Music Is Food For The Soul

byFKelso

3.5K followers

Updated 3 years ago

Sorting through old boxes dredges up near-forgotten memories, and I am ancient enough to have many of them. Last night when I went to bed, I got to remembering a music excursion my partner, Mike, and I took, an unusual trip because we took my mother along.

Mike and I had only been playing together for about six months. We received a letter advertising the annual bluegrass festival in Winfield, Kansas, on the campus of Southwestern College.

You could fill out an application and send a demo tape to apply for a place on one of the evening programs, as the festival ran Wednesday through Sunday.

We had a friend with a great little recording studio, and we asked him to record a demo for us. He did an excellent job, so we sent the tape and our application off to the festival organizers.

It must have been a good tape, because we received an invitation to play at the main evening performance on Saturday night. Thrilled, we planned to camp and play a lot of music. I invited my mother to go along. Surprisingly, she accepted the invitation.

On the Winfield fairgrounds, we found a good place to put our tent, and it didn't take long for us to get pulled in to the jam sessions that were already starting. We played music morning, noon, and night for three days, and my mother seemed to enjoy it all, staying up late with us every night.

On Saturday night, we discovered we were to perform about half-way through the evening's concert. Other performers included some of the cream of the folk performers of the day.

What were we doing there? How did they choose us, two unknowns from Podunk, Colorado? However that happened, our "act" went over well. Why? Perhaps because we were fresh and new and a bit different.

We took some home-made instruments on stage with us, and switched them around to use on some of our numbers. The instrument exchanges even went smoothly, thank goodness.

I can't recall all the songs we played. We did a half-dozen. I know we started with Ian and Sylvia's "When First Unto This Country," as it had a nice harmony. I believe Ian and Sylvia were also on the program, but fortunately for us, they didn't do that song.

Mike and I played a lot of Irish music, and I knew we sang "Roddy McCorley," a powerful ballad. I recall singing a vintage piece accompanied by my Appalachian dulcimer.

I was excited and keyed up, but don't remember being particularly nervous, even on a stage with spotlights, and rows and rows of folks in the audience. Perhaps it was good that my mother was one of them, as I had to do well for her.

Two of my musical heroes appeared on the program: Doc Watson and his son, Merle. Doc had been blind since age two, but he could activate a flat pick on guitar strings in a most incredible way.

He taught his son, Merle, to play, and the two of them together made an unbeatable musical combination.

I have a picture in my head of the two of them on stage, faces as if carved from stone; bodies completely still; the only thing moving being their right arms which rose and fell, piston-like, in mirror-image unison.

After the performance, I went backstage and met Doc and Merle. I took my hand-made fretless cherrywood banjo that I'd first learned to play, and handed it to Doc. It's a sweet little instrument with a smaller head than a commercial banjo.

The tone ring inside had been fashioned from a section of a galvanized coffee can.

"What can you tell me about this instrument? " I asked.

Doc took the banjo, and using his hands as eyes, ran them over it in an exploratory manner; then he played a little tune on it.

"I believe this is a Frank Proffitt banjo," he finally said.

This remark made me ecstatic. I'd wondered if it could be one of his, as I'd bought it at a trading post on the Blueridge Parkway, close to Proffitt's home turf.

The performance, of course, represented a high point, but the music went on, morning and night, in little splinter groups in the campground. I've often wished I'd asked my mother afterwards to give me her impressions of the whole thing.

We met so many excellent musicians, including a group from Tulsa, Oklahoma, who invited us to come and play at their coffee house, "The Dust Bowl." Some time later we made that trip, but that's another adventure.

The memory is one of those gems that populates the catacombs of my mind. If there is a lesson here, it's that you don't know what you can do until you try. We took a chance and won the cut in the game.

We could have tossed the invitation aside, or we could have gone just for the jam sessions and to attend the evening concerts. Instead, we made the effort and were successful, creating an unforgettable experience, both for ourselves and for my mother.

Progress often comes when we step out of our comfort zone. Remember: Getting out of the box can lead to exciting new vistas.