Ahh it was good to be back at AmericanaFest this year. While last year’s conference felt a bit lighter than normal years, with the pandemic bringing a tentative air, 2022 felt like a bit of a family reunion as we came back in full swing, especially as BGS gathered through the week with so many of those closest to us to celebrate our 10th year. After all, BGS is nothing without our community. BGS is the community! Take a look at the gallery below for a photo recap of our week in Nashville.
We started things off on Tuesdat at a packed Station Inn for a night of bluegrass with Jason Carter and Friends, featuring special guests like Ronnie and Rob McCoury, Michael Cleveland, Ketch Secor, Bronwyn Keith-Hynes, Shelby Means, Kyle Tuttle, Vince Herman, and David Grier.
Wednesday brought a happy hour at the City Winery Lounge ahead of the Americana Honors and Awards that evening, as we officially celebrated 10 years of BGS (featuring a ton of birthday cake – thanks to the Cupcake Collection!) and an afternoon of music from Rainbow Girls, Willie Watson, and Kyshona.
Finally, on Friday we gathered at the Basement with our friends at Nettwerk Music Group and Taylor Guitars, with performances from Lullanas, Phillip LaRue, Brooke Annibale, Mark Wilkinson, Old Sea Brigade, and Bre Kennedy.
Born on July 4, 1942, it seems rather poignant that this musical ambassador of freedom and exploration came into this world on Independence Day. First emerging onto the national scene in the early 1960s as a member of Bill Monroe’s Bluegrass Boys, Rowan was a young buck — a “green horn,” as he’d say — who found himself alongside the “Father of Bluegrass,” singing lead and playing rhythm guitar.
And though Rowan and Monroe were very different people from equally different backgrounds, there was a deep, mutual love and respect for the sacred art form that is music — either learned, recorded or performed live — where lessons and anecdotes spun by Monroe decades ago have remained written on the walls of Rowan’s memory and throughout his extensive melodic travels.
The second half of our conversation hovers about the road to the here and now, about nothing and everything, and anything in-between, which is just how Rowan has always carried himself, that signature glint of mischief in his eyes radiating hardscrabble sentiments of a life well-lived.
When you think about getting older, what are your reflections on your relationship with Bill Monroe — as a musician and as a mentor to you?
Rowan: I’m just taking what he was doing a little further — that’s all. He said, “Pete, don’t go too far out on the limb, there’s enough flowers out there already.” He saw me coming. And his mentorship is just something that’s part of me.
Which you’ve parlayed into mentoring other people.
Yeah, I’m at that point. I remember what Josh White and John Lee said to me as I nervously presented my playing to them — “take your time, take your time.” The bluegrass guys, [fiddlers] like Tex Logan and Kenny Baker, were the touchstone of bluegrass at the time. Any jam session was led by the fiddlers, and then you’d throw a few songs in. But it was the fiddlers — Buddy Spicher, Richard Greene, Kenny Baker, Tex Logan, Vassar Clements. It could be five fiddlers and they’d all play that tune. That’s what the jam was, it was playing fiddle tunes. It wasn’t like, “Okay, you take a chorus and just play.” You stayed within the structure.
By the way, this whole idea of jamming, there’s always that element in the jam where you go to sort of an unknown place. There’s a real artless art to that. And I’m not sure the bluegrass folks are going there, because most of their instruments are short duration notes. It’s not like a saxophone where you take a breath and just blow for eight bars. But, I have to say the fiddle player for the Steep Canyon Rangers, [Nicky Sanders], he’s taken it up [a notch] — he’s paid attention to Vassar.
When you look at all of the musicians you came up with in the 1960s, there’s not a lot of them left right now.
It’s me and Del [McCoury].
That’s about it. And maybe Bobby Osborne.
Bobby is still alive, and I’m so glad I got to record with him a few years ago for Compass [Records]. And there’s David Grisman.
In terms of touring, you and Del are the ones that are always out there, onstage and on the road.
Yeah. Well, I think it’s part of the gift of being able to indulge in the thing that gives you the power to sing. You can have a lot of afflictions. But if you can sing, you can overcome. The weight of age. For instance, I saw Del last summer. We played out in Colorado, and there’s this picture of us — we look like we’re 10 years old. Just laughing and smiling, well, because it is a joy.
Both of you have never lost that childlike wonder of creation and discovery. You’ve always retained it.
Yeah. But people who want to say Del is upholding the tradition? Yes — stylistically, musically — he is. But he’s doing Richard Thompson songs. Del’s not close-minded.
You’ve always had this core of tradition, but you’re never shied away from jumping the fence into other genres.
And I’ve been criticized for it. Going to Jamaica and recording reggae with bluegrass songs. Going to Texas and recording with the great Flaco Jimenez. Come on, these are masters of our world — how could anybody in their right mind not do what I did? Bluegrass Unlimited once referred to me as a “schizophrenic musician,” like it’s a mental thing, where “he’s gone off the deep end.” [Laughs]
The criticism you faced is like what Billy Strings is facing today, and what Sam Bush faced in the 1970s. It seems every 20 years or so, the critics always say the sky is falling in the world of bluegrass. But it never does. It remains.
I think that goes back to Bill Monroe. He said this [to me], “If you can play my music, you can play any music.” That goes for Billy [Strings], too. And [Bill] saw it, where maybe I didn’t see myself as that. [Growing up], I had my little rockabilly band The Cupids, and I learned some Lead Belly tunes, trying to learn Lightnin’ [Hopkins] tunes. And here’s Bill Monroe, and it’s perfect. There’s harmony. It’s hard-driving. There’s acoustic guitars. It’s got everything I wanted.
You’ve had this incredible life — traveling the world, meeting people, collaborating onstage and off with all these musicians — what has the culmination of all of those experiences thus far taught you about what it means to be a human being?
Well, you know, all of these players were always the ones that didn’t have any prejudices. You sit down with Lightnin’ Hopkins and he doesn’t care. He’s not like, “Oh, white boy wants to steal my music.” These guys were musicians, and they weren’t just your average person.
I lived in the South long enough to have tremendous respect for the amount of heart that the Black people down in the South had. People who lived through the hard times and were glad to be driving a cab to get you to the airport, [where] you shake hands with that man — his hand is warm, just warm love and compassion in that hand. During those years — the 1960s — when it was still segregated in the South, it was weird, this thing of love and theft.
I was with the Bluegrass Boys and I remember one night we played the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis. Mance Lipscomb was on the bill. He came back and we’re all sitting around the dressing room. I asked Bill and Mance if they would play together. You might see [something like] that at Newport [Folk Festival], maybe. But mostly it was segregated into different musical styles [at that time] — Cajun, blues, bluegrass. I said, “Would you guys play?” And they didn’t know what to play. Bill goes, “What do you want us to play?” Bill didn’t know what to play. He didn’t know the starter blues. And Bill just started playing, and Mance played along, too. But it wasn’t this moment that I had imagined, like this intergalactic grandeur, you know what I mean?
[Bill and Mance] were really specialized in their own world. Mance Lipscomb, his music was complete, his version of the blues. Bill Monroe’s music was complete, his version. But [Bill] would talk about his “other music.” He’d say, “It wouldn’t have a dobro, but it might have a slide guitar.” I’d say, “And a mandolin?” He’d say, “Maybe not a mandolin, but maybe one of them little guitars.” [I’d say], “Like a what? A ukulele?” I think his “other music” was the mellifluous laidback music of a Hawaiian feel. Slow. Because bluegrass was all about keeping it up, playing for farmers who were exhausted, folks that had been up since 4:30 in the morning, go to a little schoolhouse and see Bill Monroe. He said he wanted to give them something that would raise their spirits.
And the world changed while Bill was alive. Typically, he would steer away from anything that compromised him. He began to understand that his position was not that of a star so much as [he was] a progenitor of musical tradition. He took from many different things — blues, gospel, Celtic. And he alone had figured out a way to put it all out there, soon to be copied by many, many others. And the talent of those others were helping him develop his style — Earl Scruggs, Lester Flatt, Don Reno, all those folks.
(Rowan pauses for several seconds, seemingly lost in thought at the initial question posed.) What are you thinking right now?
Well, I’m not really thinking very much. [Laughs]. But I want to make sure that we’ve covered some of the things that you’re asking.
Well, you’ve lived the life of an artist. What is that life of an artist, and why is it that was the path you ultimately chose?
Okay, this is the connection now. When I was four years old [in 1946], my Uncle Jimmy came back from the Navy. He’d been in the South Pacific [during World War II] and he brought back grass skirts and coconut bras, all this tourist stuff because he’d been stationed in Honolulu, Hawai’i. I remember the first musical experience I had was Uncle Jimmy dancing around our living room [in Massachusetts] in his skivvies with his sailor hat on playing the ukulele and singing “My Little Grass Shack in Kealakekua, Hawai’i.”
I guess that just seemed like such a happy thing, you know? That was so different from what was the norm. After World War II, they were all celebrating. But Uncle Jimmy was saying, “Hubba, hubba, ding, ding,” all these strange things. Well, [later in life], I went to Hawai’i and traced Uncle Jimmy’s footsteps. I found out he [used to hangout] at this hula bar called Hubba Hubba. He had absorbed what he could — during the middle of World War II — some of that inspiration from the Hawaiian aloha spirit.
And that’s in you. I know that’s in you, too.
Yeah. So, when Bill Monroe was talking about his “other music,” I think he was talking about Hawaiian music. Because his song, “Kentucky Waltz”? The melody of that song was recorded in 1915 in Honolulu by John Kameaaloha Almeida, this Portuguese-Hawaiian orphan, who was adopted and raised by a Hawaiian family. He had a really strong band. A lot of the younger singers of the 20th century went through his band as featured singers, and he had three girls singing harmony. So, when Bill Monroe had a hit with “Kentucky Waltz,” he was singing a melody that came from Hawai’i, probably a classically derived melody. There’s this strange sort of admixture of technique and heart, you know? And that’s always been my path.
I feel like, maybe subconsciously, that memory you have of your uncle is what you’ve been chasing after your whole life.
I think I’ve been wanting that coconut bra and grass skirt again, man. [Laughs].
Slowly stepping off a small stage underneath a large tent at the Suwannee Spring Reunion, Peter Rowan wipes the sweat from his face with a fresh towel and releases a big sigh — another whirlwind solo set in the books, another audience clapping wildly for the mesmerizing, singular presence that is Rowan.
It’s hot out, especially for mid-March, with the oppressive heat of an impending southern summer already present in the depths of rural Florida where the gathering calls home. Dozens of concertgoers rush over to Rowan to get an autograph and take a photo together, but more so to share a story or memory of another juncture where their paths crossed.
At 80 years old, Peter Rowan is an American musical institution, this cosmic chameleon of raw talent and endless curiosity, one who has meandered up and down the peaks and valleys of the universal sonic landscape — bluegrass, rock ‘n’ roll, reggae, blues, Tex-Mex, folk, jazz, and so on — since he was a teenager first learning to play music in his native Boston. He has created his legacy on his own terms, and at his own pace — something not lost on those who view him and his music as the way, and the truth.
BGS: What are your thoughts about turning 80? I know you’ve never been someone to focus on time itself, seeing as you’ve always looked at everything as “one moment,” you know?
Rowan: Well, somebody [recently] asked me, “How do you feel when you sing the old songs that you wrote in the ‘Land of the Navajo’ days?” — in the late 1960s, driving across America, still haunted by the same ghosts that Jack Kerouac was finding on the road. I was part of that vibe, you know? And I told them when I sing those songs, they’re as fresh to me today as when I wrote them. I’m not reliving them, but I’m keeping alive the experience that I had. I don’t feel necessarily that I have to go into a mode. In other words, I’ve been onstage enough to have fun.
And to get around this little bit of this question of the past and turning 80, I just recorded with Flaco Jimenez again down in Texas, recorded with the band Los Texmaniacs, and they’re all disciples of Flaco. And the kind of polarity that was happening in the late 1970s and 1980s, Flaco was criticized by his own people for playing with me and Ry Cooder. It’s like, the rock/folk pretty much white audience thought it was the greatest thing in the world. But his own community felt that he slightly betrayed [them].
The same thing happened to me when I went to England and played with Flaco. The English critics hated what I was doing because it didn’t fit the mold. I was not a brown person. I didn’t have that look. Everybody associates something with a visual, with a taste. But we were still happy to play. It’s just after a while that was a hard hill to climb, when your fellow musicians believe in you, but the critics are critical of the whole thing. It’s a little bit odd. But now, it’s gone. They’re not there anymore. They’d have to be 90 years old and grumbling at their television, because they were all older than I was [back then].
I’m turning 80, and it’s great to feel like I’m, maybe, leading the pack in some way, as an example of a person who broadened the scope of a couple of things. All of Flaco’s musicians — Los Texmaniacs, Max and Josh Baca, Noel Hernandez — they all grew up hearing Stevie Wonder. So, their Tex-Mex music is way beyond [how it was before].
I think it’s the same thing in bluegrass. I just did a record for Rebel and I’ve got Molly Tuttle, Chris Henry, Julian Pinelli, Billy Strings and Max Wareham [on it]. Some of them aren’t that well-known in the popular imagination of bluegrass because they’ve been doing it on a [certain] level. Billy’s a breakout artist. Molly’s a breakout artist. Chris has been doing it since he was five years old, and he’s never gotten his due.
With the critics, I just don’t pay that much attention. Because, right now, what used to be the complaint is the sort of crossover factor. It used to be a complaint that it’s not pure. Well, how can it not be pure? Everybody who’s playing it now has listened to world music since 1990. They’re all in their late 20s. So, the musicality is still evident. We play Monroe-oriented style — it’s all the lineage through the Monroe style.
It’s that experience of being raised in the internet age, having access to all music at all times, and what that influence does to a person.
Right. And that somebody has the musicality to choose a direction. If I was to say, critically speaking of the jam-grass scene, it’s great exercising your musicality in an open-ended way, right? I guess for the party, for the crowd-pleasing, the stadium-grass — that’s why that happened, because that can happen. People are willing to get out there and bounce around and listen to bluegrass bands. I think the Grateful Dead started a wheel spinning that is just always creating sparks of creativity.
I never learned any Grateful Dead songs except for a couple of verses of some songs, but I got to play with Phil Lesh over the past few years, and I really appreciated his architectural approach to form. I got to sit in with him, and I did it without learning any songs — I got to learn onstage, which is the best way to learn.
And you know, [with playing with Phil], I realized why Jerry [Garcia] liked my songs, because in my songs are a lot of the same chord juxtapositions form-wise that are in he and [Robert] Hunter’s songs. I never realized that before. There are two things that Jerry wrote from; he wrote from fiddle tunes and the blues. And I realized that playing Grateful Dead songs — going into the chorus, “Oh, it’s the fiddle tune part,” going back to the verse, “Oh, it’s the blues.”
Old & In the Way was such a groundbreaking act that blew the doors open in a lot of aspects of bluegrass, country and rock ‘n’ roll music. What do you remember when you look back at that time?
A freedom to record any kind of songs that were emotional, like “Wild Horses” or “The Hobo Song.” In “Midnight Moonlight,” there’s that mysterious little section where there’s a freeform solo going from the key of C back to the key of A. I got that from Otis Redding. That was one of his famous chord changes when he does his outs on those R&B songs. In fact, it’s in “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” and I think it’s in “Shout Bamalama,” too. It’s also the same thing with “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” passing through that kind of thing as a riff. I thought, here’s a song in the key of A, and it’s using A/D/B minor/D/E/F sharp minor/E/D and then, if you throw a C in there for the solo section, it’s like a complete release from all these chord changes. So, that release became the beginning of these younger pickers going, “Wow, we can play on that for an hour.” Because we used to play 10 minutes on that riff alone.
What sticks out from that experience onstage with those musicians in Old & In the Way?
Well, if it was a local [show], Jerry would be there before anybody with his carton of Camel cigarettes, and Steve Parish [would be there, too]. And you realized that Jerry was an intergalactic traveler, just dropping in on the Earth scene for a little while, but he was totally at home.
I had just come from a band called Seatrain, which was very organized. It was extremely organized. It was great because we rehearsed so much that when we got out onstage you didn’t have to think at all, you could just rock out, you know? Rock ‘n’ roll was the vibe. They were a very adventurous band. All kinds of time movements, changes and kicks, accents. And then to come to Old & In the Way from there was like, “Oh, I can breathe again.” I remember singing the ending of “Land of the Navajo” at the first rehearsal and I looked over at Jerry. He kept nodding his head like, “go.” It was like Jack Kerouac at Allen Ginsberg’s poetry reading at City Lights Bookstore — “go, man, go.” Encouragement, encouragement.
And at our shows with Bill Monroe, you can hear me and Richard Greene encouraging Bill. In bluegrass, you just do the beautiful grace of presenting the music, being good neighbors and all that stuff. But you could hear us in the band going, “go, man, go.” Go for it, that’s where we came from. That’s what Old & In the Way was — the “go for it” signal to everybody.
Editor’s Note: Read the second half of our BGS Artist of the Month interview with Peter Rowan.
Kentucky music is currently having a moment, but it’s far from the first time. Before artists like Tyler Childers, Sturgill Simpson, and Chris Stapleton made it big, folks like Bill Monroe, Loretta Lynn, Keith Whitley, Crystal Gayle, Tom T. Hall, Patty Loveless, Ricky Skaggs, Dwight Yoakam, and countless others helped build up the Bluegrass State’s rich musical foundation spanning bluegrass, country music, and more.
With so much talent having originated from Kentucky, there’s no shortage of destinations around the Commonwealth to consume this musical history. From the Mountain Arts Center in Prestonsburg in the southeast to the Muhlenberg Music & History Museum in the west, Lexington’s Red Barn Radio and beyond, every nook, cranny and holler throughout the state is full of destinations beckoning to be explored by music fans. We’ve compiled more than a dozen of these attractions below in an epic road trip that could be called the Kentucky Music Trail.
Central Kentucky
Opened in 2002, the Kentucky Music Hall of Fame & Museum in Mount Vernon features exhibits showcasing talent from throughout the state ranging from country and bluegrass trail blazers like Bill Monroe, Loretta Lynn and Keith Whitley along with Black Stone Cherry, The Kentucky Headhunters and Exile, among others. The museum is open from 10 a.m.-5 p.m. daily with an admission of $10.
Also sitting on the same 55-acre property is the Renfro Valley Entertainment Center. First opened in 1939, the massive barn features two unique performance halls that host country, gospel and bluegrass music annually from April through December. Additionally, the venue has been the home of Renfro Valley Gatherin’, a syndicated radio program airing on Sunday nights at 9:30 p.m. EST, since 1943. The show is the third oldest continually broadcast radio program in America and the second longest continuously running such program featuring country music, behind only the Grand Ole Opry.
Back inside the Hall of Fame & Museum, one of the most prominent exhibits is one showcasing Woodsongs Old-Time Radio Hour, an internationally syndicated radio program hosted by folk musician Michael Johnathon in front of a live studio audience at the historic Lyric Theatre in Lexington on most Monday nights at 7 p.m. Launched in 1998, the entirely volunteer-run production spotlights musicians across all genres performing their songs and sharing the stories behind them. Now over 1,000 episodes in (and counting), the program has featured artists like Sam Bush, J.D. Crowe, The Black Opry, Riders in the Sky and Billy Strings. Each show also features a “Woodsongs Kid,” helping to encourage and grow the next generation of Kentucky songwriters.
Another radio program based in Lexington and featuring talent from around Kentucky, Appalachia and the southeast with a similar mix of conversation and performance is Red Barn Radio. Founded in the early 2000s at Renfro Valley’s little red barn (from which the show draws its name), co-founder Ed Commons helped lead the show’s move to its current home inside LexArt’s headquarters in downtown Lexington in 2005. The show has taken off since moving there, hosting everyone from Sam Bush to J.D. Crowe, Tom T. Hall, John R. Miller, Arlo McKinley, Sierra Ferrell, Sunday Valley (led by a young Sturgill Simpson) and Tyler Childers. In the case of Childers, his performance on the show became so revered that he ended up releasing it as a live album, Live on Red Barn Radio I & II, in 2016.
Eastern Kentucky
Out east on the campus of Morehead State University you’ll find the Kentucky Center for Traditional Music (KCTM), a school teaching the next generation of bluegrass and old-time musicians the nuances, history and business side of the music. Founded in 2000, the center offers the only Bachelor of Arts in Traditional Music in Kentucky along with a minor in traditional music. It also features an extensive digital archive of Kentucky and Appalachian traditional music, a recording studio, sound-proofed classrooms and rehearsal spaces. Alumni from the school include Linda Jean Stokley and Montana Hobbs of The Local Honeys, current professor and pedal steel player for Nicholas Jamerson, Thomas Albert; Lauren and Leanna Price of The Price Sisters, and current Assistant Director, Archivist, Instructor and member of Tyler Childers’ band, Jesse Wells.
Just over an hour southeast of the KCTM you’ll find the U.S. 23 Country Music Highway Museum. Located just off of U.S. 23 in Staffordsville just north of Paintsville, the museum features memorabilia from Tyler Childers, Chris Stapleton, Loretta Lynn, The Judds, Patty Loveless, Dwight Yoakam, Billy Ray Cyrus, Tom T. Hall and other artists hailing from the counties that the highway passes through in Eastern Kentucky. The area known as the “Country Music Highway” is distinguished as having the highest number of charting country musicians calling the area home per capita than anywhere else in the world. Admission to the museum is $4.
After another half-hour drive through the area’s Appalachian mountain back roads and hollers you’ll come across Loretta Lynn’s birthplace at Butcher Hollow in the old coal mining community of Van Lear. The humble mountainside cabin features four rooms to explore—one bedroom for Loretta, younger sister Crystal Gayle and her five other siblings; a bedroom for her parents, a tiny kitchen and a cozy dining room—all covered wall to wall in pictures and other collectibles from the Coal Miner’ Daughter’s childhood and life as a musician. Tours are $5 and are typically guided by members of Lynn’s family who still call the holler home.
About a mile up the road from Lynn’s home you’ll find Webb’s Grocery, a general store constructed by the Consolidated Coal Company in 1918 when Van Lear’s coal output was near its peak. In addition to stocking ice cold Coca Cola, Mallo Cups and other quick bites the shop also is stuffed with tons of pictures of Loretta Lynn and her family including a massive banner reading “Welcome Loretta Lynn.” A journey to Butcher Hollow offers not only an incredible look back on the upbringing of one of country music’s most iconic voices, but also a look back on the mountain towns ravaged by the boom and bust of the coal industry that back in the day helped to power our entire country.
Another 30 minutes south of Van Lear is the Mountain Arts Center (MAC) in Prestonsburg. Opened in 1996, the building features a 1,000-seat concert hall, a state-of-the-art recording studio, loads of rehearsal space and will soon be the home to the TV and radio headquarters of CMH23, an organization dedicated to educating people on the history of artists from the Country Music Highway and giving a platform to up-and-coming musicians from the region. According to Executive Director Joe Campbell, the MAC and CMH23 are also partnering with The Country Network on Live From CMH23, a show that will focus on rising artists from around the state.
The MAC is also the home of a family variety show called Billie Jean Osborne’s Kentucky Opry, as well as the Kentucky Opry Jr. Pros. (an educational program for aspiring entertainers ages 6 to 18) and the Appalachian Arts & Entertainment Awards. Kentucky Opry alumni include Chris Stapleton’s longtime bassist J.T. Cure, Jesse Wells, Tyler Childers’ piano/keys player Chase Lewis, Brit Taylor, Marleena Vanhoose and Rebecca Lynn Howard.
Western Kentucky
Just under two and a half hours west of Lexington via the Western Kentucky Parkway is Rosine, a small town in Ohio County with its claim to fame being the birthplace of the Father of Bluegrass, Bill Monroe. In the heart of Rosine, you’ll find several landmarks commemorating the artist starting with the Bill Monroe Museum, which houses countless instruments, outfits, fan letters, photos, personal furniture and even Monroe’s personal Cadillac DeVille in a constantly growing and evolving collection. The museum is open Monday-Saturday from 10 a.m.-4 p.m. Admission is $3-5.
Less than a mile up the road from the museum is the Rosine Barn Jamboree, which hosts free bluegrass jams every Friday night from mid-March through mid-November. A stone’s throw away from the barn sits the Rosine Cemetery, where you can’t miss the grave of Monroe. Featuring an obelisk-style monument and adorned in flowers, Monroe’s grave stands tall over the quaint hillside cemetery as, even in death, he watches over the town that helped to define him. The cemetery also includes several of Monroe’s family members including Birch and Charlie Monroe and Pendleton (Uncle Pen) Vandiver.
Also nearby is Jerusalem Ridge, Bill Monroe’s homeplace. On the compound you can see Monroe and other family member’s childhood homes. Restored in 2001, Bill’s home features guided tours Monday-Saturday from 9 a.m.-4 p.m. and Sundays from 1-4 p.m. The site also features several stages and plays host to the Jerusalem Ridge Bluegrass Celebration, a festival taking place annually in September with some of the region and country’s best traditional bluegrass bands.
Less than an hour west of Rosine in Central City you can learn about icons like John Prine, The Everly Brothers, Merle Travis, Ike Everly, Mose Rager and Kennedy Jones at the Muhlenberg Music & History Museum. In addition to the traditional museum the building features a 1950s era jukebox serving up hits from the aforementioned artists that call Muhlenberg County home along with a towering Everly Brothers monument just outside. It also houses the Kentucky Motorsports Museum.
Just under an hour north of Central City is the last stop of our Kentucky Music Trail tour at the Bluegrass Music Hall of Fame & Museum along the banks of the Ohio River in Owensboro. The latest jewel of Owensboro’s transformed downtown, the $15.3 million building opened in October 2018 not only houses the museum and hall of fame, but also the 447 seat Woodward Theatre, a gift shop and several private event spaces along with a 1,500-seat outdoor amphitheater to boot.
When it comes to the museum, the biggest of bluegrass fans could easily spend a day diving into everything the facility has to offer. A self-guided audio tour will inform you on the ins and outs of each exhibit, the roots and impact of artists to bluegrass music, the nuances of the music and more, helping to fully immerse and indulge visitors in the music. On display are items from the likes of Rhonda Vincent, Bill Monroe, Billy Strings, Sam Bush, The SteelDrivers’ fiddler Tammy Rogers, Flatt & Scruggs, The Steep Canyon Rangers, J.D. Crowe, Hee Haw, bluegrass’ cinematic coronation O Brother, Where Art Thou? and more.
Other facilities in the museum include a pickin’ parlor where guests can play on pre-tuned guitars, mandolins, banjos, upright bass and more along with a transcribed and searchable interview database provided in partnership with the University of Kentucky’s Louie B. Nunn Center for Oral History, a massive display honoring banjo maker Jimmy Cox and the Hall of Fame itself. The prestigious space contains 68 plaques honoring those instrumental to bluegrass from its roots to its golden age and everywhere in between. Much like the museum, it offers a tremendous look back at the genre’s roots, where it is now and how it got there.
The same could be said for all of these destinations. I was already in love with my home state prior to visiting all of these places, but after having done so I’ve grown an even greater appreciation for the state, its musical roots and trailblazing artists. I’m confident that you will too upon making the trip for yourself.
Artist:Hot Buttered Rum Hometown: San Francisco, California Song: “Find My Way” Album:Shine All Night Release Date: September 16, 2022
In Their Words: “‘Find My Way’ is another of my pandemic babies. I did my best to write a simple song about dealing with loss and lack of direction in the midst of a global shutdown. James’ drumming makes this track for me, along with Ben’s fiddle intro and tenor vocals. Like a long, dark piece of music, the pandemic started small, then got bigger, louder, and longer. Hot Buttered Rum did their best to cope with its indignities, as we all did. In HBR’s case, much of that coping was done through the business of making lots and lots of noise. The songs that emerged and became the band’s new album, Shine All Night are bigger and louder than any the band has ever released, and they aim to provide some cheer in the times ahead, whether those times are brighter, darker, or, as is often the case, somewhere in between.” — Erik Yates, Hot Buttered Rum
Singer-songwriter Lindsay Lou reemerged in July with an EP titled You Thought You Knew. As her first music since her early 2021 release The Sweetest Suites, it’s a sort of touching base for Lindsay Lou and her fans. An explorer by nature, she had the following to say about her newest project: “I hope my longtime fans will appreciate the EP as a sort of peace offering before I take another jaunt into the exploratory world of my multifaceted musical identity.”
Although her artistic direction may be in flux, Lindsay Lou can still deliver as good a song as ever. On this EP, she sings a duet with her former neighbor, who happens to be Billy Strings. The song they collaborate on is called “Freedom” and it’s characterized by a timelessness and natural quality heard in many folk and bluegrass classics. “Billy and I both transplanted to Nashville from Michigan and wrote this song on a rare snowy day in Nashville while we were neighbors on Petway Ave,” she observed. “We wanted to write something of our own that felt like the bluegrass standard ‘Daniel Prayed’ to sing. There are a lot of references to Kahlil Gibran’s writings in The Prophet ‘On Freedom’ in the lyrics, which I’m always reading and referencing because it grounds me in the same way an old traditional song does.”
Beloved tunes like “Wildwood Flower” and “You Are My Sunshine” give a sense that they always existed — deeply ingrained pieces of music that have fallen out of the air into hearts and memories of everyone. “Freedom” is a lot like that. Recorded and performed straight, Billy Strings and Lindsay Lou echo back and forth over one guitar accompanying. She added, “When Billy and I wrote ‘Freedom’ at the table, he used a cheap old Silvertone catalog guitar given to him by Fanny’s House of Music in town. I wanted this recording to have the same sound as the demo we made right after we wrote it, so I tracked down the guitar and brought it to the studio for our session.”
Enjoy the new collaboration from Lindsay Lou and Billy Strings below.
Americana duo Violet Bell‘s new album, Shapeshifter – out October 7 – tells a story of the mythological selkie, a mermaid-like creature from Celtic folklore that embodies a form that’s half woman, half seal. In their retelling and reshaping of this ancient folk narrative, they tease out its connections to the transatlantic journey of American roots music, to the cultural and social melting pot of the “New World,” and to agency, intention, and self-possession.
A concept album of sorts, the music is remarkably approachable and down-to-earth, while the stories and threads of the record tell equally ordinary and cosmic tales. At such a time in American history, with fascism once again on the rise and attacks on bodily autonomy and personal agency occurring with greater frequency at every level of governance, Shapeshifter offers a seemingly timeless lens through which to engage with, understand, and challenge the overarching social and political turmoil we all face on the daily. Moreover, it’s an excellent folk record, demonstrating Violet Bell’s connections to North Carolina, Appalachia, and the greater communities that birthed so many of the genre aesthetics evident in the album’s songs.
Shapeshifter is a gorgeous exercise in community building, an artful subversion of societal norms, and a stunning folktale packaged in accessible, resonant music with a local heartbeat and a global appeal. Read our interview with duo members Lizzy Ross and Omar Ruiz-Lopez and listen to a brand new single from the project, “Mortal Like Me,” below.
BGS: I wanted to start by asking you about community, because I know it’s always very present in your music making. I feel it, definitely, in Shapeshifter. Not only because you’ve got Joe Terrell and Libby Rodenbough (Mipso), Joe Troop, and Tatiana Hargreaves on the project, but because I can feel that community is a tent pole of this record. What does community, musical and otherwise, mean to you in the context of this project?
Lizzy Ross: It was such a wild time to be making the record because it was March of 2021, so vaccines hadn’t quite happened yet and we had all been on lockdown for about a year. We were obviously really missing our community and the live music community. There was also this strange thing, where our friends who would normally always be on the road all the time were at home. So we had an incredible opportunity to call up people, like calling up Tati and Joseph and Libby and Joe Troop – who lived in Argentina but came home because of COVID! The way that it worked out, people were around and we were able to convene and make this album in circumstances that probably wouldn’t have been possible, because everybody would have been on the road.
Omar Ruiz-Lopez: Or, [we would have had them] recording remotely. Which is not the same. One of the reasons why I play music is because of the community. That ability to bring people together and share music and hold space together, the energy that comes from that is so vital to the human experience. Getting to create that space, to bring an album to life, there’s not much else in this world that I live for, besides that. Getting the opportunity to bring everybody together, especially after such a big isolation, was so life-affirming and helped bring me back to why I make music in the first place.
That’s definitely palpable in the music itself, but also in the overarching viewpoint that y’all have within this record. I also find that it’s very grounded. You might have heard BGS just released our first season of a podcast called Carolina Calling, about North Carolina’s history through music. One of the through-lines that keeps coming up in all of our interviews is that North Carolina specifically has such a strong sense of musical community. Even though this is kind of a story record and kind of a concept record, it feels very grounded in North Carolina and in the South.
LR: Omar and I are kind of mongrels from the non-South. But we’ve come and steeped ourselves in this land and these traditions and this community, so I think that what our music reflects is the internal sort of “musical diet.” Our musical diet is probably atypical when you consider what most people think of as North Carolinian or Southern music. The music we were listening to going into this even, we were listening to a lot of Groupa–
ORL: Groupa is a Scandinavian folk band that makes these albums based on music from different countries, like Iceland, Finland, and Sweden. I feel like anything that’s not from here is called “world music,” but their brand of folk music is very beautiful and out there and organic and grounded in the different traditions they represent on their albums. It’s mostly instrumental music, it’s pretty powerful. We were listening to that a lot, as well as Julia Fowlis, a singer who sings in Gaelic primarily. Those cultures – Scottish, Irish, Scandinavian folk – they’re related to the music here like old-time, bluegrass, and Appalachian folk traditions of fiddle and banjo.
To bring it back to the question, I’ve been here for twelve years. I was born in Panama and raised in Puerto Rico listening to Spanish and Latin folk. When I say Spanish, I mean Spanish-speaking, the language of our colonizers. But there’s something still not-from-Spain in the native, Indigenous musical and cultural influences in that music. Like in Bachata and Cumbia. Then I moved to the States and fell in love with rock ‘n’ roll and more of the singer-songwriter tradition here.
LR: Originally I came here for school. I grew up in Annapolis, Maryland, where I didn’t really find a musical community. There was one, I just didn’t find it. When I came to North Carolina it was the first time I saw people gathering together over a potluck and music, with like shape note singing and like the Rise Up Singing book. Having this experience of big, group harmonies I had this realization more and more that music could be a part of my daily life in a way it hadn’t been as a child. Or, rather, as a way of public, shared daily life. Because it was always part of my life, but it was part of community life here in North Carolina. That was a big element of how music and North Carolinian music in particular drew me in and captured my heart.
Can you talk a bit about the central storyline of this album and how you picked up the mythos of the selkie and turned it into this project?
LR: The story of the selkie came to us and it’s something that is in the culture, it’s floating around. Many folks have seen the movies Song of the Sea or The Secret of Roan Inish. The first song that came to me, Omar and I were at the beach one day and I was playing on the banjo and this song came out. It was “Back to the Sea.” We were in the Outer Banks of North Carolina at that time, at the ocean, and I was kind of just listening for who this character is and what they are saying. It was a selkie. It was a selkie singing of getting to return home.
I would say that coming home to ourselves is one of the central themes of this album and one of the themes the selkie story really brings into focus. The whole myth is centered around a being, a mystical ocean being, who gets yanked out of her native waters and forced to live in a world that doesn’t understand her and wasn’t built around her existence. To me, there’s a really clear connection. That story is a medicine for the cultural wound of when we don’t fit into the prescribed paradigm of power. If we don’t fit into white supremacy or if we don’t fit into normativity or if we don’t fit into patriarchy. It’s the sense of feeling like we have to cut off parts of ourselves that aren’t compatible with those power structures so that we can be acceptable to the power structure at-large.
This story says, “No, don’t do that.” You can reclaim the parts of yourself that you’ve had to orphan in order to survive. You can reconnect to those pieces of you and you can come home to yourself. It speaks to integrating who we are, the characters of the land and the sea in this story are really powerful to me. The sea, to me, is this cosmic force. It’s a pervasive, creative, destructive, loving, mysterious force that the selkie comes out of. It doesn’t follow the rules of the land-bound world. To me, it’s like the structures and hierarchies of our culture – whether it’s capitalism or something else.
One of my questions was going to be about how queer the record is, and not just Queer with a capital Q, but also a lowercase Q, the idea of queerness as just existing counter to normativity. But it’s not just a story of otherness, it’s a story of otherness in relationship to embodiment. In the South right now especially, but in this country in general, embodiment is under attack. Whether we’re talking about COVID-19 or abortion access or trans rights. There’s something in this record that speaks to all of that.
LR: I think one of my experiences [that informed this music] is that I’m in a female body. There’s a line in one of the songs, “I Am a Wolf” – that song is two parts. First is the fisherman speaking, he’s kidnapped the selkie, taken her out of her native waters, he’s made her come be his bride, and he’s like, “Why isn’t this working?” It sucks, he’s lonely, he thought things would be better. The second half is the selkie responding and she says, “I am a wolf, not a woman.” That’s the first thing she says. That was something I said at one point, when I was connecting with a sense of deep grief and rage within myself around what I felt were the prescribed cultural parameters of my existence.
ORL: The people who made this album were mostly by BIPOC people and [people who fall outside those norms]. Joseph Sinclair and I are not white and Joe, Tati, [Lizzy], and I are not straight. I feel like a lot of different perspectives went into making this album. We didn’t just get white, straight dudes to make this album and it felt good that way, getting different musical perspectives on this. We could have just made it ourselves, that’s the other thing. I’m a multi-instrumentalist and Lizzy is a harmony singer, we could have overdubbed to kingdom come. Part of the reason why we got all these people together into the same room is because of their unique perspectives on the traditions they brought to the table.
LR: This thread about embodiment is really important and by asking this question you’re helping me articulate something that I’ve been sitting with for months, a year, as I’ve been thinking about the writing and the words and characters in this story. And also, what is it for me in this story that I’m trying to unravel with this album. Also on a cultural level, what are we talking about here?
The selkie, her skin is taken away from her in a moment of innocent revelry. The story starts with her dancing in the moonlight on a rock and that’s when the fisherman steals her skin. When I think about the people that I know and love, I think a lot of these systems are violent towards people whether or not they fit within the system’s perception of dominant power. When I think about the six-year-old version of a person or whatever version of a person was able to un-self-consciously dance or feel good or go into their mom’s closet and put on her clothes and makeup and not feel ashamed – there’s a different version of this for literally every person and what that means. That innocent revelry, it’s experiencing oneself not through the eye of an external observer but through the juicy presence of embodiment and joy and a sense of wholeness and rightness in your being.
Everybody’s had the experience of having their “skin” stolen from them. When you get yanked out of your sovereignty, your joy, your bliss. You get catcalled, you get shamed, you get this or that. There’s violence done to you, whether it’s physical or not, there’s that sense of losing your skin, when we start to separate from ourselves and regard parts of ourselves as less than. I think that dysphoria is a really important part of this story and this album. When we don’t experience ourselves or feel ourselves as the cultural perceptions tell us we’re supposed to be, whether it’s a question of gender or color, this feeling of not being at home in our bodies, I think that was a lot of what really resonated with me, even unconsciously, about the selkie. One of the ways that it took root and grew in my consciousness and eventually in our shared consciousness, between me and Omar and the folks who are on this music.
As a picker I have to talk about “Flying Free” and “Morning Girl,” because I think having instrumentals on this record makes so much sense. I have some ideas about how they fit into the story, not just based on the titles, but also based on how the tunes are so evocative like the rest of the project. Why, on a record that feels like a concept record, why instrumental tunes?
LR: Words are our inheritance from so many of the same structures that can oppress us. And they’re also our freedom. Words allow us to develop and communicate concepts and they also contain hierarchies and power structures that we may or may not really need. The name of the song, “Flying Free,” and the fact that it’s instrumental, to me it’s like this somatic sensation of the selkie plunging back into the sea and the joy of being reunited with her home waters. Which to me is her sense of self, her sense of worth and safety and agency.
ORL: Sound, organized sound inside of space, one of the powerful things about it is that we are able to attach emotion to it. It’s kind of beautiful how two people could feel similar things listening to one piece of music. When it came time to put together the songs for this album, there were a handful of tunes that came up that weren’t asking for words. But that totally helped paint the picture of the world of the selkie and what she was going through.
Growing up in Palo Alto, California, Molly Tuttle was surrounded by music. Her dad was a teacher at Gryphon Stringed Instruments, which is not-so-coincidentally where I got the pickups installed on my mini harp. Molly took to the guitar early and intensely, eventually earning a scholarship to the prestigious Berklee College of Music. But I think it was those early days growing up in California, attending bluegrass festivals with her family, basking in the glow of the jam, that set the tone for her warm and collaborative approach to playing music.
At Berklee, Molly formed a band called “The Goodbye Girls,” and cut her teeth touring in Scandinavia. Digging into The Goodbye Girls was a good launchpad for talking about what it means to be a female musician in Americana, as well as what happens when you explicitly call yourself an all-female group. As the first woman to win the IBMA Guitarist of the Year award, Molly has a unique perspective on this particular conundrum. It’s juicy.
I talked with Molly about her debut album, When You’re Ready, and her dazzling covers album …But I’d Rather Be With You before sifting through the many layers of her latest album, Crooked Tree. Crooked Tree features Molly’s brand-new band, Golden Highway. This new record is a study of bluegrass sensitively executed by one of the genre’s stars. Molly’s interpretations of bluegrass traditions like the murder ballad, shiny stacked vocal harmonies, and lightning fast guitar playing, are something to behold.
The music on Place of Growth, the new third album by the Nashville acoustic string band Hawktail, calls a lot of things to mind. One thing it decidedly does not call to mind is the late country singer and songwriter Roger Miller.
And yet, here on a Zoom chat, the quartet’s bassist Paul Kowert is singing the opening line from Miller’s kids song, “Robin Hood.”
“Robin Hood and Little John and welcome to the forest,” he intones in a goofy, sing-songy, Miller-esque voice, from a hotel room in Seattle where he’s on tour as a member of the Punch Brothers. That, understandably, cracks up Brittany Haas, Hawktail’s fiddler, also on the Zoom from her Nashville home, just back from a duo tour of Europe with her cellist sister Natalie.
What the album does evoke is a lovely nature walk in a spirited suite of pieces including “Antelopen” (German for “Antelopes”), “Updraft” and “Pomegranate In the Oak Tree,” and three short linking “Wandering” interludes. Kowert, who is releasing the album on his Padiddle Records label, is cautious about overplaying that angle, though.
“It’s not programmatic and the titles aren’t even prescriptive,” he insists. “It’s just you need a title and what’s more universal than nature? It kind of pulls it all together, and there’s sort of a storybook quality to the music.”
Hence the Miller ditty.
Kowert, keeping a remarkably straight face, adds, “So that’s not inherent to the piece.”
But it works.
“It works, yeah,” he says. “It’s just that the album would take your imagination on a journey of its own creation and that each thing that comes leads you a little further on your trip. It was the desired effect.”
So yeah, Roger Miller is an unlikely reference. But how about Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, with its Promenade interludes, and — dare we say — Beethoven’s 6th Symphony, a.k.a. the Pastoral? Given Kowert’s strong classical background before he wandered into bluegrass, that’s not a stretch.
Place of Growth saunters through landscapes where bluegrass, newgrass, fiddle tunes and, yes, composed classical music blend vividly, reflecting the sensibilities of the musicians, with guitarist Jordan Tice and mandolinist Dominick Leslie filling out the foursome. More immediate antecedents would include the artistic expanses covered by Chris Thile (Kowert’s Punch Brothers boss), Béla Fleck, Bruce Molsky and Sam Bush.
Most directly, they cite two mentors: Kowert, who grew up in Wisconsin, studied at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia with pioneering multi-genre composer and double bassist Edgar Meyer. San Francisco Bay Area native Haas, as a teen, connected with fiddler Darol Anger, a founding member of both the bluegrass-gypsy jazz hybrid David Grisman Quintet and the classical-jazz straddling Turtle Island String Quartet. Not only did he take her on as a student, but put her in his Republic of Strings ensemble.
Underscoring the classical connections, Hawktail has put out a companion to the album: sheet music of the gorgeous Place of Growth piece “Shallows,” arranged for violin and guitar by Kowert. Vinyl? Cassettes? Whatever. This is the real throwback format.
The letterpress print is lavishly illustrated with a stately heron and flowering vines by friend Heather Moulder, including a limited-edition hand-tinted version. This follows two earlier, finely crafted poster prints done by Moulder incorporating musical notation.
“That was sort of an early pandemic response,” says Haas. “We lost a bunch of gigs and said, ‘Let’s do something.’ You put the music in the hands of people in their homes and they can read it and play it themselves.”
So are fans playing from the sheet music?
“Some people are,” Kowert says. “Even if you don’t, it’s an art piece. It’s quality. It’s letterpress. You can run your fingers over it. You might not be able to sight-read music. You might not even be a musician. But you can see that the line goes up. you can see it go down, see how long the tune is. It’s like sharing the spirit of it, even if you don’t read the music.”
Ah, but is Hawktail playing from written music? Well… yes and no.
“I prefer as much variety as possible,” Kowert says. “Our music will have a segment of five seconds where everybody is composed and 20 seconds where two people are composed, but two are improvising, 10 seconds where one person’s composed and one person’s improvising and the other two are resting.”
“It’s pretty fluid,” says Haas. “Like, ‘This person will take this melody or that stuff.’ But it’s still like you don’t have to do what it says.”
They both laugh.
“We still want everybody to be themselves within it,” she adds.
Tice and Leslie add bluegrass roots — both of their dads play banjo and Tice’s mom is a fiddler — but go far beyond. Tice cites Tony Rice and Norman Blake as influences and has played with the Dave Rawlings Machine (as has Haas), Carrie Newcomer, Steve Martin and Yola, among others. Leslie, who grew up in bluegrass-rich Colorado, has played with Noam Pikelny and is currently on the road with Molly Tuttle.
Haas, Kowert and Tice connected on the festivals-and-camps circuit more than 15 years ago while going to college — Haas (who had joined “chamber-grass” band Crooked Still alongside singer Aiofe O’Donovan) at Princeton in New Jersey, Kowert at Curtis and Tice at Towson University in Maryland.
“When we first met it was clear there was a synergy between us,” Kowert says. “Jordan had a car, so he would pick me up in Philly and we’d drive out to see Brit and we would play [Norwegian hardanger fiddle player] Annbjørg Lien and [Swedish trio] Väsen tunes, music that was really suited to our ensemble, stuff we could kind of get excited about and play for fun.”
Not exactly the Bill Monroe canon.
“It was also music that was slightly on the fringe of what was most common to be playing,” Kowert says.
That carried through with the 2014 Haas Kowert Tice trio album You Got This and the first two Hawktail quartet sets, 2018’s Unless and 2020’s Formations.
Place of Growth is a culmination of that, meant to be taken as a whole piece. And that’s how Hawktail has been playing it in concerts — when they’ve had chances. Given each of the members’ active careers in other pursuits, that’s tricky.
“Hawktail’s a project that we all hold dear to our hearts,” says Haas, who is artist-in-residence and teaching at East Tennessee State University’s bluegrass program these days. “So we make time for it when we’re able to, and we really value that time and just the kind of musical bond that we’ve forged between the four of us. It’s instrumental music, and in the world at large it’s not that there’s not space for it. There totally is. But it’s not mainstream. And so it kind of finds its way, it curves around through.”
Fittingly, she turns to nature for an analogy.
“It’s like a little stream that’s running alongside the larger flow of music or something. It’s something that will always be there for us.”
Adds Kowert, “Hawktail has been our avenue to put our own personal twist on it. It’s like, ‘Oh, it’s a string band. They’re playing this fiddle tune, but this stuff is happening I’ve never expected.’ And we love that.”
Photo Credit: Benko Photographics (lead image); William Seeders Mosheim (inset)
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