The thing I love most in the world is sharing bluegrass music with my sweetie (and as long as my wife doesn't find out, I'm okay).
This weekend was the 27th Annual Springfield Illinois Greater Downstate Indoor Bluegrass Music Festival. This was the farthest afield I've been since being diagnosed with TM. We used to attend this show every year, and we missed it greatly. This year, I just felt in a place, where I thought I could handle the effort, so as a family, we decided to give it a try.
One of the things I always do when planning a trip is look for interesting places to eat. After a delightful car ride, the autumn leaves brightening the farther south we went, and checking in at the Crowne Plaza, we went out to a place I found, called the Lake Pointe Grill. From where I was sitting, I was able to watch pizzas going into and out of the artisanal brick oven on flat bladed, long handled, wooden shovels, called peels.
My son had one of the specialty wood fired pizzas (that he polished off, much to the regret of his groaning tummy). My wife had the aged ribeye, and reluctantly let me try a bite, and it was indeed melt in your mouth as advertised. I had the restaurant's signature entree, the Stuffed Meatloaf, "a blend of ground beef and Italian sausage stuffed with white cheddar and smoked Gouda cheeses, robed in apple wood smoked bacon with a sweet tomato balsamic glaze. Served with mashed potatoes and low country green beans." Yup.
We then got ready for the evening bluegrass show. Most of the evening's lineup we had not seen before. All bluegrass bands are based on five stringed instruments - the acoustic guitar, mandolin, fiddle, banjo, and upright bass, to which may be added the dulcimer, autoharp, resonator guitar (Dobro), penny whistle, mouth harp, and harmonica. The amazing musicians who play these instruments are masterful, and their virtuosity is what drew us to bluegrass music in the first place. Bluegrass also prides itself on its vocal harmonies.
A band by the name of Link Union took the stage: Mama Link, the matriarch of the family, who in true country fashion, taught her children to sing and play around the piano, and as they showed interest and aptitude in the various instruments, provided encouragement and arranged for lessons; the son, the youngest at 15; and three sisters, all of them gorgeous (including Mama and the brother).
They were absolutely sensational. And not only were they supremely talented performers, but they were steeped in music history. The young ladies demonstrated how mountain music was done in the 1800's, and the son awed the knowledgeable audience by playing Bach on banjo.
Serendipitously, I am in the middle of reading a Civil War book about the Siege of Vicksburg, and they closed their set with a tribute to Veterans Day, and the many veterans in attendance, by performing a medley of "Dixie" and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."
One final note about the band. We have a wonderful collection of bluegrass Christmas music, and one of the things we look for most at the festivals are new Christmas albums. When we perused their table out in the lobby, sure enough, they had a CD of live Christmas music. Now the holidays can't come 'round fast enough.
My family is always skeptical about these off the beaten path restaurants I dig up, and this one took the cake. Saturday morning we headed out for breakfast at Jungle Jim's Limousine Service. Our route took us through industrial areas, residential neighborhoods, and sections of downtown Springfield, seldom scene by tourists visiting our State Capital.
However, the only problem upon arriving at our destination was that there was no jungle, no Jim, and definitely no limousine service. What there was, was a hole in the wall retro diner on historic Route 66. The friendly and efficient waitresses waited on the regulars who called each other by name across the restaurant. The coffee was fabulous, served with little metal pitchers of real cream, but we couldn't find any packets of sugar in the caddy - only artificial sweeteners and non-dairy creamers - until we realized that there was an actual sugar shaker on the table right in front of our eyes.
We were served heaping platefuls of eggs, bacon, biscuits and hot sausage gravy, flapjacks with mounds of whipped butter, real Western omelets, and platters of "redskins and veggies."
Fully sated, we returned to the hotel to get ready for the afternoon show. The Saturday headliners were a Grammy Award winning band called Rhonda Vincent and the Rage. Internationally known for their live "raging," they tore up the stage for the next hour. The band's long time sponsor, Martha White Flour, provides T-shirts and other branded items for Rhonda to toss out into the audience, and the band always does a raucous version of the Martha White jingle. This year, they were also raffling off a cast iron skillet. I thought they should have raffled off the T-shirts and thrown the skillet out into the audience.
I'm not going to say it's a conservative, white, Southern Baptist crowd, but after the festival, half the bedsheets in the hotel have two eyeholes cut out of them.
Believe it or not, my wife and I in our mid-50's, are actually considered to be part of the younger generation at the shows. But it was very hopeful to see so many teenagers, twenty-somethings, preteens, young adults, and even toddlers and infants with their proud parents, many people with instrument cases in tow. As festival promoter, and long time friend, Terry Lease would say, "Bluegrass is alive and well in the great state of Illinois."
One point of note however. As we were leaving the afternoon show for the dinner break before the evening performance, we got caught up by the elevators, in a 90 year old flash mob, and from my eye-level perspective in my wheelchair, the twerking was not a pretty sight.
We headed over to Smokey Bones, our favorite sports bar, for a couple of home brews and some ribs and smoked brisket. We caught a little of the Illinois game, but we couldn't stay long, and grabbed a few bags of the eatery's famous hot donuts to enjoy during the evening show.
Saturday evening kicked off with our personal friends and personal favorites from across our northern border of Wisconsin, and with whom we have a gentle Bears-Cheeseheads rivalry, the Highwater Band. Group founders, husband and wife, Art and Stephanie Stevenson, are a teacher and nurse respectively, and dedicated subsistence farmers.
Rounding out the band with Art on guitar and Stephanie on a beautiful, blonde wood bass, were Bruce King on mandolin, and Dale Reichert on banjo. With his boundless enthusiasm and thick handlebar mustache, Dale would fit into any turn of the century barbershop quartet, and indeed the band performed several a cappella numbers that brought the house down. Dressed in bright red long-sleeve shirts, string ties, and black slacks and vests, they were a throwback to the riverfront saloon jazz bands. The only thing missing were the crushed peanut shells on the floor.
Highwater finished their set with a show stopping cover of "The Orange Blossom Special," the quintessential bluegrass train song, with Art on harmonica, blowing the Special's whistle throughout the hall.
One of the hallmarks of bluegrass is the wisdom of the hills, told through jokes and humorous stories, in between songs (also allowing the band members to swap and tune instruments).
A banjo player got home from a gig and held out two Tylenol to his wife. The wife said, "What are those for?" The banjo player said, "For your headache." The wife said, "I don't have a headache." And the banjo player called out, "Gotcha!"
The next act took the stage, a traditional five man professional touring band called Balsam Range. As all such bands, they played a selection of polkas, waltzes, ballads, gospel hymns, and hi-octane instrumental breakdowns, all arranged for bluegrass. Balsam Range gave their own tribute to the well represented veterans in the audience with the uplifting, "Place No Wreath Upon My Door." They were called back for an encore, and chose the song "Ruby," a bluegrass standard whose origins lie in the mists of time, but embodies the plaintive, high lonesome sound of the hills in which it was born.
A great day ended with a group called The Dry Branch Fire Squad. The band is fronted by a man named Ron Thomason. In his younger days, he played with Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass, and the Clinch Mountain Boys with Ralph and Carter Stanley, the heart of bluegrass music. He is a teaching professor with a PhD in Music History. This long, tall drink of clear, mountain moonshine is a National Treasure.
A preacher takes up residence in a church, and right off it comes into his mind that the church needs a new addition. He goes to the bank and takes out a loan, but quickly realizes that the collection plate alone is not enough to pay it back. The church board decides to collect all the old bibles from the locale and sell them for $5.00 each door to door.
A few Sundays later, the preacher asks if anyone has sold any bibles. A woman up front stands up and says, "Yes, preacher, I done sold four." The preacher says, "Well, that's a fine start. Anybody else?" Another member of the congregation stands up and says, "I be sellin' eight bibles." The preacher exclaims, "That is mighty fine." He looks over the gathering and says, "Any more?"
Slowly a man stands up in the back of the church. The preacher recognizes him as the town loafer, who is also known for his severe stuttering. He says, " I I I so-so-sold fo-fo-fo hun-hun-hun-red."
The preacher says, "Four hundred!? How in the Lord's name did you do that?"
The man replies, "We-we-well, I I I went do-do-door to do-do-door and I I I said do-do-do you wa-wa-want to-to-to b-b-buy wu-wu-one of th-th-these b-b-bibles or do-do-do you w-w-want m-m-me to r-r-read it t-t-to y-y-you?"
I am not easily impressed with intellect, but Ron Thomason is brilliant. I cannot even begin to explain this man, but he stands on stage with an aw shucks, I'm just a simple, backwoods hillbilly persona, then quotes Shakespeare to make a point about iambic pentameter. He offends entire states at a time (Indiana, Kentucky, Massachusetts, and of course, Washington DC). I sat there smiling so much at this loquacious troubadour that my cheeks hurt.
He also does something called "hamboning." He sits in a chair, in front of a lone microphone and calls out an old Negro spiritual, while slapping his hands in rhythm across his legs, arms, chest, and cheeks. Hamboning was originally an African American plantation dance, that was brought from West Africa by slaves who performed it during their gatherings when no rhythm instruments were allowed due to fear of secret codes hidden in the drumming.
Ron Thomason relates how he was taught the technique by black children across the tracks, who his mother warned him to stay away from, naturally causing him to seek out friendships with the negro children.
When the show ended, we wound up in an elevator alone with one of the musicians from Balsam Range. He looked at me in my wheelchair and asked me, "How are you doing?"
Without even thinking about the ramifications of my answer, I said, "I'm in a terrible amount of pain," which I was from spending the whole day sitting in the wheelchair.
If he had asked, "How did you like the show?" or "Where are you folks from?" or something like that, my answer would have been quite different, but when he asked me straight out how did I feel, I responded with what was foremost on my mind at that moment.
He responded as best he could by saying, "Oh, I'm sorry. I hope you feel better," and by that time we were at our floor. After I thought about it, I felt kind of bad for bumming the poor guy out, but my wife said that I had also mentioned that it was worth it, which I didn't remember. Later when I told my son about the incident, he said, no. That if he were a performer he would have been proud that someone so loved his music that he would bear incredible pain to see the performance, and that these artists were interested in the kind of people who attend their shows.
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear (in fact, we were blessed with fabulous weather for the entire weekend) and I was ready to get right back in the saddle. After a fun, room service breakfast, we went down for the final show of the weekend, an hour and a half gospel meeting, with our friends the Highwater Band, and Dry Branch.
We always look forward to these relaxed, uncrowded, and informal Sunday morning performances, as a great way to unwind before heading home. Highwater did several inspirational numbers including an a cappella version of "Jacob's Ladder," and a bluegrass arrangement of the Jamaican reggae tune, "I Can See Clearly Now." They ended their session with a foot-stomping (so to speak, in my case) cover of the much loved harmonica piece, "Pick a Bale of Cotton," to a hearty, standing (again, in my case, figuratively) ovation.
Dry Branch, quite appropriately the final act of the weekend, took the stage dressed in their Sunday best. One very interesting note about Dry Branch is that they only use one microphone. All the other bands have separate vocal and instrumental mic's for each player, so there can be ten to twelve microphones on stage. Dry Branch hearkens back to an earlier time when musicians would all play and sing into one "can," as made famous in the movie "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" Each musician would step forward and fade back accordingly.
Ron Thomason sang hymns that would have rung from the rafters of white-painted country churches a hundred and fifty years ago, ending with, "In the Blood of the Lamb."
We left the festival with heavy hearts, but were now anxious to get home. We turned in our room keycards just in time to put the Bears game on the car radio. We were treated to the game call of Jeff Joniak and Tom Thayer and a great opening drive touchdown, only to be disappointed a short time later by an interception on the 4 yard line with 24 seconds left in the half.
As we traveled through Central Illinois, I was reminded of the old Burma Shave roadsigns along the highway, but these read: A LADY ALONE / NEEDS MORE DETERRENCE / THAN A PHONE / GUNS SAVE LIVES / .COM
Another thing we did that we turned into a game was to see how many hawk sightings we could count. Either sitting on telephone poles waiting for road kill, or swooping over harvested cornfields searching for mice, the majestic raptors were in large number.
We knew we were getting close to home as we crossed the Illinois River over the Abraham Lincoln Memorial Bridge. Our exit came up quickly and it felt good to get off the expressway. I happened to glance out my side window, and a half moon sat in an empty blue sky like a paintbrush dab of pale cloud.
We arrived home to find all right with the world. The house was still standing, the Bears suffered another excruciating loss, and our cats, who we missed and worried about for the entire weekend, wouldn't give us the time of day.
A good time was had by Al.
