Bryan Sutton Continues the Conversation in New Guitar Duets Album

A summer conversation with Bryan Sutton finds the musician roughly twenty years after the release of his first record of guitar duets, Not Too Far From the Tree, which featured musicians he considered both friends and heroes—folks like Norman Blake, Doc Watson, Tony Rice, George Shuffler, and Earl Scruggs.

In this interview, we revisit those days when he’d drive around the South to meet these musical legends at their homes—often with his dad in tow—sharing meals and setting up a rack-mounted ADAT digital mobile recording unit, not unlike the early years of country music where field scouts and song collectors alike would visit fields, hollers and cities in search of material. We also explore how he parlayed that same work ethic into his newest collection of duo material, which pairs archival tracks with brand-new performances, offering snapshots with singular musicians in a relaxed setting, presenting their playing down to the core of their stylistic identities.

It is no news that Sutton has built a formidable reputation since moving to Nashville from North Carolina in the early ‘90s. Since then he’s navigated seamlessly between Top 40 country sessions, cutting-edge bluegrass bands, teaching, and recording his own solo albums. On From Roots to Branches Vol. 1 (released via Mountain Home Music Company), Sutton subtly shifts the focus from older generations to his peers and younger musicians, while continuing the conversation he began in 2006 to modestly present the music he loves best.

The track list includes unexpected contributions from guitarists like Joe Bonamassa (“Blue Night”) and Tommy Emmanuel (“Don’t Let Your Deal Go Down”), alongside bluegrass mainstays such as Billy Strings (“The Devil Went Down to Deep Gap”), Sierra Hull (“Grandfather’s Clock”), Kenny Smith (“Three Star Hornpipe”), Jake Stargel (“Crazy Creek”) and others. In his own words, this record presents “musical guitar conversations” that are both archival and representative of his collaborators’ creative voices: “We’re all in a room together. Being in the moment with whoever it is, wherever it is, and not letting the gear and recording tech get in the way.”

BGS: I’m curious how this record came together—whether you were looking for specific material and filling holes as you went along, or if folks came to you with tunes they wanted to play.

Sutton: The spirit of what I tried to maintain from the first one is, at its heart, the guitar duet concept—being way more conversational musically. A lot of times back then and now, not 100 percent of the time, but enough times, we show up not sure what we want to record. It’s kind of like a jam in that way, real organic, because I didn’t want to overthink it producer-wise. Sometimes I needed to, but as much as I could, I just tried to say, “This is what we would do in a jam. What’s a tune you like? Let’s just play it.”

That’s really what I wanted it to be: collecting musical guitar conversations. The big question was where we stop, because it could just go on forever and ever. And that’s a cool thing. I like knowing that I could keep doing this kind of thing. That was sort of the spirit of all those things coming together. I had these tunes from Doc and Tony left over that I thought could connect the whole bigger guitar duet thing—that project mindset, being able to release stuff from the first batch with some new songs. That was the focus going in.

Then it was just trying to call people up and ask, “When are you coming through town? Are you going to have a day here?” A lot of it was between Thanksgiving and Christmas, around those winter months when people aren’t traveling, and just random times. I did nearly all of it at my house in the home studio so I could tear down and set up quickly, and folks were willing to drive there.

Most of it was cut in the same room with the same mics, which was another concept from the first one in my little rig. Joe Bonamassa and I recorded ours at Curb Studio in Nashville, and I did one with Brad Paisley down at his house. Even though I was in a lot of different places, from North Carolina to Colorado and here (in Nashville), I used the same mics and gear. So, I was able to preserve as much of that as possible, too.

Where were those initial sessions recorded—specifically the ones with Doc, Norman, and Tony? I assume the tracks with Doc and Tony on the new record were captured in the same location as the first record.

The Doc tunes were recorded in a hotel room at the Radisson in Longmont, Colorado, probably late July 2005. Tony met me at the Crossroads studio in Asheville, North Carolina, for his. And Norman—I drove to his house down in Rising Fawn, Georgia. So yeah, I had a little rack-mounted rig and a box of mics, and we’d set up, push play, record, and get what we got.

When I first came across that record, I didn’t consider the idea of you doing it in a mobile way.

Yeah. Well, again, I was thinking about Tony Rice, Earl Scruggs, and Doc Watson: “Can you come to Nashville? Can you totally arrange your life around coming to record one song with me?”

And then you get to hear them in their natural environments, or in the case of Tony, somewhere he probably worked a lot.

Right. That was the cool part. I went to Norman’s house, George Shuffler’s house, and Jack Lawrence’s house. That was great. I don’t know that I was that intentional on that front, other than feeling like I didn’t want to make these people drive anywhere.

Where was George Shuffler, just out of curiosity?

Valdese, North Carolina. It was great. His wife had made a cake. There are a few other songs from that batch that are still unreleased—maybe we’ll put them out in some other format. I always loved George. He was always really kind to me, gregarious, wanted to hug you, and called everybody “honey.” I loved it. Again, that was a neat thing: I had my dad with me driving around. We did that on the same day—drove around Asheville, then to Valdese, and then down around Charlotte to get Jack Lawrence at his house. So, it was a neat little trip to get all this stuff. In the old days, for sure.

I loved George. I remember asking him – because again, I had no idea what we would record until we got in there – “What was the first song you played? What’s your favorite song?” I think it was “A Little Rosewood Casket” or something like that, and he started tearing up when he was playing.

Since you made those first recordings, has your concept of the duo shifted in any way? Perhaps a renewed perspective?

Honestly, not a renewed perspective, but a continued love of it. The duo setting, either on stage or off, has represented some of the deeper musical moments for me. It is more intimate, and you hear more of everything. Especially with guitar, where you have a wide range sonically and volume-wise, you feel like you don’t need much more. Part of that perspective has always been the commitment to it: not saying “this is reduced or minimalistic compared to a bigger production,” but rather “these are two really capable musicians playing capable instruments and owning it.”

That’s the power of old brother duets—maximizing the setting. There’s magic within a trio sharing the workload, too, but the duo is the perfect little balance. I’m a Libra, so maybe that shows up (laughs). A lot of times I feel like I play more authentically in a duo. In a band, I feel like I have to spread myself thinner. I really relish the opportunity to fully support somebody and feel fully supported trading solos or looking at each other and singing.

One thing I have always appreciated about your guitar playing is your ability to orchestrate in a way where the listener knows what’s next and things are demarcated clearly, whether through ornaments, rhythmic emphasis, or improvisation as a facet of form. All of that is represented on this project in spades. I’m wondering if there are recordings or experiences that got you thinking that way.

From early days with Ricky Skaggs’ band, making records with him… he came out of that Brian Ahern, West Coast country ’70s style with a lot of emphasis on the orchestration of acoustic guitars. We still do this in sessions today: orchestrating sections with two different guitars where one comes and goes, a higher guitar plays along with a lower guitar in a louder section or transitioning into an arpeggiated part versus a big strum. It speaks to dynamic orchestration and arranging awareness. What is the emotional impact the listener feels because of this extra stuff coming in, or because we stripped everything down to help the emotion of the song?

Jerry Douglas was the first person I heard use the term “song shape.” The idea is that you can see a song building and growing from beginning to end like a first act, second act, and third act. Those things developed through experience, paying attention, and learning as I went. Session work is about crafting a performance and its arcs—the transition from a verse to a chorus, setting up the next move, and knowing when to empty out space or lay out. It’s a bit of maturity that’s been part of my learning. I want to keep getting better at it.

For you, what’s the balance between having a distinct voice in a given tradition, then sublimating it to make others sound like themselves, such as in studio sessions?

That’s a good question. I had an opportunity early on to be a bluegrass guitar player around Ricky Skaggs, Hot Rize, Jerry Douglas, and Béla Fleck. That music was part of my core. If you heard me at 14, certain things in the pocket, tone, or inside awareness would still connect to how I play today. But part of me has a “both things can be true” mentality. I can play sessions, write, sing, tour with Béla Fleck, or make solo records. I love listening to rock music, traditional country, or Ray Edenton’s rhythm guitar on a Loretta Lynn record. If someone is curious about that path, you’re agreeing to be all things—going from playing on a Top 40 country record to making an acoustic duet record.

I like moving around. I don’t want to be in the same band forever or do the same thing forever. Playing non-bluegrass music informs what I do in bluegrass, especially rhythmically with different drummers. There was an era in Nashville where touring could kill your session career because people assumed you were always on the road. When I was weighing doing live gigs versus sessions, producer Paul Worley told me: “You’re only as creative in here as you go out there and fill yourself up to be.” That was a great perspective on maintaining balance.

In the present, with you teaching more recently, I’m curious if there is anything that is particularly exciting for you.

After years of pursuing a career, I’m trying to slow down, take more time for myself, tour less, and pay attention to things that truly matter. I’m doing things I wouldn’t have thought I’d be doing 20 years ago—teaching online, running camps, and asking what needs to define me as a human on this planet. But yeah, just trying to be a little more reflective, a little more intentional, a little more healthfully detached from musical things—maybe it’s not all about D-28s and G-runs (laughs).


Photo Credit: Ali Hasbach

Doc Watson & Earl Scruggs’ Friendship in Photographs

It’s no secret that Earl Scruggs and Doc Watson were great friends, collaborators, and mutual admirers. Both of the bluegrass, old-time, and mountain-music stylists took inspiration and borrowed heavily from the other across their careers, whether they were making music together or separately in any of their many endeavors. The moments they came together, though – from The Three Pickers album and concert film, to David Hoffman’s iconic backyard jam session film of the Scruggs and Watson clans picking together, to many more appearances and recordings – were always magical. Two legendary stylists bouncing musical ideas off of each other as only these two could.

In honor of our Doc in December series for Artist of the Month, we’ve partnered with our friends at the Earl Scruggs Center in Shelby, North Carolina, to bring you an exclusive look inside their collection and archives at photos of Scruggs and Watson together. The Center’s executive director, Mary Beth Martin, pulled a selection of historic photos from the collection as well as a handwritten quote directly from Scruggs’ notes about Watson and his influence:

“There are two people’s sound no man can, in my estimation, duplicate,” Earl states in a notebook. “Of course I’m referring to Mama Maybelle and Doc Watson. I’ve had the pleasure to work [with] and visit these people. I will never cease to admire the courage of these people.”

You can certainly hear the impact and influence of Watson and Maybelle Carter on Scruggs’ playing, especially his approach to acoustic guitar, when he would most often fingerpick the six-string.

“Earl had enormous respect for Doc and admired him deeply,” says Martin of the Earl Scruggs Center via email. “Both grew up in humble North Carolina homes surrounded by rich musical traditions and went on to leave an incredible mark on music. Having Earl’s personal memories and photos of Doc in our collection makes their connection feel especially meaningful.”

Over the course of their careers in roots music, Scruggs and Watson performed, collaborated, and recorded together dozens and dozens of times. We’re very proud to be able to share these photographs from the Earl Scruggs Center Collection to celebrate the cross-pollination of these two Bluegrass Hall of Famers and Doc in December.

The Earl Scruggs Center is located in downtown Shelby, North Carolina, and celebrates the life, legacy, and groundbreaking sound of Earl Scruggs. Their collection includes many treasured Scruggs family objects and remarkable pieces from Earl’s career – including more than 2,000 photographs. In January, they’ll install new interactive exhibits that dig deep into the roots of the region’s music and the history of bluegrass. The entire ESC team is excited to welcome everyone back to the museum when they reopen on February 3, 2026, after renovations and completion of the new exhibits.

Beyond the museum, the Earl Scruggs Center team are also restoring the Earl Scruggs Homeplace in the Flint Hill community of Cleveland County, bringing Earl’s childhood home back to the formative era that shaped him as a musician.

To stay in the loop and to catch upcoming Earl Scruggs Center events like the Earl Experience Banjo Camp, visit their website and connect with them on socials. We hope you enjoy our special photo story with our friends at the Earl Scruggs Center celebrating Earl Scruggs, Doc Watson, and Doc in December.


All photos courtesy of the Earl Scruggs Center Collection. Lead image: Earl Scruggs, Doc Watson, and Ricky Skaggs backstage at the taping for The Three Pickers.

The Five Pillars of Doc Watson’s Legacy

What a difference a Doc made.

Lots of people would like to think their lives have made a difference – whether through their family life, or work, or some sort of creative endeavor.

However, even to approach the enduring heritage of the great musician Arthel “Doc” Watson, a person would have to achieve lifetime landmarks as imposing as the North Carolina Appalachian mountains that were his home. During a lifespan from his birth in 1923 until his death in 2012, Watson created a legacy of music, folklore, and goodwill that no one has entirely equaled.

First a little background: Arthel Lane Watson was born March 3, 1923, near Deep Gap – he is not from Asheville – in Western North Carolina. An audience member suggested the nickname “Doc” when his given name was found less than compelling for an entertainer.

His life story before and after becoming an admired folk musician has been often told, notably in Doc Watson: A Life in Music, a 2025 biography by Eddie Huffman published by the University of North Carolina Press.

Blind since infancy, Watson started to develop life skills and musical ability from an early age. He learned both formal and popular styles when sent to the state’s school for the blind in Raleigh at about age 10.

The boy was consumed by music and persistent in getting better at it. Watson had learned both the rudiments of harmonica and a few banjo tunes from his father, General Watson, before he went off to Raleigh. While living within the strict environment of the school for the blind, Watson learned braille and grew familiar with classical and church styles of music taught there. Perhaps as strong an influence as that education was fellow student Paul Montgomery, the talented friend from whom he learned guitar chords. Young Watson and Montgomery, later a well-known Raleigh pianist and children’s show host, shared enthusiasm for the popular music of the day, including jazz and big-band sounds.

His parents, Annie and General Watson, taught the boy skills of growing crops and basic carpentry, and he contributed to the family despite his blindness.

After years of mostly local performances back in Western North Carolina, it wasn’t until the early 1960s, when East Coast musician and historian Ralph Rinzler tuned into and promoted his far-reaching ability as a singer and picker, that Watson’s name gained national, then international attention.

According to an account at the Blue Ridge Heritage Area website Watson recorded over 50 albums and was honored with “the National Medal of Arts, a National Heritage Fellowship, the North Carolina Folk Heritage Award, seven GRAMMY Awards, and a GRAMMY Lifetime Achievement Award.”

As fans know, Doc Watson contained multitudes of skills, a breadth of ability that inspired this list of the five pillars of his musical and artistic legacy.

The King Flatpicker

Watson largely created the challenging fiddle-inspired guitar style that led many followers along a flatpicking trail.

It was during the 1950s, when playing an electric Gibson Les Paul in the local Jack Williams Band, that Watson developed a style that would transform the way the guitar was played in folk and bluegrass music.

Generally, earlier acoustic guitarists in roots-derived styles used a flatpick to create basic “boom-chuck” back up, perhaps throwing in some fills and Jimmie-Rodgers-style bass runs.

But when dancers at Williams’s gigs wanted music for square-dancing, Watson worked up single-note versions of fast fiddle tunes such as “June Apple” and “Bill Cheatham” on his Les Paul. This approach enables lead guitar pickers to achieve the same flowing, rapid attack that fiddlers used for tunes, many of which had come over from the British Isles in past generations.

It’s not possible to say that Doc Watson was the first guitarist to flatpick fiddle tunes. After all, it wasn’t until Watson emerged as a folk artist in the 1960s that the broader music scene caught on to his musicianship. And high achievers such as Arthur Smith on “Guitar Boogie,” Don Reno on “Country Boy Rock ‘n’ Roll,” and Bill Napier on the Stanley Brothers’ “Mountain Dew” – along with some jazz and blues players – all recorded hot-licks acoustic soloing before Watson did. Joe Maphis was also cranking out ultra-fast flatpicking numbers in the 1950s.

But it was Watson’s 1960s performances that created a precedent for a wave of guitarists who had to muscle up to the speed and dexterity he displayed.

A long line of guitarists at the top of the field – from Clarence White to Tony Rice, from Bryan Sutton to Billy Strings – all show Watson’s clear influence not just in recreating fiddle tunes, but also in rapid-fire picking and clean sound on a broad range of material.

Player and educator Alan Barnosky wrote in “An Exploration of Doc Watson’s Innovative and Joyful Guitar Stylings” for Acoustic Guitar in 2023 about the spread of this kind of playing.

“Watson amazed folk fans in the early 1960s by taking tunes typically reserved for the fiddle and reworking them for the acoustic with speed, clarity, and flash,” he wrote. “He never claimed to be the first to play fiddle tunes on a guitar, but for the majority of listeners at the time it was an entirely novel and groundbreaking approach.”

Another world-class, tradition-based player, Earl Scruggs, praised Watson’s adaptation of fiddle tunes as the two were joined by Ricky Skaggs for the 2003 The Three Pickers performance and album.

“He was the first man I ever heard on the guitar that was fooling with tunes like that,” Scruggs said in a Three Pickers introduction. “You had all these good G-C-D pickers – that’s chord positions – but I had never heard anybody that actually took over a lead like a banjo or a fiddle or a mandolin and do those tunes. He could do it.

“And what amazed me about Doc Watson’s picking, and still does, is he’s got that – I call it ‘mountain sound’ to his picking, and he’s one of the best to keep it in that mode of sound.”

New generations of players have immersed themselves in Watson’s style. When I interviewed him for a Bluegrass Unlimited article, leading guitar picker and multi-instrumentalist Bryan Sutton talked about being captivated by Watson’s playing during Sutton’s youth on Western North Carolina.

“Doc and Dan Crary were the first great influences on me,” he said. “Doc Watson was one of the first professional musicians/guitar players that I ever saw. He doesn’t live too far from Asheville, so I saw him play some different festivals and at Maggie Valley. So, he was the first one to really catch my ear as far as what you could do with the flatpick.

“My right hand – it may not as much anymore – but I remember at one time it was kind of like Doc’s. It’s kind of like the way Sam Bush plays, using the whole forearm and wrist involved in the playing, whereas with jazz players or Tony Rice it’s more of a wrist thing. I think I’ve got a little bit of both now.”

Billy Strings, the artist who’s likely doing the most to promote Watson’s legacy in the 21st century, sounded almost evangelical during a September 2025 interview for NPR’s Fresh Air.

“He’s like the ground upon which I stand, you know?” Strings said. “My dad played his music all around the house growing up. And by the time I could play guitar, you know, 5, 6 years old, I was learning those tunes, too. I might’ve been able to play some of them before I knew how to tie my shoes or something, you know?

“It was like, I was learning how to speak and talk and walk, and I was learning all these Doc Watson tunes at the same time. And it was just, like, a religion in my house, you know? His music is just – it’s the best.”

To see some of the top pickers in the field paying tribute, check out this video shot at the Merle Watson Memorial Festival – what would become MerleFest – in Wilkesboro, North Carolina, in 1992.

A Model Fingerpicker

From his first albums on, Watson regularly also played guitar with a thumbpick and index finger. As he noted with his customary self-deprecating humor in the DVD “Doc’s Guitar: Fingerpicking & Flatpicking,” “See, I just play with one finger and a thumb. I don’t use the sensible three-finger method that you should use on finger-style guitar.” (Watch below.)

Watson sounded great with that approach, making finger-picked tunes such as “Deep River Blues,” “Nashville Blues,” “Omie Wise,” and “Doc’s Guitar” fan favorites and objects of long study. For every striving guitarist who practiced hard on his fiddle-tune adaptations, plenty of pickers also worked on showcases such as “Windy and Warm,” with its alternating bass, pull-offs, note bending, and a jazzy minor sixth chord at its conclusion.

Watson’s fingerpicking often showed off his acquaintance with diverse approaches, as in “Deep River Blues,” with an E diminished as its second chord. It also illustrates the way he put his touch on existing pieces such as 1933’s “Big River Blues” by the Delmore Brothers, who played with flatpicks.

“There were two guitars, a tenor – a little four-string, and the regular flattop, and I never could get my guitar to sound like both of theirs did,” Watson said. “Then I began to hear brother Merle Travis, the late Merle Travis, on the radio. And I thought, Now, wait a minute. If I can steal me a lick off brother Travis, maybe I can learn ‘Deep River Blues.’”

Multi-talented Kentuckian Merle Travis (1917-1983) popularized a style in which the thumb plays an alternating bass on the guitar’s lower strings while picking the melody on treble strings. Watson also studied the work of the great guitarist Chet Atkins. The picking buddies released the album Reflections in 1980.

The centuries-old, transatlantic ballad “Georgie” would have once been sung unaccompanied, leaving Watson and others free to craft a brand new style of guitar back up. With no clear precedent on guitar, he might employ the flowing, almost classical patterns that became popular among folk revivalists.

And fingerpicking became the tool Watson used to play the blues that he loved and drew on so deeply, music he followed from the time he heard Mississippi John Hurt on the family’s disc player in childhood.

In the end, there’s no easy way to pin down the many elements Watson brought to his picking, musical points of view that enriched his listeners along the way.

A Standout Singer

Doc Watson’s vocal abilities don’t generally get as much attention as his top-drawer chops as an instrumentalist. However, he was also a tuneful singer with a natural, angelic mountain baritone.

Watson came along during an era when rougher-voiced vocalists such as Hobart Smith, Dock Boggs, and his picking buddy Clarence Ashley represented mountain singing to a growing audience. And Watson’s less mannered style likely contributed to acceptance among listeners less familiar with the high lonesome sound. His direct vocal approach was often heard in performances with no instrumental backing.

It’s useful to remember that Watson also enjoyed the smooth country vocalist Eddy Arnold so much that his son Merle Eddy Arnold was named not just after fingerpicker Merle Travis, but also for Arnold.

Tunes from the Tennessee Plowboy’s repertoire such as “Tennessee Stud,” “I Couldn’t Believe It Was True,” and “Anytime” also showed up in Watson’s repertoire. These were only a few examples of the eclectic side of Watson’s vocal approach, with emphasis on great material over genre labels.

Given his broad taste, Watson at times put some extra grit into his singing on a number such as “Blue Suede Shoes” from his Jack Williams days of the 1950s, later a concert favorite. But more often he sang songs straight, even on one like “Nights in White Satin,” a 1967 pop hit by British rockers the Moody Blues. With waltz-time guitar and plain singing, Watson makes the song come across as relevant to himself and listeners as songs by the Delmore Brothers and Jimmie Rodgers.

Watson’s first memories of vocal music came in church, and he prized the straightforward, no-vibrato sounds that carved such songs in his memory.

“If you love music, you have to listen from the time you’re big enough to notice music,” he told me when recording his 1991 GRAMMY-winning CD On Praying Ground.

“If you’re looking for old-time material in songs, those old songs that you heard when you were young were the easiest to put down.”

From his first commercial recordings on, Watson featured gospel numbers such as the a cappella version of “Talk About Suffering” from 1964 and “Down in the Valley to Pray” from 1966. Both radiate belief and unornamented clarity.

More recent listeners may know the latter song as “Down in the River to Pray,” as it was opportunistically relabeled to match a scene in the 2000 hit film, O Brother, Where Art Thou?.

Always A Song Man

Doc Watson had an impressively broad range of musical interests, perhaps markedly so, given the period in which he came along.

Country or folk music didn’t start appearing on commercial records until Watson was about two years old. In childhood he listened to down-home picking as well as church and gospel songs. It wasn’t until the 1930s that the family owned a radio that let them hear music beyond their 78-rpm record collection.

Virtually every great musician is a song collector at heart. And like Bob Dylan, Watson took on songs from tradition and added new elements. Take the mournful ballad “Omie Wise,” based on a North Carolina murder from the early 19th century.

In the 1920s notable old-time artists G.B. Grayson and Clarence Ashley recorded it with modal accompaniment that was neither truly major nor minor. When Watson recorded in the 1960s, he ventured into folky, arpeggiated picking that put it squarely into minor-chord territory, opening up the song to young folkies who couldn’t play fiddle like Grayson or banjo like Ashley.

In fact, Watson’s playing on “Omie Wise” occupied the same guitar realm as folk star Joan Baez’s playing on “East Virginia” and other traditional songs.

 

He also tuned into compositions by folk musicians Bob Dylan (“Don’t Think Twice It’s All Right), Tom Paxton (“The Last Thing on My Mind,” “Leavin’ London,” and “Bottle of Wine”), and Townes Van Zandt (“If I Needed You”).

Watson isn’t chiefly known as a songwriter, but he enjoyed notable success with “Your Lone Journey,” which he wrote with wife Rosa Lee. The starry duo of Led Zeppelin frontman Robert Plant and bluegrass’s own Alison Krauss released it as “Your Long Journey,” leading to what biographer Huffman called significant royalties for the family.

Watson’s greatest legacy in songs may have come with the wealth of lasting favorites – just a few are “Deep River Blues,” “I Am a Pilgrim,” “Banks of the Ohio,” “House Carpenter,” and “Shady Grove” – that made their way into the folk, old-time and bluegrass repertoire and could otherwise have been forgotten.

Ambassador for the Old-Time Way

This role for Watson may be the hardest to pin down, as it overlaps with almost all the others. By cleaving to his Appalachian heritage while also making the most of decades of change, Doc Watson was able to introduce countless fans to a rich, living culture.

“I don’t live in the past,” Watson told me in 1991. “I still burn wood in a furnace at the house, but I have heat ducts and a blower on it just like an oil furnace.

“I love to burn wood and I love to split wood. There’s a few of the old-timey things I love to do. I like good dried-apple pie and I like ‘leather britches’ beans.

“And I like to be at home, dadburn it. I hate the road.”

Watson’s long career of traveling to take his music to listeners, often in the company of his beloved son, Merle, nourished their taste for music that he built upon sold timbers of musical tradition.

Wade Smith, a legendary Tar Heel lawyer, told me once about his first experience of hearing Watson, at a small coffeehouse in downtown Raleigh in 1965.

“What word would I choose to describe how I felt?” Smith said for a later Raleigh News & Observer story. “Electrified, stunned at the speed of his fingers and the way he played single strings, and the clarity of the sound. Each note was like a piece of gold, so amazing.

“We stayed to the last note. When we left, I remember thinking that I had never heard anything like it and that in some way I had been changed by it, that I was in an altered state of existence.”

Watson’s national and international impact becomes more impressive given that he wasn’t heard outside his North Carolina stomping grounds until his late 30s. That’s when he honed his broad range of expertise into a mountain-based style that captivated and often amazed listeners at first hearing.

When the Society for American Music, a distinguished non-profit scholarly and educational organization, made Watson an honorary member in 2012, musicologist and musician Greg Reish paid tribute to Watson’s broad impact.

“As I discovered more of America’s traditional musical styles through my teenage years, Doc Watson always seemed to be at the core, an entrée into both older and newer styles,” Reish wrote. “Through Doc’s music I found my way to the pre-war music of the Carter Family, Jimmie Rodgers, and the Skillet Lickers; to the first-generation bluegrass of Bill Monroe and Flatt & Scruggs; to the classic country of Merle Travis, Chet Atkins, and Eddy Arnold; to the country blues of John Hurt and Frank Hutchison; and to the contemporary and progressive flatpicking of Clarence White, Norman Blake, and Tony Rice.”

Huffman’s book quotes the great bluegrass musician Roland White as he talked about the way his guitarist brother Clarence was caught up in Watson’s flatpicking after hearing him at California’s Ash Grove club.

“After seeing Doc, his picking became an obsession, an everyday part of everyday life. To play music and practice every day. Whether we played gigs or not, he was always playing music.”

Sixty years after White’s epiphany, Doc Watson’s music continues to gain and inspire new followers, whether through the picking and testimony of contemporary players such as Sutton and Springs, or through his own dozens of albums and videos. His legacy of tradition and innovation still flows like one of the ancient streams that nourish his cherished mountainsides.


Thomas Goldsmith is an award-winning journalist based in Tennessee and North Carolina. In addition to producing many hundreds of articles for newspapers and magazines, he edited The Bluegrass Reader and authored Earl Scruggs and Foggy Mountain Breakdown: The Making of an American Classic, both for the University of Illinois Press.

Lead image courtesy of MerleFest.

Explore more of our Doc in December Artist of the Month series here.

Doc Watson & David Grisman, “Watson Blues”

It’s fitting that this week, leading up to the 32nd year of MerleFest in Wilkesboro, North Carolina — a festival named after Doc Watson’s late son, Merle — that for Tunesday Tuesday we spend a few minutes with a song named after Doc himself. Bill Monroe wrote “Watson Blues” (or “Watson’s Blues,” as it’s also called), naming it after his friend and premier flatpicker, and the two performed it live and recorded it together on more than one occasion. This version with David “Dawg” Grisman, though, showcases the effortless way that Doc could keep up with and quietly, subtly innovate alongside musicians and artists who were much more famous for roaming further afield.

What’s additionally striking about this particular recording is how simple and focused the track is. Doc’s steady, unwavering hand pushes the song along at a perfectly breezy clip, matching the mellow, round, warm, huggable tones from his flattop. Meanwhile, Dawg plays the roll of Big Mon convincingly, peppering his signature, wacky, jazz-inflected phrases only rarely, choosing instead to let the tune stand on its own. Stuart Duncan’s plaintive twin fiddling is the icing on this tasty, minimal, “Watson Blues” cake.

If you’re headed to MerleFest this weekend, make sure this track is on your driving playlists to/from the festival — and be sure to check out our 2019 MerleFest preview for tips and tricks for the weekend. And, finally, make sure you stay tuned after the 3:52 runtime of “Watson Blues” passes — Doc, Dawg, and Jack Lawrence give us an incredibly tasty version of “Bye Bye Blues” to wrap up the album. It’s an acoustic pickin’ heroes encore.

Canon Fodder: Loretta Lynn, ‘Van Lear Rose’

I want to tell you about one of the saddest songs I’ve heard. “Miss Being Mrs.” is a short, acoustic plaint near the end of Loretta Lynn’s 2004 blockbuster Van Lear Rose, famously produced with fanboy aplomb by Jack White. “I lie here all alone in my bed of memories,” she sings quietly, as though she had no other audience than herself. “I’m dreamin’ of your sweet kiss. Oh, how you loved me.” As White strums out a gentle and deeply sympathetic guitar theme, Lynn moves her wedding ring from her left hand to her right, confessing she misses her husband, misses the warmth of his body in the bed next to her.

Lyrically, it’s a tearjerker, with a set of lyrics as direct and as melancholy as Lynn has ever written. The predicament she describes is familiar but insoluble: something that will never change, something she must simply endure until the morning. Anyone can relate to the song, whether their partner has gone off to the great beyond or simply away on a business trip. Longtime fans, however, will easily identify the song’s subject as Oliver Lynn, better known as Doolittle or simply Doo and best known as her husband of 48 years. “Miss Being Mrs.” is a powerful bit of punctuation to their very public, very tumultuous marriage, which informed so many of her songs. The fact that she misses him so much subtly shifts the story of their marriage away from his indiscretions and underscores the many years of support and security, not to mention the large family they created together.

Mostly, though, “Miss Being Mrs.” sounds so epically sad because it’s Loretta Lynn singing it. Lyrics and backstory aside, she delivers those lines with tenacity and grace, as though she understands that her grief over Doolittle’s death in 1996 had given way to a lingering want. It’s a song about sex (a subject she never shied from addressing), about love, about security, and ultimately about the realization that all of that is gone–nothing but a memory at this point in her life. That is not necessarily a part of the song as it is written, but it is the dominant theme of the song as it is sung.

Even into her seventies, Lynn remained one of the finest vocalists ever to top the country charts, and there are so many moments that remind you what a formidable presence she is. On “Mrs. Leroy Brown” she kisses off an unfaithful husband with news of his overdrawn bank account: “”I just drawed all your money out of the bank today/ Honey, you don’t have no mo’.” It’s the way she says those last two syllables — with mock concern and very real glee — that sells the song as an empowerment anthem for wronged women everywhere. On “Story of My Life” she enumerates her sixth pregnancy with a hearty chuckle, as though she’s the gossip next door rather than the country superstar that she is.

Fan that he is, White produces Van Lear Rose to emphasize her performances over everything else. He assembles a loose band that includes members of the Cincinnati band the Greenhornes and would later record with White’s side projects the Raconteurs and the Dead Weather: Bassist Jack Lawrence and drummer Patrick Keeler prove an agile rhythm section, and of course White himself is an inventive guitarist. There are moments when that original conception of the album comes through, especially on the rockabilly rave-up “Have Mercy,” which is as much a showcase for his riffing as it is for her singing. He only sings on one song, the drunk-lovin’ story-song “Portland, Oregon,” where they play a pair of lovers who bond over pitchers of sloe gin fizz. He’s 28 and she’s 72, yet Lynn sounds like she’s about to eat him alive.

“This is gonna shake ‘em up,” Lynn would say in the studio, clutching White’s hand as they listened to a song they had just recorded together. She predicted great things for her 39th studio album, and she wasn’t wrong: It peaked at number two on the country album charts and nabbed two Grammys, including Best Country Album and Best Country Collaboration with Vocals. More than that, she knew she was doing something very different, something that her fans might not expect from her. They recorded the album in just under two weeks, recording on an eight-track recorder to keep things elemental, straightforward, “as real as possible,” White told CMT, “because that’s what Loretta Lynn is.” It was her first album of originals in decades, and it would take her more than a decade to follow it up with the underrated Full Circle in 2016 and Wouldn’t It Be Great in 2018.

Van Lear Rose did and didn’t shake ‘em up. It was Lynn’s best-selling album in decades, scoring rave reviews from publications that didn’t always cover country music. It was a bigger hit outside of Nashville than inside. It didn’t shake up the industry, but almost nothing does these days. What it did was shake up the expectations we have of older country artists. Van Lear Rose arrived exactly ten years after Johnny Cash released American Recordings, still the benchmark for late-in-life country comebacks. But each volume in that series sound grimmer and more mortally resigned than the last, such that the final albums sound like deathbed confessions. It’s a powerful series of albums, albeit a bit dreary. Lynn isn’t having any of that. She was 72 when she made Van Lear Rose, a year older than Cash when he died, yet death is barely on her mind.

Instead, her truest subject–on this and any other album she’s ever released–is life. Specifically, her own life. The coal miner’s daughter has always made hardscrabble art from her own autobiography, which nary a hint of self-pity or dread. She’s far too irrepressible a personality to let songs like “Little Red Shoes” or “Story of My Life” become grim farewells. They’re not poignant because we know they’re being sung by a woman with more years behind her than ahead. Rather, they’re poignant precisely because that’s how she sings them.