Authors: Ricky Skaggs
The schedule did free me up for some music. Whenever I could get away from the power plant, I'd slip on up to D.C. and sit in with bands at bluegrass clubs like the Shamrock in Georgetown and the Red Fox in Bethesda. I could justify it to myself because I had my regular job at VEPCO.
After a while, there came a reckoning. Could I play music part-time to feed my soul and hold down a job to pay the bills? Some musicians in D.C. did just that. Well, I thought I could pull it off, too. I really gave it a try.
There was a catch, though. Most of the other part-timers enjoyed what they did for a living. And here I was a boiler-room operator, and not too good at it, either. I started to realize that in order to make that arrangement viable, you had to like your regular job and do it pretty darn well, too. Otherwise, you were gonna be miserable or eventually get fired. On the night shift, one of my main weekly duties was to clean the boiler out. Down in the basement was a huge turbine boiler like something out of a science-fiction movie, with coils and pipes winding to the top. The water shot up in the boiler, and it'd get hotter and hotter as it went to the top, where the turbine moved so fast and so powerful you couldn't even see the steam. If there was ever a leak, you were supposed to hit the floor and crawl for your life, 'cause it'd just cut your head off like a laser.
The intense heat would cause some of the excess oil, called slag, to get all over the pipes and fall into the pool of water down at the bottom. Once a week, you had to flush all the nasty slag out. It was like mucking out a hog pen.
One night I had the pool drained and cleaned, and I turned the water jets on to fill it up again. It usually took about an hour, and after you were done you'd have to call upstairs so the system could be restarted. It should have been easy.
I had brought my banjo to work. There was a break room upstairs with lockers and a little lunch table. I was just sitting there practicing my Santford Kelly clawhammer to pass the time while the water filled back up in the boiler.
So there I was, relaxing in the break room, just playing and singing. You know how the labels warn you not to take certain medications while operating heavy machinery? Well, for me, music is a powerful medication, and I let the time get away from me.
It must have been an hour or so before a light bulb went on in my head and I realized what I'd forgot about. Talk about a shock. I hollered, “Oh, crap!” and jumped out of the chair like a scared rabbit. I threw my banjo into the locker and ran back down to the basement. It was too late.
There were fifty-gallon oil drums floating on a lake of water that covered the basement floor. Water had overflowed from the boiler bottom and was flooding the whole room. I had to hit the emergency switch, the last thing you want to do at a power plant. The supervisor rushed in and saw what a mess I'd made and was ready to kill me, 'cause all the equipment was getting wet. 'Course, I felt awful I'd let this happen.
My supervisor was the nicest boss you could have, too, and I had to see him standing knee-deep in water. I knew I'd let him down. He didn't fire me or raise a big stink. He knew as well as I did that the job wasn't for me, and that I was just biding my time.
Sometimes, it takes a big mess to push you to make a clean break. This was one of those times. After flooding the basement, I knew in my heart that God created me to be a musician, not a high-pressure boiler operator.
I was still pretty desperate, though, and that's when Bill Emerson came to the rescue. Out of the blue, Bill called me on the phone. He wanted to know if I could help out on fiddle for a big session the Country Gentlemen had in a few weeks. He said the Gents had just signed a contract with Vanguard Records, and they wanted to be a national act. They needed me for the first session with the label, scheduled in New York in a few weeks. I was ready. I told Bill I'd do anything they needed me to do. I had that weekend off, and I'd be ready to play for the studio date. I missed music so bad I was ready to join the Salvation Army Band. When I hung up the phone, I was fired up. Playing fiddle for the Country Gentlemen! Washington, D.C., was a hotbed for bluegrass in those days. It had a reputation as the “Bluegrass Capital of the World” because there were so many venues that catered to the bluegrass and country music crowd. It had been that way for years, after Southern migrants moved to D.C. and Baltimore for work during and after World War II.
To get ready for the studio sessions, I took my fiddle and sat in with the Gents at the Shamrock, where they had a regular gig. Right off, it felt great to be back doing what I loved. The Gents had never had a fiddler, so I was free to follow whatever style I wanted to play. I felt a new sense of purpose. The Gents would throw me a solo, and I'd just wing it. It worked! It was nothing fancy. I was playing a jumbled style based on my favorite fiddlers, Benny Martin, Santford Kelly, and Curly Ray Cline. I was mixing all those influences together to suit myself, and it fit the direction the Gents wanted to go in.
At the studio for the Vanguard session, I wasn't nervous, 'cause there wasn't any pressure. The Gents had also invited Mike Auldridge to play Dobro on the album, and he was as easy-going as they come and an awesome musician. I didn't have to worry about filling anybody's shoes, so I was able to add my own style to the mix. It was the first time I'd ever recorded with a band where it was so loose. The Gents told me, “Hey, man, just play what you feel. Just play what you hear. Don't worry about a thing!”
The Vanguard album was a landmark for the Gents, and it was good timing for me. After the session, they asked me to join the band. Brenda was happy for me when I told her about the offer. She knew I was gonna be a happier husband playing music again, and she loved bluegrass enough to know what an opportunity it was to be part of the Country Gentlemen. And I knew I wasn't cut out for anything else but music. The next day I gave my notice at VEPCO, and I never looked back. Ever since, I've made my living in the music business.
I
didn't get to sing much with the Gents, though, and I missed it. They already had the vocal sound they wanted. So I was kinda stuck back there playing fiddle, but that was all right. I still had a lot of learning to do. Fiddle became my best friend again, and I realized how much I'd missed playing it.
This was another apprenticeship, but it was a different kind of education than I got with Ralph. Working for him was the best training ground to learn the fundamentals, a bachelor's degree from the Stanley School of mountain music. If the Clinch Mountain Boys were my college, then the time in Washington, D.C., with the Country Gentlemen was my graduate school. I was young and green, so it helped that the band was so encouraging. I heard later on that Charlie Waller wasn't too keen on hiring a fiddle player, and that Emerson and Doyle Lawson advocated on my behalf, and I appreciate what they did for me. Once I got on board, Charlie was a prince and a fine guy to work for. He was very complimentary about my ability, and he was nice to me right from the start.
Now, Charlie drank an awful lot, and everybody knew it. He never hid it, and it was just the way he was. I was always worried about him 'cause he put back so much vodka, his drink of choice. He drank pretty much throughout the day, but he always sang just fine. Sometimes, by the second show, he might have had a little more than he needed, but it didn't affect his job so far as I could tell.
And the drinking didn't affect his demeanor, at least not around me. Now, I've heard stories about Charlie being ornery. I think most people just didn't know him well enough. All I know is what I saw myself, and I'll tell you that I lived with Charlie Waller on the road and he was just as nice to me early in the morning at breakfast as he was after we finished the last set of the night.
It was a good time for me. I was able to pay my bills, and I was in a band playing at the top of its game. And the D.C. bluegrass scene was vibrant. Charlie even let me sit in with other bands when the opportunity struck.
N
ot long after I joined the Country Gentlemen, the Shamrock gig dried up. The Gents had played that Georgetown bar regular for years. Too much of anything can get old. After a while, the sign above the stage, “Yes! We Have Cold Duck,” don't seem funny anymore. It just seems lame.
So we were working more on the festival circuit, and a lot of the festivals were up north where the Gents had a big following, especially with the college crowd. We were at a gig at a club called the Lone Star Café in New York City when a local guy came up to me and said, “I've heard you with the guys, and I like your fiddle-playing a lot!” Well, this New York fella, Steven Price, he had a present for me. He later wrote a history of bluegrass called
Old as the Hills
, and he was one of those hardcore fans that made the bluegrass scene so exciting and fun in the '70s. “Here's some of the greatest music I've ever heard,” he said. “And I think you're gonna love it, too.”
He then handed me an album by Django Reinhardt. It was an RCA import compilation, a double-LP set with a heavy gatefold sleeve featuring a caricature of Django, the great gypsy jazz guitarist. I took it home and wore out the grooves. When Django played, you could tell his heart was bigger than his guitar. Most of the songs on the record were with violinist Stéphane Grappelli, and together they were dynamite. These were their classic recordings from the '30s, “Ol' Man River,” “Tiger Rag,” and “I Got Rhythm,” all these cool tunes were on there.
But it was more than just cool. It really
was
some of the greatest music I'd ever heard, and it blew my head off. I loved the rhythm, the tightness, and the interplay of a small combo. It was so dang lively. Here was this hot swing jazz from before my dad's time, and it was still fresh as the dew. It sounded a lot like bluegrass, and it amazed me that this was ten years before Bill Monroe had started the Blue Grass Boys! It had the same elements, the spontaneity and the improvisation, wide open and for the sheer fun of it. It was spur-of-the-moment stuff, and I was hooked.
Hearing Django and Grappelli was an oasis for me. Not that I was completely parched, but their music came into my life at a time when I was ready and primed for new and different sounds. That double album was like getting money from home without writing for it! A pure gift of a new musical world that I never even knew existed and yet totally connected with. If you keep your ears open, there's always something new to inspire you, even if it was recorded in a Paris nightclub in 1938. Thanks, Steven Price, for a gift that's never stopped giving!
It wasn't so much technique that I got from Django and Grappelli, it was the feeling of freedom I heard in their music. Like I told you, with the Gentlemen it wasn't so important that I play the melody. I could take off on my own and explore. But when you go off like that, you better know where you're going, or you're gonna get lost. Listening to Grappelli gave me new ideas more than new licks. He created a sound with his violin that captured my imagination. It was the classical touch with a jazz and blues feeling, and he made it swing. It gave me confidence to stretch out, and keep the melody in mind, too.
For the time being, I was still a picker and glad to get any odd jobs I could. In Washington, there was plenty of session work, and the Gents were happy to let me take the jobs when they came. Tony Rice came to town to cut a record called
California Autumn
, produced by John Starling. I sang harmony with Tony on that record and loved it. We sung like brothers, not the Stanley mountain-style thing, but just as magical.
Tony was progressive in his guitar picking, but he also loved the pre-war brother duets and the pre-bluegrass style of harmony. With Tony, we could cover new territory. We'd start out with Lester and Earl's “My Little Girl in Tennessee” and the duet songs of the Monroe Brothers, and then switch gears into Gordon Lightfoot or Hoagy Carmichael. With Tony's talent, it was all seamless, 'cause he made the transition seem natural and right. It was a ride that took in a lot of scenery, and I was right there with him. This was a new direction, just what I was looking for when I left Ralph.
The mountain music was part of me, but I didn't feel the need to flaunt it. I could pull it out whenever I wanted to use it. When it was called for, I was ready to oblige. Former Country Gentlemen cofounder John Duffey had a new group in Washington called the Seldom Scene. I sat in with them many memorable nights at the Red Fox Inn in Bethesda, Maryland, a suburb of D.C. John asked me to play fiddle for the
Old Train
album, the one with Linda Ronstadt on harmony vocals, and I was happy to help. They worked up a Monroe gospel song, “The Old Crossroads” from the mid-'40s and arranged it for full ensemble, with Linda adding just the right touch.
The old-time vibe was part of my DNA. I knew the vocabulary of the songs, especially the hymns. I knew how to pronounce the words the way you would back in the mountains, how to sing 'em, and how it all fit together. I was proud, and flattered, too, that the D.C. bluegrass crowd loved and respected the music tradition I was raised on. There was a real brotherhood of bluegrass in D.C., a real openness between the musicians, and I could thrive in that sort of sunshine. We were all friends; there was enough work for everybody. I was a full-time employee for Charlie, and he didn't mind me playing gigs and sessions as long as it didn't interfere with my job with the Gentlemen. I never missed a show, and I was always there on time.
I
n the spring of 1974, Roy Lee Centers was murdered by a jealous rival in Jackson, Kentucky, where his family came from and where he lived. He was twenty-nine, and he left behind a huge legacy in the Clinch Mountain Boys as one of the best pure bluegrass singers ever. Through the years, lots of folks have asked me about Roy Lee, wanting to know what kind of person he was. Not much to tell, really. Just a good ol' Kentucky boy. He was a fun guy to travel with, always cheerful and laughing. You know the type, happy-go-lucky and game for anything. Never had much, didn't expect much. Loved his kids and his wife and lived for music. Every show, he gave it the best he had. I liked Roy Lee a lot.