12/16/25/32/42/54 pt. 1

When the mandolin sang like a bird on the wing
In the hands of Bill Monroe
When Chet played guitar like a walk in the park
Like a prodigal son coming home
They spoke into being the work of their hands
From the void of the wire and the wood
And they stood on the stage
And they sang and they played
And they said that it was good

- Andrew Peterson, "Let There Be Light"

Just shy of a year ago my now wife and I trekked fourteen hours west (and a bit north) to the upscale ski resort box canyon town of Telluride, CO. We were there to see the yearly summer bluegrass festival. Both of our favorite groups were booked that weekend but the scenery alone was worth the drive. One morning walking downtown I saw one of my musical idols about to eat breakfast on an outside patio. I stammered up to him, said something utterly forgettable and slunk away as quick as I'd come. The rest of the weekend I managed to avoid any similar situations (though I passed another musical idol who said hi and I almost pulled out my guitar and propositioned him to jam with me, close call for him).  

I never would have thought at the beginning of my musical upbringing that I'd be so inspired by mandolin and banjo virtuosos (the two mentioned before, of all people). Or find such possibility in old bluegrass, Americana, folk, and country music and all the amazing music it currently inspires. At first, my ears craved the electricity, the loudness of modern music, rock and roll, etc. It wasn't until I grew into myself a bit that I started to treat music more equally, no matter the genre or age.

My slight maturity aside, acoustic music has probably always had a deeper well in me. I was raised attending bi-annual family reunions, an inundation of finger-food platters, room temperature buckets of chicken and casserole dishes full of baked beans and brownies, herds of 2 litered sodas- and invariably acoustic and old-timey music that I at first always heard, then played. 

Some of the finest modern acoustic music hooked me first. Nickel Creek's ethereal "Seven Wonders" hit me in middle school. Then, with the popularity of 'O Brother, Where Art Thou?' came me trying to learn outright traditional blues and roots music. I remember hijacking my parents' copy of Alison Krauss and Union Station's Live double disc album and somehow subconsciously and accurately realizing a few things: the mastery of the players, their taste and musicality, and the mastery of the music itself (of three part harmonies, bonafide bluegrass, country ballads, and unbridled joy). I wasn't in awe as much as just felt at home. 

Having gotten a taste and quipped to go deeper down this path, I remember in early High School being blessed that Amazon recommended me Over the Rhine's breathtaking (to me, at least) double CD Ohio in High School (But she cuts herself on you every night/ she’s just dying to lay down the knife). Similarly, artists like the wonderfully eccentric and inventive Sufjan Stevens (Oh, the glory when he took our place/ but he took my shoulders and he shook my face, and he takes and he takes and he takes), the southern gothic Iron and Wine (And when there’s nothing to want, when we’re all brilliant and fast, when all tomorrow's are gone, there will be teeth in the grass), the clear-eyed Denison Witmer (Mary, you are the bird inside the hand/ of St. Francis in the garden where he stands/ Handwriting, a birth mark, and a quilt/ mother to my mother and to me), the prophetic and unflinching David Bazan (But I can't say it like I sing it, and I can't sing it like I think it, and I can't think like I feel it, and I don't feel a thing, oh no, I don't feel it), the consistently graceful Norah Jones (Went out on a limb gone too far/ I broke down at the side of the road/ stranded at the outskirts and sun's creepin' up/ Baby's in the backseat still fast asleep dreamin' of better days, I don't want to call you but you're all I have to turn to)  all had a hand in musically raising me. I had to learn yet to truly hear and 'get' many kinds of acoustic music, but thankfully some things really grabbed me when I was coming up and helped open doors to other musical discoveries down the road I've been lucky to make.

The more I got into the genre, the more I started to hear things for their own merit, such as Ralph Stanley's larger-than-life voice providing harmony, or Sam Amidon reimagining something that Stanley sang to sound modern and other-worldly. Or something like modern acoustic pioneers Julian Lage and Chris Eldridge's acoustic collaboration.

Though I've grown to feel that genre is irrelevant to what I prefer (I've found great music in all periods and styles), I feel a deep connection to the minimalism, conversation, tradition, innovation, and organic necessity of acoustic music (as a player and also a listener). I remember one Tuesday afternoon in college, during an Oklahoma spring, the tornado sirens in town went off. Within twenty minutes the sky had turned a surreal dark yellow. The music building on campus (where I already was) had a basement with practice rooms that doubled as a community shelter. Coincidentally, some friends that I picked bluegrass with from town took shelter in the same building, and we waited out the storm with old songs. I've been lucky to encounter that sort of spontaneity inherent to acoustic music on many occasions. 

Those first discoveries started off a chain of listening that led to even more life changing music, which I'll cover next week. 

What's currently giving me frisson:

  • The beautiful Fleet Foxes' Helplessness Blues and its two contrasting parts.

  • David Rawlings/Gillian Welch doing their epic Conor Oberst/Neil Young mashup live on radio this past week: Method Acting/Cortez the Killer

  • Chris Thile's masterful composition skills at work showcasing some of the most modern and far-reaching acoustic music being made today.

  • This haunting Chopin Mazurka that I played in college. I desperately need to get this back in my fingers.

Chris Firey