You call that music?

Growing up my family was divided musically. My youngest brother and I loved rock. We thrilled at the squeal of the electric guitar. We lost our souls to the solid drum beat. I gleefully danced wildly to my favourite group. I practiced belting out my favourite songs in front of the mirror hair brush mic in hand. I dreamed of dating a rock star.

The older, sadder, squarer family members listened to country. Do you believe it? Country. They were a lost cause.

I have remained faithful to rock most of my life.

Then, however, I meet a man. I fell in love. In his music collection I found not only rock but also jazz and even, I hate to admit, country. How could this be? Surely it had only been a momentary lapse.

Then on my wedding day I was confronted by the truth. I was told plainly that if I wished to be a full-fledged member of my new clan I had to learn to enjoy "Bluegrass". "Bluegrass" what was that?

The family decided that I had to be properly introduced. What better place then across the border in Tacoma, Washington at Wintergrass. It was to be a three day introduction proceeded over by no other than the father of Bluegrass music himself: Bill Munroe. The father of Bluegrass music must be older than dirt, I reasoned. My speculation was confirmed when Bill appeared on stage. He was a wizened, tired, old man. I was surprised that he hadn't been wheeled onto the stage. He looked so fragile clutching his mandolin. To his credit, he made it safely through the first couple of tunes. Then he appeared to keel over. Was he clutching his chest? We, in the audience, uttered a collective moan. Our concern was voiced by one of the younger band members, "Is Bill alright?" He turned and asked a senior member.

"Bill, sure. He's just getting down." He assured us. On clue, Bill Munroe showed exactly why this was his music. His hand moved at lightening speed over the strings. The sweet sound he and his band produced stole my heart. It awoke in me a long dormant love for who I was and were I came from. It spoke to me proudly of long dirt roads, the smell of fresh cut hay, and caring for your neighbour.

So, I say, "Move over rock here comes Bluegrass."

If you have never attended a Bluegrass concert you owe it to yourself to listen.

Hubby and I leave tomorrow for the Chilliwack Bluegrass festival. My next blog will be Tuesday, September 5th.