Last night, Lisa and I went out to the pig roast of which I had spoken earlier. Exiting I-26 at the Weaverville exit, it wasn’t long before we were nestled in some of the most beautiful farmland and mountains in the region. Trees near the roadside stream sported signs indicating that said stream was “NC Trout Hatchery Supported”. And we were 15 minutes from our house. “I could live out here,” said Lisa. Ruh-roh.

When we got to the site of the party, we ended parking only a third of the way up their long winding driveway.  And backing the car in – “I don’t want to be turning the car around on this road in the dark”, said Lisa. It was bit of a hoof up the remainder of the driveway, but that was instantly forgotten when we got to the house. People balanced plates of smoked pork and baked beans on a knee, clutching their Newcastle Brown Ale in their other hand. There was laughter as children and dogs ran around under foot. The smoke from the newly completed pig pit still rose up into the trees. One of the dogs went on point on the back patio and began barking toward the woods across the creek. “Please,” I thought, “I still haven’t seen my first bear here; maybe this is my chance.” Whatever it was, it left, or at least the dog lost interest.

Just about the time I’d eaten all I could, we heard a soulful fiddle/bass duet break loose in the den. “Time to pick one?” the host asked rhetorically.  The thing about the jams at these people’s house: they are always insanely good. I was about to write that I don’t know how they do it, but go back and read the prior paragraph. It’s no wonder the best pickers show up here; a more convivial and welcoming environment you’ll never find.

Anyway, the jam. When this kind of musical talent gathers in one place, the effect is amazing. I’ve heard Bill Cheatham a million times, but when two top-notch fiddlers glance at each other and then take a break together, in perfect inter-weaved harmony, you’re living on a different plane. Or the second verse of a song and Rudy, the California-grown mandolin player, drops into a fill just like you’d hear on the record. Nobody steps on him and he lays in a perfect counterpoint to the vocal. And speaking of vocals, just about everything with words got them in three-part harmony.

Finally, there was the flexibility of the musicians. At one point the bass player, a woman from Atlanta, started “The Wheels on the Bus” for the assembled youngsters. Never did you hear such a fine version of “The Wheels on the Bus”. Dynamic range, fine solos, etc. The kids danced for all they were worth. But more to the point, as the evening progressed and the little ones had left, we took on classic jam-busters such as Midnight Moonlight, [1] Ginseng Sullivan, [2] Crazy Creek, and Crucial County Breakdown. And nailed them.

There was one moment that I distinctly remember – I was playing bass and glanced up. Next to me were Chris playing mandolin and Adam playing fiddle. Both men had their heads down and were concentrating hard on their tasks.  And playing the hell out of the music. I was really humbled to be part of what they – and the others – were doing. My next thought was, “Concentrate, dammit.” So I put 100% of my concentration into actually playing the bass, rather than just enjoying the groove. But it wasn’t easy.

Lisa and I walked down the twisty-turny driveway in the rural North Carolina pitch dark, using my Blackberry as a flashlight. It was late, Lisa had to get up in the morning, and the sleet had started to come down; it was a good time to leave. But part of me knew that up there at the house, before the night was over, they were going to play Old Dangerfield. And that part of me was awfully sad to leave.

Many thanks to S & L for their warmth, hospitality, and friendship.

[1] Be sure to check out this video. Peter Rowan, from 1985, with Vassar Clements on fiddle.

[2] Don’t click on the Ginseng Sullivan link until you’re done reading this. You’ll never get back here.