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45 TheClub47 but I got to my feet and said, “I think James will probably be up by now, so I’ll go upstairs. Thanks very much, and thanks for saying the poem.” I wished him “Good day,” and indeed James was up. I got in, and when he had closed the door, I asked, “So who’s your man?” “Oh,” he says, “the Messiah!” He came with the house. He was somebody’s uncle and the condition of sale was that he’d live out his days there. There was no end to the wonders of the Jordan household! Mystaytherewasabrilliantintroductiontomyhomecountryandits people and its music. As I was leaving, I thought, “I’ll be back here any day now.” It took sixteen years! THE CLUB 47 BillKeithandJohnRichardsonhadkepttheapartmentonUplandRoad, so I had a place to land when I got back. I still had a teaching fellowship and was still taking courses toward a PhD, so it was a bit of a step back in one way, but it gave me some space to figure things out. Right away I hadtogodowntotheClub47atitsnewlocation.WhenIleftithadbeen a cellar with a dirt floor. It was now a fine space with stone and brick walls and a brick floor, full of small oak tables with slatted wood chairs from North Carolina. The back wall was white with paintings hung and lit. There was a compact kitchen, a small office, a small dressing room, and two toilets in the back hallway. Byron and Nancy had done a beautiful job creating a functional room using natural materials, perfectly suited to the kind of music we were presenting. Byron was beaming as I looked around. “What do you think? Is it okay?” “Okay? It’s fantastic! It’s beautiful!” TherewerelotsofotherchangesinadditiontothenewClub.BillKeith hadhookedupwiththeJimKweskinJugBand,whichalsoincludedGeoff and Maria Muldaur, Mel Lyman, and Fritz Richmond. Joe Val had gone on to become part of The Charles River Valley Boys, replacing Ethan. SpiderJohnKoernerhadmovedtoCambridgeandseemedtohavebeen adopted by the Siggins’s. Seeing and hearing him in person was 100 percent better than hearing him on tape, though that was good enough. Naturally,Iwasreadytogetbackintoplayingmusic,andJoeValsuggested that we should try out a kid from Wayland named Peter Rowan who he thought was a pretty good singer. Peter was more than a “pretty 46 GOING MY OWN WAY good”singer.Hewasonfirewithbluegrassandwaseagertojoinupwith Bill and me. In no time at all we had a fine trio and started playing at the Club and at other coffeehouses and colleges in the area. One day Ralph Rinzler called up to say that Bill Monroe would be coming up to Barre, Vermont,toplayashowandthatheneededtopickupaleadsinger/guitar player. Bill Keith suggested that Peter could probably fill the bill and proceededtogivePeteracrashcourseinBillMonroe’srepertoire,which Peterabsolutelygobbledup.Ontheday,wealltraveledup.Monroewas delighted to see Bill Keith again. Before the show, he got together with Peter to run over some songs. Peter surprised him by choosing to sing “Over on the Old Kentucky Shore,” not one of Bill’s better known songs. That and Peter’s singing and solid guitar playing during the show, was all Bill needed to offer him a job. Peter was going to be a Bluegrass Boy! WithPetergoneandBillKeithfocusingmoreandmoreontheKweskin JugBand,astheendofmyacademicyearapproached,Ireallydidn’tknow what I was going to do. That my academic career was really coming to anendwasmadecleartomeonedaybyoneofmyteachers,ZephStewart , who taught Latin. By this point in a PhD program I would have been expected to be able to compose in both Greek and Latin. I had been able to squeak by with the Greek, but one day after Latin composition class Professor Stewart came up to me and said, with the kindest of smiles, “Youreallycan’tdothis,canyou?”“No,sir,I’mafraidIreallycan’t.”And that was the end of it. I didn’t panic. I knew that leaving the academic path was right, and it was a relief to have it finally decided. My teaching fellowship money went until the end of June. My share of the rent was $50 a month, so I’d be okay to make it through the summer. Then one night Byron asked me to come into his office for a minute. He gave me a look and said, “I think I need to quit doing this.” I couldn’t have been more surprised, so I asked him what the problem was. It was simple. He was burned out. It wasn’t just the move and the setting up of the new place, although that had been a lot. He’d been at it for three years, seven days a week, all day every day. In addition to the nightly...

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