Outlaw Style: Poems

The Carter Scratch

The Carter Scratch What solitude and simmer gave birth to this sweet mix, one country woman strumming a duet, melody running the bass but the high strings thumb-brushed for back-up rhythm? It’s a mystery how her touch contrived what’s called the Carter Scratch. Maybe it was mischief in her black guitar. Maybe the Clinch Mountains are to blame. Her fingers were deft but leathered from scraping in the hardscrabble earth to snatch choke weeds from the bean vines and strong as claws from plucking hens or shucking the stubborn corn. She’d heard the river chord fast over rapids and smooth at the soothing ford, so Maybelle rocked in the dark parlor to raise the cadence—“The Storms Are on the Ocean,”“Bury Me Under the Weeping Willow.” Stitch by stitch, she improvised an outlaw style, and after the Bristol Sessions the whisper talk in Nashville was,“These ridgers can really pick.” She played like sisters 89 1SMITH_pages.qxd 8/13/07 10:44 AM Page 89 and kept her Gibson warm in the kitchen. One hand’s nails were sharp as talons. To keep her spirit busy, she’d sing and hum and whistle—hymns of the heart, skimp and yearn of the stricken flesh. She’d fret and frail the strings to bliss, while coffee boiled and corncakes frizzled. Maybelle called herself a“Nickelsville hick” and often played at being rapt and simple to keep the curious at a distance, as her nimble hands gave country music its intricate, quintessential lick. 90 1SMITH_pages.qxd 8/13/07 10:44 AM Page 90 ...