Garret K. Woodward
Since its inception in 2000, Greensky Bluegrass has grown from a scrappy string ensemble to one of the premier live stage acts currently touring the country.
At 6 p.m. this past Friday, I was supposed to be walking into my 20th high school reunion at the Latitude 45 bar in the small Canadian Border town of Rouses Point, New York (population: 2,225).
Whether it’s Sunday evening, Monday afternoon or Tuesday morning, I’m usually trying to sit down and write this here column. Most likely, it’s Tuesday morning. Words, thoughts and sentiments spilling out of my fingertips in a haste to make the late Tuesday morning deadline to ensure I make the print copy before it gets kicked out the door, onward to the printer as we finally “put the paper to bed.”
Nothing says summer more than the Fourth of July, and in Western North Carolina, we celebrate Independence Day with gusto. Between majestic fireworks, sizzling hot dogs and hamburgers, cotton candy, games, live music and craft demonstrations, there’s a little bit of everything for any and all. So, grab your lawn chair, sunglasses and adventurous spirit, and enjoy this special weekend.
Pulling off Interstate 240 in downtown Asheville last Friday evening, I stopped my truck at the intersection of Hill Street and Riverside Drive. The parking lot at the Salvage Station across the street was already full, so were other nearby lots. What to do, eh?
Pulling up to the entrance of an old logging road in the depths of Balsam Gap between Sylva and Waynesville, a hot sun hovered. Lace up the running shoes and duck under a shady tree canopy along the isolated dirt road of solitude.
It wasn’t the daily sounds of passerby traffic on Russ Avenue in downtown Waynesville or the Tuesday morning garbage truck flipping up the dumpster to empty its contents from the pizza joint next door to my apartment that woke me up.
Sitting at a table on the front patio of the Highlander Mountain House, Jason Reeves looks up at the historic lodge with an expression of gratitude, only to then gaze back at the bordering Main Street of downtown Highlands.
It’s 11:57 a.m. Wednesday in downtown Canton. Daniel Gregg is standing on the Park Street bridge overlooking the Pigeon River. Leaning against the bridge, Gregg kept gazing up at the tall smoke stacks of the Pactiv Evergreen paper mill.
I awoke to the sounds of numerous police sirens. It was 6:30 a.m. Sunday. Looking out the eighth-floor window of the hotel onto downtown Indianapolis, Indiana, it was a police escort of numerous official looking vehicles en route to the nearby Indy 500. Within minutes, another police escort, then another.
It was just about 9 p.m. last Saturday (central standard time) when I found myself side stage at the legendary Ryman Auditorium — the “Mother Church” — in the heart of Nashville, Tennessee.
In its second year, the North Carolina Guitar Celebration in Brevard has much to celebrate — the sacred six-string instrument itself, a genuine moment of togetherness and the 100th birthday of the late Doc Watson.
Recently, I came across a real estate listing for a house while scrolling Facebook. It was located on the east side of Jackson, Wyoming. In the shadow of the Grand Teton Mountains, any and all homes and undeveloped land are a mad scramble to bid on and purchase.
Hello from Room 209 at the Home2 Suites by Hilton on the outskirts of downtown Decatur, Alabama. It’s Monday morning. Cloudy skies and temperatures pushing 80 degrees by mid-morning.
A former Baptist preacher and military veteran, Abe Partridge is now regarded as one of the most unique and captivating singer-songwriters currently emerging from the Southeast.
Hello from Room 5218 in the Falls Cottage King Suite at the Old Edwards Inn in downtown Highlands. It’s late Sunday morning with a slight drizzle and cool mountain air after two days of sunshine and mild temperatures.
Growing up in Detroit, Michigan, Greg Wasik saw firsthand that trademark sense of community at neighborhood taverns around the Motor City. And that genuine scene of friendship and fellowship is something still deeply cherished within him.
Last Friday afternoon marked the first “Downtown After 5” on Lexington Avenue in the heart of Asheville. The unofficial kickoff to the summer and all of its impending shenanigans in the name of irresponsible enlightenment. A hot sun hung high above the city as the multitudes rolled in from seemingly every direction.
Sitting backstage at the Asheville Music Hall, Neal Francis takes a moment to collect himself and think about where he stands right now — spiritually and artistically.
Dropping my girlfriend off at her house in West Asheville, it was a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon. She was headed to South Carolina to spend time with her best friend. I decided to track down a new trail to jog down.
Sliding into a booth at Meatballs Pizzeria in downtown Sylva, Crystal Pace and Santiago Guzzetti gaze out onto a bustling Main Street rushing by the front windows. It’s been a longtime dream of Pace’s to do just this — to simply sit down and eat pizza in Meatballs.
It was a spur of the moment decision. Cold suds and hearty banter at The Scotsman in Waynesville on an otherwise quiet Tuesday evening. Leaning back into the bar stool, I suggested to my girlfriend that she and I should go see a baseball game.
Last weekend, guitarist Seth Taylor and his band, longtime bluegrass staple Mountain Heart, once again took the stage under the bright lights at the legendary Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee.
Hello from Room 519 at the Canvas Hotel in downtown Dallas, Texas. It’s almost 80 degrees. Monday morning. Bluebird skies with a welcomed breeze rolling through the vast landscape of the Lone Star State.
Showcased at the Chief Joyce Dugan Cultural Arts Center in Cherokee, the new exhibition, “Behind the Mask: Cherokee Mask Makers and their Legacy,” aims to reinforce the significance of Cherokee masks — their history and use, as well as their meaning and significance.
With its latest concept album, “iTopia,” Asheville-based indie-rockers The Get Right Band have offered up food for thought on where we currently stand as a society — this juxtaposition of humanity and technology in the emerging 21st century.
Hello from the backstage area at the Suwannee Spring Reunion music festival in Live Oak, Florida. It’s hot and humid. Mid-80s and blue skies. But a cool breeze greets me as I sit and type away underneath the Spanish moss hanging in the oak trees overhead.
In the sacred realm that is rock-n-roll music, the formation of the power trio remains iconic. On paper, it’s a straightforward setup of electric guitar, bass, and drums. But, in method, it conjures an immortal, melodic triangle of intricate sound and improvisation possibility.
Hello from Lemon Street on the outskirts of downtown St. Augustine, Florida. It’s about 62 degrees and sunny. Slight breeze. Blue skies. Early Monday afternoon and the only plan at the moment is to wander down to the beach on Anastasia Island within the hour.
The last time I saw my Uncle Bobby was about four years ago, high up on some floor in the VA Hospital in the depths of Albany, New York. I had just picked up a bag of cheese puffs and a cold bottle of Pepsi at the VA’s basement store/gift shop. Knowing those were my uncle’s favorite snacks, there was a smile ear-to-ear when I walked into his room and handed him the junk food.
At 94 years young, Ben Best is proud of several things in his long, bountiful life — a marriage of 67 years and counting, raising three healthy sons, being a grandfather, a loyal friend to many, and a hard-scrabble Haywood County farmer.
On Aug. 10, 2012, I took on my first assignment for The Smoky Mountain News. It was the “Papertown” album release show by Haywood County bluegrass sensation Balsam Range.
It’s 12:30 p.m. Tuesday at the Southern Porch restaurant in the heart of downtown Canton. Less than 24 hours ago, the mountain community received word that its century-old paper mill would close this summer.
From humble beginnings as a teenage singer-songwriter in his native Texas to gracing some of the most iconic stages the world over, Lyle Lovett remains a true American musical treasure.
About 10:30 a.m. last Tuesday, I laced up my running shoes and walked out the front door of the small hotel room in the Treme neighborhood of New Orleans, Louisiana. Blue skies, sunshine and warm air.
Hello from Room 1D at the Rathbone Mansion, just a few blocks from the French Quarter in New Orleans. It’s Tuesday (aka: “Fat Tuesday”).
This must be the place: Life is what you make it, and if you make it death, well rest your soul away
It was nearing midnight on Saturday. The rock band in the corner of the bar had just put the finishing touches on its evening set. Packing up their gear, the rest of us in the crowd headed towards the bar counter to pay up for our libations.
I caught first word of The Weathercock burning to the ground mid-afternoon on Saturday. Scrolling the Facebook news feed, I came across a photo of a familiar old building engulfed in flames, a huge plume of smoke radiating into the skies high above the small North Country town of Chazy, New York.
With my 38th birthday right around the corner, I went on a first date last week. It seemed to go well enough that we met back up the very next night to continue our enjoyable conversation from the previous rendezvous.
Hello from Room 827 at the Marriott Town Center in downtown Charleston, West Virginia. The outside temperature is dropping, all while soft snowflakes cascade by the hotel window onto the cold pavement below.
There’s an old backpack in my apartment. I’ve had it since college. And since those academic days back in Connecticut and greater New England, it’s held my road journals.
Sitting in The Scotsman in downtown Waynesville on Sunday evening, I found myself sporadically watching the last NFL game of the season as the Detroit Lions eventually overtook the Green Bay Packers.
With the recent departure of founding member Woody Platt, the Steep Canyon Rangers found themselves at a crossroads — now what?
As it has been stated in this publication many times before, the litmus test of the strength of a community is by how strongly its arts is supported.
New Year’s Eve. A little past 9 a.m. in Room 211 of the Holiday Inn Express on the outskirts of Nashville, Tennessee, within earshot of the airport and the bustling Interstate 40.
It’s 2:54 a.m. in the rural backwoods of Virginia and Vince Herman hands me a shot of high-end tequila. With his trademark Cheshire Cat grin, Herman then pours himself a shot, soon raising it high into the air in honor of another incendiary performance.
It was another quiet Sunday morning in the ole humble abode in downtown Waynesville. But, this go-round, it was Christmas morning. Emerge from bed. Grab a glass of water. Check emails. Open the front door and check how much colder today is than yesterday.
Sunday morning. Across the globe, Argentina and France were battling it out in the World Cup soccer final in Qatar. Half-a-world away, and yet I was already a half-hour late for the early morning “Bloody Marys & Futbol” party up the mountain ridge outside of town at my friend’s house.
In the depths of the Fangmeyer Theatre, on the property of the Haywood Arts Regional Theatre (HART), just down the hill from Main Street in Waynesville, Steven Lloyd sits behind his desk.
