I just finished having the largest meal of crow in my life.   As of writing this, I have finally managed to get the pin feathers of that dark and unappetizing creature from between my back molars.   I look at what remains on the plate and have to admit that I deserved every bite of the meal: beak, claws and all. 

What happened is the collision between my Irish temper and the 21st century.  The vehicle involved being that modern contraption known as the cell phone.  It is not my friend, I am beginning to realize, but rather, some sort of impish devil at best or just a deliberate device to self-inflict humiliation and pain by shooting oneself in the foot.

I was frustrated with getting things settled for our tour to Ireland and Iceland.  We were down in Arizona, playing concerts, with potential folks to jump on board, but no information to give.  

Our tour coordinator, Jeanne, is a good, decent, hard-working person.  She joined us on the last tour to Ireland and I still think we have a good relationship.  But that wasn’t going to have any bearing on my anger when, finally, it looked like everything was in order to go forward with the tour. I double checked on the time for our folks leaving Iceland; I just had a sense and it proved right that it would have been a 3 a.m. wake-up for a day of traveling from Reykjavik to Dublin to Chicago.  I'm pretty sure it would have gone over horribly with those travelers.

I decided to vent this frustration to our business manager, Sue, who for about 20 years now has been able to talk me off the ledge. I ranted to her about how I felt our agent couldn’t really be thinking of that flight for our merry band.  Except, I didn’t really say it quite that civilly.

I didn’t go full Irish, with the various adaptations of the F-bomb or uttering of “feckin’ eejit”, that makes Irish ranting almost an art form, but I came close.  Again, for me, it was the situation more than anything.  I ranted about that, ranted about a lack of ticket sales for our show in Woodstock and ranted a bit about Brian because that is always therapeutic to do.  Without another thought, I fired the email back to Sue.

Except it didn’t go to Sue.

I was headed out with friend Norm for a rare day of relaxation and a chance to allow my mind to go numb in the mountains of the Tonto State forest outside of Payson, when the cow cookies hit the fan.

"ATTENTION MR. MARTIN McCORMACK," the caption of the email read.

Suffice it to say, Jeanne’s boss, alerted and enraged, wrote a wonderful email dressing me down.  I read it at first with a sense of “What is this?”  Slowly it dawned on me that my Irish rant went to the wrong email address.  And to make matters worse, Norm and I just got past the last cell tower and into the land of NO SERVICE.

I read it to Norm.  

“Wow, he told you,” he said.  “That has to be one of the best reprimands anybody ever gave anyone.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “I am impressed and I’m the one getting flayed.”  

“Well, what can you do?  You went on a rant and sent it to the wrong person.”  
 
“Boy, do I feel like an ass,” I said feebly. 

“Yeah,” said Norm.  “You are an ass.” 

Nothing feels so stupid as to read your own rant being quoted back at you by someone thoroughly angry with your rant.  And so, now with my buddy Norm offering his condolences, I attempted to make amends once we got back into cell service.  I called Jeanne and told her that I was very sorry for being on a rant, being an ass and that next time I would dig a hole and yell into it.   For her part, she was very professional and understanding.  Her boss, seeing that I was apologizing for my rude behavior was also understanding. 

I could only imagine the joy of that email of mine, going round the office, to spouses, to friends perhaps.  “There but for the grace of God,” perhaps one would say.  Or “Man, good work on putting stuck up musician boy in his place.”  That sort of thing.   And I of course deserved it.  I deserved it for not learning from my hero Abraham Lincoln.

People don’t know it, but Lincoln had a temper as well as a great knack for sarcasm.  And he was also under stress way more than most humans, dealing with a little thing called the Civil War.  Sort of makes everyone else’s worries look wimpy, including a musician like myself ranting about the wake-up time in Iceland.  

I suspect he perfected it after what would have been a 19th-century “wrong-address” incident.  That was an editorial he wrote in the Sangamon Journal, excoriating a fellow politician by the name of James Shield.  The state of Illinois went bankrupt (yes, Illinois, we did it before, we can do it again!) and Lincoln, then a rising political star and lawyer, chastised Shields for supporting the notion that people could just pay in gold and silver instead of paper money.  Pretty silly notion, sort of the “let them eat cake” mentality. 

Thank God such foolish thinking isn’t around today.   

Lincoln didn’t use his real name, but that didn’t stop Shields finding out by strong-arming the editor into revealing who was behind the nom de plume. According to American Battlefield Trust, Shields wrote Lincoln, “I have become the object of slander, vituperation and personal abuse. Only a full retraction may prevent consequences which no one will regret more than myself.”

Unlike yours truly,  quickly trying to make amends,  Lincoln basically gave Shields the Victorian version of a poop-emoji in response.  Shields, now doubly humiliated, decided that only a duel could solve his besmirched honor.   Missouri allowed dueling (and maybe we need to bring it back with our politicians today?) and so Bloody Island, right outside St. Louis, was chosen as the spot.  Lincoln, having been the one challenged, was given the choice of weapon to duel.  He chose heavy, long cavalry swords. 

"I didn't want the d—-d fellow to kill me, which I think he would have done if we had selected pistols," said Lincoln.  Being over six feet tall, Lincoln had the reach and height advantage. Shields stood about as tall as me --  5’9”.  

Thankfully cooler heads prevailed and the day of duel: the seconds stepped in and along with the bystanders made Lincoln and Shields end the farce.  Today, it would have been livestreamed on Facebook by someone and I am sure the two would have gone swinging away at each other.  It would have had 10 million views, been retweeted and re-edited to make Lincoln look like a homicidal maniac, shown on the news and would have been dissected by sixteen op-ed pieces written in support of and against the dueling duo. And even a couple more impassioned pieces would crop up, saying how Bloody Island is a bird sanctuary and should be left alone for the rare dooga bird.  Ah, 19th century, how much we miss thee.

Lincoln learned his lesson.  This served him in later years when as president, he would witness true blunders made by his generals, resulting in thousands of deaths and very nearly the destruction of the United States.   

An Irish temper would not have served him.  Rather, he developed a policy of writing a letter, and ranting.  Then setting aside the sealed letter with the words “never signed, nor sent” scrawled across it.  For him, that little space, that hole in the ground was enough to help his stress and keep him from truly hurting others' feelings.

When Gen. George Meade, having won Gettysburg, had Robert E. Lee’s forces trapped by a flooded Rappahannock River, he could have ended the Civil War two years early just by pressing that advantage.  But Meade chose to wait.  By doing so, he allowed Lee to build bridges and get his army back to the south.  

Lincoln, apoplectic and nearly insane with rage, wrote the following “scathing” letter:  

Executive Mansion,
Washington, July 14, 1863.
Major General Meade

I have just seen your dispatch to Gen. Halleck, asking to be relieved of your command, because of a supposed censure of mine-- I am very -- very -- grateful to you for the magnificent success you gave the cause of the country at Gettysburg; and I am sorry now to be the author of the slightest pain to you-- But I was in such deep distress myself that I could not restrain some expression of it-- I had been oppressed nearly ever since the battles at Gettysburg, by what appeared to be evidences that your self, and Gen. Couch, and Gen. Smith, were not seeking a collision with the enemy, but were trying to get him across the river without another battle. What these evidences were, if you please, I hope to tell you at some time, when we shall both feel better. The case, summarily stated is this. You fought and beat the enemy at Gettysburg; and, of course, to say the least, his loss was as great as yours-- He retreated; and you did not, as it seemed to me, pressingly pursue him; but a flood in the river detained him, till, by slow degrees, you were again upon him. You had at least twenty thousand veteran troops directly with you, and as many more raw ones within supporting distance, all in addition to those who fought with you at Gettysburg; while it was not possible that he had received a single recruit; and yet you stood and let the flood run down, bridges be built, and the enemy move away at his leisure, without attacking him. And Couch and Smith! The latter left Carlisle in time, upon all ordinary calculation, to have aided you in the last battle at Gettysburg; but he did not arrive-- More At the end of more than ten days, I believe twelve, under constant urging, he reached Hagerstown from Carlisle, which is not an inch over fifty-five miles, if so much. And Couch's movement was very little different--

Again, my dear general, I do not believe you appreciate the magnitude of the misfortune involved in Lee's escape-- He was within your easy grasp, and to have closed upon him would, in connection with  our other late successes, have ended the war-- As it is, the war will be prolonged indefinitely. If you could not safely attack Lee last Monday, how can you possibly do so South of the river, when you can take with you very few more then two thirds of the force you then had in hand? It would be unreasonable to expect, and I do not expect you can now effect much. Your golden opportunity is gone, and I am distressed immeasurably because of it--

I beg you will not consider this a prosecution, or persecution of yourself-- As you had learned that I was dissatisfied, I have thought it best to kindly tell you why.

[ Endorsed on Envelope by Lincoln: To Gen. Meade, never sent, or signed.]

At this point in his life, Lincoln had mastered not only how to channel his emotions, but mastered the use of the technology of the day.   Still, General Meade had heard that Lincoln was angry about his dawdling, but no bother, it was not directly from him.  And Lincoln never showed his hand to General Meade.  Instead, he vented, but vented his anger to a letter never intended to be sent. 

For myself, I apologize again to Jeanne, our tour coordinator. I did indeed, by my own doing, hurt her feelings.  I pretty much think she could best me in a duel, too.   And perhaps like Old Abe, I should sit down, take the time to channel my feelings properly and put that email in the “never signed nor sent” file and give the angel of my better nature a chance to flap her wings. ​

Dear friends of Switchback,

There are days when I find myself at home asking out loud, “Who is this little human that lives with us and where did she come from?” Áine turned five years old on Monday. For me that is something both amazing and sad to behold.  The sad part is obvious, in that it means that I too, am five years older. It also means that gone for good is that little baby girl, toddler and ultra portable kid.  Now, there is this little human. With little human observations.  

For example, her enjoyment of the Hamilton official soundtrack.  Áine listened to it just two times and started singing the songs around the house. Annie gave her the blow-by-blow as the album played and employed a history lesson using American currency. At night Áine's prayer became, “God Bless Alexander Hamilton, George Washington, those three other men, and the Schuyler sisters.”  And then after a brief thought, “And please bless a little bit King George and the soldiers, even though they were kind of mean.”   

As her compassion to King George and the redcoats show, she remains very sensitive to the plight of other people, consoling her fellow classmates at school. During the Nativity play last month, Aine was cast as Mary.  When her best friend (who was dressed as an angel) started crying because she didn’t see her parents, Aine shifted the baby Jesus under one arm, then pointed out to the crowd and said, “Look! Don’t cry, they’re right over there!”  

Annie's mother gave Annie and myself a crystal Waterford “make up bell” some years back. For those who never have an argument in their relationship, this is a bell you ring to break up an argument and encourage the parties “make up.”  Áine discovered the meaning of this bell and now, even discussions about filling the bird feeder are interrupted by the tinkling sound of a bell, rung by a smiling girl.  I have found myself much more careful in how I approach topics with Annie, as I always see Áine reaching for the bell. 

Thankfully, she still enjoys playing at parks.  She has travelled to numerous parks around the north side of Chicago and into Evanston.  The fact that she comes alone doesn’t normally faze her, for there are always new friends to be made.   “Hi friends,” she says, “will you play with me?”  She is blind to any differences in people that us older folks are unfortunately far too aware of. To her, a kid is nothing more or less than a potential friend.  Usually she is able to take on the older kids and keep up running and playing tag.  Her own joy in connecting with people is infectious and allows her Papa the opportunity to connect with the other kids' parents.  Many a wonderful conversation with a stranger has been started by Áine wishing to play with their kid.  She has made me more open to saying hello to people and putting the feeling of joy into practice. 

The world does creep in and already she has picked up that girls and boys are different. She is aware that other girls talk about looks and clothes.  It’s hard to run interference on it and allow her to not start down that path already.   The joy is that she is still a kid. 

She does have a crush, on a little boy in her class named Max.  She considers him cute.  “I’m going to marry Max,” she once said.  I froze.  For now, she is still Papa’s girl, thankfully. 

And, she surprised me when she announced she wants to be a singer.  Already Áine has composed several songs and shows an interest in instruments.  Where she goes with this is up to her.  

It is hard to wave goodbye to the toddler, the baby girl and start making room for the young girl, with young girl ideas.  Already there are times when I will glance at her and see the future young woman.  In the meantime I thank God for each day I can hold her, carry her upstairs at night and still have that great feeling of a little daughter, peaceful and sleepy with her Papa.  

[Our friends Martin and Brian have asked me to drop the old phonograph needle on some of their tunes, perhaps some lesser known, and report back to everyone. This month is a tangent.]
 
Folks who follow Switchback see occasional dates on their schedule marked “Outreach Program.”  Let’s go close-up with one of those, one that happened in October in Springfield, Illinois.
 
The Hope Institute for Children and Families provides educational and residential services to children facing extraordinary cognitive, physical and emotional challenges.  Switchback came for a week-long residency, everything from one-on-one engagement to an all-school concert to the finish their time there.
 
This outreach program was quite different from a one-show gig.  To plan their time, Martin McCormack and Brian FitzGerald worked with Hope’s music therapist for months leading up to their week at the school. Alisabeth Hopper helped the band create a curriculum, a compendium of lesson plans to be piloted at her Hope Learning Center.  Full of details, activities, aims and goals this “HopeWork” is designed to be used in part or whole at other facilities by other musical performers.
 
Then, of course, there are all the fun parts.
 
About 30 youngsters arrive in a smallish space along with half a dozen staff.  Marty and Brian have met all these folks earlier in the week, and most of today's songs have been sung in smaller classroom rehearsals.  With the band plugged in just a few feet from the front row, first up is a medley of sing-alongs working off the same tune.  It’s “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” easily oozing into “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” with a smooth segue into “The ABC Song” where Marty asks Brian if he’s truly confident of the lyrics.
 
Songs throughout this half-hour session start and end gently, the idea being to stimulate but not over-stimulate Hope’s students.
 
Next up, so to speak, is “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” with full-throat audience participation on the “One, two, three strikes you’re out!” line.
 
Marty then reminds the students they are working on “White Christmas” for their upcoming holiday show so they should give that one a try.  The room is full of singing and signing the familiar December-dream carol.  Later the audience is asked for a song suggestion.  It’s “Jingle Bells” with bells handed out and enthusiastic response to the shouted “Hey!” with Brian upping the tempo each time around on his new mandolin.
 
Most of us have witnessed Switchback absorb energy from their audiences.  That is not different here with the youngsters’ encouragements ranging from small to dramatic.  One Hope staff member commented that among performers at the school Brian and Martin are clearly more interactive and that they listen for what the students want.
 
Switchback did an instrumental so the audience could be the percussion section, slapping out beats on their thighs.  It was just a strum-along, but Brian, always the creator, started whipping off licks on his Taylor M4-CE that would fly on any stage.
 
With the end near, Switchback led the singing of that tender and saucy tale of an errant meatball sneezed into oblivion - “On Top of Spaghetti” - to the delight of all.
 
After a few small-group photos with much hugging and many smiles, Switchback finished with Hope’s traditional good-bye song and its lyric “Music is over until next time.”  Then Marty signs off with a warning about the next day’s closing concert:  “There might be dancing!”
 
Here is the full disclosure section.  My lovely wife Sheila Walk heads our Springfield Area Arts Council which funded this whole wonderful week by hiring Switchback and Hope’s music therapist.  Back years ago when I first met Martin and Brian, they were fresh from a half-day at this same Hope Institute.  Over lunch Marty said Switchback wanted to be “the house band for Hope.”  Pretty damned endearing.  Sheila says it took a few years and a generous bequest, but this year she made it happen.

Doug Kamholz is an itinerant washboard player who has freelanced for the New York Times, Washington Post and many lesser media.  His most honest work was as a pig farmer in central Illinois, where he now lives and occasionally makes dinner for Switchback.
​

 Dear Switchback friends,

I am writing this from my hotel room at the Grand Majestic Hotel in Prague, Czech Republic. Last week we traveled to Ireland with 60 friends from coast to coast, north to south of the USA (plus one from Japan).

With the exception of a few, everyone had seen us play.  And of those who did, they remembered the moment they decided that their relationship with our band should be something more than just being a fan.

Joining us on this tour was perhaps a subconscious effort to seal the friendship. And, certainly for Brian and myself, making real friends who support our music has always been paramount, and a conscious effort. These folks become part of our “Waygood Family.” As Sue Arnold, our business manager put it best, “Good friends make good family.”

Which brings me to Thanksgiving, the holiday that we are celebrating in the United States next week. In some ways, people either love or dread this holiday because of the idea of family.

Some people look no further than their DNA to determine who is family and who is not. Here in Prague, we tourists discovered one ironic display of blood (perhaps bloody?) family at Saint Vitus’ Cathedral.  According to local legend, the beloved Duke Wenceslas was slaughtered by his younger, power-hungry, probably jealous, brother. Posthumously, Wenceslas was not only declared a saint but also king... so I guess that made everything OK. (Pictured above is Wenceslas with his grandmother, St. Ludmila, who was also assassinated. By whom? Wenceslas' mother!)

Sometimes blood family takes for granted that family are also friends. But when one looks at true friendship, there is a commitment to service unbound by blood obligation.  Obviously this can take many forms, but at heart this is a surrendering of one’s own interest for the other.

I think of my own friends and the simple displays of love and self-sacrifice we have shared through the years. The only time I have lost a friend was when that friend decided that his own interest superseded mine.

The original idea behind the holiday of Thanksgiving was to give thanks for the many blessings we have received. As blessings go, true friendship is very rare. And only true friends can become family. However, it is very rare for blood family to become true friends.

That doesn’t mean that somehow every friendship is equal or that every friend rises to “family” status.  What does exist is the potential to surrender to that notion.

If we believe the Thanksgiving story, the Native Americans extended their own generosity so that the English could survive. Their donations of corn, squash and turkey suggested, “We could have friendship.”

What went wrong was that at some point the colonists’ own personal interest superseded that of their newfound friends. It’s a good illustration of the complexities of family and friendship. Good friendship has to be practiced in order to create good family.

This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful especially for the fans who become friends, and later, family. Here’s to many more shows, tours and meals shared between us in this WayGood World of ours!

​

Dear friends of Switchback,

Though my hometown is Woodstock, Illinois and will always be, I reside (when I am not travelling) in Chicago.  Rogers Park, Chicago to be exact. It is the second time in my life that I have lived in this neighborhood. The first, when I was a student at Loyola University from 1981-1985.  It was then, as now, “real city living” with a lot of people of all walks of life, walking around. A place where the undergrads rubbed elbows with the underprivileged. Where all sorts of shops and stores beckoned to the curious to explore.  I bought my first bass guitar at the local music store, Flatts and Sharpes. And, I had my first professional haircut (yes, I had my hair cut at home until college) in Rogers Park. 

So, it has been a place where I entered adulthood, and upon graduation, I was convinced that would be the last of Rogers Park.  As a person who loves wide open spaces, and the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, Rogers Park offered neither. I was weary of the winter along Lake Michigan and the dirty, dog poop-festooned snow.  I felt that the reality of so many people crowded my spirit. I thought, “This will be the last I will see of you, Rogers Park,” as I moved away and on with my life. 

Rogers Park had the last laugh. 

It was with some surprise that I found myself living back again in Rogers Park.  As much as I had changed, it had as well. It was still the gritty, melting pot of cultures and people, cheek to jowl.  But now, setting some roots in the neighborhood, that diverse-city that is Rogers Park became beautiful to me. 

The Cambodian grandmother in native dress, smoking a homemade cigar on one block, only to be replaced by the Pakistani woman in full burqa on the next.  The improbable visuals of big city living, such as seeing Nigerian families in their vibrant Sunday best, walking past a plump señora at her taqueria, busily selling carne asada tacos to famished Bulgarians. 

And now, as a homeowner, it was I who was raking leaves, picking up after dogs and late night revelers' Modelo bottles. I was now a part of Rogers Park, a homeowner and not some college-aged observer.

Digging a ditch to bury some electrical cable some years back,  I found a 300 year-old clay pipe that was discarded at what must have been some 18th century lakeside camp for a Pottowatamie Indian or Voyageur perhaps.  Now it was my backyard.  Amazing how this place had and still changes.

The lake still is the main attraction, with its deep blue on summer days with huge thunderheads towering over it.  It was and is the edge of a watery wilderness that Chicago and Rogers Park in particular is perched on. I came to understand that this great finger on the hand of the largest freshwater deposit in the world was indeed our Rocky Mountains. 

And slowly, slowly, I have learned to enjoy the life of being in a place of people, in one of the most diverse communities in the United States, home to over 80 different ethnicities. 

City living can be tough.  The homeless man who liked my driveway for a bathroom.  Occasional prostitutes wending their way along Clark Street, gaunt-faced and twitchy as they drink from their extra large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups. Young gang-bangers hanging outside the market, nervously eyeing oncoming traffic.  The human condition is on full display. And this shadier element somehow exists with the other, more beautiful part of being in Rogers Park. 

Last week, on a tree-lined street not far from my home, a killer at point blank shot a 73 year-old man walking his dog.  A day later, at a popular Rogers Park beach, the same killer struck down a runner. And since it was in Rogers Park, it was no surprise that the victims were as diverse as the neighborhood.  An elderly gay man, and a young hasidic Jew. Killed by some guy wearing a scarf across his face and probably from an equally diverse background. Having not been caught yet as of this writing, I don’t know who or why or what would prompt such reckless disregard for life in such a rich, diverse-city.  

Being on the road and viewing it from the perspective of Evergreen, Colorado, that place, my home, looked like it was menacing, ugly and dangerous.  The sort of place where most people would decide, like I had in 1985, to gladly see the back of. Surely there must be a less risky locale. I worried for Annie and Áine and felt guilty as the worst thing happening in Evergreen that day appeared to be a jaywalking bull elk. 

To leave would be wrong.  There is a certain responsibility to being part of a neighborhood, to celebrate the good and endure the bad.  To run is to submit to the fear that the bad will win. Why should others who can’t run be left behind? It seems unfair. 

At the same time, heroism is the furthest thing from my mind.  I would love to see this guy caught. I would love to see the gangs disbanded.  I would welcome the end to the hookers, dealers and petty thieves. But in an odd way, that “gentrification” of sorts would take away some of the parts that makes Rogers Park what it is. The attempt to sanitize the city would only sweep the human condition under the carpet.  It would still be there, just pushed to another neighborhood or even the suburbs.

Better in some ways to face it.  To walk the same streets as the killer and acknowledge the hooker and homeless.  Shop the market where the gang-bangers gather and embrace the honesty that is living in a modern city, with its sins and sinners.   

So, we neighbors look out for each other.  We learn to be street smart and cautious in our ways.  But still, we gather for the festivals and linger along the lake.  Our very existence, in the face of danger, real danger, is an act of defiance in and of itself.  Perhaps it is foolish, but I believe seeing the full human condition is important for Áine, important for myself.   

 For as bad as things can seem, Rogers Park is always filled with light and beauty by virtue of its residents.  In my little block alone there’s Áine’s babysitter, Ana, who came from Portugal and shows nothing but love to our daughter. Our neighbors across the street, Dee and Walter, old hippies and artists who have witness the neighborhood transform several times over since they moved here in the '70s.  And down the street live Nadia and Sandeep, awaiting the arrival of their new baby who will combine the beauty of his Mexican and Indian genes. Around the corner there's Dusty and Jason, both college professors and like us, seasoned veterans of our little block. Or the newest couple Chance and David, moving back into the home David’s great-grandfather lived in.  And of course, just a 10-minute walk away there's Annie's best friend Chandra, who knows just about everyone in Rogers Park, and who for Annie is probably the number one perk of moving here seven years ago. 

 I could go on about the diversity in the beauty that in its daily simplicity outshines any darkness. And, I am grateful for the rich tapestry of people. For as beautiful nature is, it is the nature of the beauty in us all that actually makes this world remarkable. And for that reason, I do find Rogers Park a beautiful place to live.

Martin McCormack
WayGoodMusic.com​

[Our friends Martin and Brian have asked me to drop the old phonograph needle on some of their tunes, perhaps some lesser known, and report back to everyone.]

There’s hardly a genre in modern U.S. music any wider or more inclusive than Americana. McCormack and Brian FitzGerald have a stake under that big tent.

We listeners come to this music looking to hear familiar sounds: strummed guitars, harmonizing and beats we’ve known forever. We also come to hear earthy details, placenames and histories that resonate in our lives.

Switchback treats us time and again to these cultural snapshots, these short stories that long linger in the telling of our time. On their 2002 The Fire that Burns (re-released on their recent Twentieth Anniversary Collection) we get several. One is “The Farmer Leaves the Dell,” a sad update on a song many of us sang as children. This time there’s no Hi-ho, the derry-o; now it’s failed crops and poor credit, our farmer “hoodwinked in a desperate sell.”

Brian’s clear voice tells this farm-crisis tale. His story rings all the truer and rings all the closer to our hearts because it rides on American musical history, the very essence of Americana. Still, for all the misfortune, Brian’s vocal spins a tale not with all hope lost for all time.

Martin joins in on the chorus. Here their harmonized voices make the farmer’s plight into something more universal, surely a trait of this genre as well as others. They sing: “When you don’t know which way to go / It’s a lonely road.” And what would Americana be without its much-used image of the road?

My own September is wonderfully full of this kind of music, first Jason Isbell leaning toward the country side and then the Avett Brothers’ grungy bluegrass. Next month it’s Switchback taking a local stage. I can’t wait to revel in more well-told stories, sound-paintings to help us see ourselves and frame the fascinating world around us. 
                                                         
 is an itinerant washboard player who has freelanced for the New York Times, Washington Post and many lesser media. His most honest work was as a pig farmer in central Illinois, where he now lives and occasionally makes dinner for Switchback.)