Sitting in a chair on a front lawn late Sunday afternoon, the sun had already disappeared behind the mountains, a crisp air settling into the impending night. Just about a block down the hill from Main Street in Waynesville, a handful of folks gathered in front of the Twin Maples Farmhouse for an impromptu live performance. 

The further you meander down the road of life, the more you come to realize just how haphazardly bumpy and ever-rolling the trek actually is — and remains so — when push comes to shove.

For the last 35 years, the Flaming Lips have gone from a fringe rock act in Oklahoma to a highly-sought-after entity in mainstream musical circles. The live performances are utterly mesmerizing, encompassing a euphoric sense of vaudeville theatre and a rekindling of one’s childlike wonder.

When you’re young — full of confusion about the ways and means of a “stable adulthood,” amid a hazy sense of what and who you are (or hope to become) — the idea of clarity is something you desperately want to find and obtain. 

When you simply mention the name Graham Nash, a multitude of sounds, images, movements and ideas flood your field-of-vision. You don’t have to say much because his captivating music and whirlwind life is known the world over.

But, in conversation with Nash, what we know as fans and admirers just scratches the surface of this melodic giant that has stood tall amid British and American culture for the better part of the last half-century. 

You find yourself frozen.

Watching and listening to The Marcus King Band onstage, your feet are stuck to the floor, your eyes entranced and fixated on the whirlwind jam conspiring before you. Razor-sharp guitar licks, thundering drum-n-bass hooks, twinkle-toed keyboards and a ferocious horn section — a seamless blend of as many musical genres as there are possibilities. 

A southern gothic love triangle set in the age of Trump? Or maybe J.D. Vance’s bestseller Hillbilly Elegy as a postpunk concept album? How about a singer/songwriter coming off a ten-year hiatus, provoked from a peaceful period of dadhood into sounding his barbaric yawp over the roofs of rural Appalachia and the rest of “the solid south”?

For the better part of the last four years, Nick Dittmeier & The Sawdusters have zigzagged to and fro every nook and cranny of the Southeast and Midwest.

The territory, and what comes with it.

Being a traveling musician has always been a haphazard and often difficult position to hold down, let alone make a financial and professional go at it. The long nights far away from home. Sometimes empty rooms where there may be more folks onstage than off. Vehicles breaking down to and from shows. Those situations when you stand there, looking up at the sky, wondering if this is the exact spot you’re meant to be at — in that moment, in that time, and in that place, either known and unknown.

If there’s one singular force truly keeping the flame of Bill Monroe alive and kicking well into the 21st century, it would be Del McCoury.

Since 1958, McCoury has traversed the world over, hitting the stage each and every time with the same zest and passion at age 78 that he did as a teenager in search of his big break some 60 years ago.