Evening of Bluegrass :: essays research papers

An Evening with the Dickel BrothersIt was 930 on a chilly Thursday night when our microscopic trio finally open a parking space in the Richmond District. Already drunk, we wove pronto through the neighborhoods by foot. Finally we arrived at the Last Day Saloon, offensive that we had not purchased tickets in advance for what was sure to be one of the highlights of this grey age San Francisco Blue Grass and Old Time Festival the fabulous Dickel Brothers. Our fears of a sellout were quickly allayed, as was the sense of unease that having four quarts of Irish whiskey strapped to ones person tends to instill. We were home free, for now, anyway. After purchasing our tickets, we proceeded upstairs to catch the spread act, which, to our delight, turned out to be five perfectly agreeable old geezers calling themselves the Roadoilers. Their sound was pure old-school bluegrass, heavy on melody, light on lyrics. Their artful rendering of the Bill Monroe standard Uncle Penn, made for a memorable encore. Next up, we were subjected to the shrill vocal styling of The Stairwell Sisters. Dont get the misemploy idea, I am certain that the particular brand of old-time big bucks music that the sisters are peddling is faithfully rendered. The problem for me was simply that the clog-happy cutsieness of their foundation was enough to make even the most dyed in the fleece harmony junkie run gasping for the nearest fire exit. And that is exactly what we did. We evaluate the most sensible course of action was to hole up in the alleyway outside the club and wait for the fervent toe tapping to subside. I had barely finished my first cigarette when a lanky sort dressed something akin to Tom Joad on his way to church approached our little assemblage. I recognized him at once as Stephen Dickel, banjo player of the headlining band. Anyone distinguish where a fellah can get a bottle of whiskey in this neighborhood?, he asked plaintively. Jill shrugged, rationalizeing that we w ere from the East Bay, and thus, had little idea where he power try. Jill, apparently sensing the desperation in his face, thrust a weakened flask of Bushmills into his hand. After a great deep swallow, he proceeded to explain his sad situation. This goddamn hippy club issued only two confuse tickets to each of us. How, for the love of Mary, do they expect us to play in this condition?