How I got there

Listening to Lucero, thanks to Dave R. long ago and Tom Gabel from Against Me! (Thanks again, Dave) covered this little song called "Wagon Wheel." And my future-roommate had this album called OCMS that he played once or twice in the background on car trips.

And then there was early 2008 and feeling horrible and lonely in a dorm. Matt Dellinger's article in Oxford American contained this passage,

The plan was to drive across the continent and earn their keep busking on the streets, playing for gas money and food. It's the type of ten-thousand-mile joyride every desperate or idealistic band tells itself it will do. Most lack the requisite live-free-or-die instinct or zeal for North American nowheres, but these boys are touched with both. Ketch fondly remembers waking up one early November morning in a hay field near the border of Manitoba and Ontario with frost on his bedroll. They drove in to Winnipeg that day and bought then usual groceries: lunch meat, cheese, white bread, mustard, peanuts, and a jug of water. They played all day and drank free coffee and made a hundred dollars, and a television crew stumbled upon them and put them on the six o'clock news. They spent the night at some college party, where a kid with a beard sang Phil Ochs songs and Ketch kissed a girl who'd seen him on TV. Three months of this, Ketch says, and they never went to bed hungry.

Old Crow Medicine Show started off breaking my heart a little more than comforting me. But maybe that was the dorm talking. Maybe that was the people who were so suffocatingly my age. The ones I was supposed to enjoy the company of were choking and depressing me. The girls who steered me into their group and did nothing but talk shit about everything non-stop. No humor, no angle, just rubbish and vomit and complaining.

I walked to Border's and bought OCMS and Big Iron World at once. Then the message boards. Like every new obsession, I had to seek out those who shared it. I started off as the pip-squeak new fan. I remain it, relatively speaking.

But it started with S.T. messaging me before the Morgantown, WV show. Urging me to get a brew with him before the show. Little then-22-year-old-me being invited with the grown-ups.

And suddenly there were better poems. There was first tastes of moonshine. There was learning about John Prine, Tommy Jarrell, Charlie Poole, Justin Townes Earle. There were always more songs.

J.K. and S.T. played their old time music in 103 degree Richmond weather. They played it on the cold porch in Nashville, Tennessee.

I could say so much more about it, say it better. But somehow one band and one piece of the internet led me to being barefoot in Tennessee for a whole day. A few sips of moonshine, chicken, collard greens, all the perfect cliches you could hope for.

No haystacks yet. But I got this far.

The despair of that dorm, the first time Old Crow clicked...Between then and now is Greyhound and Megabuses, strangers on the buses, sleeping with T. in the Montana meadow, adventures climbing Frisco hills, front row at the Ryman with S.T. in Nashville, riding in the Crow Wagon listening to some good tunes and feeling like yeah, not the best friend, always the kid, but it was okay I was there. I was enough in myself that I could be there. And at the little house we rented in Nashville, S.S. gave me a knowing look and at the end of the night said "It was more than 90 seconds this time." I got my Nashville. I got my New Years.

I may never get to fully thank Willie or Ketch. But I suspect they started something very good here.

I can tell the Not Friends, though. And I believe they'll understand. Which means plenty.

I shoulda told this better but I got a burst of optimism in the middle of trying to avoid my school work. I'll tell more tales later, perhaps.

Richmond

I look at pictures and I am puzzled that I was the one behind the camera. It has already become a blur, which means several things -- it was fun, it was fast, and it was foreign.

The boyfriend and I were cozy, so it was hard to leave. And it's already a bit of a stomach drop to leave on a Greyhound at midnight. It got worse in Baltimore at 4 am. That's when I start to doubt my own self. The supposed identity of, at least, someone who loves to travel. But then I transferred to a comfier bus where I got two seats. I fell asleep staring out the window and when I woke up the Virginia sun was on my face.

I arrived at 8:30 in the morning. I asked a cabby where More Street was, since I was deathly in need of coffee (and, for reasons hard to explain, I wanted to feel like I was my own traveler before being fetched by S.T.) I shouldered my big old backpack just like I have always pictured and walked. The buildings were old and lovely. The streets were empty and more industrial than commercial. Some guy walked behind me (which always prickles my neck) and said something. I kept walking somewhat nervously. He just wanted to know if it was hot enough for me.

I sat at the More Street Cafe. I ordered bacon, eggs, coffee and pancakes. The waitress and the woman behind the counter were friendly. I overheard Southern and other accents. On the television the horrible news suggested calling a tip line if I spotted the pictured woman. She apparently grew a lot of weed plants.

S.T. and T.R. (not the president, thankfully) arrived. I felt shy, but not like I was suddenly over my head in anything. Going to visit people you don't know is strange. On the bus, and the days before, it had become some impossible thing. I'm a girl, I can't be trusting strange men to not cut me into little pieces.

But I trust my mama's instincts and to a lesser extent my own. If I learn to separate my anxiety and paranoia from my instincts, I might be okay with this stuff.

Anyway. I was steered into the infamous Old Crow wagon which S.T. bought some years ago. It was a friendly van, worthy of its impressive legacy. Not a creeper van. When I got inside, possibly because I sharing the backseat with Willie Watson's signature, I decided this couldn't have been a bad plan. If I was in the back of a van with a stranger and a man I was meeting for the third time and I didn't feel unsafe, I was powerful.

As the temperature rose to dance in the early triple digits, I was steered around Richmond. We saw Monument Row, with its grandiose General Lee, Washington, and other heroes. We saw the Confederate congress. The grave of Jefferson Davis. S.T. bent down in one graveyard to rip grass off the grave of a fellow (I've lost track of him already) he's fond of. I had a moment of wanting to help, but figured that might have been disrespectful. I do like anybody who will bend down to clean off a grave.

Throughout the day there was weed and chicken. We passed the James River and it was just beautiful. There were railroad track beside it and lovely trees. My camera finger itched. There were Southern trees I couldn't identify, antebellum houses... It all came together and said, this is not home. You, Lucy, are in a foreign place. Is it any wonder I didn't call my mother and boyfriend?

We saw Civil War photos, Confederate currency (always a great way to make it real, at least for me), and -- though I'm conflicted on the conflict - a truly nauseating statue of Lincoln playing around with a little kid. (Rule of thumb, president plus child is always creepy.)

Eventually we went back to S.T.'s place to meet J.K., who plays fiddle while S.T. plays guitar. They busk a lot. I have never found a busker as good as they are. We drank some amazing iced tea and ate our chicken. J.K. and S.T. started playing tunes. Moonshine in a mason jar (yes some things are that perfect) was brought out. I looked at S.T.'s photos and his stuffed mink/weasel perched angrily on the mantel. Other people's homes, particularly those belonging to rather mythic characters, are always interesting to be in. It was a nice, comfortable place. I marveled that I didn't feel more out of place. I was a bit of a tag-a-long, still. Though an officially invited one. Maybe that's the youngest kid syndrome. Both literal, and me feeling like I'm always chasing after folks who know something I don't. Or they're different somehow.

Or just the obvious things in common that the three older folks had with each other cannot be escaped. Which is just fine. T.R. was a darling, however. She's a mom and she was motherly enough to make me feel safe, but was plenty girlfriendy so that I felt in on the adventure.

We went to Maymount a few hours early. We smoked in the party lot and drank more moonshine. It was impossibly hot so even after we started drinking melted cooler ice, it was even better than the shine. S.T. and J.K. played "Ruben's Train" and "Big Sciota" and "Fall on My Knees" until the sweat stung their eyes, then played more. I saw on the grass, talked to T.R. and took a few hundred pictures.

I was just glad to sit there, sweating away with these people. Things feel perfect and all things possible when you're drinking moonshine from a jar in 103 degree Richmond while your friend plays "Sally Anne" for spare bills.

We almost missed the start of Old Crow, as the boys played right through Ben Kweller's opening act. We sneaked through the crowd. The other folks got beers, I stuck with overpriced water. And Old Crow brought their magic.

It was a blistering night in Richmond, my favorite band was sweating and looking and sounding like angels. I was with friends, or at least good folks.

There's always somebody drunk punching you to get a better look at "Wagon Wheel." Your feet always go numb and you might faint from heat. But this is my religion. No fear, everything's possible and not the everyday. That's what Old Crow's given me more than any other musicians so far. And they've already given me poetry and aching for things and history and what's new around the next bend.

And Richmond says, old time still exists. I haven't slept on a haystack yet, but it's possible.

Nashville

Thoughts on the Tennessee Old Crow Medicine Show New Year's Eve Show. No offensive to anyone, particularly R. and J. who are both highly lovely people.

In the break between Old Crow Medicine Show sets, S.T. grabs my hand in one of those friendly two-hand shakes and says, "I know this was a big deal for you." Sweet of him to say that, but no no, something wasn't right. It wasn't a big deal, because I didn't risk anything.

I thought about it ever since I ran into S.T. (the subject of "Yankee Bones Lament") at the West Virginia Old Crow show in November. He told me to come to Nashville for this epic gathering of Old Crowites, this all night party. I thought about asking friends, I thought about how we'd get there, and I thought a lot about going by myself. I thought about taking the bus, I thought about asking for some floor space from a guy I'd never met. I asked females who were going whether the gentlemen were reputable sorts. And I tried to picture how I'd pull it off. How I'd not get scared if I ended up walking in a "foreign" city in the middle of the night. How I would just be able to figure everything out.

I ended up going with a friend and his friend -- I liked the new girl, liked my old friend, of course. I like a road adventure with people. J. turned on her beloved Johnny Cash and we passed signs that said "Hell is real." I was feeling the South.

But one thing turned to another, and the intriguing folks I wanted to see I just saw for a few minutes. I chickened out and didn't ask things like "hey, can I stick around and hang out with you two?" Or "just in case it's somehow possible, can somebody drive me back to my hotel?" Limping around Nashville for half an hour searching for the rental car, I kept thinking about who I could call, what I could do besides go sleep and then go home to life. But I chickened out.

When R.P. sent me a ticket in the mail and didn't want to be paid for it, I knew I was going no matter what. But I didn't have to risk it, so I didn't. And as perfect happiness as the show was. The Ryman Theater was beautiful. I counted down to midnight with nobody I knew in sight, just Ketch Secor on stage looking sweaty and beautiful. Balloons came down, and I wouldn't have minded a good kiss with my boy back home, but I also was perfectly content by myself for the show.

I met K.K. who was dressed in an elaborate Western shirt and came well supplied with a thick Tennessee accent and a sweet Southern friendliness. R.P. and a slightly whiskied me wandered off to lean against a building, surrounded by neon celebrations. We talked about the hierarchies of the Hank Williamses. For some reason I sang a part of "Political Science" -- "We'll save Australian, don't want hurt no Kangaroos." He said something about taking in the scene, and at the moment I was so happy my face was about to crack. So happy because where the hell was I -- in Nashville in the drunk streets, talking to a stranger.

I met S.S. and R.S. for far too short of a time. They had been so sweet and helpful when I schemed to come to Nashville by myself. S.S. seemed shy, R.S. not so much, but both friendly as hell and seemingly glad to meet me for 30 seconds. And then they all went off to drink beer and God damn I was low and jealous.

Not friends -- none of them less than 11 years older than I. Maybe they have no interest in me. Maybe we got nothing in common besides our undying love for the Old Crow. Likely none of them is my undying soulmate true love best friend or anything like that. But it was just me not being able to hang with the cool kids again. Me not quit pushing hard enough because I was dying to meet new people.

While S.T. and I limped and trailed behind J. and R. on the way to our rental car. When I jumped out of the car later at Broadway, so sick of waiting, and walked into the Barbecue Place by myself. I was pretending, like I pretend on every trip, no matter how much I love who I'm traveling with, that I was by myself. I did it in Guatemala and Belize in the markets, trying to talk. I did it a hundred times in airports, walking ahead of whoever I was with, pretending I was alone with just a backpack.

When I nervously recognized beards and hats and suddenly worried what I was thinking in thinking these people wanted to hang out with little old me. When I wandered down Broadway with R.P. and my friends had disappeared and it might have been a bad idea because I was a little drunk but it wasn't. When S.T. gave me a sip of whatever good whiskey he keeps in his flask, and this time my mama wasn't around to make me hesitate for a second. That was what I wanted this trip to be. But it was just bits and few minutes.

I don't mean to fetishize the South exactly, "Yankee Bones Lament" and its possible-hopefully-not-cliches-not-withstanding. It's just that's it's culture shock and the home of music that raises the hair on my neck and hurts me so well. That the people down there are different and seem darling. That I've spent so much of my life comfortably following older people about and some more of it standing around wishing I could follow them. And it's that my life is what it is, that I'll finish my college, but after that it's go to be different - whether I go South or West, I got to get out of this town. And these people are different and they're disconnected from the rest of my life. They're more signs that the world is nice and big and not the same and oh fuck, I can't even explain it.

It just broke my heart to not drink with them. It broke it strangely sharply.

A not friends poem

A fellow met at the above Old Crow Medicine Show show in Morgantown, WV on November 14. Not his real name -- it sounds a lot better than this one I made up.

Yankee bones lament

Bill Wildwood up from Pittsylvania county, with a beaten down tri-corner hat.
With metal all down his legs, woven through his bones, and up his shoulders,
For reasons he won’t say in particular, just the weather aches
Him something awful in the Virginia damp.
He hands me whiskey in a flash of silver flask, brown paper hidden,
Some knee-jerk self says reject a stranger’s booze, In West Virginia,
Waiting for hot fiddles and high, lonesome sounds,
But this ancient, boot-stomping love brought us from our separate ways to here…
So I take three good sips, pass it back,
Now he and I, not friends, but easy enough,
Talk the gallant suicide of Pickett’s charge, the perks of a pocket of weed,
The illegality of West Virginia, and how some in some Appalachian
Corners tucked away, they speak the queen’s English still.

And this New Years Eve in Nashville’s gonna be damn near historic!
I should really come on down, everybody’s going to be there,
And I wish to God I was somebody else who knew just how to run
Away to a stranger’s floor in Tennessee, unafraid to ring in the new life,
Dancing all night until the metal in my leg sings sharp and stiff.
I’d drop my gs in a minute, drawl slow and easy,
Not because I tried, but because it would get in my marrow that quick --
Living on big, wide, wooden porches, covered in creeping vines,
Banjos, banjitars, howls of poverty and odes to contentment,
Having the kind of patient soul to make food and flowers --
Things that grow -- out of well-loved, death-defended dirt.