I have an eclectic taste in music, but a special soft spot for old folk and bluegrass – mostly because I love the key of G – and I don’t think it really counts as bluegrass unless you can hear tobacco sloshing between jowls with just a subtle, little touch of racism.
I especially love to listen to those dusty, old records on dark, rainy nights, and imagine the taste of the moist mountain air, and smell the pungent smoke of tobacco pipes and old chimneys. Between the rapidly spun notes and percussive stomps, I can faintly hear the sounds of a bubbling brook, and a black-eyed dog barking off in the distance. And a little part me even feels the sense of dread that I’ve made a wrong turn and ended up in the boonies, where a hate crime might just pop out of the trees at any moment.
“Oh my god! Was that a shotgun?!”
My personal favorite artist in the genre is Ralph Stanley; a true legend who penned such poetic lines as “Hidey hibbety hubbety ho.” And those words always hit me right in the heart like, “Well mumbled, sir. Well mumbled.”