I don’t know…there’s just something about Bakersfield. Every time the highway gets me close, my heart seems to beat a little faster. Coming up to Oildale. Thinking about Merle Haggard, and about the time he walked through a jam down at the doubletree during the great 48, and how people picked outside the door to his room just to say that they did, all the while hoping he’d come out and join them for tune or two. This is the town that rebelled against the syrupy string arrangements of the 1950’s and 60’s Nashville and gave us gritty Country Western with a backbeat and a pedal steel music that extended from the baked skinned leathered hands of the dustbowl immigrants that built these oil wells and tilled this soil back when men were men and life was hard. And there was life in their music. A toughness that can’t be faked. Watching on old youtube video of Rose Maddox makes you want to step out of the dance floor and let it go with all you got. This is the town that understood Hank Williams. A place that worked hard and loved hard and played hard. A town where a party was always going on at Sam’s place.
Once Again at the Great 48
I remember the first time I saw Buck Owens Crystal palace. I thought it would be bigger…more grand, but no, this is Bakersfield… Down home. ..Even in it’s palaces.
Bluegrass is at home here. There’s the sound of fiddles coming through a lot of windows.
I’m gonna be here this weekend. Picking until my fingers fall off.
Pickin’ in the hallways of the Doubletree. Pickin’ in the elevator, and the lobby, and in the welcome suite. I’ll be listening for the thump of the doghouse bass in closed hotel rooms. Looking for old and new friends inflicted with the same musical disease the afflicts me. Hope to see you there. Because that’s what it’s all about.
