The Church of the Exceptional

       The elderly pianist played much like a child, and halted at the difficult passages. “Jesus Loves Me This I Know…” She missed a few notes, but it still was rendered with a simple beauty. It brought memories of childhood when I’d skip piano lessons to play baseball instead.

       In fact, other than a few volunteers, the entire congregation had some form of mental handicap. They were child-like, though many of them were now into middle age. Most sang off-key, but no one fussed.

       The songs were like Vacation Bible School; “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” “Amazing Grace,” “This Land is Your Land;” that sort of thing. On “This Little Light of Mine” they held up imaginary lights and let ’em shine. They sent out simple prayers for friends to get over heart trouble or belly aches. They had a penny offering; they didn’t ask for or need much.

        It was me and Marfar, the Banjo Diva, the girl singer, guitar lady and her urologist husband who has taken up mandolin. His voice-over for the animals on “Creatures Great and Small” was the ticket, though. The moo cow was the hit of the day. They loved him.

        Every single one of them thanked us for coming, and bid us a safe trip home. “Where are yous’uns from?” one asked.

        “Harvey County.”

         “Never heered of hit.” He shook my hand with great vigor. “You come back?”

        “Yes.”

        “Good!” The man skipped down the ramp and called out to a friend. “They gonna come back.”     

        We loaded up our equipment, stood out on the parking lot for a moment and ate some peanuts the Banjo Diva brought from the Fair. I’m near an old man now, but these folks reminded me of childhood days at my grandmother’s country church so many years ago. I can’t describe why, but they always make me feel young. I never fail to be appreciative of my immense good fortune in life.

       Those of us who God gave some degree of raw intelligence can learn something from the mentally handicapped. They have the heart and minds of children. If we were granted enough brain to negotiate our way through the world with relative ease, we should never forget the blessing we have. All of us “sophisticated” people would do well to keep the heart of a child like the folks at The Church of the Exceptional. They were never quite smart enough to learn how to be mean-spirited, and they can help us forget it for a while.

Dr. B

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Opening for David Holt

        Well the ladies did just great.  After only two years of playing they opened for David Holt and did a fine job.  The Banjo Diva had ’em up and stomping to ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’ and Ms. Emma wowed ’em to the point of singing along on ‘When You’re Smiling.’  Kelly on the rhythm guitar and my Marfar on the bass were a solid rhythm section and old Doc was the snare drum backbeat on the mando.   As we anticipated, the sound guys were seasoned pros, and made it easy.

        I was like a proud papa.  They told me I could stay as long as I wanted.  All of them are younger than me, but they even promised to pick me up at the Nursing Home when the time came so I could keep on playing.  I like loyalty.

        I have to admit my favorite part was a duet with my Marfar on ‘Gold Watch and Chain.’  You know the line.  When we got to the word ‘love’ she’d cut those big brown eyes my way as if to say, “Old man, I don’t how you keep getting me into these things, but O.K. yeah, I do dig playing to 1,000 people.  Cool gig.”

        If you’ve never been to a David Holt show please go.  He is the world’s leading authority on old time music.  The man went to the source and lived in the N.C. mountains for years to study traditional music.  He is an expert on clawhammer banjo, guitar, jaw harp, harmonica, percussion oddities of all sorts, story telling, and Appalachian history.  His bass man was Will McIntrye and he is steeped in three decades of traditional music too.  If you want to see something real, go see them.  David is an American treasure.  We sure were proud to open for him.

         We hadn’t eaten all day, so after the show me and Marfar went to the Waffle House to get a bite to eat.  As we sat there, I thought about how lucky I am.  I have been a full tilt Doc all my life, but my partners are willing to cover me long enough to pursue my other life too.  I’ve gotten to open for some of the best musicians in the world.

         But most of all I have  a lovely wife who plays a mean bass, sings good, and is still a cute girl who is willing to follow me on my crazy journey with enthusiasm.  I’m at the age where a lot of women would want me sit home and watch T.V. and I just can’t do it.  And she still counts the Waffle House as a fine place to go on a date and has no complaints when it is all that is open.

        I don’t see how a man could ask for more than that.

        I got an e-mail from my agent.  A couple of publishers are intrigued by our story.  They say, “Let me see if I got this right.  A Doc who plays bluegrass music.  A complicated medical legal saga solved by bluegrass musicians and the hospital maintenance man in a small County in North Carolina?  And the Doc’s best friend was part Choctaw Indian who drank too much and played the fiddle?  Is this guy for real?”

         I expect those of you who have been reading my blog a while would have the same reaction as my wife did at the Waffle House.  Some one came up and asked, “Is he a real Doctor?”

        Marfar smiled and said, “I’m afraid so.  You want to hear the whole story?”

        “Sure.”

         Marfar handed her a card.  “Read his book when it comes out.  If you get him started we’ll be up all night, and the boy is gonna wear me out.”

       The lady looked at the card and stuck it in her pocket.  “O.K. I will.  We enjoyed the show.”

       We waved bye to her.  “See you out on the bluegrass road,” Marfar said.  “You haven’t seen the last of us I’m sure.”

        “Oh, I hope not.  It was a fun show.”

       I’m gonna crash for the night.  Before I do though, I’m gonna say a prayer for my little Australian buddy Possum who is scheduled for open heart surgery.  And then I’m gonna add one for the kids out there I don’t know who face something similar.  Y’all sleep tight.  This old energizer bunny needs to put the battery on recharge.

Dr. B

Don’t Worry Till Dr. B Says Worry

        Today’s post is dedicated to my blog pal Ms. Karen in Australia.  Her son Possum is scheduled for open heart surgery.  My post is all but unrelated that serious event, but I thought she might enjoy the levity for a moment.

“On the Road With Guitared and Feathered”   

        Well, they are ready.  They have practiced their set for two months.  I like to think I’ve helped.  A couple years ago when the mandolin player in my wife’s band got married and moved away, my wife asked if I would fill in.  I guess it is like when I married my wife.  Once I’m committed I never leave, and I’m still with her band too.

         “Sure, I’ll help out.”  How could I say no to someone that cute?  They were early in their music journey, but they were having fun, and besides they always had the best snacks.  Teach bluegrass music to a bunch of beautiful women?  Hm.  It’s tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.    

         They are all set to open a show for David Holt.  They are so scared it’s cute.  I gave ’em a pep talk.  “Look guys, it’s only music.  If we miss a note no one dies.   Think of it like neurosurgery.  If you mess up just don’t say oops.”  There was an uneasy collective laugh.  “Besides, y’all are so good looking, they’re gonna overlook it if you hit a bad note or two.”  They all smiled.  They really are that good looking, especially the bass player, but a bit of honest flattery never hurt me in marriage and I figured it wouldn’t with the band either.

        I’ve taught ’em all about set arrangements and ear monitors.  We have all the breaks co-ordinated.  The Banjo Diva is our emcee and I am her straight man.  If they get nervous and can’t think up something to say I have long since memorized the “The Bluegrass Book of 1001 Tall Tales” after years on stage.  The harmonies are tight and they work that two mic set-up I got them started on with a choreography the Ziegfield Follies Dancers would be proud of.

        There was one thing I couldn’t coach ’em on though.  No one is gonna accuse me of being a good lead singer.  But they followed my advice even on that subject.  They went down to the church house, listened to all of them, and recruited the best one in the choir.  “Almost all good bluegrass singers came up singing in church,” I told ’em.  “Get that one if you can.  As far as lead singing, that’s the only way I can help you.”  (Over time Ms. Emma helped me some on that.  Now I can get by on a couple numbers, but I don’t need to give up my day job.)

        All their gear is packed up and ready to go.  They all have extra strings and each one carries a spare nine volt battery for the in-ear monitors.  We’re gonna use the same stage set up they are accustomed to, but they will have a pro sound man.  In the ear it’ll sound just like the living room.  I figured that would relax them. 

        At the last practice before the gig they presented me with a fuchsia shirt and a hair clippy to use with my ear monitor.  They said for a guy I was just one of the girls.  I took it as a compliment.

        They might be early on in their music journey, but I am no pro either, and it is all fun.  Besides it has it’s benefits.  The last time we played the Nursing Home one elderly lady recognized me from T.V. and asked much I got paid for playing with them. 

        I borrowed a line from Lee Trevino.  “Well ma’am, the money ain’t that great, but the bass player lets me sleep with her.”   Marfar turned red and I thought she was gonna kill me, but by the time I loaded up all the sound equipment by myself, she’d gotten over it.

        Well so much for foolishness.  We have a saying at the office:   “Don’t worry till Dr B. says worry.”  And the truth is I worry a lot but prepare more.  One you’ve done all you can that is all you can do.  And in the case of little Possum’s open heart surgery, that is why it, like the show with David Holt, will come off without a hitch.

          I will let y’all know how the gig goes, but far more important y’all say a few prayers for Ms. Karen’s young’un.  If everyone prays hard his odds are so much better.  I am a man of science (and art) and there are good studies that demonstrate improved medical outcomes from spirituality.  Ms. Karen, don’t worry till Dr. B says worry, but at the same time be prepared.  I know you will be.

Dr. B

Another Bluegrass First

        Every so often I tell y’all about playing mandolin in my wife’s bluegrass band.  Their mandolin picker got married and moved away, and I filled in to help out.  It became a permanent gig.  I guess they figure I ain’t gonna run off and get married.  (And they are right about that!)

        They are early in their music journey, but their sound has started to gel.  They just found out they are gonna play a teacher convention this summer and open for David Holt, so they told me I can’t leave.  They don’t want to break in a new mandolinist before that one.  They don’t have to worry.  If Marfar wants me to play the mandolin, you can be sure I’m gonna say yes.

       As we have discussed before, playing music with an all female (except for me) band is different.  They know all sorts of new colors, like chartreuse or fuchsia, and they e-mail suggestions to color coordinate for their shows.  They talk about soaps and shampoos and I think at times they talk about other things, but that’s when they get quiet when I walk in. 

        When I came home from work last night Marfar and Betty Jo  (the Harvey County Banjo Diva) were scurrying around the kitchen, and putting out all kinda knick-knacks.

        “Here Doc.  Sign this,” Betty Jo said.

          “What is it?”  I asked.  (Dumb man response)

           “A birthday card.  It’s Eva’s birthday,” Marfar replied.  We’re gonna have a birthday party before we play.”

        It was another bluegrass first for me.  In all the years I have picked music with my guys, I don’t recall anyone ever getting a birthday card, or even recognition of the day.  I don’t care if it is stereotypical to say it, but in general women are more thoughtful than men, and it doesn’t bother me to admit it.

         I’m here to tell ya, that strawberry yum-yum was killer.  Maybe they’ll get me some mandolin strings for my birthday.  I’m  sure not gonna forget Marfar’s, but she’ll have to remind me of the other ones.  I ain’t that good.

Dr. B

The Difference in Bluegrass Men and Women

        Now I know what you are thinking; we don’t need a Doc to tell us this.  And you are right.  But after the post about ‘Guitared and Feathered,’ I thought I ought to tell her as far as bluegrass bands there are some differences when you play with women as opposed to men.

        None of this has anything to do with ability.  All you have to do is listen to Sierra Hull play the mandolin- old Doc can’t hang with that kid, and I’ve been a player a long time.  Or check out Kristin Scott Benson.  She doesn’t weigh much more than a Gibson banjo in a Mark Leaf case, but she is the IBMA banjo player of the year.  No one could argue Rhonda Vincent is not a sharp business woman as well as a fine player and singer.  And Alison Krauss long since put to rest the rumor you had to be old and ugly to play the fiddle.

        But in spite of all that there are differences.   The last time I played with ‘Guitared and Feathered’ there was a discussion of what type of soap they were using  at the time.  Now I’ve picked bluegrass music with our banjo man Moose Dooley  for almost three decades, and I have no idea what kind of soap the boy uses.  And talk about snacks. They had all kinda little sandwiches you can eat in one bite, and birthday cakes every time you turn around.  No beer and pretzels for those cats.

        They are versatile instrumentalists, too.  You have to play your mandolin in all sorts of different keys to accompany their voices.  Bill Monroe himself said it was up to the musicians to adapt to where the singers were comfortable, not the opposite.  If Monroe said it it is in the bluegrass Bible.

        They have even helped me in my quest to be a writer.  You better learn how to express yourself with some degree of sophistication and subtlety.  They expect you to understand English without having to hit you over the head with a ball bat.

        And even if my Marfar is the bass player I have to say they are quite a bit cuter than Moose or Warbler in Neuse River.  It might be Chanel Number 5 instead of Old Spice, but it is still bluegrass, and a fine version if I say so myself.

Dr. B

A Day For An Old Banjo Man

        I’ve told y’all about my wife’s band before- ‘Guitared and Feathered’ is their name.

        And I’ve also mentioned she is excellent at befriending elderly men. They all love her.  (Can’t say I blame ’em.)

        Last week they had a gig.  She called me on her way home.  (Sometimes I help them out, but I had to work that day.)   They had played at Hospice, and some guy wheeled up and said he was a banjo player.  He had someone go back to his room and they returned with an old open-back banjo; one of those with a calf skin head.

        Two strings were missing, but Betty Jo, the banjo player for Guitared and Feathered, broke open a pack and tuned it up.

        The guy sat in the wheelchair and picked along with them.  Marfar said he missed a few notes, but she could tell he was a player in his day.  They introduced him to the crowd as a celebrity guest for the band.

         Don’t you know it made his day?  Heck, it made mine for her to call and tell me about it.  I’m glad I’ve got her.  She’s an expert on elderly men, and I’m closing in on it in a hurry.

Dr. B

Marfar’s Birthday Weekend

        One thing I learned from my wife was how to celebrate.  Christmas goes full tilt from Thanksgiving to Epiphany.  And we don’t just have birth-DAYS, but birthday weekends.

       I was off duty all weekend, and as we say in bluegrass it was a large time.  The only ground rule was she got to set the agenda.   Seeing as she was the Birthday Girl, it was only fitting.  So, Friday night we started with a chick flick. (remind me to tell you about “The Mirror has Two Faces.”) 

        Saturday was the big show at the Senior Center with Guitar-ed and Feathered.  They all did wear black slacks, but dang if they didn’t choose fuchsia for their blouses.  I got off the hook, though, when I said my black on tan print shirt accessorized better with my complexion.  I had no idea what it meant – I read it on one of my lady readers’ weblog.  That seemed to impress the band,  and they went along with my chosen attire. 

       We went to the warm up room and I could tell right away this was gonna be a different sort of gig.  For one thing they were nervous, like a bunch of kids, and my guys have gotten over all that.  It was like way back when we first started out with all the nervous anticipation- made you feel downright young.  The atmosphere was quite unfamiliar- I’m not sure what those ladies wore for perfume but I’m positive it wasn’t essence of chewing tobacco, sweat and Old Spice.

        All ’em did just fine; both the lead and harmony work were on pitch, and they even started and ended together, an essential performance prerequisite.  As a tune rocks along, you can tangle it up some and get by, but if you wreck the ending people don’t forget it.  Marfar did extra good on the bass, and they let me sing one- it was a variety show, and I was sure enough that for them.    

        By the end of the show they indeed did have ’em all smiling.  My wife has some special way with elderly gentlemen- it never fails.  One of the seniors had been a bass player for Mac Wiseman on a swing through the Carolinas in the 50’s.  He dug my wife’s playing, and came up after the show to tell us a bunch of old tales.  Bluegrass people are about the same everywhere you go.

        That night we went to hear the River Band.  Somehow Sammy Shelton found out about Marfar and did a bar of Happy Birthday for her.  For those of y’all outside the bluegrass world, you just gotta hear Sammy- the cat rocks the banjo.  One thing even a lot of bluegrass people don’t know know is he is also a very fine electric Tele guitar man, and sits in with a number of country and rock bands when not on tour with the River Band.  (This is why he had to let his hair grow out so long.)  Neither a little rock ‘n roll or long hair bother the bluegrass crowd, though.  They are very tolerant people, especially if a man can pick like Sammy.

        Sunday we slept in (we had subs lined up for our church band gig) and ate cold pizza then went shopping first thing.  They had some fine specials out at the mall, and I got her the present I told you about- a GPS that talks to you.  It was her birthday present, but I figured it would save me some trouble down the bluegrass road.  You know men- they never want to stop and ask for directions!

        The whole thing inspired me enough to go be a doctor for another week.  Happy Birthday Weekend Ms. Marfar!

Dr. B

Big Gig with Guitared and Feathered

        Neuse River has some big shows coming up this spring, and I’m gonna tell you all about them.  Right now, though, the  G and F girls are getting the nod for some local gigs, like the one they’re gonna do one at the Senior Center Saturday.

       Their last mandolin player got married and moved to Kentucky, so you know who they hired.  Given Marfar wants me to play the gig, I figured I’d better sign up.

        Being the mandolin man for the ladies is very different than my regular Neuse River gig.  Like I said before, they fix great snacks, tell all kinda funny jokes, and are much better looking than the Neuse River boys.  And they are so darn nice.

        Take mistakes for example.  When you tangle up a break in the Neuse River bluegrass band, them boys give you down the country.  “D*** it Doc, study your instrument.  What the h*** kinda break was that?”

        If you miss a note here, dang if these ladies don’t say somehow it’s their fault.  Beats all I ever saw.  I reckon it’s to make you feel better.  Heck, I missed my cue on “Sunny Side,” not one of them, but they apologized.  I wasn’t sure why.  It sure is a kinder, gentler bluegrass picking.

        The other thing I noticed was they were the personification of that word multitask.  In between tunes, there was all kinda discussion about sick kids, elderly parents and what’s for supper.  (Might have been about cranky husbands had I not been there.)  I was impressed and said I didn’t know how they could think about all that and play music too, and in the male bands I’d been in the guys usually just kept their minds on one thing.  They all took a look at each other and broke up with laughter.  One of em said, “You got that right Dr. Bibey!”  They all laughed some more and then took a break to eat some of my wife’s fine banana bread.  I never did figure out what was so funny.

        And if you and your wife do a duet on “Bye Bye Love,” you better do it with conviction, like if it was to happen it’d break your heart.  (It would.)  On “I’ve Been Living the Blues,” I do not recommend a line like “Since you’ve been gone, I’ve been walking around… with my head bowed down to my shoes,” without adequate emotion, as in “girl, if you wuz gone it would just flat out depress a fellow.”  I think the world of the Warbler or the Moose, but we ain’t close enough for it to matter much, even if good lead singers and banjo players are hard to come by.

       At the end of practice when everyone decides what to wear so as to be color co-ordinated, you gotta be interested.  I was just glad they didn’t choose fuchsia- I don’t think I have any of that and I’m not sure exactly what it is.  Black slacks I can handle. (I think I have some- Marfar said I do.)

       If you want to do extra good, promise to take your wife out to eat after the gig, and then take her to see the River Band- they’re gonna be in town and crank up just a few hours after our show.

        All in all, it was an excellent practice.  I think they are ready for their gig.  I have to tell you though, by the end I felt like a boy who had climbed up into the wrong tree-house, but it was still a fine time.

Dr. B

Birds of a Bluegrass Feather

        Well, as we have said, them bluegrass people are thick as thieves, and it’s even true for the bluegrass animals.  I got  a call from a lady the other day who wondered if we would adopt her Sun Conure bird.  Given its’ name was Sassy Scruggs, it was a little hard to say no. The woman was moving to the Windy City, and gonna be in a big condo where they wouldn’t allow animals, and besides, conures are tropical birds, and the climate didn’t exactly suit their clothes as the song says.  And too, the woman wanted the bird to have a bluegrass home, and she knew I was a player, ’cause she had seen Neuse River on the local cable T.V. station last winter when they ran out of news.

        As far as me, I don’t care all that much for birds, but I guess the lady knew my wife was a local expert on bird raising, given that she (my wife that is) half raised me.  And too, it might be ’cause we already had a Jen Day conure, which is a close cousin to the Sun variety, so the ladies decided the whole situation was meant to be.

        We didn’t have to think it over long anyway.  My wife wanted the bird to have a good home, and I like to see my wife happy, so it was all good.  There was more to it than that, too.  Our bird is a male named Sammy- Bush or Shelor depending on whether a mandolin or banjo player might be coming to dinner.  Sammy and Sassy; we figured it would be a good fit.

        When the lady brought that little conure over to the office I had to ask if she was any kin to Earl, and she wasn’t.  I did know to ooh and aah over the bird, though.  (Hint to the men folks here- if you are around a group of office women and don’t know what to say in this situation, just smile and say, “Isn’t she precious?”)  This always goes over good.

        Matter of fact, when I took the bird home, that’s the first thing my wife said, and I knew to agree, even though I wasn’t exactly sure why.  It is a good home, though.  The bird needed a bluegrass habitat, and she and Sammy get along famously.

        Lynn O’Carroll at the office said she hopes they’ll conjure up a conure, and if they do she wants first dibs.  We get to name it, though.  If is a girl, I’m voting for Alison and my wife likes Vince if it’s a boy.  (He was bluegrass before he was country.)  One thing about it, though- it won’t be a Reno or a Ralph.  I don’t know that much about birds, but it seemed two banjo players in one house was a plenty, even if they don’t chew tobacco.

        My wife thought it was precious.

  Dr. B

Playing Music With the Girls

        You know how when we were growing up boys used to say, “You play good for a girl?”  Well, I played a set with the “Guitar-ed and Feathered” girls tonight, and it was all good.  They might not be as technically advanced as the Neuse River boys, but they are a whole lot better looking, and the bass player is extra cute.  They don’t chew tobacco, either.  Besides, I’ve heard all my adult life I play good for a doctor, so the fact they play good for girls ain’t such a bad thing- I can understand being misunderstood.

      Years ago, I used to play football with a girl named Dale Evans, until one day she just up and quit us and we didn’t know why- I think she went to a dance.  So, playing with the girls is an old habit I reckon, and while I ain’t giving up my regular gig with Neuse River, I think I’ll hold onto this one too.  They tell funny jokes, make good snacks, and they are getting there as singers and players.  Besides, they are good scenery, too- especially that bass player!

Dr. B