a little nervous and wishing for a nice, familiar earthquake instead of all these killer winds. There were entirely too many doublewide trailers around to suit me.

Rural Kentucky hasn’t picked up on the California trend of low, flat grave markers that one can just run the mower over. Rosine’s cemetery has real gravestones, and they do say, as in the old song, “Gone but not forgotten,” and “We’ll meet again someday.”

It’s not hard to pick out Bill Monroe’s grave: it’s marked by a tall obelisk of pale cream-colored stone surrounded by a low wall, and a flat stone with a touching biographical inscription written by Monroe’s son, James. A year and a half after the death of the Father of Bluegrass, there were fresh flowers on the grave, obviously left by other pilgrims.

A photograph of Monroe is etched into the base of the obelisk, and there is a granite bench at the foot of the grave where one can sit and contemplate.

I cradled my mandolin and looked across the green grass of the cemetery to the tree line beyond, thinking how curious it was that this man from an obscure village in the Kentucky hills should have so touched the life of a half-Portuguese kid from California.

My father’s father was from rural southwest Missouri, and I am told for a time he actually lived in the woods and supported himself by hunting squirrels. His father came there from Kentucky after the Civil War. But they were not, as far as anyone knows, musical.

My maternal grandfather, who died before I was born, played the Portuguese guitarra, and my mother played popular songs of the day on the piano. But as a child when I first heard snippets of bluegrass on the radio, “taking us up to news time,” as the disc jockey would say, I was hooked on that particular sound from then on.

Sitting by the grave I thought of seeing Bill Monroe for the first time in 1958 or 1959 at the Dream Bowl near Vallejo, and the concerts in Berkeley and San Francisco we had attended over the years, and the Strawberry Bluegrass Festival (before it became a “Music” festival) when he waved from the window of his bus as he passed our jam. A mental image came of Monroe on the TV portion of the Grand Ole Opry, still buck dancing in his 80s, seemingly indestructible.

Then Monroe vanished from the televised Opry and the word came that he had suffered a stroke. And finally, in September of 1996, my computer at the San Francisco Examiner spit out the news that he had died, just a few weeks shy of his 85th birthday.

I walked up near the headstone, struck a D-minor chord on the mandolin and played “Moonlight Waltz,” for this amazing person, as slow and sad as I could make it. And I found my eyes welling up with tears for a man I spoke to only twice, maybe four sentences total, but whose music had shaped my life and the lives of so many others around the world.

When my wife Barbara and I decided on a Midwest trip to visit relatives in Illinois this spring, we found Southwest Airlines was having a $198 round-trip sale. We decided to fly to Nashville, do the tourist stuff, then drive to Illinois and back to Tennessee for the trip home. Via computer I found a phone number to call for information about Rosine, and the man who answered was Dwight Westerfield, a Rosine native who now lives in nearby Beaver Dam and is an Ohio County commissioner.

Westerfield is a round-faced slow-talking Kentuckian with a deep, resonant voice. “Everybody calls me Frog,” he drawled as he extended his hand, and if you’ve ever listened to the basso profundo calls of bullfrogs at night, you can hear where the nickname came from.

Westerfield is a board member of the Rosine Association, the local group that is working on plans for a visitors center and festival performance area for the town. The association also runs the Rosine Barn Jamboree, a weekly open-mike jam session in a converted feed store that was the reason Barbara and I timed our visit for a Friday.

We met Westerfield and his wife Pauline at the one motel in Beaver Dam, conveniently located at the junction of former State Highway 62, recently renamed Blue Moon of Kentucky Highway. About six miles out of Beaver Dam and about three miles from Rosine, Westerfield pulled over to point out, across the railroad tracks near mile marker 17, the gated road that leads up to Jerusalem Ridge and the old Monroe home place.

He apologized for not taking us up there, but said heavy rains had left the steep, muddy roads impassable for our cars.

After our visit to Monroe’s grave, and the graves of brothers Birch and Charlie, their parents and Uncle Pen Vandiver, we checked out the little church where the funeral had been held, then drove the short distance to the center of “town” (Rosine is unincorporated and estimated to have about 250 residents; it is very small) to visit the Rosine General Merchandise.

This is a combination general store and small restaurant run by Pal and Ramona Goff, and is noted for its “Pal Burger,” a substantial half-pounder. [Update: the Goff’s lost possession of the store shortly after this in some sort of political fight.]

As supper time was upon us, we decided to eat, but Barbara and I opted for the barbecue sandwich, which seemed more Southern somehow. It proved to be shredded pork in a delicious sauce on a hamburger-type bun. Trying to stick with the Southern theme, I accompanied the barbecue with a Royal Crown Cola.

But the hit of the meal was buttermilk pie, homemade by Rosine native Linda Smith. It was a sort of custard pie with a buttermilk tang and an exquisite crust. We ate every bite then scraped the little bits off the plate.

The Friday night jam we had come to see originated in the store, moved to the porch and then to the “barn” next door as the number of pickers grew. The Rosine Association has scrounged church pews and chairs, built a small stage and installed a sound system and a heater. There were about 30 musicians around that night, but Westerfield said it was a small turnout because of the Memorial Day weekend.

[I’m going to skip some digressions in the original piece and cut to the jamming. --- GM]

The Rosine folks say that in cold weather months playing on stage in the warmth of the barn is much desired by the local pickers, but in the summer months most prefer to jam outside and the organizers have to cruise the parking lot to recruit folks to come inside and play for the crowd.

The picking ranged from extremely good to average, but I have to say that virtually everyone back there sings very well. I don’t know what it is, but each group I picked with had exceptional vocals. I was suffering from laryngitis that week and could barely talk. Many times I wanted to add a baritone part to a beautiful duet, but couldn’t get any sound out of my throat.

Inside the barn we met Donald and Marian Bryant of Hawesville, Ky. Marian Bryant is active in planning the memorial and visitors center at Everett Park in Rosine, where Monroe put on a bluegrass festival in 1973 during the town’s centennial celebration.

“We went down to Nashville to see Mr. Monroe when he was still alive,” she said, “to talk to him about the

DAILY GRIST…”You have two hands. The first to help yourself and the second to help others.“– Author Unknown

Reaching Out Works
Today’s Column from Yvonne Tatar
Monday, July 28, 204

There are several bluegrass organizations within California and a multitude of them around the world. All of them are working hard to further bluegrass and to introduce new fans to this American musical artform. Festivals, like Grass Valley and Summergrass, and local concerts are probably the most popular ways associations are spreading the bluegrass out there, but there are some less familiar ways that getting great results. Living in San Diego, the San Diego Bluegrass Society has a couple of unique outreach programs we think are fun as well as being very successful.

Earlier this month, SDBS and North County Bluegrass & Folk Club co-sponsored our annual Bluegrass Day at the Fair at the San Diego County Fair held at the historic Del Mar Fairgrounds in Del Mar, CA. Del Mar Fairgrounds is historic because for many years it has been a popular racetrack for horseracing. Many world renown horses have and will race there bringing throngs of race lovers each year. Anyway, the county fair is also a huge draw in this site. Many thousands attend the county fair each year. The opportunity to have a full day to display local and regional bluegrass talent is not to be missed!

Each year the Bluegrass Day at the Fair activities are a little different. In the past, there have been touring bands performing there and other years we have had instrument contests vying for prizes. This year the fair board gave the bluegrass organizations the Plaza Stage for July 5th. This is a great location as huge crowds walk past this area when attending the fair. (We are happily getting better placement at the fair these days. Early on, the fair gave us a remote stage and we were in competition all day with the Pig Races next to us. This was not a good match!) The activities for this year included a Band Scramble with prizes, a kids’ performance of local young string players, an Old Time Fiddler’s demonstration/concert, and the day concluded with concerts by five local bands. And folks attending get into the spirit of the day for sure. For example, this year the fair’s theme was The Beatles so we even had one Band Scramble band name themselves “I Want to Hold Your Band.”

In exchange for our Bluegrass Day at the Fair activities, the fair board gives us sound support, a modest budget to cover expenses, and free tickets to those participating in Bluegrass Day at the Fair. We also have club booths at the stage area where lots of local bluegrass information can be picked up. It’s a win-win for local bluegrass fans to see/play music and also be able to walk around and see the San Diego County Fair the same day.

Another SDBS outreach that we’re proud of is our Library Concert series. We have worked out a system with the county library branches to provide a bluegrass concert at many of the libraries. SDBS bands in good standing are chosen for these concerts and the attendance has been good. Again, lots of club information is made available and picked up at these concerts. Some library patrons will hear the concert going on in another part of the library, make their way to the concert and wind up staying for the whole event. The classic statement from them is usually, “We don’t know what kind of music it is, but we like it!” That’s our opening to initiate the conversation, e.g., to invite them to one of our Tuesday night jams around the county and hand them a flyer with club information. This person-to-person outreach works.

There are other outreaches we do here in Southern California, and I wanted to mention one last one that is hosted by SDBS and Janet Beazley. Every third Tuesday this Slow Jam happens in downtown San Diego at Morse Academy. Many closet pickers dust off their instruments to attend this jam. Janet offers a fun and friendly way to learn and practice jamming skills—playing chordal backup and simple leads, using a capo, singing lead and harmony parts, practicing good jamming etiquette—as well as learning bluegrass standards at slower tempos. This is another great example outreach happening here in the southland.

So these are just a couple of outreaches we offer. Basically, we all do outreach everyday with whomever we come in contact with. Sometimes the smallest meeting and conversation can lead to introducing another person to bluegrass music. And finally, whatever bluegrass associations you belong to, thank the board members when you see them. They are diligently working hard for you and furthering bluegrass music in so many ways!

THE DAILY GRIST…”Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.”—Maya Angelou

Good Medicine
Today’s Column from Jeanie Ramos
Sunday, July 27, 2014

Have you ever hit a wall? You are moving along at a good pace, picking up speed as you go, enjoying the ride and BOOM! You hit the proverbial wall. This happened to me recently. I had been going non-stop to festivals, camp-outs, and jamming parties all over Northern California since the first of the year. This is one of the joys of being retired and having a wonderful husband who is willing to go the extra miles to keep me happy.

Usually, upon returning home from these musical adventures, I take a couple days to clean the camper, do the laundry and get caught up on my sleep and in a few days I’m good to go. Not so this time. I found myself in a depression and feeling physically weak and fatigued. The chronic joint pain from arthritis was magnified. Most of all, I didn’t feel up to going anywhere or seeing anyone; I had hit the dreaded wall.

Over the years I have heard so much about the healthy effects of music; how the simple vibration of an instrument against a musician’s body can release endorphins, which serve to relieve stress, reduce blood pressure and lessen anxiety and depression. One article I read said that making music enhances the immunological response enabling us to fight viruses. I can’t argue with these findings.

I’m sure you all know the answer to my problem is “moderation.” Not only was I not keeping normal sleep patterns, I was not getting any real exercise, and was eating at one pot luck after another. Now we all know that our bluegrass family has some of the best cooks around and they know how to feast! The problem was in the choices I was making and in the quantities I was consuming. The six months of “over indulgence” had caught up with me. It wasn’t the music that had let me down it was my poor choices.

I can sympathize with those who play music for a living. If they must spend a great deal of time on the road, play late night gigs, have a steady diet of restaurant food, and haven’t the time or energy for regular exercise, it eventually takes it’s toll. I just read a story about Charles Humphrey III, the bass player for The Steep Canyon Rangers. He spends a lot of time traveling on a tour bus from one performance to another. To stay healthy, keep from going stir crazy, and to keep from “getting mad at people,” he has taken up running. He recently ran a 12-hour endurance race and is training for his first 100-mile race in September, running at least 20 miles per day. While he is not the norm, I admire his discipline.

Most of us can name several full time musicians who are suffering from the rigors of life on the road. We know it will shorten the number of years that they will be able to perform and it eventually becomes apparent that their concerts come with a great deal of effort and the joy of sharing their gift is a missing element. If they are the bandleader and end up needing to take time off for health concerns, it affects every other person in the band and adds to the stress. I would say that being a “star” is not always what it’s cracked up to be.

I don’t play in a band but I do keep busy with my picking and singing. I derive a lot of joy from jamming and an occasional performance and I don’t ever want to lose that. So it is with a renewed spirit, I approach my musical adventures and with a determination to exercise discipline and moderation and to walk the way the wind blows.

I recently went to a jam at the Veterans facility in Livermore and it was a real blessing to me. Wes Spain and his family had arrived early and brought pizza and beverages for the Vets and the pickers. They warmly greeted the regular attendees and served them with a smile. There is nothing that can give you an attitude adjustment quicker than bringing a smile to someone else’s face. Our audience was a group of men who had selflessly served our country and aside from visits by family and friends they don’t have a lot to look forward to. It was very humbling to have nothing to offer but a smile and a song and our unending gratitude. Three chords and a capo can do wonders. The music was good medicine for all of us.

Until next time, remember, a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down but it’s not always the best choice. God bless.

THE DAILY GRIST…" The truth of it is that every singer out there with songs on the radio is raising the next generation, so make your words count."--Taylor Swift

Don't Ask – Don't Tell !
Today's column from Brian McNeal, Prescription Bluegrass Radio Host
Saturday, July 26, 2014

Grandad always said, “Be careful what you ask for!” and I guess that may be another way of looking at this. Maybe what Grandad should have said is: “Diplomacy may be better than honesty sometimes”.

For all the years I've been in broadcasting this one thing has never changed: People record songs and expect them to get played on the radio. Even before stalking laws were enacted some of these people were overly guilty of that concept – approaching me and other broadcasters in the grocery store, the mall, at nightclubs etc. with the always confrontational, “Why haven't you played my record yet?”

Broadcasters get a small taste of what famous actors go through in order to go out in public and dodge the barrage of Paparazzi. When we see these folks coming, it's amazing how fast you cannot run and hide. No matter what is attempted, they somehow find a way to rudely get right in the middle of your activity – even in the middle of conversations with other folks. Some even get to the point of hostilities with angry words and slanderous remarks.

Of course it should go without saying that they will call you up on the phone during your air time on the radio and if that's not enough, they'll attempt to stack the deck with about a dozen of their friends all requesting the same song – as if we'd think somehow that would indicate the song is popular and we'd better play it if we want to satisfy our audience.

So the question becomes how to handle these things when you're on the broadcaster side. My policy has always been “honesty and candor”. I've always felt that the artist and/or band's fans are the ones that need to tell them how great the music is. That's not the broadcaster's job. But in reality it seems as if that is what they want to hear and that is the only thing they want to hear.

Honesty and candor haven't always generated the results I expect when using those tools in cases like this. In spite of what the person may say, they really don't want to hear the real reason broadcaster's don't play their music.

I don't want to go into all the selection criteria used to decide who get's played on the air and who doesn't as that would take a minimum of a college semester course just to cover the basics and another two or three semesters to go over all of the scientific analysis methods. But let's just agree that there is a selection and not everyone can make the cut.

I sometimes wonder if broadcasters held a public forum similar to the NFL draft and put up all the contenders and then announced the first and second round picks to the audience, would that help those who don't make it to understand maybe even a little bit of the fierceness of the competition and why they don't make the grade.

In two different surveys, one with a large number of broadcasters and another with a large number of bluegrass musicians, I asked the questions, “How do you handle telling the artists that they won't be played?”, or conversely, “How do you want to be told that your music doesn't stand up and won't be played?”

In both cases, HONESTY and TRUTH rang out at 100 percent. Absolutely no one said they'd like to hear anything less. However in my experiences when actually dealing with the reality, I think the survey respondents are not being honest with themselves. At least in the case of the artists. I don't know any broadcasters that really want to lie to the artists and tell them the music is good when it isn't. But I have heard numerous horror stories about the backlash when the DJ is honest and the artist didn't agree with the opinion.

In almost every case when I've been up front and honest that the music (in my learned opinion) doesn't meet the selection criteria, I've damaged the artist/broadcaster relationship. Even though some will be congenial at the time, it's the months and years after that tell the real tale.

That's why I'm adopting a new policy of Don't Ask, Don't Tell. If you don't ask me how I like your music, I won't tell you something you're not prepared to hear.

Thank You!
Brian McNeal
Prescription Bluegrass Media

Harmony Road
Today's column from Regina Bartlett
Friday, July 25, 2014

Well welcome and howdy to all you travelers out on Harmony Road. So many festivals happening now. Physically, I can’t do them all. I have to pace myself just to go to the festivals that I'm committed to. So I've been taking care of things like the annual doctor and dentist appointments and things around the house and garden. I realized that there’s no place like home and living in Santa Cruz is just fine with me. We have great weather and beaches and redwoods and there’s always music happening and many cultural events to attend.

Recently, I went to a Japanese Obon Festival at the nearby Watsonville Buddhist Temple. There were 2 women playing Koto which sounded like a dulcimer to me and with very beautiful melodies. Then there were the Taiko drummers who pounded out stories and rhythms just through their drumming. It was very exciting and dramatic. Beautiful women dressed in Kimonos and men dressed in happy coats danced around a decorated pavillon and honored past generations and people who had recently passed. How unique to remember someone thru a dance or a song. Then out of no where Elvis Presley is singing Heartbreak Hotel. The announcer said that they wanted to bring into the dancing more young people so they were changing the music. When they put Lady Gaga on, I got up and left. That’s not tradition is what I was thinking…

Awhile back at the Parkfield Bluegrass Festival, I met a young man Ryan McKinley and his parents, Lisa & Kelly. He can play the fiddle really well and he’s going to help me out at the Good Old Fashioned Festival. He’s been touring the East Coast with the Jug Tucker Bluegrass band out of North Carolina.

Amaya Rose Dempsey is also going to assist with the Kids on Stage and will also perform. Amaya has been part of the CBA Kids on Bluegrass for many years and has grown into quite a musician. She plays fiddle, guitar and dances and sings. Here’s a video of her on You Tube: http://youtu.be/1gANTmkCslM
She connected with Crystal Gayle at the MidState Fair last week.

It’s always exciting to think who will be there for the GOF=Good Old Fashioned Festival. I’m excited about it this year because I have directed the Kids on Stage for 15 years now. I love what I do and I like having folks that like working with kids involved too. Kay Wilkes, Larissa and Michael Pilatti, Joe Ash, Randy Hudson also will help me out with the Kids on Stage team. Last year Billy Pitrone stopped by on his way to the stage and talked to the kids about singing on stage and how fast the times go and then he sang a few songs and shared his talent. Pete Hicks also gave some pointers. Paul Knight also demonstrates how to use a microphone the kids really like it when professionals talk with them. Sometimes AJ Lee or Betsy Riger help me out too. Betsy is coming on Saturday with her Grandsons who now pick and play Bluegrass Music.

I break up the day with several rehearsals that the kids look forward to and I like having the other eyes and ears of musicians on the team too. We have a meet and great party Friday night with treats and we talk about music. What instrument do you play? Why do you play it? What’s your favorite song? What’s your favorite band? What festivals have you been to? The treats are good and the fun is too. For me the party helps everyone learn to listen to each other and since we’re going to be performing together for the next few days it’s a great way to let go and work together and know each other better.
I break down how we’re going to do the work of putting a performance together. We time all the songs and put the show on Sunday afternoon. After everything is done, we have a monster water balloon battle. We laugh, we sing, we play.
You can learn a lot from kids.

Have you heard about the Pacific Rim Dulcimer Gathering?
It’s like the Grass Valley in the dulcimer world. People come from all over the country to attend this gathering of dulcimer players.
Did you know that besides me, Annie Cashner, Allen French, Snap Jackson, Alex Sharps, all play the Appalachian dulcimer? It’s a traditional old time instrument. It brought me to Bluegrass and Bill Monroe, Doc Watson, the Seldom Scene, and Sam Bush. The dulcimer opened up the musical world for me.
This festival has been going on for 40 years. I went to many of
these Gatherings years ago and plan to go this year.
August 15, 16, 17 -2014

Pacific Rim Dulcimer Gathering
http://kgxl.blogspot.com/ or https://www.facebook.com/groups/kgxl2014/

Pacific Rim Dulcimer Gathering
15501 N Highway 1 Caspar, CA 95420
707-964-4630 (SITE contact)
707-237-1348 (Cindy KG info)

Oh, and did you know that Bela Fleck will perform the West Coast premiere of The Imposter, his Banjo Concerto, dedicated to Earl Scruggs at the Cabrillo Music Festival on August 1st. On July 30th at 7:00pm at the Del Mar theater there will be a viewing of a documentary about The Imposter followed by questions and answers by Fleck. In an interview I read that Fleck said, “Why would anyone play the saxophone when they could play a banjo!“ Sounds like a classic to me!!

So I hope to see many of you fine pickers and friends at the Good Old Fashioned Festival. It’s really fun and lots of good picking.
Also you dulcimer players should check out the Kindred Gathering up near Mendocino.
But before that go and see Bela Fleck at the Cabrillo Music Festival and hear, The Imposter.

Until then, I’ll see you out there on Harmony Road.

THE DAILY GRIST..."If you think little things don't count, just consider this fact. The sun, which is one of the largest bodies in our universe, can be reflected in its entirety, in a single drop of dew.”--JD Rhynes

JDs Bluegrass Kitchen revisited
Today's column from JD Rhynes
Thursday, July 24, 2014

Howdy Howdy Howdy!

Try as I might,for the life of me I could not dredge up a story of my past musical adventures for the welcome column today. Like a lot of other folks in the CBA. I have been concentrating on our kickstart campaign for the last month. It has consumed virtually my every waking moment since I got home from the festival in June. First and foremost I would like to point out that this kickstart campaign is not about me. It is about initiating a way to raise funds for the California Bluegrass Association in the future to support a lot of our programs for the young people coming up that want to learn how to play our music. My name just happens to be on it,due to the fact that I wrote the column, JDs Bluegrass Kitchen for our monthly newspaper for 28 years. The future of bluegrass music is in the hands of our young people who want to learn how to play this music. I beg of you please, please, please, for the sake of our young people now and in the future, please tell all your bluegrass friends about our kickstart campaign and why they should donate to it. Not only will you get a good warm feeling inside for donating to this program, it is also tax deductible, 100%. And if that doesn't give you a warm fuzzy feeling inside, I don't what will. Could this be called groveling and begging? You damn right it is! Bluegrass music has been a lifelong passion for me, and if groveling and begging is what it takes to ensure the future of our young musicians learning this music, then count me in every time..

Well folks, I thought what better way to promote this campaign than to revisit the old Bluegrass Kitchen again.So, as in years past Park your old truck out back under the shade tree, come on inside here where it is nice and cool , grab a nice cold Shiner Bock out of the fridge and we will "make medicine" over some good Vittles.

One of my favorite things to fix in the summertime is some fresh vegetables and pasta. I whipped up a big batch of this last Sunday and it took me two days to finish it off. It is excellent either hot or cold, and it is especially more excellenter , the day after you make it,as is all pasta. If I remember right, the mountain code of justice plainly states; do not serve meatballs and 'sghetti, or noodles until they're at least two days old. It takes that long for all the good flavors to get intertwined and all mangled in real gooder.[ there's a footnote on that same law that applies to Chili also.] So armed with that little bit of mountain knowledge, here's how to whip up some of the best and tastiest pasta you can ever wrap a lip around. This recipe is easy to fix as falling off a peeled foot log over old Piney Creek.

Pasta With Vegetables
1 package egg noodles
4 large tomatoes
1 bunch Italian parsley
1 tablespoon minced garlic
2 cups mild cheddar cheese, shredded
1 cup extra virgin olive oil
kosher salt and fresh ground black pepper to taste

Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Core the tomatoes, make an incision about a 16th of an inch deep completely around the tomato from core to core. Place the tomatoes in boiling water for at least a minute and a half. Remove and place in a sink full of cold water to stop cooking. Empty the pasta package into the boiling water pot and cook to your desired level of tenderness. Drain the pasta in a colander and place in a big deep bowl. The bigger the better. Remove the skins from the tomatoes and chop up. Cut the stems from the parsley bunch and chop it up real good too. Heat the cup of olive oil in a large skillet until it shimmers, add the minced garlic, chopped parsley and tomatoes. Cook for 7 or 8 min. and pour over the pasta. Add the cheese and mix real good with a large spoon. Salt-and-pepper to taste,and let her buck!!

Folks, it doesn't get much simpler 'er gooder then this. A nice cold bottle of Pinot Grigio goes real good with this pasta dish, in fact I can't think of anything a cold bottle of Pinot Grigio doesn't go with. I know it goes good with strawberry shortcake too. If you don't believe me, try it sometime.

Well, I hope you folks enjoyed this recipe today and hope it brings back memories of the past. Don't forget to keep all our servicemen and women in your prayers. May God grant us all peace and health. Yer friend JD Rhynes

THE DAILY GRIST..." Howdy, Howdy, Howdy! As I sit here this late winter morning (March 11) writing April’s column, the hillside next to my house is full of wild birds. They’re either searching for insects and worms or enjoying the bird feed I put out for them every day. While observing them this morning I was struck by the fact that you can compare different species to particular Bluegrass musicians.”—JD Rhynes, opening couple of sentences in his April, 2002 Bluegrass Breakdown cooking column entitled JD’s Kitchen

THe Jam Not Missed
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Just got back from a trip to North Carolina. It was really for a family reunion, with a side trip to visit an old friend - in other words, NOT a bluegrass pilgrimage. Nonetheless, I brought my guitar, hoping I could squeeze in a jam or open mic somewhere on the trip.

We (my wife and I, plus my daughter and my two granddaughters) had a pretty whirlwind schedule - 6 days total, including travel days. I played a little guitar on the front porch, just to ensure that some North Carolina wind would blow into the wood. But never, during the family reunion, did a chance for a jam emerge. None of the other family members were pickers, and no one at the KOA came up to me and said “Hey California dude, I like your style - let’s jam!”

I did not despair. Bluegrass was NOT the reason for this trip, remember?

After the reunion, we drove back across the state towards Winston-Salem. Preliminary research revealed a lively music scene, including some open mic events and bluegrass
jams. However, some quick web searches are no substitute for a having someone on the “Inside” and I did - the aforementioned “Old friend”. I should mention I use the phrase to denote a person I have known a long time (since 1965), not one who actually old, although that distinction becomes less important each year, it seems.

We arrived in Winston-Salem on an afternoon, and hooked up with my buddy. The granddaughters were tuckered out after staying up late with long-lost cousins, and the driving, so they and my daughter made an early night and the remaining adults hit WInston-Salem’s downtown that night, accompanied by our guide.

The bad news: It was Monday night. It looked like a ghost town. My friend pointed out place and after place that had open mics or jams, on various nights of the week, but none - NONE - on Monday. We still had fun - make no mistake, but the fun did not include bluegrass, or jamming.

I did not despair. Bluegrass was NOT the reason for this trip, remember?

The next day - our final full day in North Carolina was spent seeing the natural beauty of the Tar Heel State. And that day ended with a final big dinner out - right around the corner from our hotel. A great time was had by all, and after a heartfelt good-bye to my old friend, we drove, pleasantly stuffed, the several blocks back to the hotel to get packed and enjoy a good night sleep before the flight home.

We parked the car, and as we were walking towards the lobby, my wife remarked “Hey, I think I see some people jamming in there!”

Sure, enough there was a guy playing guitar and another playing mandolin. They were surrounded by a bunch of people, and I heard the guitar player say “Man, we’re hitting the wall here! We need some relief!” I said “Got my Martin upstairs, can I help?”

They all said “Yes!”, and I bolted upstairs to get my guitar. And so, on the final night of my non-bluegrass trip to North Carolina, I managed to get into a jam, and it felt great! I take an instrument almost anytime I travel, and I have been very lucky to stumble upon jams where there seemed to be none. You gotta love how bluegrass is a music that’s always ready to burst out of any porch, coffee shop, or hotel lobby, anytime, anywhere!

What Randy Says
Today's column from Rick Cornish
Tuesday, July 22, 2014

I first met Randy Pitts over the telephone, he in his Nashville booking agency office, me in my company car talking on my company phone on company time about hiring one of his acts for the Fathers Day Festival. Some would say a less than conducive way to begin a friendship, but began it did and I’m glad for it because, him being my friend I can ask for an occasional favor and that’s just what I did. I asked Randy to write a bit about our JD’s Bluegrass Kitchen Kickstarter project and here’s what I got…

“I'd like to add my voice to the growing chorus of bluegrass friends and lovers of the genre--and specifically the northern California brand of that genre--to support of a far reaching and unique project containing the philosophy, ruminations, and recipes of one JD Rhynes, the resident wit, raconteur, and gourmand of the bluegrass crowd in northern California, and the the sage of the Sierra foothills. It's called JD's Bluegrass Kitchen and Cookbook, and it is projected to contain many of JD's mouthwatering recipes from the last twenty five years or so gathered in one place, along with drool worthy photos, and perhaps best of all, an accompanying CD containing appropriate bluegrass songs and tunes by many favorites who have appeared over the years at The California Bluegrass Association's annual Father's Day Weekend held yearly since 1976 at the Nevada City Fairgrounds. I attended my first festival in 1977, and continue to make the trek--I now live in Tennessee--as often as I can. JD has been in every festival I've attended and every one I haven't as well. He is a colorful, if sometimes windy fellow with a rich history in and out of the music, and has devoted much of his time the last 40 years to making sure the CBA and it's festival would be a going concern, and now, with the publication of this cookbook and accompanying recording, he's making sure of that for years to come, since all profits from the project after expenses have been covered will go to the furtherance of the organization and the festival. I'm no webhead, but you can find details of how to contribute by going to The California Bluegrass Association website,( and becoming a Facebook friend yourself)--probably the finest of it's kind in existence--and find out the details of how to donate and just what you'll receive...I'm told time is growing short, so git the hitch out of your gitalong and commence to he'pin'. And next time you see him, have JD relate the story of how his old pal Vern Williams was presented with a bill for the three hundred baby chicks on an adjoining property whose expiration was hastened by his powerful singing in a jam session at which JD was present. I myself intend to donate in the hope that the cookbook includes a color photo of the succulent bunkhouse chili JD described so well in one of his newsletter columns that I actually purchased a cast iron dutch oven of the kind JD recommended in order to cook that very chili...maybe seeing such a photo will get me to take the thing out of the box, at least...even if I don't, the music is bound to be great...

THE DAILY GRIST…“Home is a notion that only nations of the homeless fully appreciate and only the uprooted comprehend.”--Wallace Stegner

Today’s column from Bert Daniel
Monday, July 21, 2014

I was going through the newspaper the other day and I came across an article about how the east bay city of Albany recently relocated homeless people from a waterfront peninsula called the bulb in order to make way for a new park extension. A couple dozen or so of the last holdout campers received a $3000 payment just to get up and leave. Albany’s neighbors in Berkeley were not too happy about the added stress on their own already stretched resources to take care of homeless people. A couple of relocated people interviewed were actually happy about the change because now they got to live beneath a busy interstate highway overpass.

Nationwide, there an estimated 633,782 homeless people with about 130,898 or 20.7 percent in California — the state with the highest homeless population. Over 20% of the homeless people in America live in just two big cities: New York and Los Angeles. A large majority of the homeless are men, many of them military veterans.

Out in the cold world, far away from home
Somebody’s boy is wandering all alone
No one to guide him and set his footsteps right
Somebody’s boy is homeless tonight

It’s an age old problem and one many people don’t want to even think about. Many homeless people have alcohol or drug abuse problems. Many have other psychiatric issues as well and have fallen through the social safety net and into the mean streets for one reason or another. Sadly, a sizable portion of the homeless are families down on their luck. There are as many stories as there are homeless people. Some may even be happy living a care free rambling hobo life. There’s a certain romance to that counterculture let’s-see-what-the-next-day brings sort of attitude.

But can you imagine living under an interstate overpass day after day? When I read that article I was touched by the fact that some people who have almost nothing can still be grateful for what they do have. It’s easy to ignore the homeless but we shouldn’t. We all see those folks standing patiently in the hot sun with their signs asking for help. Most of us just drive by without even thinking about what their story is. Maybe once in a while after visiting the grocery store we should hand them a sandwich or better still listen to their story.

Oh bring back to me my wandering boy
There is no other one to give me joy
Tell him his mother with faded cheeks and hair
Is at the old home place awaiting him there.


What a Man's Gotta Do

Today's rerun column from Cameron Little

Saturday, July 19, 2014

At this very moment, I'm in my "Bluegrasser-On-the-Road" mode, working at the Northwest String Summit festival, way out in the deep, deep, un-wi-fi-i-fied woods of Hornings Hideout in North Plains, Oregon. The lineup feels like the holy grail of bluegrass ear candy featuring, but not limited to, the Sam Bush Band, The Infamous Stringdusters, Steep Canyon Rangers, Darol Anger, and Greensky Bluegrass. And since a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and since this man has no wi-fi, I'm submitting this rerun column for your enjoyment (via my cyber sleuth Uncle Bill). Thanks, Bill, and I'll see you all next month with a NWSS review.

JD’s Cookbook Project
Geoff Sargent
Sunday July 20, 2014

Folks, we’re beginning to sound like a PBS fundraiser by exhortation, brow beating, begging, challenging, demanding, asking, and bribing you to contribute to the JD Rhynes Cookbook project. All I have to say is just go do it!.

For those of you that might not be aware of the project here’s the lowdown: JD Rhynes, one of our bigger-than-life founders, graciously allowed us compile some of his extensive collection of cooking articles and tall tales published in the Bluegrass Breakdown. We have an experienced editor producing the cookbook, a professional photographer donating his time and advice, and several internationally known Bluegrass musicians that will cut a CD to accompany the cookbook. The idea here is for the revenues from sales of the cookbook and CD to help with our fundraising for the CBA and would allow us, for example, to undertake more bluegrass music educational projects.

But, projects like this take money to get off the ground and we are trying a relatively new approach to raising seed money for production and printing…..using crowd source funding through Kickstarter! We have a goal of raising $10,000 seed money and we currently have 60 backers that have pledged a total of $3,890. Here’s the kicker! We only have another 21 days to raise the remaining $6, 110 to make this project happen. If you aren’t familiar with Kickstarter, there is something else you need to know….if we don’t raise the $10,000 by 8:28 AM Monday August 11, then all that pledged money returns to the backers, the cookbook project goes away, and we lose the opportunity to honor JD Rhynes. Folks did I mention that JD is on board with this and even did a web interview discussing the project that you can view through the Kickstarter web site (https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1187234518/jds-bluegrass-kitchen-cookbook-and-cd). For those of you that don’t like conducting transactions over the net, we have a workaround! Contact Darby Brandli at darbyandbruno@comcast.net or better yet, send her a check at Darby Brandli, 2106 9th Avenue Oakland, CA 94606, and she will make the donation for you.

There’s really no excuse for not doing this……you can donate any amount, but we do have some recommended contribution levels that come with some sweeteners (it’s a cookbook…get it!).

If you pledge $25 you get a copy of the cookbook and CD when they are published. For a $50 dollar pledge you get the cookbook autographed by JD and the CD autographed by one of the musicians! A $100 pledge gets you all the above and 3 extra CDs….gift inspiration? Now if you go whole hog, and pledge $500 then you get all that plus you get invited backstage at the 2015 Father’s Day Festival with JD and the CD recording artists, and JD hisself will autograph the cookbook on the spot and might even tell you a tall tale in the process.

So here I am on a Sunday morning with the contribution plate in hand………please help us support this project to honor JD and help us expand our mission to promote and educate bluegrass, old time, and gospel music.

Again the Kickstarter link is: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1187234518/jds-bluegrass-kitchen-cookbook-and-cd

Get yourself over there and check out the interview with JD.

What a Man's Gotta Do
Today's rerun column from Cameron Little
Saturday, July 19, 2014

At this very moment, I'm in my "Bluegrasser-On-the-Road" mode, working at the Northwest String Summit festival, way out in the deep, deep, un-wi-fi-i-fied woods of Hornings Hideout in North Plains, Oregon. The lineup feels like the holy grail of bluegrass ear candy featuring, but not limited to, the Sam Bush Band, The Infamous Stringdusters, Steep Canyon Rangers, Darol Anger, and Greensky Bluegrass. And since a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and since this man has no wi-fi, I'm submitting this rerun column for your enjoyment (via my cyber sleuth Uncle Bill). Thanks, Bill, and I'll see you all next month with a NWSS review.

And Nothing Else
Today’s column from Cameron Little
Saturday, August 18, 2012

“You know, for most of its life, bluegrass has had this stigma of being all straw hats and hay bales, and not necessarily the most sophisticated form of music. Yet you can’t help responding to its honesty. It’s music that finds its way deep into your soul because it’s strings vibrating against wood and nothing else.” - Alison Krauss

Our personal relationship to music is, well, very personal, isn’t it? There’s a primal pull and a passion in particular about bluegrass, old time, and Americana music that just gets to folks. And if you’re not a believer yet, just come to a festival or jam, and trust me, it’ll get you. This music we love, and listen to, and play, and share, draws us and connects us like nothing else. Talk to lots of people at a festival and you’ll find that this musical life we live runs deep, like religion and loyalty.

We all have a vested interest in this music because it has the ability to bring us together and to transport us to where we’ve never been. It transcends age, gender, political viewpoints, and spiritual perspective. It creates community, and we all know how desperately we need that. Our participation insures the future of this music because it deepens in the heart of the experienced and is ignited in the beginner. And sure, we may be fortunate to witness the transcendence of musical virtuosos, gifted musicians in the bands we watch, and in some of our friends, but the real living breathing genius of this music is that it resides inside the individual, and each one of us has a birthright to bring that music out and celebrate it.

Just how we bring it out and celebrate it is the trick, though, and it can be a natural crossover, or a wild washboard road ride. Some folks dust off their high school band experience and step right over to a bluegrass instrument. Others played in a “Rocky Horror Show” cover band that got them kegger money in college, so hey, that’s pretty close to bluegrass anyway, right? Many more folks have internal and eternal demons to slay: that nasty piano teacher who pronounced you without talent, or the shame you carry from botching your pre-school Nativity play with the teacher screaming, “It’s WISEMEN not WIDE MEN!”. Or you may have gotten side-swiped by the wrong instructor who insisted you play scales for weeks instead of learning three simple chords so you could learn to play “Bile Them Cabbage Down” in your first lesson.

“...I don’t want you to play me a riff that’s going to impress Joe Satriani; give me a riff that makes a kid want to go out and buy a guitar and learn to play.” - Ozzy Osbourne

Some of us listen to the music, and when the creativity sparks, we sketch a silly cartoon and remember we haven’t done something like that since grade school. Maybe we chance a watercolor, and have renewed astonishment in watching the colors flow and mingle on the paper. Sometimes the music inspires the dancer inside, and connects us to the flickering past of paper lanterns, and boots on a wood floor at an old time barn dance. And we might just realize that our favorite place is sitting in a comfy chair, listening to others play, and allowing the floodgate of inspiration to saturate our being. Or we could just pretty much enjoy a good tune and a good beer with our feet up. Either way works.

The step into playing and sharing music is not easy for most people, and often not even the least bit comfortable. For most of us we face the stark fear of rejection and failure, where we will do anything, and I mean anything, to avoid looking like we made a mistake.

“Use the talents you possess, for the woods would be very silent if no birds sang except the best.” - Henry Van Dyke

This is the fourth year my mom and I have “played deep” in the bluegrass community, and by that I mean, we attended festivals, came early, stayed late, volunteered, figured out music at home, argued, learned, experienced music camps, partied, made mistakes, felt like fools, tamed a few inner dragons, started a jam group for adults, wrote songs, played with professionals, danced, laughed, started a jam group for kids, started a music theory class, felt like real musicians, jammed a ton, were embraced and supported, and throughout have been amazed and humbled by it all. This music is, at its best, solid and simple, and like Alison said, “... it’s strings vibrating against wood and nothing else.”

(Cameron Little is a teen musician, living a throwback lifestyle in the Sierra, sometimes out of Internet range. In fact, right now he’s remembering about thirty verses to “Bile Them Cabbage Down”.)

Dear Friends
Today's column from Don Denison
Friday, July 18, 2014

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Had a bit of a mix up here at CBA Central and posted Don's column from last month. Just remedied the mistake. Sorry Don, sorry folks.)

This last Wednesday I passed my 73 Birthday. It doesn't seem possible to me. I look back over the years and notice that many of them were filled with events surrounding The California Bluegrass Association. I had no idea when I met Wayne Williams and he convinced me to attend my first festival in '85 what would come from it, festivals, jams, camp outs, Board Meetings, and many many friends. The weather that June was as it is sometimes at Grass Valley, smoking hot. Even though the temperatures were somewhere around 105-106 degrees, I had a wonderful time, and within minutes of arriving on site felt so welcome that I volunteered. I heard wonderful music, and met people who have become life long friends. Folks, most of us know what a treasure the CBA is, most also know that it is not just about the music, although that is what unifies us. Bluegrass Music seems to cut across the whole society, it has long ago ceased to be a genre based only on rural southern country music. We found that those who love our music come from every imaginable part of our population. I have longtime friends that I would have otherwise not even met, except for the fact that we love the same music. It seems that all the barriers are gone when we gather to listen to this music, and people from vastly different backgrounds are ready to offer the hand of friendship to all who share the love of the music.

After 29 years of being a CBA member, I have come treasure the people I have met at least as much as the music that had brought us together. I was able to attend The Fathers Day Festival this year for the first time in many years. I wish I could have stayed and camped out, but the two days I was able to attend were wonderful. It felt like I was coming home after a long absence. I can't tell you how often Suzanne and I sat and wished we could be at Grass Valley with all our friends, it felt like we had been exiled. It was CBA friends who made sure that we had a memorial for Suzanne last year, CBA friends who wouldn't let me slide into a pit of grief and stay there, it was the CBA more than family or neighbors who one by one helped us through the worst years of our lives. We missed so much the warmth that was present in all of our events, we always hoped we would together experience it again, sadly it was not to be.

I want this column to record the deep appreciation and affection that I feel towards all of you, I know many of you all personally, and given life and health will come to know all of you. I have began the work necessary to get myself to the festival next June, I don't want to miss another family re-union. I have noted in the past in my monthly President's Column that we are truly a family, nothing that I have experienced since has changed my mind, indeed my feelings about the matter have strengthened. We are blessed to have such a wonderful organization. May God bless each and every one of you all.

Your Friend

Don Denison

THE DAILY GRIST..."TV/Internet is for the masses, radio preaches to the choir.”--Unknown
”Which Way Did They Go? Bluegrass at the Crossroads”
Today's column from James Reams
Thursday, July 17, 2014

It’s hard to watch the Country Music Awards and not wonder why the IBMA Awards are largely ignored by the music industry. What has country got that we haven’t? Our songs feature longing, lost love, hard work, history, and yes, even crying in your beer. Our musicians are just as talented, perhaps more so as I think of the lightening speed associated with fiddle, mandolin and banjo picking. I dare any country band to keep up with us! Our voices pitch into that high lonesome sound made popular by Bill Monroe, but that’s not all we can do. Bluegrass music is just as well rounded as country. So why aren’t we as popular?

I bet I can count on two hands the number of bluegrass bands that are full-time. Even with a record deal, the recording industry isn’t funding artist development and promotion for bluegrassers. Most of us have to have a “real” job to pay the bills or at least a retirement income that helps plug the gaps between music gigs, festivals and album sales. While the top names in bluegrass travel around in beat up station wagons, converted school buses, and fly coach class; top artists in rock, country and rap are traveling in style in private jets and Provost buses.

There’s just such a small slice of the bluegrass pie available, that it’s not enough to feed more than a few bands on a full-time basis. Those of us scratching and clawing to get bookings can sometimes contribute to the perception that bluegrass music is cheap and inexpensive as we agree to perform dirt cheap, even showcase events, just so we can play this music we love. My friend and colleague Walter Hensley used to say, “The less meat on the bone, the harder the dogs fight.” By undercutting each other, we’re undermining the entire bluegrass music industry.

Today’s economic crisis doesn’t help either but folks still mob Country Thunder and other predominantly country music outdoor concerts. With 80,000 to 100,000 fans from all over the US in attendance, Country Thunder makes the top bluegrass festivals look withered in comparison. I recently had a promoter in Texas tell me that he had to drop his bluegrass festival because people were complaining about the cost of tickets. Without ticket sales to encourage sponsorships, he was unable to bring in the bigger names in bluegrass and it was just a slippery slide downhill from there. Now he promotes a country swing festival that folks flock to in droves and he hasn’t had a single complaint about the ticket prices. What’s up with that?!?

I believe bluegrass music is at a crossroads. We can continue on as we have since we got started and ride off into the sunset or we can deviate just a bit and take directions from other successful music genres. Change doesn’t mean that we forget where we came from, our bluegrass roots will continue to be the foundation that gives our music its’ identity. But, it’s my contention that we need to change the misconception that bluegrass is just for old-timers and bring our music into the 21st century. So how do we do that without losing our “bluegrassiness”?

A major factor is embracing technology. If you look at the music styles that are hugely successful these days, it’s easy to see what sets them apart — MEDIA. Radio channels are clogged 24/7 with stations devoted to rock, rap/hip hop, country, Christian and even classical music. Yet live bluegrass radio programs are largely relegated to Sundays. I can’t turn my radio dial and find one single station devoted solely to bluegrass music. But I can create my own digital bluegrass station using apps like Pandora. And adding your own music is simple enough that even I could figure it out. Yeah, it’s not the same as radio plays, but it does reach those listeners that have earbuds permanently attached to their heads.

I don’t think anyone will argue with me when I say that the current generation is on visual overload. Let’s face it, MTV and CMTV are here to stay. You just can’t deny that this is the age of the music video. So where are all the bluegrass videos? I firmly believe that TV/Internet speaks to the masses, bluegrass radio preaches to the choir. We’ve got to find a way to get professional looking bluegrass videos in front of folks.

“Quality” is the keyword when it comes to videos. YouTube is clogged with unedited videos of dubious sound quality featuring bands at bluegrass festivals shot using Uncle Billy’s iPhone (I’ve certainly contributed my fair share!). But a static shot of your favorite band performing on a festival stage is not the kind of music video I’m talking about. As performers there’s a limit to the emotion we can incorporate into a song while we’re on stage. Most bluegrass songs tell a story, creating a video takes it a step further by providing images that convey the feeling behind the words and actually complement the singing. If we’re going to claw our way out of the poverty class of music, we have to find a way to emotionally connect viewers of all ages to our music. I think feeding the visual addiction of today’s music lovers is critical.

I can just hear you saying, “Hold on there, James! Where are we going to get the money to make these videos? We’re barely making ends meet now!” And you’re right, making a video can drain a bank account faster than an ex-wife. But thanks to the Internet, there are numerous crowd funding sources available. I used Kickstarter to help fund the final production push for my film documentary, “Making History with Pioneers of Bluegrass.” Other popular options for funding creative projects include Indiegogo and RocketHub. And don’t forget that making music videos is how many well-known film directors got their start. Collaborate with a talented film student at a local university or purchase film editing software for your computer whiz kid for Christmas. Who knows, you may discover a future Stephen Spielberg!

What I’m saying is, there are options out there to fit most budgets. Once you have a couple of videos going viral, you can start approaching sponsors to help fund the next one. Country music moved into the spotlight, literally, when they embraced music videos. Bluegrass can do the same. It’s a sleeping giant just waiting to be awakened. BGTV anyone?

I’d like to hear what you have to say. Send me an email james@jamesreams.com and let your voice be heard!

THE DAILY GRIST..."Practice does not make perfect – it makes permanent/" — Alexander Libermann

Getting Better All the Time
Today's column from Bruce Campbell
Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Playing music is lots of fun. This is not a news flash for anyone out that plays music. It is fun, at every level. More so, I think, than golf. Nobody’s keeping score in music. Nobody’s going to beat you at the game of music. It’s not a game - it’s a form of expression and that’s why it’s so fun.

But like golf, most of us who play music would like to play better, at some point. Make no mistake - however you play, it’s a joyous noise, and no one can take that away from you. But we’d like to hit the right notes, sing well, and enhance any ensemble we play with, right?

How do we do this? How do we get better? Here are some ways that really work.

Play with people
This may sound obvious, but you have to interact with other musicians to learn a sense of rhythm and sharing. I have met players who only played to records or from tablature, and they were flat out lost playing with other people. It’s a skill that’s worth cultivating, and you will learn something every time you do it. (And you’ll probably teach others at the same time!)

Go to Music Camp
This build on the notion of playing with others, only at a music camp, the playing will be with actual teachers. You’ll learn from the teachers of course, but you also learn watching and listening to the other players as they learn too. And you’ll make friends for life and be on a first-name basis with some bluegrass stars!

This sounds obvious, but are you playing every day? And when you play, what are you playing? Two common problems: Playing only stuff you already know well, and practicing mistakes. In the first example, you have your pet “go to” songs you believe you play well (you may be right!), and so that’s what you play, every time. You will get better at those songs (probably), but you won’t grow as a musician.

The second problem is very common - practicing mistakes. You learn a song, pretty well, but a certain part of it gives you problems - you flub it every time. So, you learn to play the rest of it well, and try and fudge through the flubs. What happens is, the flub becomes the norm. You have to revisit the flub parts until you get it right.

Bands can fall into this trap. They have a song and it never starts quite right - not everyone is sure of the arrangement or chords, so they run through it, and it sounds all right at the end, and that’s what happens every practice. In bands I’m in, we warm up with a gimme, and then plow into every song that had a mistake at the last gig, until we can play it without the mistake. It can be embarrassing, but better to be embarrassed in a practice than on stage, right?

You don’t have to aim for the stars. If you’re like most people, you have demands on your time that can supersede music: family, work, who knows? But if you’d to play a little better (or a lot better), a few good habits can pay big dividends!

Strumming Are the Sages
Today's column from Rick Cornish
Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Good morning from Whiskey Creek, where, if we had sidewalks instead of dirt paths, and if we were in the habit of having ham and eggs for breakfast, and if I had eggs in my fridge instead of on my SavMart shopping list, I could surely fry them on one, sidewalk that is, so I’ll probably just have Cheerio’s and Lynn will have…Jeez, I don’t even know what Lynn’s eating for breakfast these days, her start time being about four hours later than mine.

In any event, we’ve lost another good Welcomer, at least for the time being, but it’s for an excellent reason. Our young friend Jack Kinney has ditched us for a brand new career as college student and, by my reckoning, that’s one of the best reasons for desertion I can think of. We lost Melinda Faubel that way a few years ago and look at her now, right on the cusp of becoming a big animal vet. So off you go, Jack…stuff that brain of yours while the stuffing is good.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my older boy recently, not sure why, so I’ll re-tell one of my favorite stories about him. It’s a long one so please, friends, know that I wont’ be the least bit offended if you don’t have the time, (or interest), to read the whole thing. (With advanced age I’ve gotten so desensitized that taking offense these days usually requires some sort of physical assault, which, again because of my old-as-dirt status, happens less and less frequently.)

Strumming are the Sages
First appeared in November, 2007

The story of the Sages and how they came to be strumming starts, at least for me, in November of 2000. That was the year my bluegrass band, the Grass Menagerie, first played the Woodland Veterans Day Festival. And it would also be the last time my son Phillip, who’d been playing mandolin and singing in the band for about a year, and I would appear on stage together, at least as fellow band mates. Not long after, Lynn and I would move to Sonora and the wonderful, unforgettable experience of performing regularly with my own child would end. But I wasn’t thinking about that as we climbed back up on stage for our encore. Phil and I sang a duet, Down Where the River Bends, in honor of all the veterans, and the audience loved it. A great set, great audience response…..everything perfect.

Five minutes after we walked off stage I was in the lobby area, where the vendors set up, just soaking up the “way-to-go’s” and “nice-job”‘s and beaming as only a proud band leader AND proud father could. Someone at the membership booth waved me over—it was Suzanne Dension.

“Rick,” she said, “I’ve got some people here who’d like to meet you.” Standing there at the table was a young East Indian couple and their two children. The man and the little boy and little girl wore Western clothes, but the woman was dressed in an Indian sarong and pantaloons.

“Hello, hello Mr. Cornish. I am Tushar Parte and this is my wife, Suchita. And these are our two children. We wanted to meet you and say how very, very much we enjoyed the performance of you and your son. It was very, very wonderful to see and hear you and your son sing and play together.” As he spoke, the Indian grasped my right hand with both of his and shook and shook. And he smiled a broad smile. They all did. And sort of half bowed.

“Well, thank you,” I said stammering and a little embarrassed, “I’m glad you enjoyed the set.”

“Oh yes,” said the woman, “oh yes, we did very, very much. And in particular the music that you and your son made. Phillip, isn’t that right?” Both spoke perfect English, but with deep Indian accents.

“Yes,” I said, “his name is Phil. And I guess you could tell I’m very proud of him.”

“And well you should be,” said the man, “and he, you. And he, you, Mr. Cornish. The music you and your son made together was very moving. Very moving.” And with that he shook my hand again.

And that was that. End of story. A little odd running into an East Indian family in Woodland…..and at a bluegrass festival. Stranger still that they would seek me out to tell me how much they enjoyed our set. But in ten minutes the brief encounter had drifted quickly out of short term memory and I didn’t see the young family for the remainder of the festival.

A year and a half later, to my absolute astonishment, I received an e-mail from my son Phillip that read simply:

“Hi Dad--You’re not going to believe this. Remember the nice Indian people you met at Woodland last year? Well, guess what…..they’re coming to your picking party next week. Tushar and Suchita…….all the way from Bombay. Isn’t that great!

I called Phillip right away and asked for an explanation.

“How do you even know these people,” I asked.

“Simple, after they met you at the Veterans Day Festival, they came and found me. We talked for a while, exchanged cards and we’ve been e-mailing back and forth ever since. Very cool people, Dad. He’s a musician and she’s a singer. They do movies in India, or something like that. And they love bluegrass.”

“And so they’re coming from Bombay, India to Jamestown, U.S.A. to do a little jamming at a picking party? Ooooookay. Son, you’re leaving something out of the story.” And of course there was a lot more to the story, pieces that took some time and patience to pull together and sort out.

In India, as in many countries, fathers pass along to sons their business or profession or line of work from one generation to another. And so it was with the Partes. Tushar’s father was a nationally known and respected musician, composer and music director in the huge Indian motion picture industry centered in Bombay, and so was his grandfather. Naturally, even as a young child, Tushar was expected to follow the family tradition. But his father wanted the boy to have some say in his own destiny, so when Tushar was eleven years old the senior Parte asked him what musical instrument he would like to learn to play. The boy didn’t hesitate. Guitar, he said, six string western guitar…..like those played in America.

Although this was probably not what the father had hoped to hear, within a few weeks Tushar was the proud owner of a brand new Martin guitar and was taking guitar lessons from a young American working in the diplomatic corps there in Bombay. It was love at first pluck! With musician’s genes passed down through a dozen generations, the boy was a natural and soon he was playing western music and classical Indian music alike on the Martin.

Of course Tushar learned many other Indian instruments and studied many genres of Indian music in secondary school and then college, but guitar was always his favorite. Even before college graduation, he was fast-tracking a career in music composition and direction; by twenty-five he’d written and directed scores for half a dozen films. And he’d married Suchita. It was around this time that his former guitar teacher, who’d by now moved up the ranks at the American Consulate in Bombay, called Tushar and invited him to a ‘folk’ concert being hosted by the Embassy. Seemed an American folk group was touring Asia and would stop in Bombay to do a show.

The ‘folk group’ turned out to be the Bluegrass Alliance, and Tushar’s attendance at their show, and subsequent week of jamming and hanging out with Sam Bush and the boys, ignited his passionate love affair with bluegrass music, a love affair that several years later led the film score writer and producer to bring his young family to the United States to attend a real bluegrass festival. And how was it that, of all the bluegrass festivals in the country, Tushar and Suchita Parte would select the tiny Veterans Day Festival in Woodland to fly half way around the globe to visit? Simple, they did an Internet search and the Woodland event was the first to pop up. Ain’t life grand?

So that explains how it was that Suzanne Denison called me over to meet the young Indian family in the lobby of the Ag Exhibit Hall at the Yuba County Fairgrounds in November of 2000. And, indirectly, it also explained why, of all the bands that played the festival, Tushar was so taken with, and interested in, the Grass Menagerie…..and why he began a long-distance friendship with my son Phil. It was the father-son dynamic of our band. One of Tushar’s children was a nine-year-old son and, as tradition dictated, the time was quickly coming when the father would be gently steering the son on a musical path. Seeing my adult son Phillip and I on stage picking and singing together was, he told me later, very ‘affirming’. But flying in from Bombay to a picking party in Jamestown? There had to be more to that story….and soon enough I learned that there was.

‘Picking party’ doesn’t quite do justice to the event Lynn and I had planned for that spring. It was to be a four-day, bring-your-tents-and-campers affair, and by Wednesday people started drifting in. I honestly didn’t believe that Phillip was serious about the Indian couple, that is, until the phone rang Thursday night about 10:00 p.m.

“Hello Rick? Rick, this is Suchita. How are you? We are fine. We are in San Francisco, America. Very close to your home, yes?” (Very close compared to Bombay, I thought, but didn’t say.) Turns our Suchita and Tushar were calling for directions to Jamestown. Their plan was to take a bus the next day from the City up to the Mother Lode. I asked what bus? They didn’t know but figured there must be some bus that would connect the two ‘cities’.

So, ten minutes later I was speeding down 108 toward San Francisco, and three hours later I was headed back the other way, with my two new friends from far, far away. It was on the drive back that I learned the whole story of Tushar, the young son, his father and the guitar and the diplomat and the Bluegrass Alliance and the fateful web browser search that found the Second Annual Veterans Day Festival in Woodland. And I also found out what, besides a bluegrass picking party, had brought Tushar and Suchita just over six thousand miles.

“Here”, he said, handing me a cassette tape in the darkness as we sped east over the Altamont Pass, “here is ‘Strumming are the Sages.’” I fumbled around and got it inserted into the tape deck.
“Wow,” is all I could say when the last bleat of the tabla dissolved into silence. “Wow.”

“Tushar would like very much to record this song with your son before we return to Bombay,” said Suchita from the back seat. “This is his dream.”

“Yes,” Tushar said, “it is my dream.”

Yes, I thought as we plunged down the steep 580 grade into the San Joaquin Valley, there was a whole lot more to the story of the couple’s journey to Jamestown, America.

Astonishingly, Tushar realized his dream. Over the next three days of the party-campout, he and his wife met some of the best pickers in Northern California, and they also met one of our finest recording engineers, Dave Earl. Together, Dave and Phil and Tushar hatched a scheme to meet at Dave’s recording studio late the following week. When the party ended, Tushar and Suchita went off to L.A. where Suchita did a few days of recording at Capital Records. (Oh, I forgot to mention that the wife of one of Ballywood’s best known film music directors is herself an internationally known singer of classical Indian music; she sings the opening and closing strains of ‘Strumming’. In fact, the husband and wife have done a fair amount of recording together.) By Friday, the two were back in San Francisco where they met up with Phil Cornish and several of his picking buddies. What these seven, plus an immensely talented engineer, produced was…..well, indescribable. So I won’t even bother trying to describe “Strumming Are the Sages.” You can hear it at:


Some years later I received the following note from Tushar”

“Dear Rick Cornish

Feels nice to write to you after such a long time!

Phil specially sent us ‘Walkaway’. (Walkaway is a CD project my son did in the mid-90’s and it included Tushar’s song.) What can we say, the album is wonderful and our song, ‘Strumming Are the Sages’, give a nice touch to the global appeal of bluegrass!

Last night I had an idea and want to express it to you now…..In India, although all styles of music, like rock, classical and pop are popular with many, people haven’t heard this wonderful music bluegrass. So, how about growing bluegrass on Indian soil? We can start a bluegrass club in India, the very first of its kind ever! Here we can do workshops where Indians can be made familiar with its rich music, songs and instruments….even its jokes.

I am a musician and not a rich man. This exciting endeavor can only be accomplished by our mutual cooperation and help. I feel ‘the ROAD IS CLEAR’ and where there is a will there is a way.

Tushar and Suchita
From India”

Tushar’s reference to ‘The Road is Clear’ goes all the way back to that November in Woodland. It’s the title of a song I wrote and which Phil and I sang at the festival. It tells the story of a new beginning in a new land. You just gotta love this bluegrass music, don’t you? Oh, and no, I didn’t take Tushar up on his offer, even though it included use of a beach house he and Suchita own. My wife wouldn’t let me go.

A Dark Day in Music History
Guest column from Randy January
Monday, July 14, 2014

Generally I tend to think that things that happen in life have some sort of purpose or direction to them. Sometimes bad things will unexpectedly lead to good things, other times too much of a good thing will end very very badly. Call it karma, call it the will of god, call it the natural order of things; but usually things just tend to work out in a way that we interpret to be “the way it should be.” Every once in awhile though, the universe throws out a curve ball; a piece of randomness tied to the chaotic side of the cosmos. There is no point to it, no wisdom to be gleaned, no reasoning hidden deep down waiting to be uncovered when it all works out. There is just shock and disbelief.

One such event happened long ago. It occurred forty-one years ago tonight to be precise (or the wee early hours of tomorrow to be even more precise). Forty-one years ago a musical genius was taken from this world far too young, struck down by a drunk driver as he loaded his equipment after a gig with his brothers. True, in the history of musicians, especially in the last sixty years or so, it is not at all uncommon for an artist to depart at an early age. Though it might be an over simplification, you can typically point to over indulgence, recklessness, and living life too far on the edge as the root cause. This artist however was by all accounts not this way.

Although he was an innovator and pushed boundaries in the music he created, he was also a blue collar musician who took his craft very seriously. Bluegrass guitar evolved from primarily a backup instrument and was thrown fully into the spotlight under his short watch (Granted, Doc and others had a lot to do with this as well). A lot of the greatest guitarists from his time and beyond still pay homage to the inspiration that he provided them. I, for one, still get goose bumps every time I hear his syncopated riffs in I Am a Pilgrim and In the Pines, not to mention his lightning fast picking on countless other songs. He took Bluegrass, Country, and Rock guitar to new levels, and he accomplished all this by the age of 29. It’s both saddening and maddening to think of the music he might have come up with if he had another 30 or 40 years to work on it. Music as we know it today might not have been quite the same.

Still, it’s selfish just to dwell on what music he would have given to us, or what we would have taken from that music. I think of his wife left to raise a daughter all alone. I think of his daughter losing a father at the age of 7. Would they have played music together? My daughter didn’t start playing an instrument until she was 9, and I consider the time we have playing music together as one of the greatest treasures in my life. Regardless of whether they would have shared that kind of musical bond, clearly her life would have been better with her father in it. Then there are his brothers that he grew up making music with. I think of how special playing with my daughter is and I have to believe the bond they shared must have been exponentially greater, having played together for so many years on so many stages (both figuratively and literally). There just can be no plan in such an abrupt ending.

I saw one of those brothers performing at Grass Valley last month, and I couldn’t help thinking about his loss. How difficult it must have been to move forward and continue to share with all of us what he could no longer share with his brother. How hard it must be to perform songs that he and his brother made magic out of. I felt honored to be there watching him still sharing his music that his family could share like few others can, and that his brother could share no longer.

As much as I say that there is no meaning in this tragic death, as human beings we search for it. We rack our brains for some silver lining, something to take away from such devastation that provides some sort of good. There is no good in the loss of Clarence White. There is no reason. There will never be an “and it all worked out” or “they all lived happily ever after”. Perhaps there is a message to be taken though. Perhaps there is a reminder to immerse ourselves in music and let yourself be free to try new things and push its boundaries. Share your music with others, whether they are friends, family, or just people with like interests regardless of whether they are playing along or just listening in. Carry on the tradition of music and be part of its evolution for future generations, for you never know when your part, no matter how big or small, will come to an end.

THE DAILY GRIST…“In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French! We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.” Mark Twain

The Mushroom of the World
Today’s column from Bert Daniel
Sunday, July 13, 2014

“Je suis le champignon du monde avec chocolat au lait qui fond dans la bouche e non dans la main” For those of you who do not know French, the translation of the phrase just quoted means something like “I am the mushroom of the world with milk chocolate that melts in your mouth and not in your hands”. It’s about all the French I know. You see, about this time every year I really wish I knew how to speak French. It’s such a cool language and, being an avid bicyclist, I follow the Tour de France bicycle race which started last week. When you see the Tour de France coverage on video, it makes you wish you could visit France, eat their best food, drink their best wine and learn more about their history and culture.

I was given the distinctive moniker “Mushroom of the World” by my friend Alex Sanchez, another avid cyclist who did endurance events with me years ago. Alex grew up in Peru and he didn’t know French any better than I did so his attempt to compliment me on a good cycling performance one day got a little messed up. He had no doubt enjoyed French cuisine and added a couple of extra letters to his compliment by mistake.

I appreciated what Alex was trying to say, and at the same time I was glad he called me a mushroom rather than a champion. I felt it was very appropriate. Mushrooms are good and we appreciate them for what they are. Champions like Miguel Indurain, who won the Tour de France that year, are great and we don’t confuse the two.

What a great bunch of musicians the CBA assembled for Grass Valley this year! Champions all in their own right. And we mushrooms had a great time at our campsite jams trying to recreate all that magic that inspires us. A mushroom is akin to a blooming flower and the champions on stage feed off the energy of campsite jams just like the rest of us do. We’ve got a great thing going with this bluegrass culture of ours, don’t we? The fans of the music are mostly players (or will be once they get enough of this stuff), and you can wander around your camping area any given night and hear music almost as good as the music on stage, especially if the music is being played by the folks who were just on stage, which it very well might be.

What a country! Sure, it’s not France and we can’t sound cool speaking that so cool lingua franca. But we’ve got a good thing going, I think. As we celebrated Independence Day a few days ago, one of the things I thought of was how important the French were in helping us gain our Independence from Britain, where the Tour de France started this year. I hope the French appreciate bluegrass music but I don”t really know. When I searched Google, I was directed to a cool web site with pictures of a mandolin, fiddle, guitar, bass, banjo and Dobro. But I have absolutely no idea what it was all about.

It was all in French.

Friday The 13th
Today’s column from John A. Karsemeyer
Saturday, July 12, 2014,

The 39th CBA Fathers’ Day Festival is over. It is gone. It is no more. It has been written in the bluegrass history book. Like Abraham Lincoln, the 39th FDF belongs to the ages. However, the memories live on.

Returning to this festival in the time machine that I purchased on the Antiques Roadshow, it is now the second day of the aforementioned festival, Friday. But not just any Friday. It is Friday the 13th. After slowly moving my body upward from the camper bed and out of old van in the morning, I am greeted by a family of Canada geese. They make a noise that I swear sounds like, “Good morning.” Then mom, dad, and the six siblings disappear under the water. This is the first time that I have camped at Grass Valley’s version of Walden Pond, and I’m glad I did. As many of you know, Henry David Thoreau spent some time at Walden Pond, and he once wrote, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” All I can say about that is it doesn’t apply to this 39th FDF, and I’ve renamed this Grass Valley pond, “Monroe Pond.” Anyway, l blame my later than usual morning resurrection on last evening’s Thursday late night jam with the Welcome Columnists, which began after a virginal audience in-the-dark performance by The Peter Rowan Bluegrass Band on the main stage.

Last night Rowan’s encore performance, “Midnight Moonlight,” was accompanied by Grass Valley’s grinning full moon that slowly got higher and higher as it peeked through the extended family of dancing Ponderosa Pines, playing its own paranormal part behind the reason for the band’s levitation above the well lite stage, as a thousand and thirty-nine audience members gradually accepted what they were witnessing when the band was transformed, and then The Free Mexican Air Force silently took flight.

But that was then. And this is the morning of Friday the 13th. Groggy and half-awake I slowly make the 300 yard, one-way journey on foot and reach my first goal of the day. Along the way I have a nagging feeling that something unusual is going to happen today. Finally my eyes focus on the sign, “How Ya Bean Coffee,” and I gladly exchange my cash for a cup of eye-opening early mo