It was a concert just for me. All my favorite musicians played at the same place, in Golden Gate Park near where I grew up. And it was all FREE!
Earl Scruggs (my nickname in junior high) was still alive and in great form. As were Doc Watson, Ralph Stanley, Hazel Dickens, Jerry Jeff Walker, Peter Rowan and Del McCoury: the elite of old-time American music. Joan Baez, Emmylou Harris, David Grisman, Elvis Costello, Guy Clark, Randy Newman, Rosanne Cash, Gillian Welch, Jorma Kaukonen, Dave Alvin, Steve Earle, Indigo Girls, James McMurtry, Kinky Friedman, Richard Thompson, Carolina Chocolate Drops, David Holt, Jerry Douglas, Laurie Lewis, Robert Earl Keen, T-Bone Burnett, The Dukes of September with Boz Scaggs, Michael McDonald and Donald Fagen, The Flatlanders with Joe Ely, Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Butch Hancock, Dry Branch Fire Squad, the subdudes, The Waybacks, Yonder Mountain String Band, Lyle Lovett, Bill Kirchen, Nick Lowe, Patti Smith, MC Hammer, Buddy Miller and a hundred others.
The music was ethereal; the moment empyrean. Some rich banjo player paid for the whole dang thing. Impossible? Strictly Bluegrass? Hardly.
Next year, meetya there.
Happy trials, Martin
Mutt: What the heck was that about?
Jeff: Some music festival in San Francisco. (Hardly Strictly Bluegrass)
Mutt: I hate music.
Jeff: Me too.
Mutt: I tried to write a drinking song once, but I couldn't get past the first bar.
Jeff: I hate music.
Mutt: Like the guy who broke into song because he couldn't find the key.
Jeff: Or the musical about a train conductor.
Mutt: What?
Jeff: "My Fare, Lady”
Mutt: How about the Disney movie about the tall-tale-telling champ?
Jeff: The Lyin' King? Oh mercy.
Mutt: Okay, here’s a good one.
Jeff: I doubt it.
Mutt: A guy walks into the psychiatrist's office wearing only plastic wrap shorts. The shrink says, "Well, I can clearly see you're nuts."
Jeff: So are you … both.
