Later that evening, I sit in the CBA suite, grazing on a vegetable platter and sipping one of Kenwood's finest, reflecting back on it all. Before me is Lost Highway, a California band whose fortunes took off a few years ago following several well-received showcase performances at IBMA. They are at their best in this intimate setting, so crowded that people sit cross-legged, eyeball to kneecap, on the carpet and in the few available chairs. They play within a great range of band dynamics, sometimes dropping to a near whisper level, while still managing to communicate the tightly knit drive and excitement of the music.
It is groups like this that make it difficult to get to bed much before dawn, for once the official activities end after 11pm, some of the real fun begins. This is when such organizations as the California Bluegrass Association (CBA), open up their suites to late night showcasing. These after-hours presentations are usually accompanied with hors d'ouevres and libations. A source of exposure for the bands and popular with attendees, the performances go until the weary hours of the early morning, much to the consternation of some conference organizers who see their morning workshop attendances dwindling, or inhabited by bleary-eyed, barely-comprehending survivors of the night’s activities.
Lost Highway is a case example of why bluegrass need not reside on the heavy metal side of acoustic music, a criticism some have leveled against the music. Lead singer Ken Orrick violates some accepted rules of bluegrass, pitching his songs in lower keys traditionally thought to be less suitable for correct expression of the music. His voice has overtones more akin to country music singers, like Merle Haggard, than bluegrass. And, contrary to the stoic stage demeanor of many bluegrass vocalists, he actually smiles when singing. Banjoist Dick Brown and mandolinist Eric Uglum provide nearly seamless, rounded, complimentary vocal harmony.
Fiddler Paul Shelasky is absent tonight from the group, replaced by legendary (now deceased) fiddler Joe Meadows. Shelasky is one of bluegrass music's funniest sidemen, who authored the memorable “Rutabaga Boogie” in his days with the Good ‘Ole Persons. His latest tongue in cheek compostion, "I Don't Want a Praying Mantis Love Affair," based on the female’s pension for biting off the male’s head following conjugation, was quite literally a show stopper in this same suite last year—it was their last number.
Meadows is perhaps most famous for his 1955 blow-em-down rendition of the Orange Blossom Special, one of the classics of bluegrass recorded in his days with the Stanley Brothers. His playing reflects his many years in the music, now approaching a golden anniversary—fluid, appropriate, and dripping with the understanding only experience brings to the music.
Years ago — still in California but now a member of a bluegrass band — we played a festival in Vallejo. On that same bill was a group called "Last Chance." Ken Orrick was the lead singer, and the group featured an up and coming young fiddler, the teenage Stuart Duncan, now one of bluegrass music’s most proficient instrumentalists. What I remember most about the group was a show they did apart from the festival, at a nightclub in Vallejo. A woman in the audience, whom the band knew, fell asleep during their performance while her children played, somewhat distractingly, around the table. Taking note of this, the band launched into a bluegrass standard, "Mother's not Dead, She's Only Just Sleeping" to a great amount of laughter from the audience.
Now, Lost Highway has the attention of the 30 or 40 souls in the California Bluegrass Association suite. The person next to me leans over and remarks, “This is the best band I’ve heard here.”
*****
One of the features of IBMA is the daily luncheons in the Grand Ballroom, which are punctuated with speakers and showcase acts. They put over a thousand of us in this large space each year and as we pick away at cobb salads we listen to various presentations on the “state of bluegrass.”
Last year we heard an optimistic representative from Mercury records tell us about a soon-to-be released movie that just might finally put bluegrass on the map. It was from the Coen brothers and titled O Brother, Where Art Thou? Typical of the Coens, it would be a quirky story, based on the Odyssey, and set in 1930s Mississippi. George Clooney, Tim Blake Nelson, and John Turturro escape a chain gang. To avoid detection the three form a group, “The Soggy Bottom Boys.” There would be vintage roots music in the movie, some of which is bluegrass.
There was a great deal of anticipation among the faithful at IBMA, hopeful the movie would propel bluegrass into the consciousness of music buyers. This happened to some extent in the movies Bonnie and Clyde, and Deliverance, which also featured bluegrass, but the bloom quickly faded from the rose. Would this happen again?
Now, a year later, there is much rejoicing that the movie had in fact spiked sales of some recordings, and seemed to pique the interests of many listeners. Many groups, even regional groups such as my own, reported an increase in the number of performances.
Nonetheless, the verdict is still out on the long-term effects. The true indiccation of fan interest is not so much measured on a few purchases of bluegrass recordings, or attendance at a concert or two, but whether they sign on to a deeper commitment: purchase an instrument, take musical lessons, join IBMA, subscribe to a bluegrass publication. To that end, Pete Kuykendall, the publisher of Bluegrass Unlimited, the primary magazine of the genre, had less than positive news: subscriptions were up, but only barely.
Next page: Hazel Dickens: "the most authentic female voice in bluegrass"
