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Playing Since: 2008
Experience Level: Novice
Interests:
[Jamming] [Socializing] [Helping]
Gender: Male
Age: 52
My Instruments:
Ramsey Curtis Faircloth Electric
Ramsey Woody 12"
Ramsey Dobson 12"
Ramsey Standard 12" fretless
Ramsey Student 12" nylgut strings
Dennis Harrison mountain banjo
Classified Rating: 0
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Profile Info:
Visible to: Public
Created 12/10/2008
Last Visit 8/15/2011
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Sunday, May 23, 2010 @6:04:44 AM
Long after midnight, I lay awake in my tent, listening. Raindrops on the fly above me and runnels directly underneath didn't much matter anymore--tarpal runnel syndrome, my failure to bring enough tarps to handle Clifftop weather, no longer bothered me. The rain just made it all wierder and more special. I knew I'd never forget crowding into that big old lodge to hear the fiddle and banjo competition finals in the only dry place left to me--hearing a fourteen year old Tatiana Hargreaves send multi-layered waves of oldtime sweetness through the room to win the fiddle competition, hearing Adam Hurt show his special genius and repeat as banjo champion.
Up the hill past my feet to the west the hilltoppers beneath the water tower belied their geezer reputation by playing on, and on, and I thought fondly of the kindness they'd shown me, a novice--Laurie's awesome kitchen, Gene's camp, Chip Arnold and Tish patiently demonstrating tunes with that lovely two-finger style and their unique gentle competence.
On the right, just to the north, the Roger Sprung encampment clearly loving their sendup of southern culture and cuisine (do they know we really don't eat fried possum?) while telling tales of tunes in Greenwich Village in the 1950s and openly welcoming any and all players of whatever ability and upbringing. My buddy Alan who'd come, as I came, a first-timer at Clifftop eased in by the great teaching experience Dan Levenson gave us through Clawcamp at Jorma's Fur Peace Ranch--showing me how appalachian music had gone across the Ohio and onward and outward and all the way back around the globe. And Shane coming all the way from Ireland to prove that point.
A little further east the stage, now quiet, but having permanently etched in my mind the excitement and pathos of the New Lost City Ramblers' final concert, with so many friends and admirers, cut short by a sudden downpour-- fittingly so, as Mike Seeger had not made it, word having spread of his having gone to hospice a day before, prompting many tears to fall before the storm itself moved in.
Back over my head due east, the never ending sounds from the swamp rising in intensity like cicadas in a southern wood--a funky musical stew of cajun, oldtime, and lord only knows what else.
Down the hill to the south, the cliff itself overlooking New River Gorge and the beautiful little mountain stream where we'd splashed around in the morning, soaking up the place and the waters that fed this culture and this music from the start.
I lay awake long after midnight, listening, thinking how far I'd come in the last couple of years, thanks to the music, the teachers, the new friends, and how it felt like I'd finally arrived home by being here. I had been to festivals before--dipping my toes in a bit at Mt. Airy, watching from the stands at Galax. But I was then just an observer; I really didn't get it. Now I had at least put my head underwater...well, and thanks to Clifftarp, most all of my gear had gone underwater, too. And it was like the best baptism; I was born again as an oldtime musician. I knew I'd be back to these festivals and friends. Oldtime, forever....
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