It is 1976. I’m driving a yellow, 1972 VW “Bug.” I am not alone. Inside the small cabin of this German import on four wheels is my wife, my ten month old son and his fold-up crib, a large heavy green canvas tent that could have come from WWII, a small bar-be-que, a couple of suit cases, a box of pampers, an ice chest, and what else? Oh yeah, a banjo. We are packed tightly. We are sardines.
A work acquaintance has told me about a small bluegrass festival in the relatively small town of Grass Valley, California, a two and a half hour drive from my home. I ask my buddy, “What’s a bluegrass festival?” He says, “It’s an event where people get together, play bluegrass music in the woods, listen to live bluegrass bands on a stage, cook food, and get lost in a different world.” Then I say, “How good can it be? What’s the big deal? Who will be there? Is it worth the drive?” He responds, “You’ll have to go and find out for yourself. You have to experience it, I can’t really put it into words. You’ll have to struggle to get out of your rut, take a chance, and then see for yourself what it’s all about.” So I go for it.
Pulling off of one of Grass Valley’s main streets, Mc Courtney Road, I drive through Gate 4 of the Nevada County Fairgrounds with my relatively new family, wondering what is going to happen, what it’s all about, if it will be worth the drive, and if it holds any musical mysteries.
As I slowly drive through the fairgrounds searching for a place to camp, musical mysteries do in fact begin to unfold. New, acoustic, backwoods sounds from a small stage emerge. Strangers say, “Howdy,” invite you for a cup of coffee, and more. Banjos, fiddles, mandolins, guitars, and acoustic basses all create a sound that is an auditory feast for those folks who have discovered their inner hick. Captivating sounds that come from here, there, and everywhere, it seems. Tents are spread throughout the wooded landscape, jamming takes place among newborn small tribes, ducks are on the pond, and suddenly you realize that Henry David Thoreau had nothing on the temporary inhabitants here who are attending this bluegrass festival. Nope, no bluegrass music at Walden Pond. Sorry Hank.
A late afternoon breeze now makes its way through the tall pines, and as the sun sinks into the past, the ghosts of California’s early gold miners make their way into the crowd that is gathered around the five bluegrass musicians on stage. Yes, ghosts that can no longer contain their unquenchable thirst for life, as the Lazarus Moon slowly rises through the expectant forest.
And now the stage becomes the focus of the festival. The stage that supports five bluegrass musicians who share their musical gifts with those less fortunate. Those less fortunate who do not play a wood and wire contraption that exceeds the sum of its parts, and those who have never ventured into the world of singing out loud in the midst of strangers. Strangers here who will transform into friends within the mere passing of three days at this festival. Not just a festival, but more of a bluegrass experience.
And now the years have gone by. The newborn festival has grown and developed, adapted, weathered the various faces of adversity, and survived. Yes, for the past forty years, every year since that first experiment in the bluegrass laboratory, this California outdoor bluegrass festival comes to life, dies, and then is born again in the middle of June. From that first festival in the early 1970’s with a few hundred people, it has now become a monolithic magnet that attracts thousands of people over the course of four days. Thousands who are hungry, get fed, get hungry again, and return for more every year. The diminutive stage of the past has grown into in giant “Momma” stage, which has given birth to two smaller stages. Live bluegrass music overflows from ten in the morning to ten at night. A life of its own. For some, a reason for living. For all, a musical injection into the spirit.
Right now I’m driving again on Mc Courtney Road in Grass Valley, getting ready to make a right turn into Gate 4 of the fairgrounds. Ready to make my way into the CBA’s 41st Annual Fathers Day Festival of all things bluegrass, California style.
It is 2016. I am not driving a “Bug.” I am alone.
