WinterFest Bluegrass Blues

WEll, it's all over but the tall tales of things that did and didn't happen: about a hundred bluegrass musicians descended on the unsuspecting towns of Stroudsburg and Eastburg here in the foothills of the Poconos for the Pocono Bluegrass and Folk Society's 7th annual WinterFest, the work for which is done by about seven volunteers who actually work and several hundred attendees who stand about laughing, drinking and opining.*

Things got off to a dicey start because the brains behind our operation (part of which is me hehe) decided that it would be a good idea to practice using our outdoor sound system indoors---well, when you have 18 bands in 12 different venues, a herd of Elks, 10 bar owners, thirteen workshoppers, an exhorbitantly expensive caterer, the White Trash Racing Team on security and perimeter patrol, and hotel reservations to deal with, of course there's plenty of time to screw around with forty three cables, five amps a smokin, four bins a buzzing, THreeeeeeeeeeeeeee golden things**, two sound techs calling and a cartridge in a speaker tree.

Anyhow, it was okay, but a lot of work for a very little savings, IMHO, but that's only because I had to deal with it and the brains dint. So once we got all the wires running right and that whole deal taken care of, we could turn our attention to making seventeen shows in 57 hours, and that took some real trip-tick stuff on the Rambler's part---Mollies and then the Sarah Street Grill on Friday after being up till midnight on Thursday setting up the sound and writing checks while the other Ramblers dreamt of sugerplums (whatever the hell they are) or some other things, to the Elks on Saturday to deal with parking issues, kids workshop at the library, the needle-D*** from Rosens, smoking issues, stage management and fifty-fifty sales, mechandize, a screwy remote video feed for the downstairs, bank deposits, and of course the sound issue.

From there we went on to the Hamilton (6-8) thence to the Sherman theater where Scotty Eager and Davey Hampton and the Blue Roots boys joined the Ramblers for a realy nice show--that sound guy sure knew what that hell he was doing, and the concert was very well received by the hundred or so that came out for it. Next year we do better, I hope, based on word of mouth.

By Saturday night this reporter was pretty bleached out, and since cousin Chris had put my cooler in the Paisley's bus, of course I had to leave the excellent jam down in the Best Western Lounge to go and fetch it up in their room, which I did and promptly fell into yet another jam that was juuuuuuuuuuuust too cool, really saying something there since the downstairs one had Ed Lick and Andy from the Center of the State on twin banjos, Chris Marcera on dobro with his hottie girlfriend singing like a bird, all way cool stuff.


I would have crashed in the Rambler Room (kinda like a rumpus room with music and beer hehe) but the Smith Brothers had like seventeen young music lovers in there, all of the female persuasion, so that seemed like trouble. Off I wobbled to the 4th floor and was amazed at the room Frank Brown had hooked me up with---top floor, corner room. I tell ya, I felt like Donald Trump--I wanted to make some phone calls and fire some people hehe.

At any rate, my wake-up call came and went while I was sleeping the sleep of the just, and the lads couldn't find me--seems the front desk had lost me somehow, so I missed the Gospel show, much to my chagrin. I wouldn't have felt so bad if my own sainted wife had not been one of the acts preforming for the service, but the Ramblers (with the aid of Austin and Coleman Smith) did the job and the service went off without a hitch, a testiment to sound planning on my part (yeah take that Johnboy!).

It wasn't until I ran into Davey Hampton that I realized how non commpass mentus I had really been the night before. The next morning he said, "I have to compliment you, Pete. Last night you was having the most intelligent converstaion I ever heard somebody have with a coat-rack."

Now those who know Davey Hampton know that he is renounded for several things---incredible guitar-playing, general congeniality, tall-tale-telling and a tendency to revel a tad more than is usual, even for a musician, so I was ready to write that off as just a fabrication, but then his wife, who like mine is noted for her veracity, said, "Yep. You was talking in tongues." Anthman is starting rumors that I insulted somebody from North Carolina in some way, shape or form, which, if true, I certainly regret, as I have never met anyone from Carolina, my adopted home,I didn't like, but then, that is Anthony talking, and he and Davey are definately members of the same tribe hhe.

All I can think of is that somebody musta put one of them date-rape drugs in my Yeungling and then thought better of it, leaving me to float blissfully alone until the beautious rays of the next day.

At any rate, Sunday night when I was laying my weary head down to rest, I remembered that Dan Paisley, TJ Lundy and a couple of the other guys had been talking about good song titles, and I suggested "You can't talk to Jesus with Whiskey on your breath," and so laying there at midnight and reviewing the whole WinterFest experience, who do I hear singing a song in my head but Dan P his own self, right down to the title up above.

So that's for another post, but it's a lopey kind of Del feel to it, probably best out of the key of D, and has some pretty nice lines in it like "You cannot share that cross you bear, towards shame or victory." and "You can't get right with God above if you're afraid of death" and other smart things that make me know it didn't come from my brain pan.

What did Plato call inspiration? The divine spark.

Amen to that, my dead Greek friend!

So thanks for the song, Dann-o, and my fondest regards to Chris and Maureen, Christina, Sherrie, Gary, Loretta and Nancy, of course Debbie, Skip and Peg, Ken, the Smiths, and all the volunteers, musicians and listeners that made the event what most called "the best one ever," even if our numbers were down from last year.

Hell, maybe it was the people who didn't show up that made the event so nice heeHE!

* that has nothing to do with wood or woodies--it means shooting off running yer mouth, or as some might say, runnnin' yer yap. Spouting your pie-hole. Putting in your 2 cents. Yeah. LIke that.
**that should go in some hole or another but don't seem to fit)