Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Music transports you to other realms. Take me on the bluegrass train, to the blue side of the mountain, through the hollows of old Appalachia, “where the sun don’t ever shine”. Drinking whisky in a lonesome hollow’s honkey tonk joint, moonshine on the front porch of the cabin watching the sun go down a hazy summers day . The plucking of the banjo is the bluegrass waving in the “Kentucky hills of tennesee”, the “cows lolling in the land”. This is is roots music, that “high lonesome sound”, the crisp mountain air blowing “in the pines” of the smokey blue mountains. The struggles of cyclical and vulnerable life over in the rolllocking foothills and down into the valley and up the mountain heights, passions are felt deep in the hollows of your soul, that hidden part where losses dwell, hope hides and music turns to myth. Organic tones, the wholesome sounds of a hollowed out chesnut oak, the mashing of the grains in the barn, the itenerant preachers pleas, the dirt kicked up by heels in folktaled hills. Hills with forests that envelop you in “shady groves” and “dark hollows”, that storied bluegrass train passes through all these with its whistle sounding the plucked, picked, and downhome harmonies from Appallachia.