Bluegrass Night

"Now I sniff cocaine,
I sniff it in the wind
The doc, he says it’ll kill me
but he can’t say when ...
Won't you tell it to me,
tell it to me
Drink the corn liquor
let the cocaine be."

-Old Crow Medicine Show, Tell It To Me




With no AC the musty stench of alcohol laced sweat can be overpowering in the summer. There's only one rickety ceiling fan to help with air flow. The smokers 'patio' is little more then a fenced off alley. Crowd sizes vary from week to week but you always feel cramped in the cracker box that is Dick's Den. Decades of beer has soaked into the hardwood floors, a visible dinge lingers on every surface. There's only one small urine perfumed bathroom with an old looped cloth towel for hand drying (also smelling slightly of urine). Quintessential dive bar. You either love them or hate them. Local joints that just feel comfortable. A place where everyone would know your name if they weren't blacked out on $2 wells.

Of course I don't go for the aesthetics. It's the cover-free music, the mentioned bar prices and the people watching. Never will you find a better and more unexpected mix. The term Bluegrass Music probably brings a very specific composite to mind. Maybe cowboy boots, large belt buckles, big hair or a country-boy crust-stache. On the contrary, this group any random Tuesday night has a little bit of everything. Hipsters coeds, neo-hippies, knotty dreads, professors, out-of-towners, old timers, drunk locals and party kids on too much acid. A free show is a free show and music lovers are an eclectic bunch.

The idea "Bluegrass music is country music" is a common over simplification. They are not synonyms. In reality Bluegrass (BG) gave birth to country which later spawned rock 'n' roll. In terms of uniquely American music it was one of the very first by far. The great, great grandfather to most of the music we listen to today. Roots music. With out BG to pave the way nothing would have ever been quite the same. It was originally played by an array of immigrant's decedents, who all brought vastly different influences. They came from England, Germany, Ireland and Africa. A melting pot of sounds that has lent elements to everything from jazz to jam band.

At least that's my best attempt to sum it up in a paragraph. During my stay as a student in Lexington, Kentucky I became very familiar with all things BG. That region of Appalachia is arguably the birth place of the art form, so I think they might know what they're talking about. Mandolin and banjo players are a dime a dozen in that town. You can catch a decent band picking nearly seven nights a week. Of course when something is readily available it's easy to take it for granted. After moving back to Ohio I've grown to miss those shows. Finding Columbus' only weekly Bluegrass Jam was ... well, music to my ears.


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The stage is always a cluster fuck. Ten people or more packed into an area designed for maybe half that number but anyone who steps up is aloud to join. I've seen peddle steel guitar, harmonica, spoons, and even clarinet players accompany standards like dobro, acoustic guitar, mandolin, banjo, fiddle and upright bass. Anything but heavy percussion, electric guitar or things that would drown out the string instruments are welcome. There's no sign up list or formality of any kind. If you can play and you bring your instrument you can join the jam. The line-ups change week to week but a core group of guys have kept it going for five years now. What started as just a few dudes dicking around has becoming the busiest night of the week for the bar.

It was early so Aaron Snyder (guitar) and Jake Young (banjo) were the only ones performing. They were doing some old hillbilly standard I didn't recognize. Pulling some singles out of my pocket as I stepped up to the bar I ordered my first Old Crow and Coke. Sipping my drink I made the rounds but didn't see anyone I recognized so I went out back for a smoke. I enjoy going out to the bar alone occasionally if the scene is right. Even then, sometimes you feel like that creepy guy hanging out solo pretending to receive text messages so people don't stare. Lucky for me it's not hard to make friends at Dick's Den. The sense of community there is infectious. It's always easy to strike up conversation and there's never any shortage of joints floating around the patio. If I've got extra at home I bring it but no one seems to mind mooching.

Outside I ran into Patty, also a Tuesday night regular. She lives in the neighborhood too and we seemed to always cross paths at Dick's. Petite, pretty with long following dirty blond hair and a quick smile; There are definitely worst people to have recognize you. We chatted and exchanged our customary joke which has become a tradition for us.

"So what's long, green and smells like bacon?" I asked.

"No idea," she said.

"Kermit's finger!" Good enough for a chuckle.

We smoked her spliff, finished our drinks and went back inside. It was starting to get crowded so I decided to get two adult beverages while the getting was good. My childhood friend Joey Gardina (whom I lost contact with for years until seeing him randomly at BG night) said hello before getting ready to take the stage himself with his mandolin. We quickly ripped a shot of Bullet Bourbon and agreed to meet at the same spot during the next break in the music. Once he got tuned things really started cooking. They'd also added Steve on bass and Fiddlin' Robert so there were now five guys on stage. They were furiously covering The Deads' Friend of the Devil and the growing crowd was grooving in approval.

During the next song some kid I didn't recognized stepped up on banjo in addition to Jake. Nervous, he fumbled with his picking until he got the rhythm. Two minutes into the song he seemed to have his sea legs under him. After Joey shredded a solo the group encouraged the new guy to take a stab at it. While keeping the song going they gently gestured for him to take the lead. After some hesitation he stepped up to the mic and picked a banjo solo of his own.

"Keep it going man!," someone yelled in encouragement. Later I found out it was his first time playing for a large audience. Upon reflection it was really cool to see a performer of any skill set cut their teeth.

"It's like church," Joey said once. "No matter how your week's been going you know you can come here on Tuesday, jam with some buds, have a few beers, let loose and unload. There's never any pressure. It's not about who's better or any sense of competition. Everyone's just here to have fun."

After stretching their hands which had been strumming/picking furiously for over an hour, they stepped down to make way for The Relentless Mules. Daniel Phelps (guitar), Caleb Powers (mandolin), Chris Stevens (bass) and Stephen Moller (resonator guitar) are an official BG band who perform together locally. Unlike the other performs, they do practice together and have written their own material. Whether long time Bluegrass Jam fans like it or not, Tuesdays have become a platform for them to promote themselves. Of course most are cool with them being showcased even if that was never the original intent of the jam. Sometimes things take on a life of their own and you just go with it, a common theme at Dick's Den. Why not?

While listening to The Mules Joey, Jake and myself talked about the Bluegrass Ramble, a local NPR radio show Jake co-hosts Saturday and Sundays at 6. It's one of the longest running shows of it's kind in the nation and Jake's pride in it shines whenever he talks shop. If you're even a mild fan of BG music it's worth checking out. We ripped yet another shot of Bullet (I usually loose count after four) and the two of them went back to work.

The last set is usually some combination of The Mules and the performers from earlier. Twelve of them were packed in tight masterfully coordinating their instruments to not bump one another. When a vocal harmony came they all slide to the proper mic without missing a beat or cleaning anyone's clock. When you've played together as long as they have you don't need rehearsals to be on the same page. They never use a set list. Relying instead on none verbal ques and an occasional pow-wow in-between ditties. When someone doesn't know a song he or she simply fakes it until they can pick up the rhythm. Impressive indeed.

By now everyone in the crowd was dancing, stomping and clapping to the beat. I only planed to stay for a few hours, so I could get home and write, but as I've said before nights take on a life of their own at Dick's. I was just along for the ride at this point. I laughed to myself when I saw Robert, the fiddle player from earlier, square dancing with Patty. He was old enough to be her grandfather but both didn't seem to notice. You're never to old to dance with a pretty girl. As they finished the song, the ugly lights came on to signify last call. Starving to death, I knew I'd be hitting whatever food truck was parked outside before walking home. As I made my way to the door I heard Joey picking one last song solo.

"Drink em up, drink em up, go on and finish your cup," he sang. "You gotta gooooo, you gotta go."

The night always seemed to end with his last call anthem. The perfect way to close out a great evening of music. I waited by the exit until he had finished and then I did as I was told, chugging the last of my Crow and Coke before hitting the road. Some nights are better than other but this time they hit it out of the park. See for yourself next Tuesday. One thing is for sure, the pickers will be there and so will I. Hope to see you friendly fiends. I've got a $1.50 PBR and a shot of Bullet with your name on it ... unless I've already forgotten your name and chances are I have at Dick's Den.

-J.R.

Conclusion to Bonnaroo 2011

After my third go 'round at this thing called Bonnaroo I have to say that day four will always be my favorite. It signifies an end to the 96 hour marathon of squalor, filth and sweltering heat but that's not why I like it best. It's not because the line-ups are any better or the crowds are any thinner. The crescendo is always my favorite in any adventure. The final flurry of pure awesomeness before it's time to pack it up, head home and call it a night. Your last chance to soak everything in before it's gone and you can only reflect ...

Most of the first-timers bail sometime on day three. The faint of heart and headline pop crowd weren't built for Roo. Despite knowing this, I was still a little sad to see our campsite's population cut by a third with 12 hours of music left. Even the Sparty Crew was packing up when we were shotgunning the last of our beers. We exchanged Facebook information and then they were gone. We wanted to make packing easier for ourselves so we kept drinking. The more you consume the less you have to take home. We snacked on the last of our food and pitched the scraps. I didn't want to get stuck with any weed/hash either so we smoked at a constantly increasing rate through out the day. Fairly drunk and high we waxed intellectual on the finer points of Jim Page's guitar riffs vs. Keith Richards'.

We'd decided to bail before the final show, Wide Spread Panic, to avoid the rush. I know, I know. Feel free to leave a comment telling me how I 'totally blew it' by missing them but they're just a poor man's Phish to me. Neither Dylan or I lived and died by The Jam so it was an easy decision. With the help of PBR we got our camp packed up in just under three hours. As we walked to Centeroo it was obvious that only the diehard remained. Everyone looked like wrung out amusement park caricatures of the people they once were. The drugs, heat and grungy defilement changes everyone ... in some ways forever.

The first show was quite unremarkable. Of everyone I'd seen all weekend (with a good sound crew) Gregg Allman was most disappointing. He came out late then took forever to get his piano mic just right and mailed it in from there. Laissez-faire would be generous. Granted, the man is an aging legend and has earned the right to do whatever he damn well pleases but you hope for more at Bonnaroo. It's the chance for a performer of any success level to appeal to a massive audience that for the most part hasn't heard of them. Because of the delays he ran over and we missed the end of Cold War Kids' set. Thanks Gregg.

Dylan was focused on seeing The Strokes and I on the very hyped Super Jam so we agreed to meet at the truck when both were finished. (I still can't believe the bonehead scheduling conflict). I gave him half the remaining herb and we said adios for the interim. The music was at least 45 minutes away so I pushed to the front of That Tent and parked myself in the second row. While lounging I sparked a bowl laced with my last flake of hash and passed it around my immediate circumference. Super-duper stoned, I chatted with my neighbors and inadvertently met the guy everyone hates to meet. The Super Fan.

Constantly trying to one up your concert stories. Sharing useless (often false) factoids about their fav band. Naming the date and location of every studio album recording. He was telling me about how he'd waited in line for a full day, missing countless other shows, to get front row for The Black Keys. He was obsessed with Dan Auerbach (lead guitar/vocal), who was also leading the Super Jam. We'd be talking music and he'd say things like 'Dan's soooooo fucking amazing' in a weird semi-sexual tone that was so awkward I didn't know weather to laugh or take him seriously. I pictured an Auerbach inspired shrine in his bedroom. Living proof some guys don't need internet porn to get by.

Don't get me wrong I have a pretty big Black Keys boner myself but he made mine look like a baby's dick. I eventually changed the subject but he wouldn't give it up. Every time anyone even approached the mics for sound check he was clapping, cheering and calling out requests. Consistently annoying; like that pop corn kernel that's been stuck in your teeth all day waiting to be flossed. I shifted a couple paces to the right and made nice with a father/son duo. The boy wasn't a day over 15 and they both had That Pass which gave them access to the backstage area. They were nice enough and I was tempted to make an offer for one of the passes when the feed back started to sound.

"Thanks for coming out and spending time with us," Auerbach said. "I'm here with some friends and we're going to celebrate New Orleans."

The stage was a hodge-podge of musicians and singers notably living legend Dr. John, Auerbach, the horn section from Preservation Jazzhall Band and the drummer from My Morning Jacket. They performed old school Dr. John jams and some New Orleans' standers. It was an eclectic output of sounds; hard rock riffs and creole flavored melodies. Packed in tight, it felt like we were grooving on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. The Doc's voice is one in a million. He sounds like a bayou bullfrog with a less-gay Elton John fashion bravado (see his trade mark hats). They closed with Such a Night, doc flying solo, eating it up from the crowd which was clapping along.

"Remember that!" Auerbach said for emphasis after he'd finished. A once in a lifetime performance I will never forget. In retrospect it made the whole trip worth it. They all took a bow and I slowly made my way to the back of the crowd. On the walk to camp I took time to reminisce about everything that was Bonnaroo 2011. I was sad to know the long strange trip was coming to an end but also a little relieved. It's fun to visit the circus but I couldn't live in one. Something that has become a sort of tradition for me now is giving away the Chillum I'd been using weekend to a passer-by. For one thing I didn't want to have it on me if I got searched on the way out and it's also one little way to spread the vibe. He seemed happy about it.

Slipping in and out of solemn meditation I took care to avoid the never ending line of cars stopping and going on their way out. As I crossed in front of one vehicle a girl leaned her head out the window and shouted 'give us that dick!' I stopped in my tracks and almost got run down I was so caught off guard. After snapping out of it I grabbed my crotch with both hands, made the most offensive gesture possible, smiled and kept walking. As the truck and Dylan came into view I thought about the Neon Indians. After spending time with a few I was no closer to understanding what they were all about than I'd been on the ride down from Ohio. Maybe it's all nothing. Just some kids dressing like savages and raging on party drugs for no rhyme or reason. Maybe they really are an underground society funded and nurtured by the curators of Bonnaroo. Probably some combination of the two.

As a seeker of truth, I feel it's my job to get to the bottom of it all. Rest my finger on the pulse of America's youth. See what is what and share my experiences along the way. On the drive home I already started hatching plans for 2012 and who knows, maybe this time next year I'll have it all figured out. Written, presented for your benefit. Well, tt will make for a entertaining read anyway. I do the dirty work so you don't have too but there's no need to thank me just keep coming back.

-J.R.