Garret K. Woodward
As the weather gets nicer and spring slowly transitions to those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, a bevy of longtime and beloved festivals start to pop up in the picturesque mountain communities here in Western North Carolina.
These annual gatherings are a way to bring all of us together after an extended period of hunkering down during the winter months. Filled with locals and visitors alike, all those present partake in numerous activities and avenues to support those in your town.
Hello from the front porch of my humble abode apartment in downtown Waynesville. I just finished playing a little bit of acoustic guitar, sunglasses on, as the last of the Monday sunshine washed over my body, heart and soul before it disappeared behind the Balsam Mountains cradling the town.
In this moment, I realized what a great day, well, today was, and remains.
When she was just in elementary school, fiddler/vocalist Lake Carver graced the cover of the Down the Road magazine, an annual publication put together through a partnership between The Smoky Mountain News and the Blue Ridge National Heritage Area based in Asheville.
And much like her current life, Carver was heavily invested in the music scene in her native Wilkes County, finding herself headlong in local jams, all while soaking in as much knowledge and technical ability as possible.
It was watching my father putt on Hole #14 at the Maggie Valley Country Club last Monday afternoon when a vivid thought appeared across my field of vision — don’t forget this moment of spending quality time with the old man.
A few feet from my 84-year-old father was my mother, age 77, and also one of my best friends, age 66.
Hello from Room 8 at the Atlantis Inn, located in downtown Tybee Island, Georgia. It’s Monday morning and I’m currently sitting on the small balcony attached to the room. Sunshine overhead, the ocean just a block away.
This is the final day of an extended road trip down to Saint Augustine, Florida, and back to my humble abode in Waynesville. I’ve been gone for the better part of the last three weeks, albeit working remotely and unrelentingly, as per usual.
In October 2020, amid the shutdown and about halfway through the first set of the sold-out Goose drive-in show at the Smoky Mountain Event Center on the outskirts of Waynesville, a friend turned to me and said with a smile, “You know, we’re probably going to follow this band around for the next few decades, right?”
Nodding in sincere agreement, I sipped my drink and gazed around the massive property.
It’s a crazy world out there, folks. And yet, it’s always been kind of nuts, just more so under the current circumstances. But, I remain optimistic. Shit, what’s the alternative? Freak out and bail on the universe? Nah, not my cup o’tea.
As an older millennial, this is another bump in the road of life. All the wars, economic recessions, political chaos, cultural shifts and social unrest (and also the pandemic), with most of it since I entered the workforce 19 years ago.
Jon Stickley is a pillar of the Asheville and greater Western North Carolina music scenes. He’s also a nationally-renowned guitarist, one whose skillset and scope goes far beyond the ancient mountains of Southern Appalachia.
Hello from the Trade Winds Lounge in downtown Saint Augustine, Florida. It’s 10:10 p.m. and I just finished my first Coors Light at this second stop of the evening, and right when classic rock/country gold tribute act Jackhammer finishes up its second of three sets tonight.
What was initially an old-school tiki bar when it opened decades (and decades) ago has now morphed, more so melted in the hot Florida sun, into a beloved dive bar of legendary proportions.
Hello from St. Augustine, Florida. Specifically, a small bungalow a few blocks from the Spanish ruins and the heart of the city. This place has been rented by my folks for the month of March for the last 13 years, these two snowbirds fleeing the frozen North Country that is our native Upstate New York.
With a deceptively simple slogan of “Run Walk Crawl,” the annual Assault on BlackRock trail race in Sylva is more than meets the eye. In truth, the slogan should read “Arduous Rough Grueling.” You can also add the words “glorious” and “gratitude” to all of the above, seeing as when one completes the course, a deep sense of self and of fellowship soon emerges.
I first laid eyes and ears on Americana/roots act Old Crow Medicine Show at the 2005 Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival in Manchester, Tennessee. At the time, I was a 20-year-old college student on my first solo road trip from my native North Country of Upstate New York — in search of the sound, the way.
Hello from the Dallas/Fort Worth airport. It’s Monday evening and I’m currently sitting at a TGI Fridays in the B-Terminal wing. The Miller Lite draft is both overpriced and oversized. “Welcome to Texas,” the server (named Lolo) says to me when I admire the size of the large glass and hearty pour.
Situated on the corner of Haywood Road and Swannanoa Avenue in West Asheville, the AyurPrana Listening Room has become a haven for music lovers and artists well-versed in the sacred art of performance.
“[AyurPrana] somehow creates a ‘live studio’ atmosphere, almost like a set or soundstage or theater,” said Bryce Franich, music manager for AyurPrana. “The room feels like you’re there to experience something rare or once-in-a-lifetime, which seems to engage attendees in a theater-like manner.”
Hello from Room 216 at the Holiday Inn Express & Suites on the southern edge of Steamboat Springs, Colorado. It’s 9:30 a.m. Gazing out the window of the hotel, I can see the ancient ridges of the snowy Park Range Mountains surrounding the community in this high desert corner of the West.
The first time I ever spoke to renowned Americana/country singer-songwriter Kelsey Waldon was in the spring of 2020. I’d only scratched the surface of her music and talent when we scheduled a phone interview. In truth, I was an instant fan from what I’d heard. And I’ve never forgotten that interaction.
Hello from “The Ice Chalet,” a hockey rink just west of downtown Knoxville, Tennessee, along Kingston Pike. It’s Thursday evening and I find myself one of only three spectators in the bleachers watching some of the finest amateur skaters in this city go at it mere hours after clocking out of their day job.
Approaching the Harrah’s Cherokee Center in downtown Asheville last Wednesday evening, a mob scene had overtaken the sidewalks surrounding the venue.
The entry line stretched down the hill on Flint Street, across the Interstate 240 overpass and around the Asheville Skatepark on Cherry Street. Thousands of joyous faces aiming to witness one of the “must-see” live acts of the modern era — Billy Strings.
At 9 a.m. Wednesday, the alarm went off from the smart phone on my nightstand. Reaching for the contraption and reading the morning text messages, it appeared our weekly editorial meeting set for 10 a.m. would shift to Friday. And yet, before I could roll back over to sleep a little more, another message pinged on the phone.
I had just finished a 3.3-mile jog along the backroads of Clinton County. The afternoon sun was quickly falling behind the snowy peaks of the Adirondack Mountains in the distance. The slow shadow of winter night soon enveloping the Champlain Valley, my parents’ Upstate New York farmhouse smack dab in the middle of it. And it was at this moment my mother asked me a question.
Over the last two winters, a special destination has emerged within the ancient mountains of Western North Carolina — Hatley Pointe Ski Resort.
“It’s all about continuous improvement. We’re building something unique, and to do that we need to be constantly learning and improving,” said Jeff Fissel, general manager at Hatley Pointe. “For us, it has been all about trying to see the ski experience through our guests’ eyes and making sure we’re on the cutting edge of a great guest experience and holding ourselves to the standard of all great resorts.”
Hello from my folks’ farmhouse out in the countryside of Upstate New York. It’s been mighty frigid here in my native North Country since I arrived home last week. At one point, ‘round midnight on a recent evening, the temperature dropped to around -22 degrees. Daytime temps hovered at zero for several days, with wind chills from the Canadian Arctic making critters outside hide and remain silent and those inside huddled near the fireplace, waiting out the cold.
Hello from Room 322 at the Fairfield Inn, located in Binghamton, New York. Exactly one year ago, I stayed in this same room. No joke, this is where I was placed. And, oh, how much has changed and, well, come to pass in this last calendar year since I laid down in this bed, since I opened up the drapes and looked out the same window onto the interstate traffic below.
Whirlwind. Virtuoso. Rollicking. Heartfelt.
Those were some of the sentiments I had ricocheting around my mind watching Bronwyn Keith-Hynes perform earlier this winter at The Orange Peel in Asheville. A renowned fiddler/singer, Keith-Hynes is headlong into a solo career with the recent disbanding of her former band, the Grammy-winning Americana/bluegrass act Molly Tuttle & Golden Highway.
In truth, there are two camps when it comes to Texas singer-songwriter Willis Alan Ramsey: you’re either completely obsessed with his music, with his tunes becoming a pillar of the soundtrack of your life, or you’ve never heard of him.
I only met Bob Weir once. It was backstage at the long gone Gathering of the Vibes music festival located on the shoreline of the Long Island Sound in Bridgeport, Connecticut. It was the summer of 2009 and I was 24 years old, myself an aspiring journalist for a now-defunct music magazine.
Editor’s Note: This is the transcript of a recent voice memo Garret left for a friend of his on Thursday, Jan. 8, in the aftermath of the incident in Minneapolis, Minnesota, between a protester and an ICE agent. To note, both Garret’s father (U.S. Immigration) and grandfather (U.S. Customs) were career officers for the federal government (now retired). In 2003, Immigration and Customs combined to form ICE due to the Homeland Security Act of 2002.
Good afternoon. You’re probably slaving away at your [office] desk doing your favorite thing, which is working inside under fluorescent lighting, I would assume. [Laughs]. Oh, man, I don’t know where this message is going to go, but I just was wanting to vent about…[well], it’s almost hard to vent anymore, because it’s like every day is just this chaotic frustration of things outside of my [front] door and things across the country and things around the world.
In the 1970s, Grand Funk Railroad was one of the bestselling American rock bands on the planet. To that, in 1971, the Flint, Michigan, trio broke the Beatles ticket sales record at New York’s Shea Stadium, a feat coinciding with GFR having six platinum albums and seven gold within the original lineup’s short tenure (1969-1976). Oh, and another thing — the songs still rock, too.
It finally happened. Exactly 10 years in the making, my daily running streak officially celebrated one decade of continuation on Dec. 31, 2025. End-to-end, that span of time is 3,654 straight days. The mile I’ve run? Countless. I can’t even fathom the total distance jogged throughout that time period, although I have kept a running log since “The Streak” started. Someday I’ll calculate it.
Editor’s Note: Since August 2012, Garret K. Woodward has held the position of arts and entertainment editor for The Smoky Mountain News. In December 2018, he also became a contributing writer for Rolling Stone.
Below are a handful of excerpts from my Rolling Stone travels this year covering some of the best albums of 2025, excursions that took me from Western North Carolina to Montana, Florida to Colorado, Tennessee to Utah and then some — always in search of all things beautiful and true, especially when it comes to the sacred, ancient act of live performance.
Late Monday morning. While taking a sip of my coffee at the Main Street Diner in Waynesville, I scanned the room at the tables filled with faces enjoying warm meals and hearty conversation. It was at that very moment when I started thinking about this anonymous postcard I received several years ago.
Fifteen years ago, Main Street in Franklin was a pretty quiet place. It wasn’t hard to find a parking space and most of the things we enjoy downtown today didn’t exist, at least not yet. But, 15 years ago, an anchor business appeared on a hope and a dream — Outdoor 76.
“There were a lot of empty storefronts and not much energy or activity. Still, we knew we wanted to be on Main Street because, to us, community has to start there,” said Cory McCall, co-owner of Outdoor 76.
A century ago, a record producer from New York City headed into Western North Carolina in search of the sound of Southern Appalachia. Landing in downtown Asheville, Ralph Peer set up a recording space in the former George Vanderbilt Hotel and began work on a series of field recordings that would forever change the course of American music.
It’s Thursday. Early afternoon. In the original plan for this week, I would, in my mind’s eye, be cruising along right now somewhere in southcentral Upstate New York, probably just east of Binghamton on Interstate 88, onward to I-87 North to my parents’ farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh.
It’s been 20 years since the inception of The Infamous Stringdusters, the Grammy-winning string act whose tone and swagger encompasses an acoustic majesty coupled with a full-blown rock show attitude.
“When you’ve been a band for 20 years, a lot of things change, including your perspective on how to create music and art,” said dobroist Andy Hall.
Hello from Room 1001 at the Cambria hotel in downtown Asheville. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m currently sitting at this writing desk (pictured), I’m overlooking the intersection of Haywood Street and Page Avenue, the Harrah’s Cherokee Center and former George Vanderbilt Hotel within sight.
There’s a heaviness when you listen to Andy Thomas’ latest album, “Highway Junkie.” Not only from the swamp rock meets honkytonk melodies, but also the underlying tone and hard truths of this whirlwind journey of a singer-songwriter pushing into the next phase of his promising career.
“It’s crazy when you set everything aside and put your mind to something,” Thomas said. “I’m a hard worker, and this album is a product of that.”
This afternoon, when I walked into my publisher’s office here in Waynesville, I sat down to catch up with him about nothing and everything, the holidays and how things are on the home-front of our respective lives. After some friendly banter, he handed me a small envelope. It was a handwritten note from his 90-year-old father-in-law, Bill, who lives on the other side of the state.
With the untimely passing of founding member and longtime lead singer Scott Weiland in 2015, and the tragic death of replacement singer Chester Bennington (originally of Linkin Park) in 2017, the Stone Temple Pilots were at a crucial crossroads with one question in mind — pack it all up and shake hands goodbye or push ahead, hell or high water.
Thanksgiving morning. I awoke to the sounds of my upstairs neighbor scurrying about, most likely getting things together for whatever he has planned for Turkey Day. Nearby Russ Avenue is oddly quiet. Nobody is heading to work. The incessant construction has ceased for the day, too.
At age 66, legendary singer-songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Darrell Scott is having a career rebirth of sorts.
Though he’s always been known as a prolific and productive artist — whether in Nashville musical circles as a performer and producer or through endless touring from coast-to-coast and beyond — this current chapter of his storied life has evolved into a full-circle kind of thing, one where Scott is reevaluating just what it means to create and cultivate in your autumn years.
While I’m sitting and looking out the window of the local laundromat here in West Waynesville, I notice how dirty my rusty, musty, trusty pickup truck has become since I last washed it, which, I think, may have been last winter or so. One year’s worth of dirt along endless miles of unforgiving roads, both geographically and spiritually.
In the midst of eating my third hard-boiled egg of the morning, I overheard the young couple at the next breakfast table mention to their server that they’d gotten married this past Saturday.
Taking a sip of my second cup of coffee, my gaze went from the newlyweds to the nearby roaring fireplace, then out the big glass windows onto the picturesque pond on the side lawn of the majestic property.
Normally, when I’m interviewing storied Haywood County musician Darren Nicholson, we’d be talking either about an upcoming gig of his or a new album coming down the pipeline. But, today, we’re talking all things Christmas trees.
“Well, the beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Nicholson tells me when I ask him about how to pick out the perfect tree for the holidays.
In what will amount to an early Christmas present for bluegrass pickers and music lovers across Western North Carolina and beyond, there’s a brand-new album from the late Carroll Best.
“What he did with the banjo was above and beyond,” said French Kirkpatrick, a Haywood County musician, who was part of The White Oak String Band with Best. “He was, probably without a doubt, the most creative banjo player I was ever in a room with.”
By the time this newspaper hits the streets on Nov. 12, it will have been 70 years to the day since Marty McFly was accidentally sent back to the future (1955) in a time machine created by Doctor Emmitt Brown in Hill Valley, California. The film was “Back to the Future,” which just celebrated its 40th anniversary.
Each year, I find myself covering a wide array of cultural festivals across Western North Carolina and greater Southern Appalachia — from live music to culinary delights, the sacred arts to outdoor recreation.
Today was pretty surreal. I spoke to students for “High School Media Day” at the University of North Carolina at Asheville. Folks from around the region. Mine was simply titled: “Music Journalism, Garret Woodward, Rolling Stone & Magazine Writer.”
Since its inception in 2014, Asheville-based Fireside Collective has evolved from a ragtag bluegrass act into one of the rising stars in the jam-grass and greater psychedelic music scene in Southern Appalachia and beyond.
With the late afternoon sunshine piercing through the tree canopy above the road leading into the Tsali Recreation Area on the Graham/Swain County line, the sounds of “One Alone Together” by F.J. McMahon echoed out of the truck speakers, windows rolled down with a cool fall breeze swirling around me.
