Bluegrass music
Hear it- Play it- Love it
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THE BARN At a ramshackle building set back from the way, Near the very tail end of a long summer's day, Is a scene reminiscent of those "good old days", About which folks gab through time's distant haze. The trees barely topped by the sun's last warm glow, While the gentlest breeze wafts o'er this tableau, A slight wisp of cloud, that's a farmers delight, Brings promise, for sure, of a cool, pleasant night. There'd be no surprise to see a buggy and a horse. Tethered outside, munching heather and gorse. But bright, shiny cars and old trucks fill the park, Disgorging a crowd toward a musical lark. Hipsters, and hippies, and hicks are on hand, All come to this spot to hear a good band, They tarry, they mingle, and wander the grounds, Exuding the joy of good will that abounds. Hand-in-hand, a young couple, while seeking safe harbor, Alight on a bench,'neath a leafy grape arbor, Their parents are talking and the kids they don't miss, Not caring at all about the odd, stolen kiss. Fans keep arriving, sone new and some old, For each a warm welcome, coming into the fold, Then someone says, "Hey there, the door's now ajar, It's near half past seven, the band can't be far". They jostle and push to get into the hall, But never to worry, there's room for them all, With a good-natured laugh, they get into a row, Smiles all-abounding, since it's time for the show. At a table set up with a box for a till, Those ambling in drop a ten dollar bill, They go down the aisle, and face the raised stage, Each finding a seat, and a program to page. Where hay bales once stacked, and horses chewed oats, This crowd's come to hear much more musical notes, They murmur and mumble and tell of a time, When each of them first heard these instruments chime. As the lights dim a bit, there's a hush in the room, Then all hear the scurry of feet in the gloom, The fellas walk out to the midst of the stage, Grabbing hold of each string, they begin as in rage. A banjo gets twanging, and the bass thumps quite low, The fiddle man rosins, then strikes with his bow, The singer sounds nasal, the guitar adds a chord, The crowd starts applauding, they're not going to be bored. They sing of the mountains, and of a long-ago love, And peace in the valley, on the wings of a dove, Of trappers and miners, and of people in pain, And who could forget, those blue eyes in the rain. The crowd sits there rapt, no one moves in the hall, When there's a tribute to Acuff, and his old cannonball, Rabbit dogs go a-chasing the mandolin's sound, Steel rails are then summoned, the bend comin' round. After three hours, and a hearty encore, The band leaves the stage, they can't play anymore, People stroll quietly out into the night, 'Neath a crystal clear sky, and the moon's shining light. Terry T. Brown Note: Terry T. Brown's book of poetry, "Waxing Poetic," will be available in the summer of 2006. |