Holistic Music

There are a lot of big men in this room. These big men seem to have inordinately big hands, in which they hold a variety of instruments. They are dressed, most of them, in cowboy shirts and jeans, a few wear cowboy hats. And, while I watch, they make magic with their instruments, turning an ordinary Saturday afternoon into a toe-tapping, hand clapping wonder.

I wandered into this room after hearing music while working out at Bill Heddles Recreation Center. Following the sound down the hall, I discovered a little known musical joy, the monthly Bluegrass and Pickers’ Jam. Circled like wagons on the prairie, the musicians take turns leading a song, picking out the melody on guitars, banjos, mandolins and steel guitars. A harmonica player or two provide the bluesy background, and the fiddles smooth it all into one seamless work.

Lots of the songs are familiar, “I’ll Fly Away” and “I Saw the Light”; others are new to me, “Little Maggie” and “The Spanish Two Step”. Most of the people seem to know each other, and they call out turns to play “solos” by name. Each person in the circle is afforded the opportunity to play “lead” for at least one verse.

The level of proficiency is amazing. An eleven- year old girl sits quietly for several hours, strumming along with the grown-ups, whose average age appears to be about sixty. She declines any turns to play solos, but the expression on her face says she’s absorbing everything in sight. She never asks for a break, or looks impatient or frustrated, even during the most complex riffs.

Over the years I’ve heard blue grass, and country, and country-western, and cowboy music, all packaged for my consumption. But this music is different; the only word I can think of is holistic. It is music born from the joy of making music, intrinsically and completely from the spirit of the musician without regard to the outside world. The small audience that has gathered to listen is infected with that joy; people sway and bounce on their chairs, clapping time to the beat.

This loosely conglomerated hootenanny reminds me of the barn dances and church socials of long ago. They are a disappearing remnant of Western culture. I take my seat, in my sweaty gym clothes, clap my hands and sing along.