The Grassholes |
Maybe you’re not a musician, don’t think you have the ability (or desire) to ever be one, and you wonder what the fuss is about music schools that are essentially for 14-year-olds wanting to live out their inner Billie Joe Armstrong. Well, I can see that. But, see, if it wasn’t for Buckdancer’s Choice, I wouldn’t be a Grasshole, and I’d be a hell of a lot poorer for it.And, yes, I mean spiritually, mostly, but it’s true that the money I earned playing with my six-piece bluegrass outfit has paid for a brand-new Conley guitar, a brand-new iMac, and I’m planning to use this year’s earnings to buy me a brand-new iPod video. We’ve grossed a solid $15,000 over the years, but don’t tell the IRS.
See, I was just like most guys in college. I learned the guitar to try to seem cool, teaching myself mostly through books like Rise Up Singing (a terrific text to keep around the house in general, as long as you can get with corny old folk songs) and cribbing what I could learn off guys I knew who could actually play the guitar.
Largely, it worked. I’m convinced my now wife stuck with me, though I had no car and a thoroughly disgusting apartment, partly because I could muddle my way through some Van Morrison tunes.
Then, one day when I was serving as lowly listings editor of this here Portland Phoenix, I decided I’d go support the Jerk Jam, a Tuesday night thing Jerks of Grass were doing at the old Free Street Taverna where they would act as a live karaoke machine, serving as backup for any shmoe who wanted to get up on stage a play a few tunes. I banged out “Know You Rider” and “Lonesome Road Blues,” two songs I’m not ashamed to admit we still play today.
People clapped and stuff and it was fun.
Afterwards, Carter Logan, banjo-player extraordinaire, sidled up: “That was pretty good,” he said. “But you sure could use some lessons.”
Because Carter’s a pretty easy guy to like, I said, “um, okay,” and soon found myself every Wednesday traveling down the West End hill to Buckdancer’s, where Carter kept a studio at the time (you can now find him at 317 Main). He taught me to flat-pick, gave me a bunch of standards to learn note for note, and gave me all the basics of being a bluegrass guitar player. My wife still hates most of those old standards because I spent hours playing them over and over again, just so I wouldn’t let Carter down, really.
Then he introduced me to the Grassholes. Or, more accurately, he tricked me into walking into a room full of strangers holding various instruments, none of them guitars, and said, “Hey guys, this is Sam. He’s your guitar player. He’s a great flatpicker.” That wasn’t remotely true, of course, and I had absolutely no clue how to play with other people. It was awkward and embarrassing and I don’t think I acquitted myself well. It didn’t help that Scott and Rebecca Conley (Muddy Marsh Ramblers) were there, practicing secondary instruments. Christ, they were actually good players.
