Evening of Bluegrass :: essays research papers

An Evening with the Dickel BrothersIt was 930 on a chilly thorium night when our little trio finally found a parking space in the Richmond District. Already drunk, we wove quickly through the neighborhoods by foot. lastly we arrived at the Last Day Saloon, uneasy that we had not purchased tickets in advance for what was sure to be one of the high accrues of this years San Francisco Blue Grass and Old clock 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 up the stairs to catch the opening 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 memorabl e encore. Next up, we were subjected to the shrill vocal styling of The Stairwell Sisters. Dont get the wrongfulness imagination, I am certain that the particular brand of old-time mountain music that the sisters are peddling is faithfully rendered. The problem for me was simply that the clog-happy cutsieness of their presentation was tolerable to make even the most dyed in the wool harmony junkie run gasping for the nearest fire exit. And that is exactly what we did. We figured the most sensitive 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 rootage cigarette when a lanky figure dressed something akin to Tom Joad on his way to church approached our little assemblage. I recognized him at one time as Stephen Dickel, banjo player of the headlining band. Anyone know where a fellah can get a bottle of whiskey in this neighborhood?, he asked plaintively. Jill shrugged, explaining that we we re from the East Bay, and thus, had little idea where he might try. Jill, apparently sensing the desperation in his face, thrust a small 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 drink tickets to each of us. How, for the love of Mary, do they expect us to play in this condition?