The following contribution is a paper that I’ve submitted for a college course of Music Appreciation. Unfortunately, I wrote this really quickly because of cramped due date that I wasn’t aware of, like a couple of hours.
I really thought this would be a course that I would find extremely simplex due to my love and background of a lifetime with music all around me. The course has opened up a great deal of breadth to what I find wonderful about music that I didn’t see before, however, nothing as beautiful as what I’ve known my entire life. I wrote my first essay for this course in tribute to the music I love the most, a music that has blessed my life. I am blessed by this music because of a greater blessing, my mother. Thanks mom for the music in my soul.
9/22/02
Written by Michael D. Donahoe
The Music of My Home
Through my lifetime there have been few musical experiences that compare to my being able to attend the Kentucky Highland Folk Festival. The festival previously called the Jenny Wiley Folk Festival, used to be held at the amphitheatre at Jenny Wiley State Park. My mother has performed at these festivals every year since she was 19 years old. I couldn’t tell you exactly how long that is for its part of the forbidden knowledge for me to ask, however, it has been my pleasure to attend this festival every year through my youth. I try to attend as much as possible these days. This festival to me is more than just a yearly concert. This festival has outlined my very love for music, it has helped shape my youth, and has carried me during periods of my adult life. Now, the music from this festival calls to me, it gives me sanctuary from a distant stressful life, and it carries me away from wherever I am to the Eastern hills of Kentucky, home.
During the 70’s bluegrass music was extremely popular. The festival brought in along with traditional Mountain Folk singers and players, a wealth of talent of bluegrass bands to add to the mix. I was just a child, and my mother was a performer, so this gave me, so I thought, an exclusive back stage pass to run wild through the practice areas and stage passages. The festival for many years ran for 2 full days. The amphitheatre to me was the highlight of the history of the festival locations. The stage itself set in a bowl shaped area. A large rock steep incline covered in trees, shrubs, and vines, was the backdrop to the stage. This backdrop offered acoustically, perfect reverberation and added amplification to the performers. Behind the all the rows of seats were wooden platforms that held the lighting for the stage. The cool misty September air just added to the atmosphere of the surroundings. A light fog would cling to the side of the mountains and the lights from the stage would light it up. You felt as though you were in the middle of the woods in the mountains and somebody placed a huge stage, and a few hundred of your friends just showed up to watch a concert. It felt that way, because that’s exactly what it was. The amphitheatre sat in a valley surrounded by mountains in the middle of the Jenny Wiley State Forest, next to Dewey Lake.
All of the music was wonderful, but some of the singers sang folk ballads a cappella, the world just seemed to stop. These old timeless ballads had lyrics that sang of hard times, love, war, and depravity. They were sung with great strength and heart, and the surroundings that made up the amphitheatre made the songs real. Many of the songs incorporated the beauty of nature, or the hallowed eeriness of the fog covered mountains or the graves of the dead. You heard all of these lyrics and the scenery complimented the songs perfectly as night came on, the fog would just lay there on the hills. It was almost like hearing ghost stories, and you were in them. The echo the mountain backdrop provided as the singers belted each note and sustained those notes would literally stand the hair on the back of your neck. The entire audience would be deathly quiet, and as a cappella singers paused for breath between verses, a pin drop could be heard across the entire theatre.
During the 70’s and 80’s, John Skaggs would perform such ballads as Shenandoah. John, each year, would wear a vintage black tuxedo with suspenders. He had a long flowing gray beard and hair like Santa Claus and he could hit every note with perfection. His voice was warm and deep with wonderful clarity. He would sing old Irish ballads and invite the audience to join him.
My mother was and is another one of the great a cappella singers to grace the stage. Of course in my opinion, she’s the greatest. Her voice is almost operatic in comparison and strength. She’s sings in a relatively high octave and with such immense power. The years the festival was held at the amphitheatre were my favorite just for that reason. She would sing with her voice echoing across that valley and you felt an angel was singing Amazing Grace to you. She sings “In the Garden” and you feel God touching you. She would sing “Long Black Veil” and you felt the feelings of being haunted as she sang of a man’s story from the grave. She would sing “The Gypsy Rover” and you fell into the story of lovers who were forbidden to be together by her father because he was poor. Each of these ballads, reinforced by the natural surroundings, played out a movie in your mind and you desperately went through the emotions of the characters in the songs lyrics. Each time, even after I’d heard the songs a million times, each time.
Homer Leadford still performs today; he played at almost all of the festivals I remember over the past 30 years. Homer makes acoustical wooden instruments as his living and is one of the finest in the world. He makes such instruments as mandolins, guitars, banjos, dulcimers, fiddles (violin if you’re from anywhere else) and is an expert in playing all of them. Homer is more than just a musician; he was something of a performance artist and story teller as well. Every year he plays the same act and I never get tired of it. When I hear that he’s performing I light up like a little kid with anticipation. He would begin his act with playing a comedic style song with a guitar. He would then claim that he wanted to play a song with his brand new fiddle. Then he’d open up his case and have really puzzled look on his face, out would come the bow, and then with the other hand, a wood saw. He’d play on the act of what a terrible mistake he’d made, and then figure he wouldn’t be defeated and then strike the bow across the wood saw and begin to play “My Old Kentucky Home” The wood saw when played this way (if played correctly) has a high whining sound. It makes a similar sound to someone rubbing there finger around a wine glass and producing a high pitched note with a deeper harmonic from the vibration of the crystal glass. The does the same thing, only the note can be changed by bending the saw and thus changing the frequency of the vibration of the saw. Homer could hit every single note with perfection and it would sound almost extra-terrestrial with great beauty. He would then pull out a wooden puppet that rested at the end of stick and would rest on its feet on a small board that sat under his leg. As Homer would pick the banjo and tap his foot, the wooden doll, duly named “Dancing Jack”, would tap dance and swing its arms and Homer played fast tempos and complex chord progressions on his banjo.
Mary Baily attends every year as well. She played the hammer banjo and sang with a hard twang. Admittedly, when I was younger, I just had a tough time with that type of music, along with the hammer dulcimer. Mary would play classic tunes such as Barbry Allen, every verse. There is over 15 verses as I recall in this original ballad. As time has progressed I long to hear every last verse of it, her voice and raw sound and unsteady tempo, remind of the old traditional singers of the hills of KY. The sounds of immigrant influence crossed with old Southern Baptist Gospel sounds and melodies. It breathes of tradition and heritage of Eastern Kentucky. It brings me home.
There were many bluegrass acts through the years. I would peruse the backstage and listen to the players practice before they got on stage. They would run through complex scales and riffs with great speed and would combine in melody the guitar, banjo, fiddle, mandolin, and stand up bass. Each song would show the musicians’ expertise with the instrument in how his or her timing had to be perfect in the way they interchanged each chord with picking out different scales between changes. Each chord had to be played in perfect unison by each instrument and this would be completed at what seemed the speed of lightning. You could barely see their fingers moving as they went so fast, yet the harmonious fast pace rhythms sounded perfectly sweet as the singers would harmonize at different vocal octaves on top of the music. Songs like “Fox on the Run”, “Rocky Top”, “Orange Blossom Special”, and “Blue Moon of Kentucky” were all staples in each of the festivals.
Some of my favorite memories of the festival are of more recent years as well. There are a host of new talent that sings explicitly the older traditional songs and many now that produce original music in the traditional styles. I believe one of the individuals that broke that ground was Rob McNurlin. Rob took traditional styles and crossed them with sounds of newer folk music such as Bob Dylan and Arlo Gutherie, with cowboy styles such as Johnny Cash and Hank Williams, and put his own twist to them. Rob has played for years at the festival and has always provided an originality that seems to bring something new to a traditional genre. There have been many since that have followed his lead and are expressing a wonderful creativity to the sound of the traditional folk music.
There are individual experiences at each concert that I could have written about, but this brief compilation of memories, specific to the amphitheatre are the dearest over time. This paper doesn’t even cut the surface of how rich and beautiful this music is. There are funny antidotes and unique experiences that I have gotten to take part in or see that I will never forget.
I have lived away from Kentucky now for about 10 years. My trips home become less frequent each year as my job, my travels, my growing older place ever extending distance between my home and myself. But this music is rare, and it lives and breathes with the emotion and heritage of its performers, and it’s mine. When I hear it my heart always flutters, and I ride every note as it carries me back to my youth in the mountains of Kentucky. The music lives and breathes within me; it is the music of my home.
12/2/2002 Dianna aka
Comments: Michael, this means a lot to me…Thank you , Love, Mom
Written by Michael D. Donahoe
The Music of My Home
Through my lifetime there have been few musical experiences that compare to my being able to attend the Kentucky Highland Folk Festival. The festival previously called the Jenny Wiley Folk Festival, used to be held at the amphitheatre at Jenny Wiley State Park. My mother has performed at these festivals every year since she was 19 years old. I couldn’t tell you exactly how long that is for its part of the forbidden knowledge for me to ask, however, it has been my pleasure to attend this festival every year through my youth. I try to attend as much as possible these days. This festival to me is more than just a yearly concert. This festival has outlined my very love for music, it has helped shape my youth, and has carried me during periods of my adult life. Now, the music from this festival calls to me, it gives me sanctuary from a distant stressful life, and it carries me away from wherever I am to the Eastern hills of Kentucky, home.
During the 70’s bluegrass music was extremely popular. The festival brought in along with traditional Mountain Folk singers and players, a wealth of talent of bluegrass bands to add to the mix. I was just a child, and my mother was a performer, so this gave me, so I thought, an exclusive back stage pass to run wild through the practice areas and stage passages. The festival for many years ran for 2 full days. The amphitheatre to me was the highlight of the history of the festival locations. The stage itself set in a bowl shaped area. A large rock steep incline covered in trees, shrubs, and vines, was the backdrop to the stage. This backdrop offered acoustically, perfect reverberation and added amplification to the performers. Behind the all the rows of seats were wooden platforms that held the lighting for the stage. The cool misty September air just added to the atmosphere of the surroundings. A light fog would cling to the side of the mountains and the lights from the stage would light it up. You felt as though you were in the middle of the woods in the mountains and somebody placed a huge stage, and a few hundred of your friends just showed up to watch a concert. It felt that way, because that’s exactly what it was. The amphitheatre sat in a valley surrounded by mountains in the middle of the Jenny Wiley State Forest, next to Dewey Lake.
All of the music was wonderful, but some of the singers sang folk ballads a cappella, the world just seemed to stop. These old timeless ballads had lyrics that sang of hard times, love, war, and depravity. They were sung with great strength and heart, and the surroundings that made up the amphitheatre made the songs real. Many of the songs incorporated the beauty of nature, or the hallowed eeriness of the fog covered mountains or the graves of the dead. You heard all of these lyrics and the scenery complimented the songs perfectly as night came on, the fog would just lay there on the hills. It was almost like hearing ghost stories, and you were in them. The echo the mountain backdrop provided as the singers belted each note and sustained those notes would literally stand the hair on the back of your neck. The entire audience would be deathly quiet, and as a cappella singers paused for breath between verses, a pin drop could be heard across the entire theatre.
During the 70’s and 80’s, John Skaggs would perform such ballads as Shenandoah. John, each year, would wear a vintage black tuxedo with suspenders. He had a long flowing gray beard and hair like Santa Claus and he could hit every note with perfection. His voice was warm and deep with wonderful clarity. He would sing old Irish ballads and invite the audience to join him.
My mother was and is another one of the great a cappella singers to grace the stage. Of course in my opinion, she’s the greatest. Her voice is almost operatic in comparison and strength. She’s sings in a relatively high octave and with such immense power. The years the festival was held at the amphitheatre were my favorite just for that reason. She would sing with her voice echoing across that valley and you felt an angel was singing Amazing Grace to you. She sings “In the Garden” and you feel God touching you. She would sing “Long Black Veil” and you felt the feelings of being haunted as she sang of a man’s story from the grave. She would sing “The Gypsy Rover” and you fell into the story of lovers who were forbidden to be together by her father because he was poor. Each of these ballads, reinforced by the natural surroundings, played out a movie in your mind and you desperately went through the emotions of the characters in the songs lyrics. Each time, even after I’d heard the songs a million times, each time.
Homer Leadford still performs today; he played at almost all of the festivals I remember over the past 30 years. Homer makes acoustical wooden instruments as his living and is one of the finest in the world. He makes such instruments as mandolins, guitars, banjos, dulcimers, fiddles (violin if you’re from anywhere else) and is an expert in playing all of them. Homer is more than just a musician; he was something of a performance artist and story teller as well. Every year he plays the same act and I never get tired of it. When I hear that he’s performing I light up like a little kid with anticipation. He would begin his act with playing a comedic style song with a guitar. He would then claim that he wanted to play a song with his brand new fiddle. Then he’d open up his case and have really puzzled look on his face, out would come the bow, and then with the other hand, a wood saw. He’d play on the act of what a terrible mistake he’d made, and then figure he wouldn’t be defeated and then strike the bow across the wood saw and begin to play “My Old Kentucky Home” The wood saw when played this way (if played correctly) has a high whining sound. It makes a similar sound to someone rubbing there finger around a wine glass and producing a high pitched note with a deeper harmonic from the vibration of the crystal glass. The does the same thing, only the note can be changed by bending the saw and thus changing the frequency of the vibration of the saw. Homer could hit every single note with perfection and it would sound almost extra-terrestrial with great beauty. He would then pull out a wooden puppet that rested at the end of stick and would rest on its feet on a small board that sat under his leg. As Homer would pick the banjo and tap his foot, the wooden doll, duly named “Dancing Jack”, would tap dance and swing its arms and Homer played fast tempos and complex chord progressions on his banjo.
Mary Baily attends every year as well. She played the hammer banjo and sang with a hard twang. Admittedly, when I was younger, I just had a tough time with that type of music, along with the hammer dulcimer. Mary would play classic tunes such as Barbry Allen, every verse. There is over 15 verses as I recall in this original ballad. As time has progressed I long to hear every last verse of it, her voice and raw sound and unsteady tempo, remind of the old traditional singers of the hills of KY. The sounds of immigrant influence crossed with old Southern Baptist Gospel sounds and melodies. It breathes of tradition and heritage of Eastern Kentucky. It brings me home.
There were many bluegrass acts through the years. I would peruse the backstage and listen to the players practice before they got on stage. They would run through complex scales and riffs with great speed and would combine in melody the guitar, banjo, fiddle, mandolin, and stand up bass. Each song would show the musicians’ expertise with the instrument in how his or her timing had to be perfect in the way they interchanged each chord with picking out different scales between changes. Each chord had to be played in perfect unison by each instrument and this would be completed at what seemed the speed of lightning. You could barely see their fingers moving as they went so fast, yet the harmonious fast pace rhythms sounded perfectly sweet as the singers would harmonize at different vocal octaves on top of the music. Songs like “Fox on the Run”, “Rocky Top”, “Orange Blossom Special”, and “Blue Moon of Kentucky” were all staples in each of the festivals.
Some of my favorite memories of the festival are of more recent years as well. There are a host of new talent that sings explicitly the older traditional songs and many now that produce original music in the traditional styles. I believe one of the individuals that broke that ground was Rob McNurlin. Rob took traditional styles and crossed them with sounds of newer folk music such as Bob Dylan and Arlo Gutherie, with cowboy styles such as Johnny Cash and Hank Williams, and put his own twist to them. Rob has played for years at the festival and has always provided an originality that seems to bring something new to a traditional genre. There have been many since that have followed his lead and are expressing a wonderful creativity to the sound of the traditional folk music.
There are individual experiences at each concert that I could have written about, but this brief compilation of memories, specific to the amphitheatre are the dearest over time. This paper doesn’t even cut the surface of how rich and beautiful this music is. There are funny antidotes and unique experiences that I have gotten to take part in or see that I will never forget.
I have lived away from Kentucky now for about 10 years. My trips home become less frequent each year as my job, my travels, my growing older place ever extending distance between my home and myself. But this music is rare, and it lives and breathes with the emotion and heritage of its performers, and it’s mine. When I hear it my heart always flutters, and I ride every note as it carries me back to my youth in the mountains of Kentucky. The music lives and breathes within me; it is the music of my home.
12/2/2002 Dianna aka
Comments: Michael, this means a lot to me…Thank you , Love, Mom
