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. 

It’s been a few days since the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in Colorado ended. And I’m still riding the high on that experience, all while I sit here and do my laundry in West Waynesville, the air-conditioning of the establishment a reprieve from the intense heat and humidity this week. 

On Sunday afternoon, as a good portion of Western North Carolina was experiencing rainstorms, the early summer sunshine broke through the clouds at Yonder Community Market in Franklin. Soon, the rays of light cascaded through the large oak trees while acclaimed singer-songwriter Alexa Rose performed. 

Hello from 34,000 feet. I’m currently on a United Express flight from Asheville to Denver, Colorado. Probably somewhere over Kansas at the moment. Who knows? What awaits me is another adventure, this time to the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. My first time there. Lifelong dream. 

When he was just a kid, Cole Taylor vividly remembers the first time he watched wrestling on TV. It was a World Wrestling Federation (WWF) show called “Superstars” that was mixed in with the Saturday morning cartoons. Taylor was utterly captivated by the spectacle. 

The Universe. It never ceases to amaze me.

This evening (last Monday be the time you read this), I felt kind of lonely. A lot of that feeling has to do with the last eight months or so of my life. Work burnout. The flood. The aftermath. The breakup. The aftermath. Turning 40. Starting therapy. Life, in general. And so on. 

It happened to me, again. Somebody stole my laundry. All of it. And it wasn’t even in the dryer yet. They ran out the door of my neighborhood laundromat in downtown Waynesville with two loads of wet clothes, never to be seen from or worn out and about one more time. 

At the recent MerleFest, the nation’s premier Americana/bluegrass festival in Wilkesboro, an emerging act from our region, Upstream Rebellion, not only made its debut at the gathering as part of the band competition, the members also walked away immensely inspired. 

Tuesday afternoon. The clouds are hanging low over the mountains surrounding downtown Waynesville, covering up the actual height and grandeur of these peaks. The urge to walk out of the newsroom, get into my truck and head for the hills to trail run is deep and real. 

During his recent solo album release show at 185 King St. in Brevard, singer-songwriter Graham Sharp was not only surrounded by a murderers’ row of bluegrass musicians; he was encapsulated by time and place itself — of people, purpose and passion. 

The title of this column comes from a lyric in a 1968 song by R&B sensation, the late Johnny Thunder. Although it wasn’t a radio hit at the time, it has become a cult classic, a number that (truly) reinvigorates the soul. Trust me, track it down. You’ll get it. 

On a recent sunny afternoon in Hot Springs, it was almost impossible to find a parking spot within vicinity of Big Pillow Brewing in downtown. And, for the tiny mountain town, this was a joyous sight compared to what the community has gone through as of late. 

It’s 12:23 a.m. and I can hear the tires from sporadic cars splashing through small puddles on nearby Walnut Street in downtown Waynesville. They say a big rainstorm is coming later today. For now, it’s another pull from the lukewarm Coors Light can.

Much like their sorrowful, purposeful melodies, the members of The Last Revel contain this thick thread of self, and of place, when it comes to the underlying trait in the sounds and scope of their intent, onstage and in the studio — survival mode. 

There’s a quote that’s stuck with me since I first heard it recently. It’s actually in the story I wrote last week about the newly-opened Astro Record Store in Waynesville: “There’s enjoyment and there’s convenience. As things become more and more convenient, I think people look for ways to invest their time and find enjoyment.” 

One recent afternoon, while wandering the Historic Frog Level District in Waynesville, the sounds of hard rock act AC/DC drifted out the front door of 24 Commerce St. The retro sign on the window states Astro Record Store. The friendly face behind the counter is Kevin “Lippy” Mawby. 

Wednesday. Late morning. Another bluebird sky day here in the mountains of Western North Carolina. Warm rays of sunshine greeted my face when I stepped off the porch of my humble abode apartment in downtown Waynesville. Put the truck in drive and begin the day. 

In the seven months since Hurricane Helene ravaged the mountains and valleys of Western North Carolina, there’s been one constant thought rolling through the mind of Guy Smith. 

“In memorializing Helene’s savagery, the agony it caused, the grief and loss, but also the resilience and charity,” Smith said. “I’d like people to internalize that when things are the worst, people are the best.”

The quote used to title this column was stated by the late Pope Francis, who passed away last week at age 88. Rest easy, good sir. 

Pope Francis was cool in my book, even though I can’t say the same for the Catholic Church, in general. I’m an incredibly spiritual person, not religious. And, as someone who grew up surrounded by Catholicism, I’ve never been a fan of the church’s antics over the centuries and millennia (“antics” is a very, very diluted word to describe the dark history).

The wildest thing about being a longtime writer is that you end up compartmentalizing most of your life through your assignments, interviews, deadlines, and so forth.

Standing on the precipice of their 20th anniversary, The SteelDrivers aren’t looking over their shoulders at the road to the here and now. Quite the contrary, where the Americana/bluegrass icons are aiming headlong towards the unknowns of tomorrow. And with one simple, yet powerful, thought permeating throughout — what’s next? 

As a young child, growing up right outside of London, Dan Tapster fondly remembers watching David Attenborough’s nature documentaries with his mother, these family moments that were “a cherished ritual.”
“She proudly claims to be his number one fan,” Tapster said. “And those early experiences ignited my fascination with storytelling and the natural world.” 

Last Thursday afternoon, dark storm clouds overtook downtown Canton. Sitting on a couch in the Cold Mountain Art Collective on Adams Street, Hannah Burnisky gazes out at the raindrops sliding down the large front windows of the business. 

I woke up this morning with this heavy feeling of how fast time is moving. I mean, in essence, time doesn’t exist and everything is all one moment. But, I still see those increasing grey hairs in my beard and well-earned laugh wrinkles in my face.