Last night I tagged along with hubby on one of his bluegrass gigs. Over the years his music has taken us to lots of interesting places. We’ve been to festivals celebrating everything from bridges to mules. We’ve been to old music halls that were once regal with color and decorum, but are now faded and smell heavily of mildew.
We’ve visited every nursing home and senior center in a four hundred mile radius. If there is a lodge named after an animal, we’ve been there. If you have a relative in the state penitentiary, he’s been entertained by hubby’s band.
We’ve been to so many churches I just call them all The First Naza-metho-bapticostal-seventh-day-orthodox-lutheriterian-non-denominational-church-of-our-lady-of-the-pines.
Once in Tennessee, we were at a little back woods mountain church that whooped and hollered through the entire concert, and then pulled out boxes of snakes to be handled by those with a much stronger faith than I’ll ever have.
Believe it or not, he has also used his music to minister in a church in the jungles of Central America where the congregation spoke only Chinese.
We’ve been to college campuses, legion halls, art galleries, county fairs, benefits, fundraisers, and barbecues. We’ve attended birthday parties and anniversary celebrations for people whose names we knew only because it was printed on a banner hanging across the doorway.
I held on for dear life as his entire band played while balancing precariously on a rickety wagon being pulled through the state fair parade. And I cheered from the sidelines when he got to record a song for a documentary on the legendary Bill Monroe.
He has played for redneck weddings in parks, and classy weddings in cathedrals. He even agreed to dress in drag and perform a Dixie Chicks tune for one reception. And for a guy who hates dead bodies as much as he does, you’d be surprised at the number of funerals for which he’s agreed to sing.
I’ve been to cozy coffee houses, off-beat restaurants, and once to a bar. Not a restaurant that happens to have a bar, but a real bar that got danced on by girls who drank too much. That was the night hubby had a beer poured on him in the middle of the show by a guy who kept yelling, “I love you, man!” I sat in the corner, scrunching up as small as I could and wondering how any place could stay in business when the only food they offered was peanuts and pretzels.
Hubby has recorded songs for channel 40, allowing him to be heard by Christians all across Indiana, and he’s recorded for Bob and Tom, allowing him to be heard by heathens in all fifty states and Guam.
Generally, his audiences are older. Much older. (This accounts for all his funeral performances.) I once watched a seventy-five year old woman jump up and grind against his backside while he was playing the upright bass. Some of his younger fans, and by younger I mean in their forties and fifties, enjoy getting physical with him too. Women who don’t wear bras or shave their armpits give really big hugs.
I never know what to expect when I tag along on these gigs. Last night we drove two hours to a tiny little place that served as both the Jaycees building and meeting place for the junior chamber of commerce.
The people were nice enough, but a little different. Their physical attributes made me think that perhaps the local genetic pool should be expanded a bit.
There was a long side table with boxes of fried chicken and homemade pies. The walls boasted autographed pictures of performers whose names I’d never heard, and framed certificates proclaiming various honors received by the Jaycees. There was a podium with an American Flag and a gavel. There was a refrigerator with beer prices clearly posted. There was a gallon jug labeled Chablis, but it had been replaced by a mysterious, thick, brown liquid.
There were two couches, a large 1930’s era portrait of a man named Stuart, and a machine that dispenses condoms in four colors. With a chicken leg in hand, and my baby on my lap, I sat on the couch and stared at the condom machine while hubby serenaded old women in tap shoes who were clogging in spite of their obvious need for new hips.
Maybe the Junior Chamber of Commerce decided safe sex was in order until they could figure out a way to expand the gene pool. Or maybe the Jaycees hold wild parties with loose cousins and homemade liquor. Either way, this venue was way creepier than the time he sang at a haunted house.
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