Read no. 9

Greetings!

With this issue of WIB, we enter our third year of existence!I am amazed, pleased, excited, and grateful all rolled intoone. I appreciate all of you who have subscribed, re-subscribed, and ordered subscriptions for others. I thank all ofyou for your comments, both positive and negative. Youwouldn’t believe how encouraging it is to have someonewrite and say, “Thanks for what you’re doing.” And I dolove doing it!

Editorial: A Bone To Pick

I don’t know how many of you attended the IBMA TradeShow and Fan Fest this year, but I encourage all of you tomark it on your calendars as an annual event. I was encouraged by the number of women out picking in the late nightjams. They were all over the place! Seeing women outjamming encourages other women to play bluegrass. That brings me to my bone to pick. There were very fewwomen participating on stage at the Awards Show. LynnMorris, Hazel Dickens, Claire Lynch, Sally Van Meter, andLaurie Lewis were the only ones. That was it. And only twoof these were performers: Lynn and Claire. (Hazel got anaward and Laurie and Sally were presenters.) Laurie wasrushed on stage at the last minute, it seemed, so there wouldbe a woman on stage for the Grand Finale. Possibly realizingwhat was going on, she stood at the back of the pack anddeclined to take the 25th break in “Rawhide.” Needless tosay, I was very distressed. So were a number of other womenwhom I talked to.

I realize that Executive Producers/Talent CoordinatorsOrin Friesen and Dell Davis put an immense amount of timeand energy into producing and arranging the Awards Show.I appreciate and applaud their dedication. And I realize, too,that at the Awards Show, the idea is to showcase bands andmusicians who have been nominated for awards. But, andthis is a big BUT, as of right now, not many women are beingnominated for awards. Let’s take a look.

Of the 30 musicians nominated this year for InstrumentalPerformers, 3 were women: Alison Krauss, Sally Van Meter,and Missy Raines. Lynn Morris was the sole woman involved in the nominations for Instrumental Recording of theYear and Album of the Year. She and Sharon Horovitch ofSouthern Rail were the only women represented in theGospel Category. For Song of the Year, Lynn, Hazel Dickens(for writing “Mama's

Hand”), and Gillian Welch (forwriting “Tear My Stillhouse Down”) were nominated.Alison Krauss was the only woman visible in 3 categories:Instrumental Group. Vocal Group, and Entertainer of theYear. There were no women represented in EmergingArtists or Recorded Event of the Year. Total: Only 7 womennominated.

I am not really complaining about the slim selection ofwomen. These nominees are selected by their peers and thatis us. I think and hope that as more women in bluegrassbecome visible nationally, they will gamer more nominations. And I’m not slamming the fine men and their bandswho won awards. What I am suggesting is that since so fewwomen are being nominated now, the Awards Show mustinclude more women on stage playing bluegrass even ifthey have not been nominated for a final award.

To have an Awards Show that consists overwhelmingly ofmen presents an

unrepresentative picture of bluegrass today.That was bluegrass 50 years ago. That was bluegrass 25years ago when I started playing. I can well remember thegiant jam sessions that were held at the end of many festivals:all men. Where was there a place for me? Where was thevision of what I could accomplish when I learned to play thebanjo?

What could have been done differently at this AwardsShow? One of the bands that was put together consisted ofex-Blue Grass Boys. When I heard they were looking for abass player, I suggested Gloria Belle. She was not a BlueGrass Boy (but neither were Vince or Ricky), but shecertainly worked at shows with Bill and actually made animpromptu performance (with Bill Keith) when Bill and theband were late for a gig. How encouraging it would havebeen to see Gloria Belle on stage. Her presence would havesent the clear message that bluegrass is now being played byboth men and women.

As the show moved toward its close, former winners of theEntertainer of the Year Award were featured, and then theymoved on to the stage for the Grand Finale. Couldn’t theproducers have foreseen that this would inevitably lead to anall-male cast on stage? Much as we all enjoyed seeing HotRize, Red Knuckles, the Nashville Bluegrass Band and DelMcCoury, where were the women? Ability is not an issuehere. There are plenty of women out there today who can cutit instrumentally. They need to be seen and heard.

One of the saddest things about our invisibility it that mostpeople aren’t aware of it. How many people who watched theAwards Show were even conscious of the absence of women?Not many. That’s why it is up to those of us who do recognizethis problem to

speak up about it. Don’t ignore it. “Talk backtrembling lips/Shaky legs, don’t just stand there.” I’ll besending some letters. I hope you will, too.

—Murphy Henry

Mary Gibbons: “My Focus Is onthe Singing”

by Elena Corey

Here in Women in Bluegrass, we often focus on howwomen manage to juggle full-time family responsibilitiesand child care with their musical professions. Some womenwho play bluegrass don’t have child care issues, but insteadhave to juggle full-time careers with their music. Such awoman is Mary Gibbons, of the All Girl Boys, based in theSan Francisco Bay Area. By day, Mary has a very exactingand demanding job as the head of the Oakland, CaliforniaPolice Department’s Crime Lab. She has a B.S. in ForensicScience and a Masters in Criminology from tire University ofCalifornia at Berkeley. Mary’s work as a forensic scientist ismethodical and time-consuming, requiring much painstaking analysis, and Mary takes her career seriously, so she isextra conscientious.

How does she manage to give so much to her day job andstill maintain a musical career? Mary credits habits of discipline and organization for her remarkable productivity anddrive. She says that she was very fortunate when she firststarted playing bluegrass, for she had a very understandingboss at her day job, a lady who knew that a happy worker isa better worker. So Mary never had to battle for flexible hoursand working conditions to accommodate her bluegrass. Inreturn for such understanding, Mary bent her efforts tobecoming even more responsible and conscientious in herday job, to reward her boss’s leniency.

The pursuit of excellence ranks high as a value for Mary,whatever she is doing. When Mary is singing, her clear blueeyes and wistful smile draw listeners into the message of hersong. Her plaintive voice evokes feelings of intimacy. Shegives the impression of being close to the experiences shesings about, even if the lyrics aren’t modern or probable.When she really lets go and belts it out, you can see listeners’chests swelling in vicarious spill-over of pure joy. Even herenunciation shows attention to detail and a desire for herlisteners to understand the words. For Mary , it is the vocalsthat really motivate. Anyone listening to her remarkablevoice can glimpse the special emotional connection to otherpeople and see for themselves that music is a wonderfulvehicle to interpersonal rapport.

Mary said, in the questionnaire she filled out for WIB, thather main musical influences were Hazel Dickens for her“raw, powerful singing and beautiful songwriting” and

herguitar teacher and friend Steve Pottier for his encouragement. Mary says, “Had it not been for Steve, I probablywouldn’t be filling in this questionnaire.” Being in the Bayarea, Mary was fortunate to have been around a number ofexcellent women players when she was learning: KathyKallick on guitar, Laurie Lewis on fiddle and guitar, Kathy Barwick on banjo and lead guitar. Kate Brislin on guitar andbanjo, and Sue Shelasky on fiddle and bass. Mary says thatshe has “usually felt very welcome in a jam” and “I hope Ihave developed enough sense to know when to leave a perfectjam alone.” Elena Corey conducted this interview with Maryby phone.

Elena: How did you get into playing music, especiallybluegrass?

Mary: I grew up in afamily that sang a lot. Ihad a lot of cousins andaunts, one of whom hada player piano. We’d gettogether and singthrough roll after roll ofthose old pop standards.It was great fun. Thatprovided the singingbackground. As for playing, before bluegrass I'ddone a little finger-picking of mostly countryblues music and wastaking guitar lessons. Asa doorway to bluegrass.I’d heard many Emmylou Harris records, andI had liked those.

At that time, my roommate also was taking guitar lessons, only she was taking fromSteve Pottier. I liked what my roommate was learning morethan what I was learning from my teacher, so I started learning her lessons as well as my own. Steve also recommendedthat to learn bluegrass, one should immerse oneself in it, sosoon I was hanging around the bluegrass scene, going tobluegrass jams, especially the Monday night jams at Paul’sSaloon and to festivals, and the result was inevitable. I noticed right away that the people who played at thesejams seemed to share a common repertoire and that they sangharmony with each other spontaneously. My focus was on thesinging, especially the harmony singing. I switched guitarteachers and soon Steve Pottier was acting as my mentor, ashe does to all his students, encouraging me and opening doorsfor me. He really has been a major influence in my

confidencelevel as well as teaching me bluegrass.

Elena: Rather than having doors closed to you becauseyou're a woman, you've had acceptance and the experienceof feeling able to play anything you're capable of. Mary: Yes, I was fortunate that right here in the Bay Areathere were several women playing bluegrass professionally toserve as models for me. I never encountered any prejudicebecause I’m female. About the only thing that might be different in my music, if I were male, is that I’d sing the songsin different keys.

Elena: When did you decide to play professionally?

Mary: I don’t know that I really decided. It may have justevolved that way. I was jamming for fun with some otherwomen and we called ourselves the Bluegrass Widows. Thatwas sort of a pre-band grouping, and we had a lot of fun,especially singing harmony with each other. The “edge”sound of bluegrass for me wasn’t a natural thing. It took alittle while for me to acquire a fondness for it. I remembervery well the night of a Ralph Stanley concert when I felt, forthe first time, the appeal of the traditional hard-edge soundof bluegrass vocals, and I wanted to duplicate that sound.

So along about 1986, several friends and I decided to puttogether a bluegrass band, the Fog City Ramblers. Personnelincluded Chris Lewis, Sue Shelasky Walters, Paul Shelasky,Avram Siegal. and myself. We played together, with a fewchanges in personnel, up until 1990, when we formed the AllGirl Boys. We were Chris Lewis, Kathy Barwick, DebbyCotter, Carolyn Cirimele, and myself. Then Debby movedaway in ’95 and we added Sonia Shell on banjo, and that’sour current lineup. We’re all holding on to our day jobs, butwe’re getting more and more bookings, we’ve a CD out, andwe’re hoping for maybe another. The process just developed.

Music is quite a respite from the stresses of my job. I don’tthink about my work when I'm playing music, although Imay think about music when I’m working. [Laughter fromboth.] Music provides a lot of balance in my life. It also givesme an area in which I feel that I’m able to engage insomething creative.

Elena: How do you balance having a professional careerwith having a bluegrass band and playing professionally?

Mary: It does get a bit crowded and busy at times, but thisis something I want to do, it’s worth doing, and so I justmanage. I’m pretty organized and that helps in both areas. Elena: Is being a band leader a bit stressful, too?

Mary: Our band is pretty democratic, so I’m not really the“leader.” Even when I haven’t been a band leader, I’vetended to assume a lot of responsibility because I want to doa good job. Also, since I do a lot of the singing, it falls withinmy area to help on set lists so that the spacing is realistic. Asfar as the booking, in the All Girl Boys, we’ve spread thatresponsibility out among us, using each other’s contacts andknowledge of venues. Elena: If you could tour and play music full-time, wouldyou?

Mary: Well sure, although constraints of everyone in theband would have to be considered. Sonia’s a new mother, andher family responsibilities hold her as much as my job doesme. It would be intriguing to see what I could do if I wereunfettered by responsibilities, though.

Mary says this with a wistful air, as though considering analternate reality, then laughs, shaking the fantasy and accepting the reality that she has.

RAG, MAMA, RAG

More About Choices

I can identify with Missy Raines’ feelings about not havingchildren in order to have a career in music. I made the samedecision. I don’t even have time for marriage, let alonechildren. I never believed I could support a child playingbluegrass for a living, so I put it off. Now it’s a little late and,yes, it is painful. I have regrets. But I don’t dwell on them.Keep up the great work with the publication!

—Kathy Chiavola

Nashville, Tennessee

Moment of Awareness

I really enjoyed the latest WIB. It brought a moment ofawareness for me, just like when you realized you’d writtena male-gendered song. There I am in bed, reading along, andI get to the part about “little darlin’s” and “there’s no powerin being a little darlin’" Damn if the band I struck up herehasn’t been called the “Delta Darlin’s.” I knew so manytunes in which the word “darling” appeared, I thought itwould be a local gimmick, sort of catchy. We talked somefriends into joining us on stage at an Alaska festival in July,and even played at a campground for practice. And you knowwhat? We were treated like darlin’s. I mean nice, sweet, cute.All the things I don’t want my music to be. I guess readingyour article brought me around.

I think the most upsetting thing to me was not just the factthat other people treated us like darlin’s, but that we treatedourselves like darlin’s—fit right into the mold that has beenset out. Thanks for the inspiration and thoughtful insights.Makes me take more of my ground, you know.

—Martha “Scotty” Scott

Bethel, Alaska

Spotlight on…Patsy Stoneman: The Young’un With theStrongest

Backbone

Patsy Stoneman was the fourth child born, in 1925, toErnest V. “Pop’’ and Hattie Frost Stoneman. As Patsy toldus, “Mommy and Daddy actually had 23 together. 15 of usgrew up to any size. 13 of us played.” When I asked her howmany Stoneman kids were still around she said, “Well,Eddie's still there, John, Grace, and Jean, and there'sJimmy, and Donna, and Roni and myself. Did I miss somebody? That’s all I think." The fascinating story of theStoneman Family has been told by Ivan Tribe in his book,The Stonemans: An Appalachian Family and the Music ThatShaped Their Lives. [Available from County Sales, POB191, Floyd, VA 24091. $15 post paid.]

Patsy was part of a storytelling session I conducted for theInternational Bluegrass Music Museum on September 24,1996. Lynn Morris and Gloria Belle also participated, but asWIB had featured interviews with them in the past, I chose tomake Patsy's stories the focus of this article.

…

Murphy: I was just rereading Ivan Tribe's wonderful bookabout the Stonemans. For five years, when Patsy was over inthe Washington-Baltimore area, she headed up a bluegrassband that included such stellar performers as Red Allen,Buzz Busby, Charlie Waller, Porter Church, Frank Wakefield, Smiley Hobbs…

Patsy: I knew how to pick ’em, didn’t I? [Loud laughterfrom audience.]

Murphy: Patsy, why don't you tell us a little bit about whyyou left the Stonemans and how much fun it was to be awoman band leader with people like Buzz Busby and FrankWakefield in your band. [Audience laughter.]

“One Of Our People’s Been Hurt”

Patsy (sarcastically): Har, har, har. [Audience laughter.]First I want to tell you how I met Frank Wakefield. I wasplaying down in Southern Maryland, but on the way backhome that night I passed by this service station and I saw thiscar that had been demolished. I pulled in and said, “Whosecar is that?” The service station attendant said that was amandolin player’s car, he was on his way back from worktonight and he wrecked. And he was in critical condition atthe hospital. I said. “What’s his name?” “Frank Wakefield.” I said, “Well, I’ve never met him but where’s hisfamily?” He told me. And I met his wife and their childrenand I felt sorry for them because they was kinda in bad shape,and I know what it’s like, I’ve been that way myself all mylife. So I went to all the places I had played around Washington and Maryland and places I had never played, and I talkedto the proprietor and I’d say, “We have one of our peoplewho’s been hurt and needs

money and I will get up on stageand I’ll take up a collection and sing a few songs if you’ll letme do it.” And I figured out that night I made five dollars forevery song I sung and I took it to his wife and kids. [Applausefrom audience.] That’s about the most I ever got paid persong. Anyway, it helped out a little bit for ’em. Now, whatwas it you wanted me to tell you?

[Laughter.]

Hard Times in Mississippi

Okay, when I was a little younger. I played with Daddy foryears and years and years. Then we wasn’t doing too well, wewere living but that was about all. It's hard to make a livingwith a big family, and so I went to farming. I married a sailor[1948] and went to Mississippi and farmed. And I felt like,hey, I could farm as well as anybody else. And if the familygets in real bad shape, they’ll know where to come to eat.That’s what I figured about the farm. It worked out pretty well until I took cancer and had to have both my breastsremoved. And I lost the use of my hands. Then my husbandsaid, “Nobody’s hanging around me that don’t produce.”[Groans from audience.] So I was divorced. He divorced me.

Back To Music

So anyway, I went on back home to Washington [1963]and somebody says, “ Aren’t you going back to play with yourfamily?” and I didn't feel like I was good enough any longer.When I hit the guitar, it was not there. I couldn't hold my armup. So I went to a hock shop and I got me a little ole mini-guitar and put my arm across it and I went to all these jointsaround Washington and I played for seven dollars a nightand took up the kitty [a tip jar]. By myself, I put on a gypsyact. And when I got to where my hand hurt me so bad. I’d stopplaying and I’d talk to the audience. So I got to where this wasdoing pretty good, if I had some guys working with me. So Ihired Red Allen, because I wasn’t sure my notes were goingto be there. But I figured Red's would! So then I took a lot ofthese guys and we went around town and we worked everynight and it was fun to work with them. I called myself notbeing their boss but working with them because they werethere and they were good and they helped me out an awful lot.But then I helped them—I found their jobs.

Patsy Meets Bill Monroe

Murphy: Patsy, are you going to tell that story aboutplaying that show in Warrenton, Virginia?

Patsy: I shouldn’t tell that story in Kentucky. I'd probablyget scalped. I had just been a widow for about two weeks. Infact, I was married for one year to the day my husband waskilled [in an automobile accident, in May 1964]. So, I stillhad to work and so I was playing at the Hotel Charles inSouthern Maryland and I drove home to Elkridge that night.Then I drove to Riverdale to pick up my mother, ’cause shewas gonna go with me, she always liked to ride along and see what her young’uns was doing. And I got to the show inWarrenton just in time to go on. I didn’t know who was on theshow and I never really checked to see. It didn’t really matterto me. I guess everybody was gonna do their own thing.Anyway, I hit that stage with the guitar in my hand, tuningit as I went. And here I went and bellered out “Blue Moon ofKentucky,” and “Muleskinner Blues.” You ought to heardme. Man, I laid it on there. And I got through—I got a prettygood hand, incidentally, I could yodel pretty well at the time,the older I get the deeper I get [making her voice sound realdeep]—anyway, I started off that stage and coming throughthe dressing room door was Mr. Bill Monroe. I said. “Oh,Lord, no.” So anyway, he went “chunk”, “chunk.” Youknow how he used to do with the mandolin that way,especially if he was ticked off. And he said, “Well, what didyou leave me to do?” [Huge laughter.] I looked around andI couldn’t think of a thing to say except, “Have you tried ‘BillBailey’?” [Audience erupts with laughter.] Needless to say,that’s not the way to get started off with a good relationshipwith Mr. Bill Monroe.

Patsy’s Mom

Murphy: I consider the Stonemans to be some of the firstwomen to have played bluegrass professionally. Do youthink that's true, Patsy?

Patsy: Roba Stanley, was the first woman that recorded(1924, when she was 14), I guess, but she didn't record buta few times. I asked why and somebody told me because of thepublic. [Roba got married at 15 and her husband didn't likefor her to play out in public.] But my mother recorded in 1925and ’26 with Daddy. She played fiddle and clawhammerbanjo. And, according to the Library of Congress, she isconsidered the first woman of any importance in countrymusic. And I’m pretty proud of that. I had an aunt, Irma Lee,we called her Aunt Jack, her only sister, who played the mandolin and pump organ. And that organ was some kind of cute.It doubled out like a suitcase. I’m so old I can remember allthis stuff. Somebody’ll say “How do you know that?” I’llsay, “Because I was there!”

“The Family’s Got To Find Out About TheFamily”

Can I tell this about Edison? In 1980 my baby brother Vanbrought his two sons, which incidentally are pretty doggonegood musicians, to my house and I made some remark abouta recording that Mommy and Daddy had made in the ’20sand Van, Jr., says, “I’ve never heard that. I don’t know aboutthat.” And I said, “Van, don’t you tell your

young’unsanything about Mommy and Daddy?” He says, “No.” I said,“Well, if we don’t know about the family, who else is gonnaknow? Nobody’s gonna know.”

So I went and gathered all the pictures and stuff that Iowned and I laid ’em out around my house, and my husband,Murph, who’s lasted 31 years, he said, “Whatcha doing?” Isaid, “The family’s got to find out about the family.” And Isaid, “I’m going to put together a show and invite the familyfor the show.” So I did. I put all these pictures and everythingon a slide show and I went to Acuff Theatre [in Opryland]and got them to let me use the Theater and I hired the soundman and light people and I sent letters to all my family saying“Come see your heritage.” I felt like that my nephews andnieces who are playing music deserve better than some bar,looking down at the dirtyfloor. I wanted to show themthey had something to liveup to and be proud of. So Iput this show on over at theAcuff Theatre and you knowwhat they told me? “Y’allcan’t get a crowd over hereon Halloween night. EvenMarty Robbins couldn’t do that.” I said, “I wasn’t fixin’ toinvite him.” [Laughter.] But I said, “The family will be hereand that’s the idea of this thing.” I told him my family lovedpinto beans and cornbread so I said,“We’ll have a receptionin the hallway afterwards.” So we did a 15-minute slide showon the history of the Stoneman Family and I had Dr. NatWinston to narrate the show, and then the group came on anddid a 45-minute show behind that. And invited all the rest ofthe family that was in the audience up. We got 1800 peoplethat night. [Moans of appreciation from the audience.]

There were several writers in the group and this one womanfrom the Chicago Sun Times said she’d like to write a book.And I said, “Okay, give it a try.” She started writingsomething like Gone With The Wind. I said, “Man, this don’tget the job done. That’s not the Stoneman Family. We don’twant no tell-all book. If it can’t be documented and authentic,we don’t want it.” But anyway, we got Dr. Ivan Tribe and hesaid, “I’ll give it a try.” I said, “I have all of our papersbecause in the last few years of the Stoneman Family groupI was doing the booking and everything else.” It took himalmost nine years.

Patsy Records For Edison

And because of the book, there was some people from theEdison Museum in New Jersey who were there at LincolnCenter when the book won first place in 1994 as the bestdocumented, country music research book. So they called meearly this year and asked me if I’d be willing to come to theEdison Museum and record on cylinder records like mymother and father had. And I said,"Do what?” They said,“We're going to set up the old machinery, like your motherand father recorded on, and, since you are a direct connectionto our last recording artist on Edison, we’d like to know ifyou’d come do it.” Well, I had quit playing, I had plain quit.You know, you can beat your head against the wall just solong. So I said, “Shoot yeah, why not?” And I went through Daddy’s papers

and found a list that said “List for Edison.”And it was his writing and what he was going to do on his nextsession at Edison back before Edison went bankrupt. And Igot that list down and I sat and looked at it and said, “Okay,Daddy, here goes.” I did 13 songs off that list for Daddy. AndI used the autoharp that had been built in Daddy’s memory.Because Daddy had never recorded on Edison cylinders withan autoharp. He’d always recorded with a guitar. And Mommyplayed the fiddle with him. And Uncle Bolen played thebanjo. So I said, “I oughta get somebody to play Daddy’sautoharp with me, so I can play the guitar.” Because theywanted the guitar on the thing. Well, I got the lady whose husband built the harp to play Daddy’s harp and I played theguitar and we got up there and just bellered our hearts out.They turned out pretty good, we got 13 done, and they gaveme 3, gave her 1, and they’ve got 5 in the archives to beopened in the future. They gave me a copy of the checks they had paid Daddy,that he had cashed in Roanoke, Virginia. One of ’em was foreleven hundred and forty dollars. That made me feel prettygood, in 1926, you know? I used to think everybody had alittle money and made it, you know. But that’s nothing. I usedto think everybody played and sang. I didn't know any different. ’Cause we lived down in the mountains and my auntplayed, and my uncles played, and my grandmother sang allthe time, and Daddy's people played and I just figured everybody played. And people’d call it “down in Music Holler,”that’s where we lived. And my mommy and daddy’d becoming in from recording or something, and it’d be great towatch ’em come down the hill. Mommy was pretty. And shecould si—ing. Sometimes she’d get off-key, but she didn’t care. Like Daddy used to say, “You young’uns ought to singsome harmony with me.” And then he found out we couldn’tdo too well at that. He’d say, “Just get in there and get thechorus. Just sing.” So we did.

Learning to Play: The Stoneman Method

Murphy: Patsy, could you tell us a little bit about how thegirls in your family learned to play music. Were you treatedany different from the guys?

Patsy: No, we weren’t treated any different. We were justaccepted as part of the bunch. I know the reason Roni startedto play. She wanted to impress a little ole guy out of NorthCarolina named Wayne Brown that played the banjo. SoScott got a little banjo and was gonna teach her to play banjo.She wanted to play the banjo like Wayne. Scott mashed herfingers on them strings until they’d bleed and he’d say, “Doyou want to play? Bleed!” [Laughter.] Donna played themandolin because it was the smallest instrument. She wasalways the runt of our family. And I played what was left over,’cause I wasn’t going to be left out. But you see, we didn’thave no toys, but instruments, we had most of ’em and I believe part of ’em Daddy made for us. I remember when I wasa little kid the bass was a jug. [Makes bass noises with her mouth.] You’d blow the jug. Daddy went and found thisdrum, an old drum, and he cut it in half and put a neck in

itand strings on it and he called it Whomper. [Whomper ispictured on the front of Ivan Tribe’s book The Stonemans.]

Now when I was a little bitty girl, I used to make myselfcornstalk fiddles. And they played pretty good, but youcouldn’t get too many notes. The kids, I’d make ’em sit infront of me. And I’d get up on a rock and I’d play that littlecornstalk fiddle and make ’em sing with me. And they didn’tknow I wasn’t playing anything. Then one time Daddy decided he’d buy us a piano. He did. He found us a piano.Wasn’t too long, he wondered where all the keys was goingto. All the ivory off of the things was going to guitar picks. And we only had this one room and we had beds all the wayaround and a table over in this comer. And he would keep allour instruments in tune, he’d lay ’em up on the bed and whenhe went to work he’d say, “Now you young’uns leave themalone.” He never told us to play nothing. He never showedus how to play nothing much, he just let us know “leave ’emalone.” And he knew we were not going to. So just as soonas I learned to play two or three notes, I’d say, “Daddy,look.” And I could go with him to play. You’d get to gosomewhere. We didn’t go to movies. But if you learned toplay, you could go somewhere with ’em. And Daddy wouldtake you with him to play. So we learned. That was more orless just being selfish about the whole thing, wasn’t it?

Murphy: Was that when y'all were still in Galax?

Patsy: We were too young except for my brother Eddie toplay with Daddy in Galax. We moved to Alexandria [Va.],and we started playing with him then. I was about 8 years old[when they moved] but I didn’t start playing with Daddy tillI was about 11. We kept moving, 'cause they kept throwingus out of the place. Then we moved to Carmody Hills and gotstuck there for a long time. And that’s how we met CharlieWaller. Charlie liked to court a little bit, you know. And outwhere we lived was dirt roads and he thought he was out inthe country. He didn’t know he was still around a lot of folks.He had his girlfriend out one night, parked up the road, andhe kept hearing this music. So, he come down to see what wasgoing on. That's how he met the family.

I Was Never Boss But...

So many of the guys that I have worked with over theyears—and you notice that I don’t say that I hired ’embecause we more or less just were sorta good to each otherbecause we needed each other. And I was never boss becausethey knew what they could do better than I did. And theywould do it. So we got along pretty well and I met an awfullot of nice people.

Murphy: But your show was called the Patsy StonemanShow?

Patsy (quickly): Well, of course it was. ’Cause I didn’tknow who was going to show up. [Loud laughter ] I knew Iwas. Patsy was gonna be there.

Gloria: You mentioned Wayne Brown, the banjo picker.Was that the same one that played with Mac Wiseman?[Actually, there were two Wayne Browns. The one Roniliked was not the same one that played for Mac. The one thatplayed for Mac also played for Patsy]

Patsy: Yeah. I believe so. He was a nice guy but he didn'tlike to work with a woman. He didn’t think I belonged upfront. And I felt like I knew what I was doing. Obviously, hewas very unhappy with it. He told Wayne and Bill [Yates], “Iain’t gonna work for her any more.” And he didn’t. And thatwas alright because I got several other banjo pickers. I thinkSmiley Hobbs come in after that.

Murphy: Obviously, it didn't bother those guys to work fora woman.

Patsy: It didn't seem to. Now I’ll have to tell this. RedAllen’d get behind me and I knew he was making fun of me.And the audience was telling me what he was doing. ’Causeit didn’t make me look bad, it made me look better. Theypaid more attention to me. In fact, Red used to wear hisshirts out. Red’s shirts was always wore out right there wherehe would go [makes a motion like picking an imaginaryguitar]. Why. he'd be talking to you, and he'd be [hitting hisshirt] like he was picking the guitar. He was a good little olepicker. When I needed a lick or a run in there, I knew it wasgoing to be there, whether I could do it or not. I don’t knowif you realize it or not, but about the hardest job in the worldfor anybody, and I should know, is to look at the back ofsomebody else’s uniform in front of you. It’s a hard job, afteryou’ve once been up there yourself.

The idea with me was, I could make a living somehow or'nuther. I could sling hash, I could do anything. But the thingof it was, when I hired myself in with a group to do a show,I wanted to be sure that I was doing my best and giving thepeople there the best we could give. And I felt like that if Icouldn’t do it, then I’d hire somebody that could, and Ialways lured some pretty good-looking guys and pretty good-looking musicians. And they were people that had personalities, that could get along good with people, they could reallyget with the people. In fact, we had a lot of people who chasedsome of my guys into the restroom. [Laughter.] I had no faultwith working with all men or all women or whatever.

I Liked to Have My Own Spot

Except I kinda liked to have my own spot in the band. Evenwith my own family, I wanted my own spot. After Daddypassed away, I went back with the family only because Daddyhad asked me to. He said before he passed away, “You seemto be the young’un with the strongest backbone and morewilling to try. Will you keep the kids together as long as youcan?” I said. “I’ll try Daddy.” Well, I went with ’em, but Iinsisted, no matter what was going on, there was going to bea spot on that show where we did Daddy’s old, originalnumbers. Even though they didn’t want me to. But I saideither that or I ain't here. So we did that, we did a lot of thebluegrass numbers. Well, what turned out to be bluegrassnumbers. But they were not originally called [bluegrassnumbers], they was called country and Daddy recorded themin the ’20s and I would get up and do ’em.

The Old Songs

Murphy: Tell us some of the names of those, PatsyPatsy: I can’t remember them all. But it just seemed like allthe music we knew turned out to be bluegrass numbers. Forinstance, Mac Wiseman recorded a song called “When TheSnowflakes Fall Again.” And we were in Nashville andDaddy was sitting downstairs and Mac come in and said,“Hi, Pop, how are you?” And Pop said. “Fine.” And Macsaid, “Pop, have you heard my latest song?” He said, “No,I ain’t Mac. What is it?” And he said, “Let me play it foryou.” So he got a guitar and started singing and playing, andhe done a good job singing “When The Snowflakes FallAgain.” And Daddy set there looking at him. And Mac hadjust recorded it [for Capitol]. He said, “What do you think ofit, Pop? Like it?” Pop said, “I ought to. I wrote it.” [Laughter.] See, somebody had done put their name on Daddy’snumber.

A lot of the songs we did years and years ago, like“Somebody’s Waiting For Me” and “Hand Me Down MyWalking Cane” and the first recording of “Old Joe Clark,”that's bluegrass today. And I say call it anything you want to,it’s still music. They say, “What kind of music y’all play,Patsy?” I say, “Stoneman music.” We’d play anything. Itdidn’t matter to us. We was doing a show one time inCalifornia, a television special, and a man said, “Now,here’s your sheet music.” “We can’t read that. We can’t readmusic.” “What do you mean you can't read music?” Andone director looked at the other and said, “They can’t read.”And the other guy says, “Hum it and they’ll play it.” And hehummed some of the weirdest things you ever heard in yourlife. Some kind of Mexican thing. And you know, we playedthat booger. My brother Scott was told one time he was aconfused opera violinist. I think he’s a fiddler myself. Butyou know, he was a pretty good fiddler. Just like my grandpashowed him how to play fiddle. Mommy showed him how toplay fiddle, and Mommy taught him to play clawhammerbanjo. And she taught my brother Van to play clawhammer.And after Mommy passed away and Daddy

was gone. I said,“We’ve got to keep this in the family.” So I went and got TutTaylor to make me a banjo. And I’m gonna learn clawhammer. Van said, “I’ll play that thing. You don’t know how.”So Van ended up playing my banjo. But at any rate, as longas it was in the group, as long as that music was kept, that wasmy idea anyway.

Folk Singers

You know we were called “folk” for a long time and didn’tknow it. We went out and did the Steve Allen Show and SteveAllen says, “I don’t like country music. I don’t like bluegrass. What are they doing on my show?” [He was told]“These are folk musicians.” And to prove they was folkmusicians, they went and got little beanies and put on theirheads. And they went on and done the show. You know,Steve Allen got up and danced all over the place. He enjoyedthat music. He didn’t know it was bluegrass and country.[Laughter.] That’s the way it is. As long as we keep ourmusic, no matter you want to call it, bluegrass or whatever,as long as we keep it, we’re gonna be okay. [Applause.]

Campfire Girl

by Nancy Pate

During the summer, the wonderful director of the children’s choir at my church takes a break, leaving the childrenat loose ends on Sunday nights. This summer, a little“church lite” activity called Nature Club was offered to fillthe gap. For 7 Sunday evenings, 15 children, ages 4 to 10,met for an hour in the fellowship hall of my church. Thechildren studied bugs, planted sunflowers, and made “fossils” using Plaster of Paris—real summer camp stuff. Everyevening began with 20 minutes of singing around an imaginary campfire consisting of sticks and orange constructionpaper flames. I played guitar and led the singing, and I loveddoing it. Ears would prick up as I undid the first latch on myguitar case. Most of the kids would willingly sit down whenI strummed a chord. I think they enjoyed themselves.

But there is no doubt who enjoyed the music most—me! Ican’t tell you how excited I was at the beginning of thesummer, compiling my list of songs that I felt “every childshould know.” I called my sisters to see if there was somecrucial campfire song I was leaving off, and they thought ofseveral. Then I agonized over selecting the easiest songs,with the catchiest choruses for tire four-year-olds, yet withlyrics which would not be too babyish for the ten-year-olds. Itwas a delicious agony.

I assumed that few of the kids would know any classiccampfire songs. Most of the kids in this age group have yetto experience summer camp. And although there are

greatacoustic tapes for children on the market (a la Kathy Kallick,Cathy Fink, and Phil Rosenthal), my impression is that mostkids’ exposure to “singing” songs is limited to Barney,maybe some Raffi, with Disney tapes as the primary source.My own

four-year-old daughter requested the love song from“The Lion King” for campfire singing. I admit my picks forclassic campfire songs are, perhaps, a little questionable:“Stewball,” a song about betting on a racehorse; "Bugler.”a dirge about a dead dog; and “Salty Dog," a racy bluegrassstandard. In this instance. I allowed the church setting toinfluence the content of my list somewhat; “Mountain Dew”was dropped in favor of “Kumbayah.”

As it turned out, I only had time to introduce one or twounfamiliar songs, sticking instead to songs the kids alreadyknew, such as “This Little Light of Mine,” “Bingo,” and“Old McDonald.” I exposed them to the original words for“On Top of Old Smokey,” but quickly retreated to thespaghetti-and-meatballs version when I realized I was singing alone. After all, mobile meatballs are a lot more fun tosing about than false-hearted lovers. I often put down theguitar to do a song like "Deep and Wide,” involving motions, just to give the kids an opportunity to move around andstretch their arms a little. So we never got around to most ofthose essential campfire songs, though I had been determined to teach them “Where Have All The Flowers Gone?”when I found out that even my husband had never heard it.I do take personal responsibility for reviving the use of “DoLord” in my church. Since the children learned it thissummer, it has even appeared several times at worshipservices.

Nature Club ended the summer with a big campfire blowout for kids and their parents. After a scavenger hunt, wegathered around a real fire to eat S’Mores and do lots moresinging. This time we finally got around to “All My Trials”and “Puff the Magic Dragon.” Who was singing along? Theadults of course, all Campfire Girl wannabes like me.

Ratifications

By Casey Henry

As some of you may know,I have recently ventured intothe wide world of college. Iattend the University ofVirginia in Charlottesvillewhich suits me pretty wellsince it has a fairly activebluegrass scene. Well, that’snot the only reason, but one of many. It didn’t take too longto discover what the town had to offer, thanks to a veryhelpful mandolin player named Jeff. He told me of all thebluegrass activity around town and was quick to extend aninvitation to jam at his house. I thought that was verygenerous considering he had never heard me play before.

He must have been impressed because after our jam sessionhe invited me to tag along to a frat party that his band wasplaying that Friday. I was ecstatic. Jeff plays with AlvinBreeden and the Virginia Cut-Ups. For those of you notfamiliar with Alvin, he is one of the best Reno style banjoplayers alive. He has quite a local reputation and is knownamong musicians but never made any inroads into thenational scene.

I rode over to the gig with Jeff, eager to meet Alvin whomI’d heard so much about. When we got there, the other threemembers of the band were sitting in the van drinking beer. Istuck my head in as Jeff introduced me. Alvin was smallerthan I thought he'd be and looks older than I think heprobably is. He has the time-worn face of a hard livingbluegrass musician and hair reminiscent of Del McCoury.(And you thought I couldn't get anything about Del into thisarticle.) He's pretty quiet and very laid back. The party was a typical frat gig. There were about ten kegsiced down in front of the house when we arrived. I don’t thinkthey drank all of them in the three-hour party. We played inthe backyard where some guys had set up a very makeshiftstage of pallets on cinder blocks. Whatever works. We set upand started as the people arrived. It was really a pre-partyparty and lasted from four to seven o’clock. The studentsdidn’t pay much attention to us but “Rocky Top” got a bigresponse. Surprise. One slightly knowledgeable person askedfor anything by Bill Monroe, which was appropriate since hehad passed away that Monday.

They let me play banjo through all three sets. I was veryhonored. Me and Alvin Breeden. Wow. He is incredible. Hecan play everything Reno ever played and sounds exactly likehim. He does all the single string stuff and uses all the wildchords. I've heard that he can play the guitar like Don too butI have yet to hear him. Alvin told me that I have a good roll.I was flattered.

After the set I was amused to find that there was nothing todrink in the whole house except beer. Jeff did manage to findone Mountain Dew which we split. There wasn’t anything toeat either, and my belly was beginning to rub up against mybackbone by the end of the party. Apparently this was somekind of annual party because there was a man videoing thewhole thing and they had printed shirts. I found out later,when my roommate went through rush and ultimately joinedthat sorority, that I was on the video. She was proud to pointme out when they showed the video to the rushees.

At the end of the party I helped pack up the sound system.Alvin was very impressed with the way I rolled up cords. Iexplained that I’d been doing it for a long time. Alvin said Ishould come over to his house that weekend so we could picksome. As attractive as

that offer was, I didn’t take him up onit when I found a tiny little festival to go to that weekend.

When I got back to my room, I called one of my friends togo eat with me. While I sat on the steps of her dorm waitingfor her to appear, a group of people walked by, stopped,turned around, and came back. “Weren’t you just at thatparty?” “Yep.” “That band kicked ass.” “Thanks.” And Ithought they weren’t listening.

To That Mansion In The Sky

Many of you may have already heard of the death of NancyMcLaughlin, mother of David and Peter on September 16.Nancy was not primarily a performer, although she did playsome bass in a family band when the boys were growing up.But she was a tireless supporter and promoter of bluegrass.She was also a very smart lady and a dear friend of mine. Onone of our many rides to Owensboro, we discussed the idea ofa Hall of Honor for women in bluegrass. I was fervently forthe idea, figuring that that was the only way women inbluegrass were going to get any recognition. She was adamantly against the idea, saying that women should not askfor special treatment but should be treated the same as themen. We agreed to disagree. After we got back from Owensboro she called me. “Murphy,” she said, “I have changed mymind.” I was so excited that I forgot to ask her why. I thoughtwe’d have all the time in the world to discuss it. This past summer, I noticed that her subscription to WIBhad run out. “Oh, dear,” I thought. “Nancy doesn’t like WIB and is not renewing.” I was crushed. The next time I saw her,as soon as she spotted me, she reached into her handbag andpulled out a ten-dollar bill. She handed it to me without aword. I took it and said, “Thank you. I figured you weretrying to save a stamp.” She said, “Murphy, you know meso well.” I was looking forward to knowing you better andlonger, Nancy. We will miss you when you’re gone.

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