Those barber shop blues....

I stood outside on the sidewalk. The barber shop was maybe 15 feet wide, and peering through the old front window I judged the depth to be about 50 feet. It looked as if nothing had been changed in 30 or so years. Along the right hand side ran counters, sinks, and shelves, cubbies filled with bottled of talcum powder, aftershave, and rusted shears. Vintage mirrors hung on the walls, reflecting avocado-green barber-chairs and the crazy colorful scene within.

Muffled music came through the foggy window panes, and actually entering the shop was ....it was....well, I don't quite have words for it. I swung open the door and the music snatched at my heart, making it beat with new rhythm. It tickled, the same way those moments before a first-kiss tickle, all full of adrenaline and anticipation, sweaty palms, and racing pulses. All intense and playful and sexy but innocent.

A few elderly black men played guitars and someone else played the bones. A large man sat in the corner rocking a saxophone while a taller man stood slapping at an upright base. A white-haired woman wildly kissed a harmonica as she jumped up and down with the rhythm. And then there was the piano man! He was playing like some demented demon, like someone absolutely possesed. He twisted with the rhythm and jabbed marvelously at the ivories, completely impassioned, frenzied, by the soul. "GIVE ME THOSE BARBER SHOP, BLUES! OH! SHOUT IT!!"

Introductions were made above the enticing cacophany. There were handshakes, pats on backs, big smiles, and winks.

What was this place?! What was going on?! Who were these people!?

Archie Edwards was a black Piedmont Blues musician. A great musician indeed. This shop, the one I went to last night, was his barbershop, where he worked cutting hair. He used to host jam sessions every Saturday afternoon. Folks like Mississippi John Hurt, Jack Johnson, and Cephas and Wiggins, were all known to frequent the place-- they even taught other kiddos their songs and styles. Mr. Edwards died about ten years ago, but folks within the community have managed to continue the weekly jam sessions in his barber shop in his memory. I will certainly be returning, with guitar/banjo in hand. I'm in love.

Archie Edwards Blues Heritage Foundation: http://www.acousticblues.com/

Building, a mystery...

This is the building I've been researching. It's a simple painted brick business duplex. It has housed candy shops, boot stores, lunch counters.... it has been a lot of things. In 1993 one of the owners was murdered in the store and the whole place torched. It has been sitting empty since. The city is about to move in on it and slap the current holder with fines. Boarded up abandoned buildings in the middle of the county judicial seat (Rockville, Md.) does not make folks happy.

But before they tear it down, before the current owner remakes it into a shoe store, a cafe, a dojo.... there needs to be a pause and some reflection. Just by looking at that burnt out brick shell you wouldn't know its historical value, but it is one of Rockville's last-standing buildings from the 19th century.

I traced the deed back to the family who built the store, the Dawson family. According to the papers, the lot was purchased from the widowed Rebecca G. Fields in 1891. But there's something very curious. I found old Montgomery County Sentinel articles that refer to the construction of the convenience store happening on that lot... in 1870.

In addition, I tracked down store ledgers that were kept by the Dawsons listing things like 10 yrds calico, 1 pound sugar, a dozen eggs, etc. Names of reputable town-folk also appear in the log, indicating they frequented the Dawson's establishment. The three existing ledgers are from 1870, 1876, and 1880.... all before the deed signed by Thomas Dawson.

It seems like Dawson's store was well in business.... 21 years prior to the drafting of their official deed on the land.

What a jumbled paper trail.

Banjo God.

The gods gather every Friday night in Floyd, Virginia, for a jamboree.

While a band or two plays in the back of the Country store, 4 or so musical circles spring forth in the one road running through town. There's food, drink, dancing, and some of the purest Old Time around. I'm talking about 90 yr old ladies standing in their granny boots with autoharps under their chins, their voices wavering through "Wildwood Flower." I'm talkin' knobley kneed grandfathers with lighter feet (for clogging) than you'd see on a yearling. And, of course, The Banjo God himself.

Banjo Boy tugged excitedly at my sleeve and pointed across the street at a man who was chatting with two lovely banjo-goddesses under a street light.

He came from Galilee with a banjo on his knee. Hair down to his waist, long and flowing, and a mountain man beard that would shame even Whitman's whiskers. "That's my banjo mentor..."

I was introduced. We talked. I like the man and hope to find him again. According to Banjo Boy he's strangely mysterious and lives on some distant mountain. By day he carries a mop at a local school, but by night he's the best banjo and flatpicker for counties. I found him humble, warm, and outgoing. But I might just feel special affection because he gave me chocolate.

We watched as the ladies launched into Fire on the Mountain, throwing in all kinds of melodic harmonies and extra goodies. Banjo-God looked interested. Amused, even. He ran off to his truck, returning with his own banjar and ready to play.

He launched into Flint Hill Special. There would come a time when he'd hit the note with one hand and RETUNE THE STRING with the other, and RETUNE IT BACK in time to hit the fingerboard for the very next note.

And the light shone upon us and we were blessed by his picking.

Fiddle Diddle Geneology

After our meal I made a cup of tea and asked questions, and one in particular that I'd been meaning to ask for ages.

"How exactly did you find Henry Reed?"

It was 1966 and Alan was in Durham, N.C. doing graduate work. He'd go up into the mountains to meet with old fiddlers, record their music and learn their reportoire, and then return to share whatever he found with the rest of the world. He worked with one old man, Oscar Right, who seemed to have a particular style of tunes under his belt. When Alan asked where Oscar had learned his repertoire, Alan was given Henry Reed's name and then sent over the mountain to meet with him. It was supper time when he showed up, and he was invited in....

And that's how it began, how he found his pot of gold. Now, in the field of folklore, people refer to "the big find," "the thing that makes you," as your "Henry Reed."

Henry reed was 81 when Alan met with him. He was born in 1850-- before the golden pin was driven in the transcontinental railroad, before the official close of the frontier. I continued asking Alan questions. I wanted to know what it was like meeting with Henry, and if he was sent to meet with other fiddlers.

"No, Henry was too old by that time... but he talked about older fiddlers before him. And he sure talked a lot about Quince Dillion."

Quince Dillion (commonly known as Quince Dillon, but his name is really Dillion) was born in 1826! As an older man, Dillion was Henry Reed's main mentor.

That blew my mind.

1826, Quince Dillon. Fought in the Mexican War and Civil War, taught Henry Reed.... who taught Alan.

Such a lovely link

Alan Plays Fiddle

Alan plays fiddle. He has a concert tomorrow evening and has been practicing for a few days. The sound wafts up the twisted staircase to my corner library/bedroom where I now sit.


I've never known any other music, or any other sound, to have as much power over me as his fiddling. I feel blessed to be here, have him so close, play so frequently, so casually.

He began practicing while I cleaned up after dinner. His bow-pulls came with with the turning of the hot tap, the exact moment I slipped the dish-rag under the water.

The combination of physical warmth and aural pleasure was stunning. I could have cried.

Part of it is the knowledge that he is internationally ranked and world reknowned as a scholar and fiddler.

Part of it is the knowledge that he gave up all of his years and years of classical training to ONLY play traditional Old Time music.

Most of all, though, it's the knowledge that he suffers from a degenerative neurological disease and he is slowly losing his ability to play.

I savor every note.

A convert.

I have arrived. My roots still ramble, though, as I can only call this particular place "home" 'till December... but I have arrived nonetheless! And I have a rocking chair! I am lucky, indeed. It is a delightful Federal-style rocker that I sit in, featuring nicely embelished scrolls on the arm rests and a classic urn-shaped back-panel. It is a joined piece, old-school mortis and tenon style. A genuine oldie.

I like that in a chair.

But enough Antiques Roadshow (fans, give a shout!). As lovely as this chair is, its romance ran out on me about an hour ago. I've been sittin' in this butt-number since this morning, occaisionally rocking, but mostly intensely applying my over-stretched brain to such strenuous texts as "Gunfighter Nation," "Locating American Studies," "Virgin Land," and a handful of books on vernacular architecture. Y'see... I'm in this terribly abusive relationship called Graduate School. I'm like an S and M addict; except I get my spanking from Academia. I like it. Mostly.

In addition to my Academia-lust, I'm a journal-addict, both traditional and digital. Having lurked around friends' blogspots, though, I've been enticed to make the switch.

I've only just begun this whole Adventure that is Grad School, having just moved to a Big Old City. I'll begin working in the Real World, soon, too. With all these new beginnings, I thought it'd be nice to plant another plot in this digital-forest in which I might do some soul gardening.

Life is uncharted territory. It reveals its story one moment at a time.