This must be the place: 'Hear that lonesome whippoorwill, he sounds too blue to fly'
Garret K. Woodward photo
Hello from Room 510 at the Delta Hotel. The nonstop hustle and bustle of Interstate 81 just outside the window in Bristol, Virginia. For the last few days, I’ve been up here covering the Bristol Rhythm & Roots Reunion, one of the largest and most beloved festivals within Americana, bluegrass and country music circles.
The gathering itself straddles State Street right on the state line of Bristol, Virginia, and Bristol, Tennessee. It’s also known as the “Birthplace of Country Music,” where a museum of the same name in town celebrates the August 1927 recording sessions that launched the careers of the Carter Family and Jimmie Rodgers.
Wandering State Street and ducking down side alleys, I found myself in the presence, either on purpose or merely happenstance, of genuine sound and passion. Honky-tonk ensembles. Alt-country trios. Western swing outfits. Three chords and the truth, as they say. And I will say, there is no instrumental sound more soothing to my heart and soul than a pedal steel.
Soon, an endless stream of memories floated across my field-of-vision. Images, sentiments and emotions simply conjured by the likes country music. And those exact pictures in my mind have become more vivid and consistent since the festival ended, where I’ve found myself diving back into Ken Burns’ epic documentary “Country Music” as of late.
The eight-episode film hovers around 16 hours in total. It’s quite a haul to consume, so I take the same approach — to life itself and to Ken Burns films — to “eat the elephant one bite at a time.” Thus, I’ve been sitting down each night and tackling an episode. One week in and I’m still chugging along. When the documentary first aired on PBS in 2019, I was able to catch a couple episodes at friends’ homes (I don’t have cable or own a TV). But, this go-round, it’s a slow burn to the conclusion on my laptop.
Beyond the awe-inspiring nature of a Ken Burns film, the subject of country music being probed at such intricate and in-depth levels is something that tugs heavily on my old soul heart. The life and times of Hank Williams, Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Patsy Cline, Hank Snow, Kitty Wells and so forth. Stories as raw and real as the songs they sung, which is why country music resides at the core of so many of us.
Related Items
Mountain Heritage Day celebrates 50 years
Cherokee Indian Fair
HCAC's 'Fashion for the Arts'
Americana, folk at Mountain Layers
Growing up on the Canadian Border in Upstate New York, my native North Country is a haven for country music. The rural farmland of the Champlain Valley and surrounded by the ancient peaks of the Adirondack Mountains. Backwoods shenanigans and lazy days on the shoreline of Lake Champlain. Bonfires and hunting camps. Not to mention large swaths of poverty, but also optimism that tomorrow will be better than today.
To preface, I was raised with older parents, where my father was 43 years old when I was born in 1985. I’m 39 now. He’s 82 and well-versed in real deal country music. Hailing from the frozen mountaintop town of Lyon Mountain, New York, he come about in a row house in a mining community (my grandfather was an iron ore miner). Frigid winters and sweltering summers.
A kid of the 1940s/1950s, my father was raised with the “Three Hanks” (Williams, Thompson, Snow) when the timeless melodies were brand new. He also loves Lefty Frizzell and Webb Pierce. At one point, my grandparents owned a roadhouse bar in tiny Clintonville, New York, my father fondly remembering being a youngster listening to the jukebox blasting country gold.
When I emerged in the 1980s/1990s, my dad’s admiration for country music rubbed off on me. We’d be cruising in our old Plymouth Voyager minivan around the North Country — either heading to a local football game or track-and-field meet — and he’d grab cassette tapes from the glovebox to toss into the stereo. Mostly greatest hits collections. George Jones (his all-time favorite). Merle Haggard. Willie Nelson. Freddy Fender. Waylon Jennings.
Those memories of my father and I bopping around the backroads of Clinton, Essex and Franklin counties blasting country music (“the good stuff”) remain sacred in the closet of my memory. More so as I’ve gone off and wandered around the great big ole world of ours. On my own adventures. On the open road. And in my own time. The sonic grandeur of Willie and Waylon, George and Freddy.
At its foundation, country music is about reflection and redemption. Yearning for home when you’re so far away, either physically or emotionally. Thoughts of what could’ve been and what turned out to be. As country star Ashley McBryde recently told me during an interview, “It’s regular songs about regular people sung by regular people.” Ain’t that the truth, eh?
It all reminds me of a poem I wrote back in the winter of 2008. I was 23 and a rookie reporter living by myself in a studio apartment on the frozen high desert prairie of Teton County, Idaho. Thousands of miles from home. Alone. In search of truth and my own path.
“Virgin snow lies silent on steep mountainsides/Gazing down into the small window/The lamp in the corner shines brightly/Presenting itself an embracing welcome/To whoever enters announced or as a mystery/Yet, its owner seems to be the sole occupier/Of the driveway, stairway and doorway/A lone body wandering around the tiny room/Sweeping, drinking, reading, bathing, sleeping/Eyes often aimed out the small window/At virgin snow on high peaks beloved/Such beauty is hard to share with someone/Who isn’t there or doesn’t notice on a trek/From Idaho Falls to Cheyenne/Empty beer bottles piled in the corner/Next to dusty soup cans and packs of raisins/And the feeling of truly being alone/Wondering what you could’ve said/To your grandfather if you had been there/When he died and your view got a tad dimmer/The beer held is now lukewarm/The bar two blocks away/The bar two hours till close/Lace the torn and frayed boots/Pull the jean legs over them slowly/You’re only waiting on yourself/To emerge into the frigid night air/You inhale deeply and shiver/Knowing damn well there are warm bedrooms/Along every street back home in New York/But chance is found in the depths of survival/Where the notion of destiny appears/Like a twinkling star above the frozen prairie of Idaho/Like a smile from you grandfather on your 10th birthday/You inhale deeply.”
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
