Garret K. Woodward
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.
As the temperature drops in Western North Carolina, the fun only heats up. The holiday season here is filled with events and activities aimed to celebrate the best way we know how — with friends, family and visitors alike.
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.
Last month, at the International Bluegrass Music Association (IBMA) award show in Chattanooga, Appalachian Road Show took the stage to perform “Della Jane’s Heart” in front of every big star currently within the “high, lonesome sound.”
Last week, I received an email one morning from a reader of this here column. He said he enjoyed the words spilling out over this one particular page every week, then asked if I had thought about putting out a book. It had been awhile since that notion floated through my mind. And, truth be told, it dusted off some aspirations I’ve been keeping in the closet of my mind for too long.
On the outskirts of downtown Old Fort, along the quaint Curtis Creek Road, is the entrance to Wunderland Resort — a brand new “immersive nature retreat” for folks passionate about the outdoors and wellness.
Recognizing the collaborators and contributors of the “Cherokee Language & Culture Exhibition,” a special reception for the showcase will be held on Tuesday, Oct. 21, at Western Carolina University in Cullowhee.
The title of this week’s column is a lyric from a song by rising singer-songwriter Angela Autumn. The melody, “Electric Lizard,” is an incredibly haunting number, especially the solo rendition (just her and guitar) on the EP under the verbiage “Live from NYC.”
Raised in the small town of Zelienople, Pennsylvania (pop: 3,769), singer-songwriter Angela Autumn recalled having an isolated childhood, one that was “very intermingled with nature.” By the early 2000s, as an elementary school kid first hopping onto the internet, Autumn was able to access world culture and trends — more specifically, music and its endless rabbit hole.
It’s Wednesday, Oct. 1. Midday. I was awakened, once again, by the incessant construction just outside my window on nearby Walnut Street in downtown Waynesville. But, thankfully, the abrupt disruption of my slumber was calmed by the early fall sunshine cascading into my bedroom window.
Celebrating its 100th anniversary in 2025, the storied John C. Campbell Folk School — located in Brasstown amid the rural landscape of Clay County — remains a cultural bastion for the arts, music and dance in Western North Carolina.
“[The school] had an effect of kind of changing what traditional music and dance was in the region,” said T-Claw Crawford, music and dance coordinator for JCCFS.
Hello from Room 304 at the Delta Hotel in Bristol, Virginia. Sitting here at the desk, I can hear the hustle and bustle of nearby Interstate 81. Right outside my window, the howling of tractor-trailers zooming by into the unknown night, either heading south over border into Tennessee or the depths of the Shenandoah Valley going north.
At age 51, acclaimed blues rocker Patrick Sweany has performed over the decades at seemingly at every venue from coast-to-coast and beyond. Through it all, one sentiment still rings true in his heart — “The whole thing is luck and trying to show up as much as possible.”
I’ll never get that smell out of my memory. The stench of mud and rotting debris. Most of you reading this will immediately know what I’m referring to — the aftermath of Hurricane Helene in the fall of 2024. And yet, that stench was already in my stored subconscious, seeing as I first encountered it with the aftermath of Tropical Storm Fred in 2021.
The first time I saw Josh Copus post-Hurricane Helene was when I was allowed, as a journalist, to mosey on into downtown Marshall and scope out the absolute destruction of the small mountain town for myself. This was in the depths of last winter. The silence of the season and the lingering remnants of the devastation conjured on Sept. 27, 2024, was still real and daunting.
When it comes to the rich, vibrant history of Haywood County Fair, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone as passionate and knowledgeable on the subject as Alex McKay.
“I think what people here now take for granted is that, for so long, Haywood County was farming and agriculture,” McKay said. “And a lot of that is physically disappearing.”
There’s a certain feeling you get when you cross over the Graham County line. For most “outsiders,” whether it be nearby East Tennessee or origin points from any incoming direction, it’s a sense of genuine curiosity and wonder, where you don’t know what to expect around the next curve. And that’s half the fun, you dig?
The absurdity of life, eh?
I’m just sitting here right now at the local laundromat in West Waynesville. Simply observing and reflecting on gratitude, for nothing and everything, and everything in-between. Families sit quietly around me awaiting the wash cycle to end. It’s Sunday morning. Back to work by this time tomorrow. Spend your free time cleaning your clothes.
Not far from the tiny town of Floyd, Virginia, surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains, is the childhood home of The Wildmans. The sibling duo is currently navigating the release of their debut album, “Longtime Friend,” for New West Records. And today truly feels like a full circle moment.
Hello from Cabin 152 at the Tryon International equestrian center on the North Carolina/South Carolina border. It’s Monday. Labor Day. And I’ve just spent the last few days attending and covering the annual Earl Scruggs Music Festival. I’m exhausted, but the gratitude remains.
When it comes to songs immortal, 311 has them in spades. From “Amber” to “All Mixed Up,” “I’ll Be Here Awhile” to “Beautiful Disaster,” “Down” to “Love Song,” the band is regarded as one of America’s most successful and enduring rock groups since its formation in 1988.
It was nearing lunchtime. In the midst of putting out the newspaper last Tuesday, I was getting hungry when I realized it was almost noon. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and was still craving eggs, sausage, toast, hashbrowns (with onions) and strong coffee (at least two cups worth).
Since their formation in 2018, The Brothers Gillespie have become one of the must-see rock acts emerging from Western North Carolina and greater Southern Appalachia. A sonic blend of Americana, indie and folk stylings, the quintet remains steadfast, inspired and, more importantly, hungry for what’s just beyond the horizon of their intent.
Hello from the Cantina Laredo in Terminal T of the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. It’s Sunday, 8:29 p.m. I’ve just consumed two overpriced Michelob Ultra drafts and one giant chicken quesadilla (hadn’t eaten all day). In this moment, I decided to use my layover time to write this here column for you readers (yes, you).
Rob McCoury can sum up banjo legend Earl Scruggs in one simple, yet seismic sentence.
“Banjo at its finest,” said McCoury, a lauded Grammy-winning banjoist for the Del McCoury Band and the Travelin’ McCourys.
Hello from 30,054 feet somewhere above rural Missouri. The Delta flight is currently holding steady at 517 miles per hour. And here I sit once again. In motion, in real time. Onward to the next adventure.
It just dawned on me, at this exact moment, that my Western journey is over (at least until next time). Currently, I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Nashville, Tennessee, doing some writing and pondering, as per usual. And I’ll be finally headed back to my humble abode in Western North Carolina tomorrow. To note, I’ve been on the road since July 8.
Goosebumps. A slight tear in my eyes.
Pictured in this week’s column is my most favorite place in the entire universe. The Grand Teton Mountains straddling the Wyoming/Idaho border. I’ve been coming to these ancient peaks since 1992, when I was seven years old and made my first trip West with my family from our native Upstate New York.
Iconic guitar riffs eternally burned into the walls of our memory. Songs that have remained the soundtrack to our lives for over a half-century. The sonic grace and stage swagger, the legend and lore of one of rock-n-roll’s greatest six-string aces — Mike Campbell.
Tara Pruett’s running journey emerged from a rough childhood. The art of running, the sport itself — with its life lessons and camaraderie within its vast community of athletes — became a beacon of safe harbor and personal resolve for Pruett.
In a move that will raise some eyebrows and just as many questions, the decades-long dance festival put on by Folkmoot USA in Waynesville has quietly been eliminated.
July 2012. When I was in the running for the open position of arts and entertainment editor here at The Smoky Mountain News, I had to drive from where I was living at the time (Plattsburgh, New York) to Waynesville (1,100 miles each way) for the final interview.
Hello from Room 310 at the Apres Hotel in Whitefish, Montana. It’s currently 10:36 a.m. (Mountain Standard Time). Tuesday. The skies are overcast with a slight drizzle this morning. The streets in this small outpost town are somewhat quiet, too, especially after the whirlwind of the Under the Big Sky music festival this past weekend.
When it comes to modern-day singer-songwriters, Justin Osborne is becoming a fast-rising face in the musical realms of Americana, alt-country and indie-rock, his poignant words cutting through the white noise and endless distraction of a chaotic, digital world.
Hello from Room 12 of The Sapphire Motel on North Seventh Avenue in Bozeman, Montana. I’m currently on my way to Whitefish, in the far northwest corner of the state, for the Under the Big Sky festival. I’m here on assignment, once again, where the gratitude to do so remains.
When it comes to American rock music, you’d be hard-pressed to find a more talented and sonically important act than The Black Crowes. Thankfully, in recent years, the Robinson brothers (Chris and Rich) have patched things up and put their storied music right back where it belongs — in front of a raucous live audience.
Hello from the outdoor patio area at the Brady Hotel in New Florence, Missouri (population: 641). It’s 11:26 p.m. (Central Standard Time). I’m within earshot of Interstate 70, which is all hustle and bustle, even at this hour. Tractor-trailers zoom by to destinations unknown. The headlights and taillights of America in motion nearing midnight.
Coming in hot to the perform at 185 King Street in Brevard last Thursday evening, Magnolia Boulevard had barely enough time before its gig to set up gear, run through a quick soundcheck and change into stage outfits in the back of the band van. It’s a hustle. And they know it.
I woke up with sunshine streaming into my bedroom, the mountains surrounding my town illuminated in bright green vegetation. And yet, I felt in no mood to celebrate Independence Day.
In this day and age, when the world seems to be one chaotic situation after another, all while the incessant white noise and constant distraction in the digital age peels away our sanity, I find a genuine urge to head for the mountains and hit the trails. So, I do so, happily.
