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.